after a year and a handful of months of debating on if i should, or wanted to, do commissions (and with some convincing and hyping from friends) i've decided why the heck not!
so to everyone whose ever complimented me and hyped me up for my themes and graphics thank you and you're definitely another driving force in this decision.
making graphics is therapeutic to me and i take a lot of pride and joy in doing it, from seeing everyone loving the things i create. and i want to share that pride and joy even more, sooo if you've ever struggled with making a good theme, feel too lazy to make one, need a banner for a fic or masterlist, a header, or just need someone to help your graphic vision come together; i'm here to provide!
before you commission something, or just want some examples, please check out my past work and portfolio!
PORTFOLIO | PINTEREST | ART TAG | GIFS
PLEASE THOROUGHLY READ THROUGH THE RULES!!!!
✶ all payments will be made through kofi or fiverr depending on what you're commissioning. if you'd rather go through paypal that is also a valid option just message me.
when it comes to commissioning anything details matter!!! i need complete details of what you want to be created. i will not accept something like 'floral vibe' or 'something with browns'. that gives me nothing. i need a vision, i need as much information as possible, examples (but do not take them from other creators please i will decline your commission), you can take inspo or examples from my own themes, or go through my pin board. the more details the better. the greater i can make your vision come into view. this is important!!!
i will not use other peoples art. do not ask for it to be included in whatever project i am creating. everything i make is for personal use only.
you will get two redos for me to change something you don't like about the theme. a preview of the finished product will be sent your way and you can ask for something to be completely re-done, but after that no changes will be made.
please include your user or where you want me to send your graphics within your request.
there's not a time span in which you have to use the theme or graphic for, but a week would be complimentary.
you can commission as many times as you wish after i've finished the first one.
for my own personal reasons minors are not allowed to commission things.
we do not have to be mutuals, nor do you have to be following me to commission something.
you don't have to outwardly give me credit but please do not claim my creations as your own.
if you have any questions before commissioning something my messages are always open and there is never a dumb question. please feel free to ask!
✶ fandoms i will not accept commissions for: anime, supernatural, our flags mean death, good omens (because i am not in them nor have enough knowledge on how to make the vision really suit said fandoms).
a full theme includes: a navigation banner and a header.
when commissioning a theme there are a few things that need to be mentioned and answered, so please include them in your request!
what kind of navi banner do you want? (refer to my portfolio for this, or if you just want something simplistic, big, small, medium, extra, messy, chaotic, etc)
what vibe are you going for? (dark academia, greek myth, ocean, dainty, horror, etc)
colors? (a must ok i need to know, if you give me none then i'm going to do whatever and choose what i think looks best and that's also fine if you want me to have complete creative liberties)
whats your overall vision? (can be included in the vibes section but giving me more detail is better)
text. (what do you want included on it, words, titles, information, quotes, etc)
examples. (like i mentioned in the rules examples are encouraged but do not take them from other creators on here and i will not copy, or make them look like someone else's work)
what kind of header do you want? (a simple png that goes along with the navi colors and vibe, a whole other banner-esk graphic, none, etc)
✶ see the add ons section below if you want more things included in your theme.
now these add ons are only for themes. if you commission a header only, or gif, they will have their own add on options.
$1 - for dividers that match your theme in color and vibe (if you want symbol, graphic, or anything that's not color then the price goes up a dollar)
$1 - three+ icon options (want the perfect icon to fit your theme and don't want to do the searching yourself? i got you)
$2 - content warning + minor dni banners (i'll make theme specifically to match your theme, with your user, and whatever you want them to say or look like etc)
$3 - layout + navi formatting (aka i'll come up with a completely new layout format for your navigation post + your bio)
$4 - a gif header or a gif included within the navi graphic (this is the highest price because finding clips, extracting scenes into caps, making the gif, coloring it to match the theme, blending, etc, is a lot lol)
a header commission includes: only a header. it is not a theme, just a mobile header, or a header for a masterlist, or fic.
the information needed for this commission are as listed below.
what kind of header do you want? (aka what is it for. this is important because the look is dependent on this information)
colors, vibes, vision. (more detail the better)
text. (if you want text on it, what do you want it to say, so title, etc)
examples. (not needed but a plus)
gif commissions include: gifs for your fics or masterlists. not for themes or headers.
depending on how you want these little moving pictures to look you gotta give some details.
fandom, character, scenes. (don't just say 'any scene' unless you truly want me to choose whatever scene lmao)
how many? (the current cut off is six, if you want more then there's an add on)
coloring. (you can completely leave this up to me but if you want them to be a certain color then please let me know, i'll also check with you before making all of them to make sure you like the coloring)
text. (want them to say anything? a title? subtitles? dialogue from your fic? your username on them? etc)
add on: blends. (want two characters or actors from different angles, scenes, or fandoms in the same gif? i got you)
add on: textures. (if you want added details such as a texture on the gifs then this will be extra, but i need to know what kind of texture / details you want added)
fic commissions: are only done through fiverr or paypal. if you are interested in commissioning a fic or any kind of writing then please refer to my fiverr and inquire over there or message me on here. thank you!!
✶REMEMBER TO MESSAGE ME WITH ANY QUESTIONS YOU HAVE BEFORE COMMISSIONING, NO MATTER THE TIME OR SUBJECT, I ENCOURAGE IT!
premise: summer will always be your favorite, spending weeks at the lake house with the crew. drinking, good food, sneaking off with tyler, making love under the stars. what more could a girl ask for?
contents: unprotected p in v, dirty talk, praise, foreplay, coming inside, alcohol consumption, oral, weed mention, fluff, tyler’s favorite pet name is baby ok fight me, he’s also thick as hell | wc: 6k+
note: this fic started out as filth on a dock, which then turned into me making a getting d at the lake playlist, which only worsened my tyler brainrot and made me write these cluster of filthy blurbs.
There were many reasons for you to love summer.
Picnics under a favored willow tree, ice cream shops coming out with outlandish sugary concoctions that could take down even the most rambunctious five year old. The days are longer, filled with more laughs and bonfires. Fireworks—as if that had a designated season to be let off, Boone would take on anyone who thought differently.
Tornado season was over, which, depending on who you asked, was not a reason to love the overheated season.
But your favorite thing about summer was by far the weeks you and the crew spent at Dex’s lake house back in Arkansas. A lake house that had gone from his retirement home when he left a shitty corporate job to a summer sanctuary for the family he found doing what he truly loved.
So every summer, all of you loaded up Tyler’s truck, the van, and the motor home and headed to the private dwelling, where you would spend the rest of the summer swimming, napping on the dock, raiding Boone’s smoke stash, and finding the nearest field to stare up at the stars.
Or your favorite: drinking until Tyler wrangled you into the house and into bed before you and Dani took the boat out for a joy ride, or you and Lilly had another incident of lighting said boat on fire with a miss trajectory of a firework that Boone gets scolded at for bringing out when everyone was three sheets to the wind by your wrangler.
As if he didn’t love it.
As if he had not convinced you all to jump into the lake naked one night.
“Oh no,” The man himself shook his head. Placing his hand over yours, your fingers wrapped around the head of a bottle of tequila. The cart already filled with boxes of Miller and Budweiser.
“Oh yes.” Your fingers wrapped together around the bottle, pulling it halfway off the shelf before he actually used force to stop you—that force being lacing his fingers with yours and squeezing.
Moving his body so he was standing beside you, chest to chest. Your brows raise when you try to pull the bottle again, and he squeezes your fingers harder.
“Tyler.”
“Baby.”
You roll your eyes, “Boone wants it.”
“Yeah, Boone wants it!”
You both can’t help laughing as you hear the man himself yelling from three shelves away.
“Lilly wants it too!”
“Don’t be a pussy,” Dani yells as if there aren’t other people in the store with you—Tyler leaning his head back with a sigh, his mouth pulled in a smile.
If the shop owner wasn’t used to the group of you making a pit stop at the decently sized—rundown—off the road liquor store several times during the summer; you’re sure he would have kicked half of you out.
“Yeah,” you say, giving him that teasing smile, turning your head to the side. Walking your free fingers up his chest. “Don’t be a pussy.” You whisper, looking up at him. His smile turns into a smirk as he leans down, his lips hovering above yours.
“The last time ya’ll had Tequila Boone got stuck on the roof.” He is completely serious, but he says it in that voice that makes you want to melt into his hands and do whatever he wants. That stern undertone that made you want to listen and rebel—either outcome was always one you loved.
You nod. “True, but.” Your palm flattens against his chest, moving up until your fingers play with the baby hairs at the back of his neck. “If I recall, you weren’t complaining when you were fucking me sober that night. So, if anything, I think it’s a win for all of us.”
“Not for Boone.”
“Not for Boone.” You both smile before pressing your lips together, Tyler’s hand guiding the bottle into the cart, trapping you between him in the cart when his arms wrap around your middle.
“Glad you could see it my way.” You bite your bottom lip, your stomach fluttering, as he gives you that sweet smirk when you grab the ball cap from his head and slip it on yours. Pulling out of his arms to walk down the aisle, “now hurry up, so we can revisit memory lane.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The first morning you’re there is when your worst hangovers occur.
The first night of drinking is always the hardest you do, as if the steam of working for months wrangling and chasing storms has finally been let out. Decompressed of the pressures of having to worry about live streaming and fixing something on Ty’s truck.
It was a blessing that the nearest neighbor was at least five minutes away, with Tyler’s perfectly curated playlist blaring from the speakers that lined the aforementioned truck. Boone being louder than the aforementioned music, Dani and Lilly hollering when one of them loses whatever competitive thing they’re doing. Dex mixing up some concoction inside the house and insisting it’ll help with the hangover, even though you all know it won't, but damn, does it taste good.
You and Tyler occupying yourselves around the fire, his hands on your hips, holding you close to him as you sway to the music. His lips at your neck, leaving small nips and kisses along your skin until you turn around to scowl at him. His hands slipping into the back pockets of your shorts.
“You’re a bad dance partner.”
“You’re even worse.” His hand wraps around yours to press to the front of his jeans, where he’s hard and straining against them. “Can’t focus on my moves when my girl’s causin’ such a distraction.”
You smile up at him, running your fingers along the outline of his dick. “Poor boy. Should your girl take you upstairs and fix this little problem?”
“Little?” His brows raise, giving you a look that makes you laugh at the amusement on his face. “Now we’re definitely going upstairs.”
You’re laughing all the way up the stairs, Tyler grinning as he talks shit the entire way up, slapping your ass until it feels red and raw through your shorts.
And when he has you naked and pressed to the mattress, your ass in the air, thighs coated in your own slick from him, bringing you right to the precipice of your orgasm, only to keep taking it away until you started whining and he gripped your hips and flipped you over. Pulling your hips up, his teeth biting into your ass cheek.
The head of his cock runs through your folds, the wet noise that comes from him separating them to press at your entrance makes you whimper.
When he pushes in slow, too fucking slow, your fingers dig into the quilt. Your legs shaking, your body wanting to pull away from the intrusion—no matter how stretched out you already are from his fingers and tongue, the burn from the stretch of his cock never compares to it. Always stretches you out until you feel too full, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes.
Tyler presses a kiss at your tailbone, his cock almost fully inside of your fluttering pussy. “Still think it’s little, baby?”
And after you’re coated in sweat and your throat is hoarse and raw, your legs jelly, your pussy feeling swollen and dripping from the several orgasms Tyler fucked out of you—and the come he fucked into you; wrapping your legs around his hips so there was nowhere for either of you to go while he did so; your body is limp against his chest. His fingers running along your spine.
You feel completely spent and sedated, the liquor aiding in the job of lulling your body completely. But Tyler is all smiles and wide awake—after all these years together, you still have no idea what makes a tornado wrangler tired.
He’s always raring to go, and it’s both hot and frustrating at the same time.
You groan when he moves your body gently off of his, making a quick trip downstairs. A glass of water in his hand seconds later, demanding you sit up and drink half, even through your protests. A hand rubbing at your back.
“Good girl,” he says, sweetly kissing your cheek and putting the glass on the nightstand. He’ll ask you if you want to shower because the both of you are covered in sweat and come and you’ll only reply by pulling him back down in bed with your face pressed to his chest.
His chuckle shakes your cheek when he shuts the lamp off, pulls the quilt over your shoulders, and presses a kiss atop your head.
But best believe he pulls your ass into the shower when the sun rises. Your head pounding from the shots you and Lilly threw back and from the beers you drained. Tyler’s fingers are gentle as he washes your hair. Gentle as he washes your body. He presses a kiss on each of your shoulders when he washes your back.
That space between your legs still feeling swollen from last night's activities, but his fingers still find their way between them. His palm on the shower wall as he stands behind you and rubs your clit until you’re coming.
Teeth, lips, and tongue at the back of your neck coaching you through it, “that’s my girl.” He’ll praise you like you’ve just wrangled your own kind of storm. A storm he caused.
A storm that always helps your pounding headache just a little more than the eggs Dexter places on your plate when you make your way downstairs.
“I think I’m goin’ sober for the resta’ the summer.” Boone groans between his palms. Palms that are stopping his drooping head from falling into his eggs.
“Lilly’s making flamin’ peppers tonight.” Dani grins from the head of the table, chewing on a piece of bacon. It has the reaction you all expect, Boone picking up his head, perking up, and feigning excitement.
“Really?”
You all laugh together, regardless of how much it hurts your temples.
“You’re supposed to be soaking up the heat, not staring, Owens.”
You squint from the sun as you turn your head to him, the two of you lying out on the dock. Letting the sun dry you off from your swim in the water. Something that should be relaxing.
But Tyler clearly distracted himself by staring at you.
“Can’t I do both?” He grins, lying on his side, his head propped up by his hand.
“You’re gonna have the worst farmer's tan.”
“Worth it for the view.” He kisses you, his finger and thumb lightly pinching your chin.
It doesn’t take long for his kiss to progress from a sweet peck to something more as his tongue licks into your mouth. With the way his thumb circles your nipple through your swimsuit, his hand moves down your torso to the top of your bottoms, easily slipping past them.
“Tyler,” you warn through a breath when his finger runs along your folds.
“What?” He smiles against your neck, “it’s just us.”
“Dani and Dexter are literally out on the water.”
“They’re tryna catch dinner. They’re far gone.” The pad of his finger runs against your clit in a slow circle. Making you gasp, your hips chasing the touch.
“Boone,” you swallow. Try to be the level headed one here, “Lilly.”
“Store.” He says it simply. Teeth nipping at your ear, “let me make my girl come.” His finger adds pressure to your clit, making you moan. “Please,” he whispers against your ear.
And if this man made you a sane woman, you’d pull his hand away and make him take you inside. But sanity has no room around Tyler. Sanity didn’t send you into a tornado with him. Didn’t have you riding him in the front seat of his truck after afternoons of chasing, the adrenaline still pumping through your veins.
No, being in love with Tyler Owens causes sanity to fly out the window. Made you throw caution to the wind. Made you chase that high. Made you ride it.
Made you want and beg for more.
His love was soft and ever consuming. A gentleness that made up for the intensity of everything else. It’s why it was so easy for you to put your life in his hands every single day you went out into the storm.
That’s why your legs bend and open for him, and why you let his fingers fuck you on the dock where you could easily get caught. His thumb rubbing your clit, your body burning, your pussy clenching and pulling his fingers in.
“Don’t stop, baby, don’t stop.” He grunts in your ear as your hips move, fucking yourself down on his fingers when your orgasm gets closer and closer until you’re coming and his hand is in your hair, pulling your mouth to his so he can swallow your loud moan. Can hold you through the euphoric high that has your body shivering even with the sun shining down on it.
His fingers slip from you wet and coated with your come. His eyes never leave yours when he brings his fingers to his lips and licks them clean before grinning, grabbing your jaw, and sharing the fruits of his labor.
“Hey, lovebirds,” Lilly hollers as she slams the van door. “Come help us!”
"Comin',” Tyler yells back, a smirk on his face as his eyes waggle at the double meaning.
“You’re ridiculous.” You laugh, pushing at his chest as you stand and walk down the dock. Arms wrap around you, making you both waddle down the rest of the way. Tyler kissing your cheek. You can still feel his hardness against your ass—hardness that was just grinding itself against your hip.
“I love you,” he says softly.
“More?”
“More than anything.”
You lean your head back against his shoulder, smiling. “Infinitely.”
“Unbound.”
When you two step off the last wood plank of the dock, you stop, both turning your heads to kiss each other. Your hand lifts to run your fingers through the back of his hair.
"Oh, don’t worry, we got it, ya’ll!” Lilly says sarcastically from the porch.
You smile against Tyler’s lips. “I love you. But let's go help before she refuses to share the good snacks with us.”
“Damn right, I will!” She yells as she shakes a box of said snacks in her arms.
Tyler laughs and presses one last kiss on your lips before he untangles himself from you and runs over to the van.
“Ain’t no way!”
“Pick up the slack!”
“I’m doin’ my best here!”
You and Tyler laugh as Dani and Boone argue as you both sink the white balls into their cups. Dani scowling as she downs her drink, and Boone raises his high with a frown as he does the same.
When Boone misses and Dani gets one in their next turn, the way they cheer and high five warms something inside of you instead. Brings joy to the already loose buzzing that thumps through your veins from how many sips you’ve had tonight. Your cheeks are heated and hurting from all the laughing you’ve been doing.
You grab the cup, ready to down its contents but Tyler puts his hand over the top, grabbing it from you and downing it in one gulp. Sending you a wink. Whispering in your ear when he leans over the table to put the now empty cup alongside the other ones, “I want to take you somewhere.”
It’s all the explanation you need as to why he doesn’t want you too far gone. You hadn’t seen him drink anything tonight besides the few cups Dani and Boone—mostly Dani—landed their ball in.
Some nights, he doesn’t drink at all.
Some nights he makes sure everyone goes to bed with something other than booze warming your stomachs—usually a frozen pizza he always burns at the bottom, or the infamous Ty Club Sandy, as Boone has deemed to call it. Filling you up until you are on the cusp of being sober and ready for your heads to hit your pillows.
Tyler took his appointed mother hen role even further for the rest of the night until the aforementioned heads hit your pillows.
Sitting in the caravan with Boone for hours until he exhausted himself from talking about new ideas for the channel and one of his favorite subjects: pyrophilia.
Or lounging on the couch and listening to Lilly and Dani talk about ways to make Kyro better, new elements to add for better views in the sky.
Dexter always passes out before anyone, filling his gut and waving goodnight before disappearing down the hall.
Tyler making his way up to your bedroom after everyone had gone off to bed. Cleaning himself up and crawling under the sheets with you—having sent you up to bed hours ago with a pat on your ass and plans to be ready for him when he got up there, knowing full well you would fall asleep before an hour even passed.
His arms wrap around you, pulling you closer to him, face pressed into the back of your neck. The two of you drifting off to sleep. You take it upon yourself to keep his plans of being ready for him when you wake him up with your mouth wrapped around his cock.
His hips pushing up into your mouth, languid and sporadic, until he’s fully woken up. His jaw tightens before falling open when he looks down at you and watches you circle your tongue around his tip.
“Morning,” you’ll say with a smile and he’ll groan softly. Matching your smile with a grin of his own, that look of lust and desire morphs his beautiful features into something needy.
He’ll try to speak, try to say something sweet or filthy, but the words never come out. Just heavy pants and his teeth swelling up his bottom lip as he watches you—as he throws his head back against the pillow and groans.
When you pull him out of your mouth and straddle his hips, you reach behind you to guide him through your wetness, keeping his eyes on yours the entire time. Mouth twitching when you slide down on him slowly. When your own eyes flutter closed from the burning stretch.
You ride him slowly, leaving marks along his neck and chest from your lips and nails digging into his skin when he tries to buck his hips up—fuck you harder. Set the pace that he craves so much when you are on top of him like this. A pace he adores, from how lost you become in pleasure, from your tits bouncing in his face, to how beautiful you look taking the reins.
But you stop your movements each time you feel his hips move. The look he gives you is pitiful and needy.
“Fuck, baby.”
You smile, lean down, and kiss his chin as you start to move your hips again, just as slowly. “I’m just tryna make up for last night.”
“You’re killin’ me.”
After the two of you have wiped the floor with Boone and Dani and they’re demanding Lilly and Dex go against them next because they know they’ll actually win this time; Tyler grabs your hand and walks you to his truck, opening the door for you to climb inside.
“Is it safe for you to drive?”
“Would I put you in a situation where you weren’t safe?” He grabs your hand and kisses the top of it.
You can always tell when he’s buzzed or drunk; his cheeks get flushed and his eyes squinting more than usual when he smiles or laughs. He’s sober.
When you finally get to the spot, you turn to give Tyler a look. He’s all smiles as he drives through a field of tall grass, turning the wheel to back up his truck the rest of the way before coming to a stop once you reach a clearing that seems like nothing but marsh land.
Until you’ve stepped out of the truck and walked around the back. Your eyes light up when you see a pond a little bigger than an EF3 filling the rest of the field.
The moon and stars shine off the water, painting it in the darkest blue you’ve ever seen. Water lilies float along the top, with pickerelweed and cattails lining the edges. The crickets and lightning bugs add to the ambience of it all.
“How did you find this?” You ask as he helps you climb up into the bed of the truck, where a blanket and pillows are already laid down.
“Dex told me about it.”
“You sap’s.” You say with a sweet smile, pulling him down to your lips.
Tyler only further proves the sap allegations when he pulls out two of your favorite bags of snacks. His back leaned against the pillows, you leaning against him, his arms around you as you shared the salty and sweet treats. Your hand reaching back to feed him as you look up at the stars.
“You’re so beautiful,” Tyler whispers against your lips when the snacks are gone, fingers licked clean, kisses pressed to lips, the mood changing until you’re naked and under him and his hips are thrusting slowly between your thighs. “So pretty,” he kisses you, runs his lips along your jaw, “perfect,” latch on the side of your neck, “my girl.” His words attenuated by his thrusts.
His fingers are in your hair, at the back of your neck, and on your chest, playing with your nipples, squeezing a hand around them, and bringing his mouth to the pert bud. Teeth nipping at your collar bone, tongue licking between the space of your breasts, grunts against your ear. Fingers at your hip, against your clit—he’s everywhere. Consuming you. Pulling you apart, putting you together, slowly, gently, with a stroke, a touch, a kiss, a bite.
Fucking you like it’s the first time.
Fucking you like he has all the time in the world.
Like he wants you to feel his love with every thrust. Every praise in your ear.
Your fingers dig into his biceps, legs lifting and pressing against his sides, pushing him deeper inside you. Your breath heavy, your moans, sweet mewls, music to his ears.
“Tyler,” you whimper against his shoulder.
His arms bracket around your head, thrusts picking up when he feels your pussy tighten around his cock. “I know, baby.” His words are breathed into your ear, heavy and weak, letting you know he’s just as close. “Gonna come, you gonna take it like a good girl?” You nod, dig your nails into his back, reaching your peaks together.
Tyler stays on top of you even after your breaths have evened out. His thumb runs along your cheek as he looks down at you. His smile is soft and filled with love. It makes your stomach flutter—something that hasn’t stopped since the day you met him.
When he finally does pull out, neither of you move to right yourselves or head back. He covers you with another blanket he pulls from somewhere behind you. Your head against his chest as you look up at the sky. Tyler’s fingers playing with yours. A peaceful silence passes between you for what feels like forever, basking in each other. Listening to the bugs and frogs around the pond.
“Marry me.”
You chuckle softly, “your come hasn’t even dried inside me yet.” You joke. Don’t think twice about it; it hadn’t been the first time he had playfully asked you. Declared to the world that you would be his wife one day: in a tornado riding the high, saying he would make you his wife when you put your computer science degree to good use and ran better numbers than he could have come up with on his own. When you would have to travel home to visit family for a week and leave the crew behind, his arms squeezing you upon your return, saying the winds are dead, everything's dead when you’re not around, don’t leave again, marry me.
So you don’t chalk it up to anything but that until you feel something cold slip onto your finger. Tyler brings your hand up so the moon is shining down on it, a pretty diamond twinkling in the moonlight.
“Marry me.”
Your heart falling to the pit of your stomach as you rush to sit up. Your palm against your chest, your eyes wide, and staring down at your hand before whipping around to look at him. The smile on his face is to fucking die for.
“Tyler.”
“Baby.”
“Are you serious? Are you sure?”
He laughs, reaches out for you, and pulls you into his lap. “I’ve been sure since the day I saw you.”
“That’s dramatic.”
“Ask Boone,” he smiles. Stares down at the ring on your finger that you still have held up, “told him five months into us datin’ that I had a ring picked out.”
You chew on your bottom lip, try to hold back the tears that pool in your eyes. “That’s insane.”
“If you want somethin’, you take it.”
“You already got me.”
“And I ain’t ever letting go.” He grabs your hand, rubs his thumb against the ring on your finger. Looks at you with so much love that you think you could die from it and be just as happy as you are right now. “Will you marry me?”
You don’t think you’ve ever wanted something more in your life.
“Yes.”
“Yes?” He asks as if he’s surprised, his smile and laugh filled with a childish joy and happiness. Like a child finally getting a gift he had always wished for.
“Yes!”
He grabs your face, kissing you. Kissing you until you are both laughing and it’s all teeth and someone's crying, and you’re not sure if it’s him or you or who’s shaking or cheering.
“I love you,” he says. You can feel his heart pumping against the palm on his chest. His palms are hot against your tear stained cheeks. Thumb swiping loose droplets away.
“More?”
“More than anything.”
You can’t even finish your little rhyme before kissing him again. Whispering that you love him back against his lips. This man was going to be your husband. This man who has completely taken over your life and swirled it upside down since the first day you saw him.
This man who has shown you a new world. Given you new meanings of life. Given you a love that puts storybooks to shame. Given you a family that will only grow if the two of you decide on it, but is already so perfect the way it is.
You couldn’t imagine marrying anyone but Tyler Owens.
The next day, you obviously have to celebrate.
The entire crew cheered and rushed you when the two of you had come home, and Tyler lifted your hand to the sky like you just won something.
“Yes!”
“That’s what I’m talkin’ bout!”
“That’s ma boy!”
“Bout time!”
Boone spins you, Lilly is already mapping out the perfect location for the nuptials, and Dani and Dex are hugging and clapping Tyler on the back.
So the next day is one big celebratory day.
Dex prepares a breakfast so large that you all groan and sprawl in the living room while watching movies you have all seen a dozen times, aiding in your hearty meal putting you to sleep.
A nice nap that has you all waking up more rested than before and spending the rest of the afternoon out on the water. Tyler and Dex grill the fish you caught when you come home.
Your legs in Tyler’s lap, all of you sedated and full, and laughing around the table afterwards until Boone comes through the screen door with two bottles in his hand: tequila and whiskey.
“Oh no,” Lilly says, laughing against her hand.
“Absolutely not.”
“You never mix light and dark, comin’ Boone, you know this!”
"Guys, we’re celebratin’,” Boone ignores everyone’s protests and grabs the shot glasses he was keeping for safekeeping in his pockets, apparently. Filling them up with tequila when he asks the bride to be which she wants, a big smile on his face.
He slides yours and Tyler’s over to you, Tyler shaking his head with amusement written all over his face when you frown playfully and say, “Happy wife, happy life?”
He sighs and pinches your legs, teasing, and grabs the shot glass. “I’m not helpin’ you off the roof this time.”
Boone makes a face, and everyone clinks their glasses together, throwing back the liquor.
It’s the first of many shots that has you hours later playing some kind of drinking game that you forget the rules of, which then leads into Boone and Tyler accusing you and Lilly of cheating. Which then leads to the four of you settling it by seeing who can shotgun a beer faster.
“You got this!” Dani pat’s Lilly on the shoulder like a fighter about to get into the cage.
Tyler smirks down at you, “you sure ‘bout this, baby?”
“Don’t call me that. You’re the enemy!” You put your hands on your hips and step up to him. Staring up at him in the most intimidating way you can, even though he could throw you over his shoulder easily in seconds. Your voice low enough for only him to hear you say, “we both know I’m really good with my mouth.”
His teeth sink into his bottom lip. “Won’t argue with you there.” His thumb comes up and runs against your jaw, “let’s make a bet, alright? You win, I’ll show you how good my mouth is, and if I win, you show me.”
You smirk, “deal.”
Once the beers are handed out and the bottoms have been punctured, your thumb presses against the slit, and a glare shot over at Tyler. His grin never leaves his face, even when Dex and Dani yell go, and all of you are putting the bottoms of your beers in your mouths.
Your gaze locks on his the entire time. Your mouth almost slips when his hand comes up to hold your can to your mouth better, his fingers squeezing, making you swallow faster. Finish faster. You and Lilly cheering when you win.
A win that Tyler clearly aided in.
A win he was more than happy to give you.
And if you didn’t love having his mouth on your pussy, you would probably fight harder against him letting you win. But it’s hard to be mad when later he’s between your thighs, fingers spreading your pussy to give him even more access to your throbbing clit.
Your hips guide his mouth where you want it, where you need it, and how you want his tongue to move against your clit. How you want his lips to suction against you. Tyler always listening to your body.
Your fingers are messing up his hair, “why did you let me win?”
He smiles around your clit, “I think I won.” He bites your thigh before turning his attention back to the part of your body he is fucking his tongue against, eliciting whimpers and moans from your lungs. Your back arching up from the mattress.
Some nights are chiller than others.
Some nights, you give your livers a break and hangout around the fire for hours. Dex telling stories, Dani and Lilly rolling Boone’s stash into tight blunts they share amongst those who want it. Boone lying in the grass, listening intently to Dex. You sat in Tyler’s lap, his fingers running along your legs.
His fingers sometimes find the ring on yours, twisting it around. Making sure it’s still there. He smiles over at you and leans in for a kiss.
The night is filled with a lot more laughs when three out of the six of you are baked and bring out the s’mores kit’s Lilly bought for each of you.
“Six is a bit much.”
“Uh, have you seen the way Boone eats?”
“She’s got ya there.” Boone agrees as he tears into a burnt marshmallow on the stick in his hand.
Tyler roasts you one, holds the stick while you happily eat the melted sugar. “Want some?” You ask, his answer comes in the form of placing his mouth over yours and kissing you until your mouth parts and his tongue runs along your bottom lip and into your mouth.
“When you guys get married, will we see less of this?”
“More probably.”
“Less. They’ll have their own place by then.”
“Ah, what? We won’t all be shackin’ up together?”
“Boone, they’ll be married.”
“They’re basically married now!”
You laugh against Tyler’s lips, “ya’ll are losing your invites real fast.” He says turning towards them.
“What did I do?” Dex asks innocently around a marshmallow.
Some nights, it gets so hot that not even the cold from the lake can be whipped through the windows by the breeze. The trees still. The humidity heavy and sticky, making you wake up with sweat glistening on your skin.
The two fans blowing towards the bed useless.
“Tyler.” You whine softly as you push his arm from your midsection. Can’t stand to feel the warm heat of his chest pressing to your back, mixed with the humidity filling the room.
“Baby,” he says groggily. Putting his arm back around your waist and pulling you close again.
“You’re going to give me heatstroke. How are you not dying?” You groan, freeing yourself from his grip long enough to remove your tank top and shorts before he grabs you again. More awake now than before.
“The fans are goin’,” he says softly into your neck.
“They’re useless.”
He chuckles, “want to go jump in the lake?”
“Don’t tempt me.”
He hums, kisses your shoulder, doesn’t care that your body is coated in a sheen of sweat as his lips move to your neck, his hand cupping your cheek. He turns your head back to his. “I can distract you,” he smirks. Hips moving against your ass, his dick hard.
“You’ll only make it worse,” you breathe when he bites the skin just below your ear.
“Ya sure?” His other hand slips between the two of you, pushing your panties to the side and pulling himself from his briefs. “I don’t gotta put it in, baby.” He positions his cock so it’s rubbing through your folds, his tip moving against your clit, making you moan into his mouth.
Ass pushing back against him, “I can make you forget all ‘bout the heat and focus on coming along, my cock.” When the slide of his cock becomes more slick from your pussy growing wetter, he grunts against your mouth. “See, your body has already forgotten about it. It needs somethin’ else.” You whine, wrap your fingers around his wrist. Moan in his mouth, “what’s it need, baby?” The tip of his cock teases with the slightest pressure against your entrance, your body bracing, craving the stretch, only for him to take it again. “What do you need, baby?”
“You,” you breathe. Look at him with hooded eyes, chin wobbling.
“Say it again,” he grunts.
“I need you, Tyler.” His mouth twitches when he slides inside of you, his eyes watching as your eyes close in ecstasy. Nails digging into his wrist from the stretch of his cock.
“It’s all yours,” he kisses you. Says your name when he lets out that shaky groan when he’s bottomed out. When your body shudders while trying to adjust. His voice a mumble against your skin when he asks you if you’re ready for him to move, if you can take it, if you want to take it, knows you can take it. Be a good girl, and take what you want, what you need; it’s yours.
— tyler owens x f!reader
tyler knows for sure that he has never seen anything as beautiful as you riding him in the bed of his truck, wearing nothing but his hat.
contents: p in v, dirty talk, cowboy hate rule | wc: 573+
There’s a thick layer of sweat coating your skin, the sound of cicadas and bullfrogs a back drop symphony to the lewd noises coming from the bed of Tyler’s truck.
Each rock of your hips has his cock moving out—in that way that leaves the tip pressing perfectly against your walls, that way that has you catching your breath when you rock back and his entire length moves back inside of you.
Filling you to the hilt again. Stretching you over and over like your pussy was made for it.
Made to take Tyler’s thick cock until your legs were shaking around his thighs, and you have made a mess of both of you. Staining the front of his jeans with your juices, and come.
And he just watches you.
He watched you when you took off his hat and placed it atop your head at the bar with the crew. The corners of his mouth turning up, towering over you, a finger in the loop of your denim shorts.
“I’ll meet you in the truck.” His palm smacking your ass when you turn and head towards the door, while he turns in the other direction to tell the guys you’re calling it an early night.
His eyes follow you out the door and through the window, only diverting his gaze when you’ve hopped up in his truck.
He’s always watching you, like you’re some prized possession. Like you’re the town celebrity, when really all you are is his.
His girl.
“You gonna come again, baby?” His teeth bite at your collarbones. His fingers digging into your hips, his thumbs pressed into the bone when he grips them harder and angles you in the position he knows will have his tip hitting that spot inside you that makes you spasm against him. Your nails dig into the shirt still covering his shoulders.
Your eyes closed and mouth pulled down in a loud moan as your head lulled.
A strong hand at the back of your neck stops it. Stops you from completely crumpling against him. Never letting his view be taken away from him.
His eyes transfixed on the way your breasts heave. The way you try to bite your lip to stop from being any louder, as if there was anyone out here to hear you besides wildlife.
“Come on, ride it.” He’s grunting against your skin. His hips snapping up as much as they can, enough to start your legs shaking. “That’s it, that’s it, take it, baby.”
His name tumbles from your lips like the only prayer you’ve ever been willing to plead on your knees for. The only prayer that has meaning. That can make you feel so good, loved.
He breathes into your open mouth. Pushes your neck so your mouth is against his. The tip of his hat bumping into his forehead as it still sits atop your head. His lips rough with desire, but gentle in the way they kiss you until you can breathe normally again. “How I’ve lasted this long is one of the many wonders of the world.” His thumb moves from your hip, up your side, and to your boob. Running the pad of his thumb against your nipple. “Never seen anything as beautiful as you comin’ on my cock, baby.”
You smile against his lips, your body shuddering against him. Your hips still moving languid and slow, your insides still fluttering. “You know all the right words to say to win a girl's heart, huh?”
premise: you hate him. hate how messed up the both of you are. can't stand how the two of you have been weened off of spoonfuls of poison force fed to you by your parents and the only antidote you've ever been able to stomach has been each other.
contents: messed up step sibling with benefits dynamic, p in v, plot and backstory heavy a lil, abusive parents, oral, marking, blood mention, dirty talk, degradation, dacryphilia | wc: 1.4k+
note: the demons i have inside of me when i think of this man are absolutely batshit and i should seek help. enjoy!
“What’re you gonna do?” The look on his face is aggravating. Obscene in the way it makes something burn beneath your rib cage and singe its way down between your thighs.
Your eyes ache from your efforts to not let the tears that have gathered at your ducts fall onto your cheeks. To roll down only for him to mock—lick away with the tongue that peaks out from his lips as he smirks.
“You’re going to cry? Really? I thought you were better than that.”
“Fuck off.”
You can see the puff of air that ghosts through the cold night air as he laughs under his breath. Pulling out a cigarette, inhaling twice before it’s lit, and releasing the smoke from his lungs into your face.
“No more tough girl act, huh?”
“No more ass kissing for money, huh?”
This time, his laugh is deeper. The look of arrogance on his face more menacing with the way the street light is beating down on the two of you.
Family dinner.
What a fucking joke.
It barely took five minutes before Patrick was getting into it with his father, and your mother had a mouthful of words to berate you. You hadn’t known why they even invited you, let alone Patrick, to this wannabe Partridge family shitshow.
Patrick’s father, having washed his hands with his son long ago, finding zero use in someone who wasn’t making him money.
And your mother barely able to look at you without disappointment written all over her face because she can’t live vicariously through you anymore. The day your athletic career ended, so did her pretending that she actually cared about you.
“Shitty parents build character,” someone once told you. Had patted you on the back and gave you that tight lipped smile people always did when they didn’t want to pity you, but also had no idea what to say to the shit end of the stick you were dealt.
A smile you’d love more than to smash your fist into. Over and over and over.
It’s really no surprise the way you and Patrick turned out. No surprise, the two of you have been at each other's throats since day one. Your parents turned the two of you into their own little competitive rivals they could bet against, give love and money to when the other came out on top. When one was knocked down and the other was spitting blood with their fingers curled in the asphalt.
Which is why it was also no surprise when Patrick found his way into your room one night. No surprise when your face was pushed into your pillow, his mouth at the back of your ear daring you to scream his name loud enough for your parents to hear.
“Let them know who’s winning, baby.”
And it’s no surprise how the nightly visits turned into rough encounters in the kitchen with you bent over the counter, your mother within earshot in the other room, or the countless hookups in his father's car.
If you had good parents, maybe they would have noticed.
Maybe your mother would have questioned you more about why your knees were all skinned up. And you would have to tell her some lie about tripping during practice when, in reality, Patrick had you on your knees in the gravel, gagging on his cock, before he fucked you against the chain link fence when he visited you at university one night.
But instead, your mother grabbed a handful of your hair and told you not to lose her money.
And while, yeah, you did hate Patrick. Have always hated Patrick—maybe even a stronger word that portrays the burning sensation you get in your chest and the urge you have to pick and chew at your own skin, or his—when he’s around.
There’s still a part of you that’s almost grateful that he ruined your tennis career.
Fucked it up for you only for him to become a waste himself.
You’ll never tell him that, though.
Especially not with the sickening look he keeps giving you now.
The end of his cigarette put out against the brick wall his shoulder leans against. You can smell the nicotine when he steps closer to you. Your nostrils filled with the cheap cologne you hate actually works for him.
The tip of his nose ghosts against your cheek when he whispers in your ears, “if you want a real reason to cry, just ask, baby.”
You hate him.
You hate how causally cruel he can be. How it’s easier for him to bite you in bitterness and animosity than it was for him to pretend he isn’t repulsed by wanting you—just as you are him.
Except your bites sting and mark up his pride until he’s half way across the country trying to prove himself, if only to make you bite him harder.
But what you hate most of all is how good it feels.
How his words make goosebumps prick your bare legs. How when he pulls back to look at you, his mouth centimeters from your parted lips, he’s blurry from the tears that have yet to fall. The tears that your mother caused. Tears that would taste so much sweeter if they were coming from him.
Because of him.
Your cheeks stained way too many nights with tears and come from Patrick.
There’s a silent communication that happens when your scowl wavers and his eyes flash to your mouth. A confirmation not needing words when you feel his fingers run up the side of your thigh, getting just below your skirt before he’s gripping the back of it to pull your thighs apart. The indent of his fingers hard and throbbing when he’s let go and pushed his palm around and up to cup you through your panties.
The nicotine on his tongue pushing its way through your open mouth as his lips feather yours as he speaks, a hitch of your breath when his index finger runs along the wet patch on your underwear, makes his mouth pull up.
“God, why are you so fucking pathetic?” The pad of his finger pushes against your clothed clit. Your mouth twitching open in a moan you refuse to let slip out. “I bet you’ve been wet all night, trying not to rub your greedy pussy against your seat in hopes I’d let you have a taste of my cock tonight.” He smirks, “no wonder mommy’s disappointed in you.”
His mouth finally presses to yours just as the tears left in your eyes fall. When his words make your body collide into his like a moth to the flame that’s going to burn it alive. Kill it. Relieve them of a bitter, shitty life.
Your underwear is ruined by the time Patrick has it pulled down your thighs. Torn and stretched out, marking bruises and rashes into your skin that remind you of the nights he purposely made your skin bleed just to lick his tongue over it and smirk when your mother yelled at you the next morning for not looking like her perfect show pony.
Only for the two of you to meet in the hall wet, hard, fucking against the wall that displayed your seemingly perfect family photos.
Your nails dig into the brick wall. Bring dirt under them and skin the beds of them when you wrap them around Patrick’s hand against your throat.
The sound of his hips slapping against your ass as he fucks you hard and fast fills the alleyway. The pain of your pussy never having the opportunity to truly accommodate his size—to prepare for it—is exhilarating. Your inner thighs coated in your own slick. Your own shame. Your own pain that Patrick pulls out of you, causes you, eases into you, and adores you for just as much as he hates you for.
“I hate you.” You choke out, swallow your moan, and hold it in until tears run down your cheeks.
He groans against your cheek, “yeah? Fuck, say it again. Tell me how much you hate me. How much you hate how you can’t finger this little cunt without thinking of me even after all these years.” You can feel your knees grind against the brick; you know you’ll have scraps. You know you’ll press your finger into them for days, weeks, while they heal, and you think of Patrick. Fuck yourself from how wet the thought of him always makes you.
Cry into your pillow in pleasure at how much you hate him. Hate yourself. Hate how fucked up the two of you are—how the two of you need this fucked up mess in order to live, breathe, come.
Fuck, you’ve missed him.
You clench your eyes shut as a hoarse cry is strangled from your lungs by his hands, cock, mouth against your jaw.
— qimir x f!reader
why would you run from him after everything he's shown and given to you. you are supposed to be his perfect acolyte. crafted just for him.
contents: p in v, over stimulation, semi yandere qimir | wc: 559+
You’ve lost track of how many times you’ve come. How many positions he has put you in. How many times you have begged him for a break, to rest, to catch your breath, to stop the throbbing between your thighs that only gets worse the more he fucks you.
The more the underside of his cock rubs against your swollen clit. His fingers digging into your thighs as he holds your squirming thighs apart. The force taking over when he grows tired of holding you open for him.
“Please.” You whined.
“You sound like you didn’t cause this.” The lack of empathy on his face only makes it worse. Only makes your skin burn and gather sweat, barely filling your lungs. The underside of his cock pushing back and forth through your slit, wet and loud in your eyes. “You did this to yourself.” His words mock you just as much as your arousal does. Evidence of how many times you’ve come, of how your body is spent and can’t stop giving itself over to him. Letting him pull, take, and use you.
The more his mouth sucks at your clit, the more his fingers curl up inside of you and press against your walls, the more you gush around him. His eyes on yours when you declare you can’t come anymore, and he pulls another from you.
He allows your fingers to dig into his hair to try and push him away from your swollen cunt. The corner of his mouth pulled up when the flick of his wrist has your hands unable to move.
Making a show of how powerless you truly are against him in so many ways. So many ways that should fill you with fear. Should anger you. But only heat your cheeks in the opposite effect. The reasons as to why you ran from him long forgotten, long regretted, long praised and thanked by the haze of pleasure, want, the need to rest—to be devoured by him.
An overwhelming feeling of not being whole, not being able to be put back together unless it’s by his hands taking you apart in the first place.
His fingers dig into your wrists, your knees pressed against his chest, pushing your ass up from the bed enough to have his hips driving deeper, harder, against it. The tip of his cock hits that part of your pussy that no longer aches when he’s this deep. When your walls are this swollen and fluttering around the thickness of him.
His mouth leaves bites against your jaw, “are you going to leave me again?” You shake your head, tears sting your eyes, your body spent and overstimulated yet still pulling him in. Still aching for another release and to be awarded his.
He groans against your cheek, “all I’ve shown you, given you, and you run from me. What happened to my good little acolyte?” His dark eyes look down at you, a hand at the crown of your head, thumb rubbing a soothing circle against your skull. “Are you still my girl?”
You’ll feel pathetic later, no matter how fast your head nods. A sick swoop of joy shoots through your stomach when he smiles down at you. His kisses, once rough, hard, and demanding, now filled with a passion fueled gentleness that makes you come again.
— luca (the bear) x f!reader.
luca has a thing about fucking you in the kitchen.
contents: p in v, cunnilingus, dirty talk, fingering | wc: 783+
It is almost a problem how much Luca enjoys fucking you against the counter in your shared kitchen.
A problem when you have a knife in your hand trying to cut the veggies for your dinner, his chest pressing against your back as he comes and stands behind you. His palm running down your arm, to your wrist, slotting over your hand—a fake show of him teaching you a lesson you already know.
How to cut right so you don’t slip and get your finger. The perfect positioning, glide, and control of the knife that only a seasoned chef would know how to do.
“You’re a faster learner.” He’ll say teasingly in your ear. His smile against your neck as his face leans into your space, the tip of his nose running along the quickening pulse in your neck.
You want to roll your eyes and tell him that you’re not learning much of anything right now that you don’t already know—that he isn’t distracting from as you feel his cock hardening against your ass.
His other hand travels up the side of your thigh, making you shiver, a slow destination to the bottom of your worn sleep shorts. His fingers pushing past the fabric, pressing against your clothed clit.
“Luca,” it’s a warning, a moan. Your head turning to look at him, stopping by his cheek when he pushes it forward with his nose.
“Pay attention to what you’re doing, baby.” His fingers run along your slit. Wetness quickly gathers between your legs and slicks the fabric of your underwear, giving his fingers a better slide and push against your clothed pussy. “Don’t want you to cut yourself.” His teeth nip at your jaw.
And you try to focus. Try to glide the knife through the vegetables, try not to push back against him, and run your ass against his dick, but fail. His low groan against your ear makes your eyes flutter.
A string of moans pulled from your heaving chest when his fingers pull at your underwear enough to allow his fingers to move inside and press flush against your throbbing clit.
“Careful.” His accent is deeper when he’s amped up like this. When he’s teasing you. When he’s making you feel so good and craving to feel just as good for himself. “I don’t think you’re paying attention.”
“I-ahh, Luca.”
“Baby.” He says mockingly.
You know it’s him that’s stopping you from cutting yourself. His hand doing all the guiding, both with the knife and your body, as his fingers press into you and fuck you until your legs are shaking and you can’t keep your eyes open.
The knife in your hands limp and forgotten, the vegetables pushed to the floor as Luca presses a palm to the middle of your back to bend you over. Pulling your shorts down and wasting no time to push inside of you. Both of you moaning in relief. You can feel his cock throbbing against your fluttering walls.
The pace of his hips snapping hard against your ass makes your body jolt against the counter. Making anything around you not already on the floor find its way there.
Safety forgotten. The only thing that matters is how good his cock feels inside of you, how pretty you sound in the one place of the house he’s an expert in. The one person he’s an expert at pulling incoherent moans and pleads from.
His hand wraps around the base of your throat to pull you back against his chest, his fingers gripping your jaw when he turns your head towards his mouth so he can press a needy wet kiss on it.
“Whose is it, baby? Who’s pretty lil’pussy is it?” He asks breathless against your mouth, panting as he stares into your eyes. His own blown out. The heat in them makes your belly burn.
“Yours, only yours.” You whine into his mouth. Taste the sauce you made him try earlier; that is surely burning on the stove by now.
When you’re about to come, he pulls out and turns you around, drops to his knees, his hand gripping the back of your calf as he puts your leg over his shoulder. Spreading your legs and putting his mouth on your pussy. Lips wrapping around your clit until your fingers are gripped in his hair and your hips are canting up against his face. Fucking yourself against his tongue and mouth until you’re coming, screaming his name.
“Best fuckin’ meal I’ve ever had,” he says against your thigh. Placing a wet kiss against your thigh before he’s standing up, pulling your leg over his hip, and slipping back inside of you.
premise: it doesn’t matter how many times you try to convince yourself that you’re done with him you always end up back in his bed.
contents: exes with benefits, p in v, tiny bit of plot, oral, alcohol consumption, booty calls, slight toxic relationship | wc: 1k+
note: went into this movie already down bad for him and came out of it even worse. i had to write something for him, i'm obsessed.
“Baby, come on.” You can tell from the deep bravado of his voice that he’s been drinking. That he’s had one too many more than he really should have allowed himself. That something clearly went south at some point during the day that had made him grip the glass of liquid poison until he was tipsy enough to let go of the day's frustration and call you.
His inhibitions always lead him back to lighting up your phone at late hours of the night.
Your own endless cycle of your lack of impulse control has you staring down at the screen of your phone, determined, grounding your feet at the line you had drawn in your attempts to not answer his calls again.
Ever again.
"Kenji, it’s never going to work.”
“But it feels so good when it does.”
“I can’t keep doing this.”
And yet you end up scuffing up that line you drew in the sand as you step over it and answer your phone. Each and every time.
“Just come over. We can just talk.”
“Kenji,” you sigh. Both of you know that ‘just talking’ has never been a strong suit for either of you. It was hard to just talk when his mouth was between your legs or your face was pressed into his pillow.
“I promise. I just want to see you, please. I’ve...” he swallows. Maybe he takes a sip of whatever has his mind hazed and slipping into old habits. “I can’t stop thinking about you.”
His voice, when it’s like this, gravelly, raw from the liquor he’s consumed, low and almost needy, always makes your insides burn. Always makes you forget how to breathe.
And then he’s sighing; it’s breathy, and you can hear ruffling, like he’s situating himself against the back of his couch or removing something—clothes, his pants, images of late nights with him leaned back against the cushions of his couch, his legs splayed open for you to sit prettily in front of him, your lips teasing the tip of his cock, making your cheeks heat.
Making you swallow hard. Close your eyes. Try to ground yourself. Try to list all the reasons why you should not go over to his house right now.
It’s never a good idea.
Never.
But no and Kenji Sato never went into the same sentence in your brain, and maybe that’s a bigger problem than your resolute “fine” through the phone.
“Just to talk.”
“Just to talk.” You can hear his smirk through the phone. “I can’t wait to see you, baby.”
And you know, as you hang up the phone, as you put on your shoes, as you get into your car—before you even answered the phone—that the last thing the two of you are ever going to do is just talk.
That’s why when you show up at his place, when you knock and he opens the door barely seconds later, that curve of his mouth, his hand reaching out and gripping the bottom of your shirt, “Hi, baby.” Rolling off his tongue like a siren song to your insides, it is no surprise you are pressed against the back of his door seconds later.
His mouth on yours, his hands everywhere. Pulling at your clothes, pulling you closer to him. His hair falling in your face in that way you’ve missed so fucking much. That you have grown addicted to feeling when he’s on top of you and thrusting between your legs.
“Knew you missed me too,” Kenji groans when you fall to your knees and take his cock in your mouth. His teeth in his bottom lip as he looks down at you like you own his world. His very being. Like he doesn’t know pleasure unless it’s given to him by you.
A feeling you know too well in regards to him.
And you don’t tell him differently. Because yeah, you did miss him. You always miss him. That’s why you can never stop these visits. Never say no to him. Even if the two of you will always be the right person wrong time, every time you think it will be different. That your heart might actually be a little more safe than the last time.
It doesn’t matter, though. You know that when his palm grabs the back of your neck to pull you up from your knees, his thumbs pressing into the side of your jaw as he brings his mouth down on yours—nothing matters but this. How good it feels. How good Kenji feels, how good he makes you feel, how much the two of you love each other even if he’s bad at it.
You need him to fill your lungs with air when he pushes inside of you, his thick cock filling your tight cunt, that heavy breath of relief he lets out as if nothing has felt as right as this. As you. Under him. Digging your nails into his lower back as he thrusts into you. As his mouth bites and sucks at your neck.
As his hand snakes between the two of you and presses his thumb against your clit. Your legs tightening around him. Your cunt tightens around his cock, your moans become more breathy, panting into his mouth as his tongue licks into yours.
“Yeah, baby. Come on. Come on, give me it.”
And you do. You come and come again when he puts you in a different position—when his mouth is hot and wet at your shoulder blade. When his fingers grip your hips and pull you back, his hand pushes down on the base of your spine to have your ass push up higher for him. To allow him to go deeper until you’re gripping the sheets and seeing stars.
“Fuck, that’s my girl.”
By the time he pulls himself from your wetness, his fist moving against his cock fast and hard, your arousal still slick against him, making the lewd noise burn your cheeks. Your body heating back up as you watch his brow furrow. “Look at me, baby, look,” he says breathless as he paints the mound of your pussy with his come. You know reason will never mean anything. You’re his, and when he calls, you’ll come running each and every time.
premise: he is your beginning, the whole reason you have made peace with the darkness inside your head, and you know someday he may become your end. whether by his saber or by him finally consuming completely. you welcome both.
contents: established master x acolyte dynamics, shared force bond, unprotected p in v, foreplay, light choking, biting, scars and burn marks mentioned, death, teasing, over stimulation | wc: 2.7k+
note: i love that we all saw the water scene and went yeah that's for the smut writers. glad we are collectively going insane over this man.
The moons paint the water in a shimmering light that bathes its surface in sapphire that fades to the deepest of blacks the longer you stare into it. The waves that hit against the ragged stones are like a siren call to your aching body.
Your muscles are still tight and coiled from earlier. Your molars grind together when you lift your arms to pull off your ruined and stained clothes. A burning sensation felt through your body as the fabric covering your torso moved against every burn, cut, and bruise you had acquired tonight.
You didn’t stop by a reflective surface to check how many battle scars you’d earned. Badges of honor. More wounds worn like metals placed on your neck by a pleased master. Wounds, he’ll help you heal, stitch up, seal with the press of his palm to the tattered skin—stolen supplies from planets you can’t remember the name of with faces you can only remember the dead eyes of, used on the ones that don’t close up right.
The moonlight makes them look less serious. The illumination colored the dried blood and tissue into something misty. Almost tantalizing to the eye. Unlike the light of day, where you’re sure it will look less glamorizing. The ugly truth of the way your skin is going to bubble up and mold over to protect itself once the healing process begins is less glaring in this hue.
Your toe dips into the water. It’s always warmer than you think it to be. Always welcoming you in like it’s been waiting for you to return. Waiting to wash away the grim and blood that seemed more permanent on your skin than your own flesh.
You wade at the edge for a bit, pushing around the water with your feet. The water wading at your ankles.
The ringing hasn’t stopped.
It rarely does until you’ve closed your eyes and settled it. Until your body is less taut, muscles released from the on switch of fight. The power inside your veins thrumming like a wasp trying to free itself from the tissue of your bones.
As if it had gotten stuck in there and couldn’t find its way out. Refusing to settle down or leave until you’ve maimed, avenged, and proved yourself—leaving your body and muscles in their current state.
You’re not worried about something being in the water. If there were, you would have been able to feel it. Sense it’s beating heart and the danger of allowing it to keep beating. You’re alone as you walk further into the water, sinking into it’s depths until your body is completely engulfed. Your neck and head the only things going untouched.
The freshly made badges on your skin burn when you scrub your thumb along the edges of them. Specks of dried blood float along the surface of the water before they’re lost to the darkness below.
Amongst the ringing in your head, you can hear the screams of anger that tore from your lungs when the Jedi had gotten the upper hand. The green of his saber leaving red against your skin. Making your moves turn from confident to something rage fueled.
Somewhere among the ringing, you know his scream is in there. Amongst the many cries for help and cracking bones.
They always linger. Always hold on like a power pack to your dark side.
You know your body won’t fully relax until you’ve stopped the ringing, though. You didn’t believe in blessings or curses. Bad fortune or good. Everyone’s life ended the same way. If you did believe in the farce, you would think the ringing that goes from the base of your skull to the drums of your ears was a curse.
A quiet mind is a blessing.
The buzz of the force within you too heady when you're in the throes of battle. War. Darkness. It’s always been like that. Even before him.
It’s only gotten worse with him beside you. Like the bond the two of you had opened too much too deep and you feel everything more clearly. More unfortunately.
He taught you how to silence it. To reign it in after the adrenaline and pace of your heart slowed.
There were still things you had to learn. Things you were kept from knowing by your old master, the one who only saw one way to wield your power. A cowardly excuse for a master whose burial you wish you could have witnessed.
It’s aggravating, almost. Anger inducing for sure.
Someone not believing you are capable of knowing the truth about the power you wield. It’s criminal to not allow someone to be their true self all because of a set of rules that only benefited one group of people. One way of living, when there were so many.
Your aggravation has faded by now. The anger is still there and buzzes through you. But you no longer feel like a part of you has been held back. Stunted and aching like your chest had for years—as if a rock had found itself in the base of your heart and took up rent there—until Qimir showed you the way.
Your true self.
Your full potential and all you were capable of.
All that had been inside of you, held back for so long.
Filling your lungs with air, you sink yourself under the water and hold yourself there. Eyes closing as you center yourself. Slow the wasp in your marrow to something dull. Stop the ringing in your ears until all you can hear is the hum of the water hitting the rock above the surface.
Just you and the force.
Just you and the water.
Until you feel him.
Until he’s there inside your mind.
Until you feel a hand at the base of your skull, fingertips brushing at the nape of your neck to let you know he’s not just in your head. He’s beside you.
Your eyes meet once you’ve filled your lungs with air again, and you wipe the water droplets from your lids.
You watch him splash water against his neck, running the palm of his hand along the dirt and grime that clings to his skin. Cleaning himself of any traces of the deaths the two of you have left in your wake tonight.
His calm demeanor always pulls you back from the edge. Always brings a calmness to your blood. To the beating of your heart. Even when shit has gone haywire, his demeanor never switches up. Never slips into something that could be labeled as sloppy or driven by anything other than who he truly is. What he’s made of.
His calm seeping through your shared bond until you have no choice but to relax.
The handful of times you’ve seen that calmness turn into something animalistic, it’s made you envious, on the same hand, it’s made the space between your thighs burn.
“You did well tonight.”
“The smell of my burning flesh still clinging to my senses says differently.”
The corner of his mouth lifts in amusement, “you did well.” He repeats. Ducks his head forward to wet his hair. His fingers running through the strands, droplets falling down his face. Your eyes follow them all the way down the column of his neck to his chiseled collar bones.
It doesn’t take one wielding the force to know what your mind is projecting. Doesn’t matter that the two of you share a part of your brain. The thoughts of past nights spent together, Qimir teaching you the ways desire can be wielded and used to your advantage—or disadvantage, depending on how you look at it.
Your face turns from him. Eyes moving up to the moon.
Trying to hold back your thoughts the way he taught you. Even if it is futile against him.
“How do you feel?”
Has the ringing stopped, Is what he’s really asking. Do you need another lesson? Are you still weakened by that ailment? That curse?
Except he wouldn’t be as dramatic as that. Not with this. Not ever. Especially when it came to your power. Your capabilities. The perfect little acolyte he’s trained you to be.
“Fine.” Your answer clipped, honest. Because you are fine, and your stubbornness will not allow you to let this turn into another lesson about you not being able to be as calm and collected as he is. No shadows of doubt lingering over who he truly is. His purpose. His wants. His desires. His darkness.
He’s always been able to read right through you, though. Even without taking up space in your being. The force has little to do with that fact.
You were never afraid of the darkness that lived inside of you. Never afraid of the power you could wield and the lives you could take.
The only time you’ve felt true fear is being seen.
Accepted.
The potential to let someone of importance down and not withhold your end of a deal you’ve inked your name in blood just to be beside. To prove yourself to someone who’s your equal. Another half of your very being.
His face shows nothing but that calm amusement when he wades behind you. His fingers moving against your skin in an act to rid you of the spots of dirt you’ve missed on your neck and shoulders.
Swallowing hard when his fingers scrape against past scars, he lingers there for a beat. Running the pad of them against the raised skin. A whisper in your head.
You heal beautifully.
It’s a softness you’d never thought him to be capable of when you found out who he truly was. The man behind the mask. Even if the unmasking had been done unintentionally.
It’s not softness you feel from his touch, though. No, his touch eases the strain in your muscles, only to gather itself in your belly. Your body burning with anticipation, knowing how this goes.
How you’re rewarded when you impress him.
When you do as you are told, your master is ever the generous one.
“You’ve proven yourself tonight.” His lips brush against the tip of your spine, “killing without a weapon, not stopping until you were the last one standing. Freeing yourself from the ones who held you back for so long.” Your breath hitches in the back of your throat when his mouth presses down on that same spot at the beginning of your spine.
A hand snaking around your throat, his palm wet and warm against your collarbones as he pulls your neck at just the right angle to have you looking at him.
“Did it feel good?”
“Yes.” You swallow, wrap your fingers around his wrist. “It always does.” You whisper, your eyes flashing down to the upturn of his lips.
His nose runs along your cheek to your temple, his eyes closed, inhaling you. “I can always smell it. When you let yourself become one with the darkness. Right before you take a life.” His thumb runs a circle against the vein, which tells him the pace of your heart has picked up. As if he’d need it to know, as if the two of you don’t share something that links you completely to the other. “It still lingers. It’s distracting.”
It’s not a question, but you nod. Your eyes flutter when he pushes his hips forward, and the hardness of his cock moves against your ass.
He doesn’t ask permission, the two of you knowing you’re past such kindnesses, when his hand cups your mound. He knows what your body needs right now. What it wants, what it’s expecting. He can feel it too. His index and middle fingers spread your pussy, giving him access to that pleasure point on your body that only he knows how to stroke just right to have you pliant and singing for him.
As if you were not already devoted to him. As if he were not your reason for being.
He’s your beginning, and you have no doubt he will be your end if it comes to it.
The pad of his finger circles your clit in that slow way that lets you know he’s going to take his time with you. Going to drain every last bit of strain and tightness from your muscles, pushing that buzz between your legs and making him the only sound in your head—until he thinks you have had enough.
Until your reward is good enough for him to be satisfied with how you took it. Until he knows your mind is back where it needs to be—here, with him.
His mouth meets the hand at your throat, his teeth sinking into the parts his fingers aren’t pressing into. “You’re everything I could have hoped for.” His tongue laps against your pulse.
Perfect.
You may never know if he actually means the words; you can only feel what he allows you to feel through your shared connection. He’s better at blocking than you. But he knows you need to hear these praises. Knows how good and pliable it will make you. His words stoke the fire inside your soul that burns through your darkness. That allows you to become completely consumed by him and the desire to be on this side.
Of being free.
What he does allow you to feel lets you know there is some truth somewhere in there. You can feel it in how hard his cock thrusts against your ass when your body pushes back into him. You can feel it in the way his thoughts stream through your mind.
So obedient.
Your cunt’s so greedy for me.
You’re mine.
The skin on your fingers stings from gripping the rocks in front of you. The pain you should feel from the heel of your palm digging into the jagged stones, lost in the haze of pleasure consuming your body.
Qimir consuming every last part of your being.
Taking over every dark corner of your mind and not letting you feel or hear anything but him.
Your moans become more shaky, your chest heaving as you pant and curse. The weight of the finger on your clit grows heavier, faster, deliriously good the more you near your orgasm.
Your lips are moving in inaudible words. Words he understands, making him grin against your jaw.
“You want my cock tonight?” You know he’s read your mind, or rather, your body. Know he can feel what you desire and crave. What your minds begging him for. “Hmm, do you think you’re deserving of that big of a prize? You spill a little blood, and suddenly you’re greedy.” He hums, “you did well. Do you think you deserve it, though? No?”
Heat burns your cheeks; his chuckle makes you sob into the night air. The stubbornness to please and be as perfect as your counterpart wants you to be is not in favor of the mounting pressure that’s building in your pussy right now.
“I already think you’re perfect; don’t push it.” His foot pushes easily at your ankles. Your thighs spread enough for the head of his cock to press against your entrance and thrust inside.
“Mmm,” you whine at the stretch. Your eyes fluttering closed at your swollen walls being filled. Walls that tighten around him as he sets a fast pace. Matching the rhythm and stroke of his fingers. Sending your body on an overwhelming precipice of a carnal need to come.
The heaviness of his breath as he says your name against your skin—the quick flashes of the pleasure he feels from being inside of you—is what finally sends you over the edge.
Your orgasm rocking through you like a storm. Your body shaking against him, walls fluttering and squeezing around his cock, making him groan. Your throat raw and scratchy from the noise that’s pulled up from your lungs when everything in your body is set completely aflame.
Your hand falling from the rocks, and pressing your nails into his wrist, trying to pull his hand from between your thighs. The over-stimulation of his finger moving against your clit even after your orgasm has passed makes you cry out and ripple the water around the two of you as you squirm.
The tip of his cock hits that spot inside you that makes your vision go white. That falters your fight against his torment.
“You can do better than one. You deserve it, don’t you?”
— the stranger / qimir x f!reader.
the jedi have hidden many things from you about the dark side. like how good pleasure can feel and he is more than happy to show you.
contents: dubcon, fingering, blood, death, light choking | wc: 881+
Everyone’s dead.
The other Jedi.
Your master.
Your friends.
Everyone’s dead, and you’re….you should be dead. Your blood should be pooling around your lifeless body, painting the green of the grass into something opaque and poetically mixing with the blood of your friends.
The friends you trained with.
The friends you love.
You should be lying lifelessly beside them. With honor and pride for fighting till the very end. That should have been your fate. Your ending. How this bloodbath too its close.
Not this.
Not backed against a tree by the monster who killed those friends you love so much, making you feel….good.
Good when you’re surrounded by death.
Good when you can smell burning flesh with each shuddering inhale that inflates your shaking body,
"It's really simple. So simple. The Jedi like to teach that it’s complex. Light, dark. As if the two can’t mingle, change. Warp. Meld together as one thing entirely. I can show you.” He had said as he stepped closer. Each syllable coming from his mouth matched his foot steps until he was right in front of you, and there was no longer anywhere to go.
Your saber long gone. Destroyed in the chaos of blood and bodies. The safety of a weapon, of an escape, is gone when there’s no space left between the two of you.
“It won’t hurt,” you flinched away from his fingers when he brushed them against your cheek. A twitch of a smirk at the corner of his mouth. “Quite the opposite. There is more to the darkness than your precious Jedi have taught you. It can heal. It can teach.” His eyes swept over your heaving chest, following a trail up the column of your neck to your mouth, making a chill prick the bottom of your spine. “It can please. Give you a type of pleasure not even the flow of light can bring to you. Let me show you.”
Your jawbone ached when he grabbed it after you had shaken your head. After you all but spat in his face about how much of a monster he was. How he’s going to regret what he’s done. Making a stand for yourself with a voice as weak as you felt.
“You Jedi, so closed off in your ways. Never open to something more enlightening. Accepting the other possibilities of being. Of feeling. How can you be all knowing?” His fingers moved from your jaw down to your neck, and the race of your heart accelerated when he wrapped his fist around it. The light pressure had been enough to make your body go into fight or flight. Your hands coming up to grip his wrist. “Let me teach you. I can feel it,” his thumb tapped your pulse point, “in your blood. You’re not like the others. You’re smarter. Be smart.” His head tilted further into your space, making his mouth inches from yours, “you might find by the end of it you want me to show you more.”
That’s how you got to where you are now.
The Strangers hand between your thighs, while the other still holds its grip on your neck. His jaw twitching with every moan you try to hold back. His grip on your neck tightening when you try to bite your lip to stop yourself from letting any noise slip out. Making your mouth pull open, his mouth following the same motion in a pleased smirk.
You’d realized half way into this, half way through the haze, that you could have slipped loose. He’d given you a proper opening to do so. But you hadn’t. Had let yourself be tempted and consumed, willingly.
The fact only adds to the churning in your lower stomach.
The hand between your thigh making your legs shake, your body contorting against the tree. Rolling against his palm, your swollen clit rubbing along the heel of his hand as the two fingers inside of you curl and make you cry out into the night.
Your mind is a mess of pleasure and darkness that not even closing your eyes helps you sift through. To bring you back to the light you’ve had inside of you since birth. To ground yourself enough to use the many skills of the force you’ve been taught.
Each time your eyes close, the pleasure feels worse. More intense. Like the deadliest kind of hallucinogen—his voice, his fingers, his face are there. Images of his mouth on your neck, body, lips, replacing his hand, projected through your head like a fog engulfing your entire being.
It completely engulfs you, and you almost forget what it is like not to be consumed by the allure of darkness. Making your body ultimately crave more.
You don’t know if it’s real or not when you feel his lips brush against your ear and he says, “things that are this reactive to something so minuscule compared to everything else that can be given to it were meant to feel this good.” You shake your head, the walls of your pussy fluttering, swelling around his fingers. “You’re about to come on my fingers, what’s more proof than that that your body seeks the truth. You were meant for all the things the darkness can give.”
He is the epitome of a boob guy, and he doesn’t even try to hide it either. Doesn’t stop himself from constantly needing a hand up your shirt to cup one of your boobs while the two of you cuddle or sleep. Doesn’t try to make excuses as to why he loves you wearing low cut tops. Loves the way your boobs spill out of a tight dress, or if a top is cut low enough, how the display of the skin between them makes his eyes constantly travel the expanse of said skin.
The skin his mouth has been on a dozen times. The skin that his tongue has left a wet trail along on his way to one of your nipples.
And when he can see those same nipples poke out against the fabric of your shirt, his jaw aches.
His tongue runs along his dry lips, reaching for a drink to quench his dry mouth. To distract himself from leaning over and wetting the material of your top as his lips wrap around your clothed nipple—his teeth biting the sensitive peak until your chest is withering beneath him.
You never knew how sensitive one’s chest could be. How a brush of a thumb against your hardened nipple could have you mewling. How the touch of a palm squeezing your breast could feel fucking amazing.
Colin undeniably proving those things to you.
Showing you just how sinful and torturous one’s mouth can be when it’s worshiping someone’s chest. When hands, tongue, and teeth have you soaking through your underwear, your pussy throbbing as if you’ve already come multiple times just from how good it feels.
Spent.
And he’s barely touched you where you need him to.
You’d think such acts would stay in the bedroom. Not leak their way out and have him acting up in public.
But Colin Bridgerton is not a subtle man.
And you look too damn good for him to not act up.
To not stare longer than is appropriate when you’re in public. To not chew on his bottom lip when you bend over, reach for something that makes your boobs press together, brush your chest against his when you pass him to get to the other side of the room.
Or if he’s feeling even more devious and wanting, his thumb rubbing small, slow circles against the fabric of your top. Right where your nipple grows hard. Right in the middle of a group of people, where it looks to them, a husband or lover is embracing his beloved. Shielding her from someone passing. Telling her a secret. About to lean in for a kiss.
Definitely not making her swallow down the small gasps that cave in her lungs from the feel he is copping.
From the breath at the shell of her ear when he whispers, “let’s go home.”
Home.
Where he strips you down and worships your body like he’s studying it to have it carved into stone. Studying it like he’ll never get to touch it again. Like this might be his last day on earth, and by god, he’s going to take his time, going to touch, kiss, lick, and bite every part of you he knows will illicit the filthiest of noises. The sweetest of moans. The heaviest of breaths.
Both of his hands holding a handful of your breasts, a thumb and forefinger playing with one nipple while his mouth sucks and nips at the other.
The more he does so, the more sensitive you become. The more you beg him to touch your pussy. To fuck you. To stop moving the underside of his cock against your wetness while he marks up your chest—devours, claims, moans against the peaks that have made him delirious all day—and push inside of you.
To make you come around him if only to stop this torture.
And when he finally does, when you’ve come enough times for him to be satisfied and your body to feel hot and heavy with sedation against him, he’ll grin against your lips. Run a hand across your forehead, down your cheek, fingers cupping your jaw.
“I need to see you covered in me.”
You don’t have to question what he means. Don’t have to give him permission other than the breathy gasp he swallows down with his mouth pressing to yours. You know what he wants. What he’s craved all day.
When he pulls out of you, your pussy feels swollen and hollow—like you lost the thing that was making you feel whole.
But the need is still building back up. Still there even after your body has been built up and tumbled down already tonight. It’s hard for your body not to react to Colin moving up it, placing his wet cock between the expanse of your chest, pushing your boobs together, and letting out the weakest moan when he starts to move.
His hips stuttering even though he’s just started. His mouth hung open as he watches the way his cock moves against your skin. Between your beautiful breasts.
Eyes flashing up to yours, making your own moan fall from your lips at how big his blue eyes shine with desire. How all it takes is your tongue snaking out from between your lips and moving against the head of his cock once, twice, when his hips thrust forward, for a guttural groan to shake his chest and his come painting across your skin.
And once he can think straight, once his breath isn’t heaving from his lungs and he’s looking like a tortured man, he wraps a hand around his still hardened cock and smears the come at his tip against your nipple.
Both your mouths twitching from released breaths.
“You are beautiful.” He says as he admires his come on your chest, before his eyes meet yours with a smile.
When I tell you he’s going to give you your money’s worth, I mean that. He’s going to have you thinking; sending him more coins won’t hurt, right? If only to hear him let out one of those deep groans that you can see makes his whole chest shudder.
He’s going to be a tease at first. Start the session out in an old t-shirt and pants—a casual outfit for a normal day. Not for a thousand eyes and comments begging for a show.
Waiting with bated breath for him to get started. To take off his clothes and show them why they’re here. Why they keep coming back for more. Why they keep throwing their money at this pretty boy who’s smirking at the camera as he teases them.
As he waits for the sound of money being thrown at him to slip off his shirt, which he gladly obliges with when he gets a number he’s pleased with. The pants taking a little longer. The heel of his palm pushing down on the growing outline of his cock—heavy, hard, and thick against the fabric.
The comments almost unreadable as they come in a mile a minute when his fingers pull at the belt of his pants, his eyes never leaving the camera as he does it. Looking up over his brows as he pulls himself out of his boxers, pushing the rest of his clothes to the floor.
“Oh,” he tsks. Clicks his tongue, smirking as he shakes his head. “You want to watch me fuck my fist? You gotta pay up. Nothing's free ‘round here. Ya’ll know that.”
When he’s finally appeased. Finally, given what he wants, he gives them what they want. Wraps a firm grip around his cock and starts to stroke himself. Avoiding the head with each down stroke. Paying mind to his shaft, dragging it out.
His pleasure.
The show.
His chest becomes flushed the more into it he gets. His lips parted, his tongue snaking out to wet them. Eyes hard and droopy with pleasure.
The heel of his feet digs into the bed when he cants his hips up to push into his fist. His eyes scan the comments, making him throb even more, the head of his cock leaking as he reads them.
Your dick is so pretty.
Such a good boy.
He’s so thick.
Please use me.
Cum for us.
“You want my come?” His eyes look into the camera. “How bad do you want it?” He hums, lets his hand twist around the head of his cock, a groan slacking his jaw. “You know what to do to get it.” His voice stern, filled with desire.
A heavy breath let out when the pad of his thumb moves against his tip to spread his precome around it. To add more slick to his cock. To make it easier for his hips to push his throbbing cock into the makeshift hole of his hand. Fucking his fist just the way his fans want. Just the way they paid him to.
A thousand eyes on him as his head tips back in pleasure. As he pants. As he gets off to the donations coming, to the people begging for him to come for them.
“Fuuuck, that’s good.” He smiles, groans. His goal for the night reached. Money in his pocket for putting on a good show for people who’d die to touch him. Feel him. Be painted in his seed. Marked by him, and thank him for it. “Mmm.”
His wrist twists each time his hips cant down. His movements growing quicker, faster. The noises coming from him less controlled, deep, and incoherent. weak. Rafe completely losing control the closer he gets to coming.
The only thing on his mind the wanting eyes on him. The eyes that look at him like an untouchable god rather than a man. Someone to bow down to, to feed from. Strangers who would let him wrap his fist around their throat and do whatever he asked gladly, happily.
“You ready? You want it?” He says, breathy, panting, eyes rolling back into his head right before he comes. Streaks of white painting his spasming stomach. His throat raw from the noise he lets out from the intensity of his orgasm.
His body shuddering when he lets his hand linger on his spent cock, oversensitive and twitching against his palm. A pleased look on his face, “such a shame it’s going to waste.” He looks down at the mess he’s made on himself. Eyes lifting, looking into the camera, “you want a taste?”
pairing: jake ‘hangman’ seresin x f!pilot!reader (sweets)
contents: dirty talk, banter, big dick seresin, f receiving oral, jake being pussy drunk, enemies with benefits, p in v, over stimulation a little | wc: 1.9k
note: every time the weather starts to get nice i slip back into my top gun era like a bear waking up from its winter slumber, forever obsessed, forever insane over this man.
this is part of this series but you don’t need to read it to enjoy this.
The first time was an accident. A moment of weakness on your part. Something that was not and should not be repeated.
You didn’t label things as mistakes; the word too harsh and unforgiving. Accidents left room for improvement…and if you ever repeated the same accident twice or three times, it made you feel less shitty about it.
You can thank your mother for such a term of phrase. An outlook that enabled you throughout your entire teen-hood and had you ending up in continuous situations that were unsavory and ended with you grounded—that haunting, disappointed look your dad gave you making your heart sink—in the long run.
The only difference now was that the only one here to scold you was yourself.
The only one to hold yourself back and talk yourself out of it, to lay down the law so hard that you’d never want to let the accident happen again.
And you’d done that.
Had scolded yourself the minute after it happened, and the sex haze had faded from your body, the smirk to your left enough to make your blood boil and not want to commit the same accident again. Enough to bring down the hammer on yourself.
It was an accident you were not going to repeat.
A lapse of judgment and tremendous amounts of shots, that wouldn’t happen again.
Wouldn’t cloud your mind and let you be sweet talked and seduced by a country drawl attached to a pair of irritating lips that teased the column of your neck with love bites and kisses that made you fall to your knees in front of a man you wanted to punch.
And in your defense, right now, you were sober as the day you were born. There was no liquid dopamine warping your mind or driving your actions. No easy excuse for letting what is currently happening happen.
It would be easier to blame it on that. Alcohol. Shots.
Just as easy as it is to put the blame on the cocky asshole who’s pressed to your side, words coming out liquid smooth, and coating the arousal that’s throbbing between your thighs.
You should slap him. Deal out one of your many quips and dis him like you usually do. Your favorite thing about Jake Seresin is that pretty throat you’re constantly at.
You hate him.
Some would even say despise.
But you are a creature of consistency and you’ve never been someone to learn from one accident.
And the more he talks, the more you smell him—a smell you can’t pinpoint but has always just been what your body has labeled him. A smell you could sniff out in a crowded room.
A smell you’ve avoided during drills and trainings by refusing to work around him.
A smell that's hard to ignore how it makes your insides feel when he’s so fucking close.
When his mouth is forming words so irritatingly tantalizing.
God, you hate him.
”And what makes you think I need you to help me with anything?” You bite back at his teasing words and give him your own cocky smirk. “I have plenty of toys that do the job.”
The corner of his mouth pulls up even more, eyes flashing to your lips. His tongue coming out to coat his own, your body flinching from the heat of his palm as it’s placed on your thigh—you knew you should have stayed in your room, gone to bed at a decent hour, not ventured to the rec room in your sleep shorts expecting no one to be awake.
But, of course, Hangman was. Sitting on the couch, shit eating grin spread across his lips when you walked in and immediately scowled.
Your body already feels hot but his hand just makes you feel warmer. Like you’re engulfed. A trail of fire follows up the length of your thigh as his hand moves up your leg, fingers pulling on the bottom of your shorts. Not enough to have them move to really do anything. Just enough to have you swallowing hard, breath held as Jake looks over at you, seeing no resistance. Nothing stopping him from pushing his hand under the fabric until his fingers are brushing your underwear.
A hitch in your lungs as his index finger runs along the wet fabric. His nose brushes against the side of your cheek as his lips ghost against your ear, “We both know you don’t need anything. Anyone. You want it. Should I slip my fingers inside and show us both the proof?” The tip of his nose moves along your jawline until his lips are inches from yours, his eyes moving from your parted mouth to your eyes. “Or are you going to let me make you come again because you sounded so pretty the last time, Sweets.”
And you can’t remember the internal fight and reasoning you’re sure you had with yourself or the convincing your sound mind might have tried to push through the desire and want, moving your body in action as mouths are pressed in hard kisses. Hands clinging and ripping fabric off of your body, nails dug into skin, before Jake’s lips latch onto your clit.
Your back arching off the leather cushions, your hands messing up his perfect hair. Knees pushed up, caging his head between your thighs. A pressure that makes deep noises vibrate against your throbbing clit when you do it. A hand at the back of your thigh grips them, keeping them there.
“Oh my—fuck,” your chest shudders. Your breath puffy and held in your lungs until you have no choice but to let it out in a moan louder than you should. A weak moan thick with that need you don’t need. You don’t need anyone. Don’t need anything. But fuck do you need Jake’s mouth, the way his tongue moves along your clit, the way his lips wrap around and it and suck making your eyes roll back.
Your cheeks burn hot, on fire, clammy from how good he is at this. How every time you rock your hips up against his mouth, he groans and mumbles something barely coherent as he gets lost in you. “God, Sweets,” "s'pretty," “just like that," licked, kissed, and sucked against your pussy.
Jake eats pussy like he’s worshiping it. Like he’s carving his devotion with the tip of his tongue on all the places that make your breath catch, body contort, and walls squeeze around his fingers. And with the sounds and shakes of his chest each time you pull his hair, each time you move against him, feel your arousal gush around his fingers: it’s evident that he’s enjoying it just as much as you, if not more.
That there’s not just pleasure coursing through your body, but the both of you are soaking up each others desire, lust and pleasure with each returned moaned, arch, heavy breath.
And when you come, your orgasm wracks through your body like a bullet that leaves you completely ruined and fucked in it’s wake. Both your hands in Jake’s hair, his eyes flashing to meet yours right as that dam breaks—the beauty of him squeezed between your thighs, mouth on your pussy too much for you to handle.
You have to bite your tongue to stop yourself from saying his name.
Refusing to let yourself go that far.
But Jake apparently needs to hear it.
Needs you to dig your fingers into his shoulder as you try to push him away from your overstimulated and sensitive pussy, his mouth continuing to lap at you. Even as you groan and contort.
“Hangman,” you say it once, twice, three times before you’re saying “Jake!”
You could slap the smirk off his face when he lifts his head from your thighs, tongue cleaning up the remnants of you on his lips. You scowl, too sedated to give him your full wrath. Ready to go back to your room, curl under your blankets, and ignore that this ever happened tomorrow.
Go back to not being able to stand him.
But then he delivers a wet kiss to your skin, his teeth nipping at the meat of your inner thigh. Already reheating your body. Your eyes focusing on his swollen lips. The pink tint of his cheeks, his blown out eyes, and the way his hair looks so much better when it’s messed up like this. Messed up because of you.
And you’ve already forgotten about going back to your room when you put your hand on his neck and try to pull him to your mouth. His stone still body stopping you. The curve of his mouth gnaws at your lower belly in a dozen different ways.
Your fingers dig into his neck when you try to pull him to your mouth again, failing and giving him a disapproving scowl. A needy sound wants to burst through the back of your throat.
His thumb and forefinger pinch the bottom of your chin before his palm cups it, his thumb runs along your bottom lip. “Something you want, Sweets?”
“Fuck you,” you say, more breathless than you wish you sounded. Your teeth biting into his thumb, making a noise between a soft laugh and something animalistic shakes his throat.
“I will,” he says in that cocky drawl that drives you insane. “Just ask nicely.” He leans forward, pulls you to him with his hand at the back of your neck. The way he now smells like you and him mixed, makes your eyes droop a little. Makes your fight die a little. “Say, 'Jake, I need it’.”
“I don’t need anything.”
He hums, agreeing. His free hand slips between the two of you, and you can hear fabric moving. Can feel him moving your back against the couch cushion as he hovers and bends his lower half between your thighs just right. A whimper comes from your throat like a heavy stone coughed up when you feel the head of his cock grind against your sensitive clit.
“But you need this, don’t you?”
You want to argue, but it’s hard when the weight of his cock feels so good, spreading you apart. Against your clit. Pressing just enough at your entrance to stretch you around his achingly large girth. Enough to make you whine when it’s torn away.
“Tell me you need it and it’s yours, Sweets.”
Your teeth sink into your bottom lip; the hatred, the want, and desire make your mind go to war.
”Come on,” His cock stretches your entrance again, thumb at your clit. “It’s okay to admit I’m the only thing you need,” he lets a groan slip, hot and heady against your mouth. “I won’t tell anyone. I need you just as bad. Always have, Sweets. Fuck,” he breaths as he pushes further in, back out, in. Driving you both crazy with need.
A deep, frustrated, moan puffs from your lungs, your fingers digging into his lower back as you push your knees further up his sides to make him go deeper the next time he pushes in. The both of you letting out a breath at the same time when you say, “I need you, Jake," his arms coming up to cage your head between them as his mouth devours yours in a rough kiss. The noise you let out when he pushes himself to the hilt inside of you is disgustingly needy.
contents: enemies to lovers, modern setting, fingering, blood mention, a crumb of dirty talk, public setting, ben calling reader princess | wc: 876
note: solo au’s are actually superior and idc what anyone says okay if you want to argue about it hmu cause i have time!
You hate him.
That’s the one thing you’re sure about right now.
Know for certain.
Even with his fingers in your underwear, your skirt pushed up your thighs, bunching so high that if someone turned the corner to leave the party hall for some fresh air, they would catch a glimpse of the soaked material between your legs—cotton that had been soaked half the night from the man towering over you.
Every snide comment.
Every fake smile.
Every dirty look.
The intensity of his dark eyes burning a hole through your sound mind. Lighting something deep in your belly the way he always does when the two of you are forced to play nice.
Forced to put on a show for your families and act like you wouldn’t screw the other one over at the drop of a hat. Happily. With a smile on your face and the need to come nipping between your thighs.
You’re blaming it on the vodka sodas you downed back to back tonight.
Blaming it on his irritating smirk.
Blaming it on your lungs, forgetting how to properly work when he followed you out here and leaned a forearm against the brick above your head. The height of him completely shadowing you, making all the light around you disappear. Engulfing you completely in him. So you had no choice but to look up.
Each breath you took, drawing in his cologne.
How could you think straight?
Even your “fuck off” was breathy and halfhearted.
And when your palms pressed themselves against his large chest to push him away, he didn’t budge. Only leaned further into you; his mouth parted inches from yours.
“Stop.” He had said. Serious. Like if you didn’t stay right where you were, he’d go insane. Would put on that show of frustration only he knew how to.
Except the fire in his eyes lets you know it would be a different kind of frustration.
The kind of frustration that has him wrapping his big hands around your wrist and pulling your arm up so it’s wrapped around his neck.
His eyes flashing from yours to your mouth the only warning you get before he’s pressing his lips to yours. The kiss hard and demanding. Burning every part of your brain that can think coherently. That can think of all the reasons why this is a bad idea. A brush fire starting in your frontal lobe and engulfing everything in it’s path between your thighs.
That’s how you know you hate him.
Know that even with the heel of his palm rubbing against your clit and his fingers fucking into your throbbing pussy, you hate him. Still. This changes nothing. No matter how good it feels.
No matter how hard you’re gripping the sides of his dress shirt. The material, once pristine, now wrinkled from your fingers digging into his sides.
“Nobody can know about this, okay?” You wish you sounded more stern. Less hollow of all emotions but him.
But Ben Solo and his fucking fingers and mouth.
His mouth hot and dirty, nipping against your bottom lip, your chin, your neck, under your earlobe when he whispers, “that’s fine with me, princess. But if I make you come, you’re mine.”
His words should aggravate you, but they only make you moan. Make you squeeze around the two fingers that are curling and rubbing against your walls. Your body bracing for a hard thump against the brick wall when you throw your head back, only to be met with the soft cushion of his hand.
Something you try not to think about him doing out of kindness.
You don’t want his kindness.
Fuck him.
You hate him.
You wish your body wasn’t reacting this way. Had stopped acting this way towards him a long time ago. Wish his fingers and mouth didn’t feel exactly how you imagined they would when you’d fuck yourself with your own fingers under your sheets.
Wish Ben Solo had one irredeemable quality that you could grasp right now to stop yourself from coming.
But everything he’s doing is perfect.
He’s fucking perfect.
And so you come on his fingers. Teeth biting so hard into your bottom lip that you think you taste blood, preventing you from saying his name the way you want.
He knows it too. Eyes burning hot as he watches your face as you come. His mouth on yours the second your teeth release your bottom lip. His tongue runs along the damaged skin. Lapping at any trace of blood that could be there.
“I’m not yours.” You say breathless.
“You’ve always been mine.”
He says it like there's no room to argue. Like it’s a simple fact that’s been known since the first day the two of you met and have been at each other's throats. Your stomach flutters as you watch him bring his wet fingers to his mouth and press them inside. A deep sigh vibrates in his chest as he gets rid of any evidence of you on his fingers. As he tastes you.
And then he’s turning on his heel and walking away. Heading back to the back entrance of the hall. Leaving you a sedated and complete fucking mess because of him.
contents: m receiving oral, dirty talk, praise, deep throating, love bombs, frankie’s soft as hell | wc: 554
note: this man could sweet talk me out of these undies and i’d gladly throw them at him as i twirl my hair. that’s my truth!
Before Frankie, you never thought this could be intimate.
That there could be softness in the way his hips push up, the way his hands splay against your arms, fingers in your hair light and feathered, and digging into your scalp with such care. A need that goes beyond simply getting off.
And, while there were times when this—you on your knees between Frankie's legs, cock hard and thick against your tongue—felt dirty and rough, tonight was not one of those nights.
It was one that made your entire body feel more alight.
More attentive to the rough palm running up your forearm. More butterflies in your lower belly with the soft whimpers and sighs Frankie’s letting slip. The slow roll of his hips pushing his cock further down your throat done with a loving hand at your neck.
The gentle “that’s it” and “always so good”’s making your cheeks warm.
Making something in your chest flutter in the same breath your pussy does.
Before Frankie, you only viewed blowjobs as something messy, quick, a means to get to another step in sex, or a quicker, less time consuming way to get your partner off.
It’s silly, laughable, and embarrassing the way you used to look at a lot of things before him.
Before he came into your world, and tilted it completely off it’s axis.
You hadn’t known intimacy—the difference between fucking and making love.
Frankie Morales had completely changed you.
And you loved it.
Just as much as you love the way he sounds right now. Love the way the further he goes down the throat, the deeper the noises coming from his open mouth sound. How even with how out of it—how into it and completely consumed by you he is—he’s still so gentle. Still so slow with the way he thrusts into your mouth.
Not only savoring your mouth, but making sure you’re enjoying this just as much as he is.
His palm brushes against your cheek, and his thumb briefly slips between your lips as he pulls himself out of your mouth. “Suck the tip,” he says too affectionately. His eyes blown out with pleasure. Too soft for how his chest is heaving. For the want and desire that’s coated in love in both your bloodstreams.
Your eyes lock on his as you do what you’re told. Your mouth wrapping around the tip of his cock, hollowing your cheeks slightly, sucking, the tip of your tongue coating in precum.
The sound Frankie makes makes your thighs squeeze when your tongue runs along the head of him. Pushing you to do it again and again, until he’s hissing and looking down at you with a sheen in his eyes.
“Fuck,” he swallows, out of breath. “You look so pretty right now.”
You want to tell him he looks just as pretty, if not more.
Want to reach up and push his hair off his forehead because it’s making him look too freaking pretty and you can barely handle it.
It doesn’t take much longer—a string more of compliments and commands and I love you’s before he’s about to come. Before his thumb rests on your cheeks, his breath puffy, eyes droopy with pleasure as he looks down at you and says, “look at me. Look at me, pretty girl.”
SEX WITH JORDAN IS TWO VERY DIFFERENT EXPERIENCES.
Solely depending on which form they shift into during or before.
When they're in their female form, they’re a top with a touch of submission, like the minute you whisper in their ear what you want to do to them, they’re switching to that submissive side.
They’re letting you climb on top of them, letting you take complete control. Letting you kiss down their body, smiling down at you when your teeth bite into the flesh of their tits. Your tongue smoothing over the mark you’ve just made.
Sucking on the skin, knowing they’ll have to walk around for weeks with your mark on them. They'll complain about it, but you catch them smiling at in the mirror when they’re getting dressed.
Letting you make them come against your mouth twice before they can’t stand it anymore and they’re groaning, pulling you up by the cheeks to kiss you with passion, teeth, and tongue. Moaning at their own taste as they push your back into the mattress.
The roles quickly switched.
Jordan never passes up the chance to be in complete control. To have their fingers between your thighs, watching the way your body arches and rolls to the pleasure they’re giving you as their thumb rubs your clit and their fingers fuck your pussy, deep, and rhythm with the buck of your hips. Their mouth on your neck, moving across your chest to close their lips around your nipple.
They feel almost powerful with the knowledge—with seeing how they can make you feel—that they can bring out those weak-pleasure-fueled noises from you, that if they curl their fingers, you’ll be clinging to them, begging and pleading, breathing into their mouth like it’s your last one, like if they don’t let you come, you’ll go insane. Like you’re their saint, and you only need absolution from them.
And when they have their cunt pressed to yours, palm pressed under your chin, against your neck, to keep your eyes on them, their words come out heavy and heated, “it’s only me, right? Only I can make you feel like this? Can make you come this hard?”, your answer wrapped around a pretty moan, fingers digging into their hips to press them harder against you—they feel invincible.
But when they’re in their male form, it’s different. They’re different. They lose that dominant edge and shift into something more lenient. Something akin to a service top, with submission hanging at the cusp.
They’ll still lace their fingers with yours and press them into the mattress, making you feel like they’re the ones in control. Like they could do whatever they want to your body and know you’d love it and ask for more.
But deep down, you both know you’re the one in control.
You’re the one that’s driving them completely insane. That they want to please. Make come over and over until your thighs are wet and sticky, and they lap it up with their tongue. Use the head of their cock to gather the slick at your entrance and rub it against your clit. Make you come one more time just by using the tip of their cock.
Your begs for them to stick it in, “please, Jordan, please,” one of the prettiest things they’ve heard.
Making them smile against your lips as they squeeze your chin between your thumb and pointer to bring your mouth up to theirs.
“Anything for you,” they say against your open mouth as they slip their cock into your heat. The slow stretch makes your nails dig into the side of their arm.
The thrusts and speed of their hips all dependent on what you want. What you moan and whimper into their skin, mouth. How your body moves against there’s, underneath it, with it. How your pussy squeezes them.
“Come for me, one more time, I promise,” the wet squelch of their cock fucking you matched with the fingers drawing circles against your clit undoing you.
And when you switch positions, when you take the reigns and wrap your lips around the tip of their cock, letting your tongue lap up your own come, that’s when that submissive side comes out.
The whimpers heaved out of Jordan’s lungs, the push of their hips off the bed, driving their cock deeper into your throat. Their brows pinched together, eyes glossy, needy. Fingers on your cheek, your head, in the bed sheets.
It’s fucking beautiful.
They’re fucking beautiful.
“Let me fuck your throat. Can I–fuck–can I fuck your throat, baby?”
“Please.”
“Yes, please.”
Their fingers dig into the side of your skull, the closer they are to coming. But even that’s soft. The thrusts fucking up into your mouth are hurried, fast, and hard, but still softer than they could be. Still gentle in that careful way of Jordan wanting you to enjoy this just as much as they are.
When they come down your throat, they watch you swallow. Their eyes watching your throat move, lips twitching in a soft smile. A hand cupping the back of your neck to bring you against their chest to lay. A finger under your chin to lift your head far enough for them to lean down and kiss you.
I'm talking pre-outbreak here, but you can fully imagine post outbreak Joel because it still stands that the relationship would have so much angst to it!!
The minute it starts happening, the minute Joel feels that pang in his heart or that twitch of want in his cock, he knows he’s fucked. It doesn't matter if you add a shared history into the mix (dad's best friend, neighbor, etc), Joel knows he needs to keep his distance.
He doesn’t have time for the mess that could come from it. Doesn’t have time to think about how he hasn’t felt like this in god knows when—where he can’t get you off his mind even while he’s working, a song coming on the radio, and he wonders if it would be your thing (would you like it? would you dance to it? for him? with him?).
How do you take your coffee in the morning? Do you take it black like him, or do you like that iced coffee that he just can’t seem to get into?
What do you smell like when you’ve just gotten out of the shower, and how can he make it linger for days so he can be even more consumed by you? Maybe it would stop his heart from squeezing in his chest every time he sees you. Every time you give him that sweet smile that makes him want to say fuck it and have you.
He thinks he might be crazy. Maybe he’s been out of the dating pool, hasn’t felt this attraction in so long that maybe he just doesn’t know how to act.
But then he catches your eyes lingering on him—the smile you bite away as you turn your head. The sheen that comes across your eyes when you’ve caught him staring. The way being in the same room as him makes you fidgety. The hard swallows, the tapping fingers, the pressing of your thigh—he knows he’s not crazy because you feel it too.
And it’s even more reason for him to stay away.
To just live with wrapping his hand around his cock at night, thinking about you. He doesn’t need the real thing.
He doesn’t need to feel your lips around the head of his cock, where his palm twists and pulls. He doesn’t need to feel your body underneath him as he presses your legs to your chest, leaning down to claim your mouth—his tongue lapping up every weak noise you make.
And he most certainly does not need to come inside of you. on you. down your throat.
Coming on his stomach with your name bitten into his tongue is enough. Should be enough.
But it’s not. It’s so far from being enough that when the dam breaks, you’re both flooded with every missed chance and opportunity, and what if that you spend hours in bed.
Hours of Joel between your legs—his mouth pressed to your clit as he sucks and rolls his tongue, switching between strokes and presses of his fingers, trying to figure out what you like until he’s got it down. Until you’re coming against his mouth, your fingers pulling at strands of his hair. making him want to stay down there longer just to hear you come like that again. To feel it.
Hours of Joel trying not to come down your throat as you let him buck his hips up into it. The underside of his cock rubbing against your tongue, the side of your hollowed cheeks, the tip hitting the back of your throat making you gag around him—and Joel never thought seeing your eyes full of tears could look so hot.
Hours of Joel spreading you out on your back, legs open and pushed down against the mattress as he watches himself pump in and out of you.
Hours of Joel pulling your back into his chest, cuddling you from behind—a respite the both of you think until he’s fucking you again. Wrapping a hand around your jaw to bring your mouth to his.
Both of you losing track of how many times you’ve come.
And after that first night, it’s constant.
If Joel ever thought after having you he’d feel normal again, he was dead wrong.
He doesn’t think he’ll ever feel normal again.
Not when it comes to you.
But then doubt sets in. After months, after hearts have fallen, and Joel really knows there’s no going back from this. From you. That he’s actually in love with you; he doesn’t know if he should be.
If the two of you should keep sneaking around like this. He doesn’t care who knows. Couldn’t give a shit, really. But he’s not stupid. He knows what some people will say. How they will react. He can take it.
It’s you he’s worried about.
Not that you can’t hold your own, but it’s not something you deserve. A judgmental eye towards an amazing woman doesn’t sit right with him. He doesn’t care what anyone thinks of him, but you’re good. Too good for this world, he thinks sometimes when he’s watching you sleep.
Thumb resting against your chin as he counts your breaths.
And when he brings this up to you, when he tries to put an end to your relationship to give you an out, it blows up. It makes him feel that pain of heartbreak he thought he remembered but feels fucking debilitating now. The tears in your eyes now only making his chest ache. Only making him want to punch something, someone.
"I won’t hold you back.”
“You deserve better.”
"Darlin', please understand.”
“I'm sorry. I'm just tryna do what’s right.”
"Fuck, I love you.”
Your cheeks burn under his palms when he grabs them to bring your mouth to his. The kiss filled with more passion than Joel thinks he’s ever felt in his lifetime. The salty taste of your tears licked away by his tongue. Kissed away by his lips at your cheek as he murmurs, "I ain’t goin nowhere; I'm here. Come on, that’s it,” as he strips you bare and slips inside of you.
The strokes of his cock slow and hard. Gazes held and filled with love. Moans, grunts, and whimpers bit and marked into skin—into Joel’s heart.
"I'm all yours. You’re mine.” He whispers against your lips. The hand around your throat is gentler and softer than it usually is. Rubbing a soothing circle against your heartbeat as the other hand moves between you to pull your leg up. Opening you and pushing your pelvis up to have your clit rubbing against him at just the right angle, matched with how deep his cock fucks into you, makes you whine into his mouth as you come.
“My girl, my girl,” Joel mumbles softly against your skin after you’ve both come down. His lips at the back of your neck. Arm keeping you flush against him, like he refuses to let go. Like he’s stupid for thinking it was ever possible he could.
To keep you from pulling away from him after you’ve both come, he’ll grip the back of your neck, his palm rough and hot against your sweaty skin, his nail digging into the skin of your hip to keep you in place.
“No, not yet," he’ll say in that ragged voice he gets when he’s just got done fucking you. When he’s just finished coming inside of you, both of your chests heaving, bodies spent and exhausted from fucking.
Joel taking his time with you.
Manhandling your body into different positions—your legs on his shoulders, hands at your hips to lift you off the bed because he knows your legs shake from the spots he hits when your hips are at the right angle. His cock driving deep inside of you, the tip pushing against that sensitive spot against your walls that has his name pulling from your lungs like he’s choking it out of you.
Your ass in the air for him, his palm on your back to push you further into the mattress because he loves watching you grip the pillow, loves the incoherent noises and drool that’s muffled into the plush cotton as he thrusts his cock into you at a relentless pace. Leaving bite marks on your shoulder, teeth imprints, he runs his tongue along later.
Your tits in his hand as you ride him. a hand around your throat as he feels the tremble of your legs the closer you get to coming. The exasperation in your breaths and moans as you pump yourself down on his cock.
“That’s it, that’s it. Take from me, baby, take all of it.” He grunts as you come on his cock, squeezing and clenching around him enough to make his release hit head on with yours, a deep grunt tensing him forward as he comes inside of you.
And after all is said and done, he just wants you pressed against his chest.
The fingers at your hip refusing to let you move from him, the palm at the back of your neck pulling you down so your mouths meet in a passionate kiss that leaves you even more breathless, and yearning for the intimacy that always follows fucking.
The gentle loll of the afterglow that Joel fucking loves.
Your head on his chest, his face pressed against your head. Fingers rubbing against your back. “Just stay right here,” he whispers. Soothes. Pleads.
