sol’s soapbox: Took three requests and put them all together, hope y’all enjoy :)
content warnings: SMUT/18+ only, reader is a former stripper, pole dancing, exhibitionism, reader is wearing black lingerie (not excessively described), spanking, teasing, ambiguous genitalia, reader is wearing lingerie but is written gender-neutral
masterlist ao3 requests
PREVIEW:
You love to tease Remy, knowing he’ll pay you back just the way you like it.
Remy LeBeau/Reader (18+)
You’re doing this because you can feel that needling pressure building in the pit of your abdomen. That slinking, nagging feeling that requires relief in a way that your hands, that toys will never fully slake, never truly satisfy.
But if there’s one thing that you enjoy: it’s putting on a show. And there are so, so many ways that you can do it: but you know the way that Remy likes it.
Namely, the method that involves the pole set up inside the living room of your shared quarters. The one that bifurcates the room into perfect symmetry, with polished sheen made by meticulous care you’ve given to it.
Just because you work at the manor now doesn’t mean that you don’t indulge in the practice—especially when you still have the skills to play the part.
Especially, as you drape your hand around the implacable metal pole extending from floor to ceiling, when you know just how Remy will react when he walks through the door.
And, most importantly, when you still have his favorite outfit from your halcyon days. The one in scrappy, revealing black, showing access to all the parts of your body that he likes on view the most.
It’s a sleek, perfect fit that conforms to the shape of your body, that becomes familiar second skin as you take cursory step in perimeter round the pole. It’s always a matter of shoring up the strength, fortifying the willpower to take flight, to make corrective path as you circle in revolution once, twice, thrice—
It’s a tightening of muscles, a jete into flight, as you curl the ample flesh of your thighs around the pole. Your core tightens in well-acquainted coil as you let your body spin in inverted view, the room turning upside-down as you lean back.
The muscle memory never leaves, your legs taking familiar crook to support your weight, your anchor to hold on to as you watch the room turn in reversed imagery.
You know that the door is opening, the oft-heard creak of a beloved figure pacing through the doorway, making presence through the threshold with a familiar “Après-midi, minou; you miss me—”
It is, perhaps, divine intervention that you right yourself to upwards momentum, letting your thighs clench around the pole, holding yourself in seductive bearings—just at the moment that you make eye contact with Remy.
As you see the sight that makes itself clear in his face: the eagerness, the vivid excitement. The hunger that is so clear in those eyes that smolder with ethereal glow turned carnal. And the way that they slink down the curves of a body well-known to him, take inventory of the clothes that cling to you in salacious manner: the air turns poignantly electric.
He lets the door shut behind him without sparing backwards glance. Runs the pink of his tongue over his lips as though he is imagining the feast that awaits him, before it takes shape of a wicked smirk.
The coat he so often wears is shucked, abandoned in crumpled heap to the ground as he takes one, two, three paces into the room. Draws close enough to enjoy the show you make as you turn about once more, but far enough away that he is denied the pleasure of how you might feel under his hands.
One hand rolls leisurely knuckle as he observes the way you move in silent rotation: but your eyes remain riveted upon him.
“Minou,” Remy states with an air of mock-propriety, “You give ol’ Remy a nice surprise, doin’ this.”
You chuckle against the interior of your mouth, allowing him the vision of your upright body before you allow yourself to release your grasp on the pole. As you turn back down to the ground, letting the locomotion of your thighs accomplish the heavy lifting in dully pleasant burn, you hear a punched-out groan from him.
“And you wearin’ Remy’s favorite outfit,” He says in near-reverent observation, “You spoil a man, chere.”
“Who says I was doing this for you?” You speak against the force of gravity in coy, coquettish return. This prompts a dark chuckle from him—in passing turn, you catch the burn of his gaze before he disappears from your periphery, a wolfish smile at your audacity.
“Oh, no?” Remy asks, playing along. “You wear this number that show off this—”
You’re turned from him on this pass, so you don’t realize what he refers to until you feel the clenching grasp of a hand over the swell of your ass.
It’s not enough to halt your travel, but the way it squeezes in such perfect timing, the rasp of possessive nails, the growl that is executed through gritted teeth—it sends shock of sensation through the meter of your body.
“—Cause you feelin’ bored, minou?” Remy asks, his hand leaving searing tactile afterimage on you.
You make a gasp of exertion as you climb back up the length of the pole, letting your hands accommodate to the shape of it under your palms. Another chuckle resounds from him as you sidle down the diameter to find footing that returns easily to you, so that you can be on equal footing to him.
Mostly—for once you’ve surrendered the higher ground, how greatly he looms over you with such devilish bearings, his eyes aflame, his hands eager to search out the nuances of fabric that you’ve worn for the occasion. A tight chuff of air sidles through that grin as his hands glide up to search you out.
“And if I was?” You return in bold directive to him. You’ll play the part your own way; and from how his hands sink into the give of your body, curl the fabric in surrender to his encroaching grasp: he loves it.
“Only ‘cause if you bored,” Remy’s hand advances up your throat beating increase of pulse straight to the junction of your legs, “Remy know how to fix that.”
“So what do you suggest?” You ask, reveling in the way his thumb feels the nuance of your bottom lip. What delightful frisson of sensation it inspires to have his hand drift down the small of your back, the rough pads of his fingers exploring the clothes you’ve worn for the occasion.
“You asked,” Remy gloats; when he kisses you, it is with the catch of teeth that sink into the soft plush of your lip. But you’re all-too-eager to reward the hunger, the ravenous, feverish way that his hands are slinking under your thong.
When he takes greedy handfuls that dig the crescents of his nails into your ass, all it does it summon a moan that he swallows eagerly, licks the flavor from your soft palate with. He works a muscular thigh in between the spread of your legs that is making easy access for him, giving you privilege to grind on it slow. Let him feel the lace that you wore for the occasion.
He groans at the feel of your body making torturous journey up his thigh, grasping tighter against you to the point that the gasp you make is of satisfied agony.
“You tease too much, chere,” Remy murmurs against your mouth, navigating up the edge of your jaw with his teeth, “You gonna pay for that.”
“Yeah?” You ask around a moan summoned through the way his fingers are rucking down your thong in greedy descent. “How’s that gonna happen?”
You never know if you don’t ask. Remy’s solution, it seems, is to push you into the mattress with the unswerving press of his hand in between your shoulder-blades. The pressure is authoritative, only working to let that heat gather in between your legs, spurred on by the way his other hand grasps needily into your waist.
“Fuck—”—You breathe in splintered chord, leaning into the hand that takes grasping handfuls of your ass. “Remy—”
The swing of his hand through the air is silent, bookended by the crest of delicious pain that blooms from where his hand makes landing. Fingers sink into the pliant flesh, a growl tears from deep-seated desire as he squeezes for good measure—makes you whine.
“Remy—”—You plead, your beg for clemency, for relief far more needy than you’d like for it to be. “Please—”
Another admonitory slap on the same spot makes you release needful groan, urging your ass into the push of his hand.
“You need ol’ Remy real bad, huh, chere?” He asks with a fervor in his voice that you can feel in the press of his eyes, that take stock of your body surrendered to him for the taking. “You need this—”
His hand slides down the acreage of your body, taking hold of something beyond you—you’re not kept in the dark for long.
You feel the swollen head of his cock nudge at your entrance, made barely attainable by the rough push of fabric for him to admire. A low, breathy shudder escapes you as you feel how he teases it against you, luxuriates in the tease that he subjects you to.
“—Need someone to take care of you, no?” He husks; his restraint is crumbling so close to the prize, as he drags it against you. Your thighs twitch and jump, a dissatisfied whimper making prominence.
“Yes, yes,” You beg, suspended in terrible desire, “Please—”
“As you wish, minou,” He taunts—and the drag of his cock as it glides into you is euphoric spread.
He’s always a stretch, tapering thicker and wider as he gets closer to the pace, greedy to have you sheathe as much of him, as quickly as you can. Normally, he’d need the foreplay to work you up to it: but this time, he can tell both of you are eager for it.
The further he pushes into you, the more air is expelled from you, your fingers twisting into the sheets as you find purchase to balance yourself with. His own grasp on you turns mean, covetous the further he advances, the press of his thighs making delicious tack as they meet the curve of your body.
By the time he’s bottomed out inside you, his length nosing at that spot that has your eyes fluttering closed, any coherent thought has been chased from tableau of your mind. All you can do is luxuriate in the way his hips rock against you, desperate to claim more of what is his, pushing pitiful whimpers with each rigid jolt.
“Oh, Remy—”—You plead; in return, you’re given reward of blissed-out groan from him. The dig of nails that seek out your body for him.
“You tease, minou,” Remy teases, sliding out of you in tormenting retreat, “This only payback.”
He chuckles as he continues to ease his way out of you—before taking necessity to work back in, and further subject you to the sink of his cock. “You only gettin’ what’s comin’ to you, honey.”
As he takes care to torture you further by filling you to the hilt; part of you wants to complain. But when he nudges at that heavenly spot again: you think that he might be able to convince you yet.
every redheaded character i like eventually gets subjected to my nipple piercing agenda
yes this is about roy harper and remy lebeau specifically. and remy is a redhead to me idc auburn is close enough + his hair is bright red in some adaptations
summary: When you find a post you had submitted to an archive site years ago, you start the path to find out who the boy named peter was.
pairing: Peter Parker x fem!reader
tags and warnings: canon divergence probably, it's more of reader finding peter, there most likely will be a part two/mini series, not a lot of accurate details (cuz I do not remember the old movies), some original characters (not important tho), fluff, based off of that picture from unsent project, mention of aunt may's death, ty sarah (@patientofarkhamasylum)for proofing this!!
word count: 2.3K
Algorithms are a tricky little thing.
Sometimes, it worked well — showing you different posts based on your history of likes and follows.
Sometimes, it didn't.
Today had been a day where the algorithm seemed to lose its sense of logic, as your entire feed looked like it belonged to a teenager who was still stuck in the throes of the past.
Popular Vines from back in the day resurface when you sit down in the late hours of the night after work, lounging on your couch with your legs hanging off the armrest. Giggles tear through the silence of your apartment when you come across a particularly funny one. After five minutes of re-watching the same video, you scroll past it to come across a photo of what looked like a message? Usually, you were the one to not spend a lot of time on such posts in an effort to continue finding hidden gems buried from years ago, but there was just something about it that made you stay.
It was a message addressed to someone named Peter, followed by the text :
'I'm going to show you this site and this post after we get together lol.'
The post belonged to a social media project where people could submit messages of what they wanted to say to someone but couldn't. A form of therapy, really, as the words you wanted to say are out in the world.
The message itself was ordinary, but something irked you about it.
The human brain is the size of two clenched fists placed together. Social media algorithms are based on the biological neural networks intrinsic to the brain. And just like that, something tells you you were the person who was behind this message. Call it a hunch or a sixth sense, something about the post just seemed... You, but you didn't know anyone named Peter, let alone had a crush on one.
Within minutes, you find yourself scrolling backwards in your gallery till you could find the plethora of memories from years ago.
You had always been an over thinker so you were sure that you had taken some evidence if you had submitted anything online.
Among several pictures with your friends at your last prom, you found what you were looking for. There was a slightly blurry picture of the same message on the forum's submission form just before you clicked submit.
Though you were happy that your intuition remained strong throughout the years, it still perplexed you as to how you had no memory of anyone named Peter in your life.
Was your memory really that bad?
You decide only one thing could really answer your questions — your journals. The habit had been ingrained in your brain since you were a child at the age of eight years old after seeing your mother's countless journals depicting her life since she was a teenager. Rushing towards your bedroom, your feet skims against the rug covered floor as you kneel down before your bed. Hovering your hand over the darkness, your fingers finally grip the cardboard edges of a box, dust fluttering in the air as it came to light.
This was your entire life in a box.
It contained several journals, decorated with stickers and labels, spanning from the age of eight to twenty two. After a brief search filled with your throat burning every time you coughed from coming close to the grey fragments, you finally found the journal you had been looking for — eighteen-year-old you's journal.
Sitting cross-legged on the floor, you dust the cover before opening it to the first page.
Dear Diary,
It's my last first day of school ever again. Wohooo!!! No more school, and life is going to be perfect. Cass and I have similar classes, while Steph has only one class in common :( But we will meet during lunch.
I saw him again. He looked so cute today! We have our lockers opposite each other. He has the same classes as Cass and me.
Maybe I will talk to him this time.
xoxo
There was no mention of the boy's name, but you knew it had to be Peter from the earlier evidence. Maybe if you asked your friends, they'd remember the mysterious boy you had a crush on.
"Hey girls, do you remember if I had a crush on someone named Peter in high school?"
The sound of rustling papers drifts across the call, as you could only expect Cass to be working on her grad school applications.
"You did have a crush on someone," Cass emphasizes, her voice sounding softer as if she had kept her phone beside her on the table while the sound of pen against paper returned. "But I don't think his name was Peter."
"Did we even have a Peter in school?" Steph asks, the sound of traffic permeating her voice.
"I don't think so," Cass murmurs.
"Besides, why are we talking about high school?" Stephanie pipes in, her breath laboured from probably running late to work.
"Just looked through some of my old journals."
A brief silence passes, occasionally interrupted by the honks from Steph's background. You were not sure whether what you saw was even true. Perhaps maybe it in fact was someone else. Maybe you did not know a boy named Peter.
"Are you okay?" Cass asks, her voice much louder than before.
"Yeah, I'm good. I just…" You sigh, gripping the edges of your journal. "I just feel like I know this person."
She hums.
"Maybe you should go by our school and ask Mr. Harrington. He'd probably know."
Evening sunlight breezes in through the open window. The curtains ruffle in the air just in time to see flashes of red swing past your apartment.
"Yeah, maybe I should."
Visiting your old high school when you're an adult ignites a sense of dread.
It wasn't that high school had been the worst experience, but it hadn't been kind either.
The walls remain unchanged, notice boards plastered with different yet the same posters. Students breeze through the hallways in groups while some embrace their own presence.
"Mr Harrington."
The man turns, chestnut hair neatly presented without a strand out of place as the similar circular glasses rested on his nose . He hadn't changed much except for a few new grey hairs muffled among the brown and slight permanent creases decorating his forehead.
He repeats your name in surprise before a smile curled on his lips. "What are you doing here, kid?"
"I can't visit my old high school again, Mr Harrington?" you ask, an eyebrow quirked.
"Well, of course not. You are free —"
"I'm joking. How have you been?"
He laughs, the same laugh that you grew up around during several meet-ups as part of being a member of the Academic Decathlon team.
"It's been the same honestly, except the kids — Hey," he replies before turning towards a student fighting with another in the hallway.
"So Mr Harrington, do you remember teaching anyone named Peter in the same class as mine?"
He frowns, his hand pinching at the centre of his glasses as lines formed between his brows.
"Does this Peter have a last name?" He looks at his watch.
"I don't know." You rub the back of your neck, heat crawling over your face.
"I don't remember teaching a Peter, but I can check in with the administrative office and let you know." He tugs his coat before looking at his watch again as his feet move unconscionably. "Nice to see you, kid."
Hours later, you receive a message from Mr Harrington about having found no records of a Peter existing in your class.
Dear Diary,
I spoke to him in the hallway. I was so shy I stuttered when he asked me whether Mr Rogers was coming to class. I'm so embarrassed, but that's okay because we are partners for an upcoming chemistry project!! YAY!!!
We are meeting tomorrow at Blue Token Cafe after school.
I'm nervous.
xoxo
The journal closes with a thud as you lean your head back against the wall. You had so many questions and not one answer to any of them.
Who was Peter? Why couldn't you remember someone from five years ago who clearly impacted you so much? Why was there no record of a Peter in school?
Did you even send the confession?
But you knew you did.
You had proof.
Right now, all you could do was trust yourself and hope you would find the Peter you were so in love with.
The cafe, as the name had suggested, was very Blue.
Blue colored walls paired with light blue chairs and tabletops. It was the same as years ago when you frequented it for coffee.
A high-pitched voice called your name from behind the counter — Ms. Marisol, the owner. She had been kind enough to lend you and many other students free coffee while running on mere pennies for the school year.
"Oh my darling, how have you been?"
"I'm so sorry for not visiting as frequently." You give her a tight hug, her smile lighting up the entire place.
"No worries." She swiftly ushers you to a nearby table. "I know how busy life can get as a young adult. Now, let me get you your favourite coffee and blueberry cheesecake first."
Before you could stop her, Ms. Marisol was already grabbing a coffee cup. A small laugh escapes your lips before you close your eyes, dropping your head down on your hands.
The smell of roasted coffee beans wafts through the air. It makes you ache for a time you wish you could return to. As memories of high school tread past behind your eyelids, a flash of sparkling brown eyes makes you blink.
Those eyes.
So full of life.
You knew them.
The smell of hot coffee and the scent of slight citrus hangs in the air as she brings to you the delicacies.
"So tell me, what have I missed?"
Thirty minutes pass by as you tell her all bout college, your courses and some stuck up professors, finally ending it with your current job. Ms. Marisol's son was now in London, working and engaged to his longtime girlfriend.
"Ms Marisol, do you ever remember a Peter from back then?"
"Peter…Peter…Peter," She repeats, eyebrows scrunched. “No, darling. Did he visit regularly?"
"I….I don't know…" You sigh, rubbing your forehead. "But thank you, Ms. Marisol. I need to get back to work now."
She pats your shoulder, squeezing it slightly with a smile that only ever meant good wishes.
"Don't forget to come to the wedding!"
Dear Diary,
I visited his home and met his aunt,May. She's sooo pretty and kind. And the food was amazing.
Peter's room was messy, but you know the right kind of messy (and nerdy)
We looked at each other at one point, fingers touching.
Does he like me too?
Nah.
After I left his home, there was a huge accident, and Spiderman saved me from being crushed under a car. His voice reminded me of someone.
I hope I see him again.
xoxo
You didn't remember visiting his house or meeting his aunt, but you did remember Spiderman saving you.
It had been your first time meeting the neighborhood's hero. He had swung you that day among crashing debris to a rooftop, miles from the spot.
"Hey, you okay?" Spider-Man asks as he sets you down.
"Yeah, yeah, I'm good," you murmur, holding your head in your hands before a smile breaks out on your face. " That was amazing."
He chuckles, and it reminds you of someone who had uttered the brief sound just hours earlier, but before you could ask anything, he swings across to the next building.
You swear he turns mid-swing.
You wished traffic didn't exist.
It was already close to nine in the morning, and you had missed your regular coffee, which had made you even grumpier than usual. Deciding to take a shortcut that you had never really taken in the past, you run towards your office.
Fifteen minutes from your home, an intersection comes into view — one that you had never really seen before. But something makes you stop.
Delmar's Deli-Grocery
It looked like a regular bodega, but something in you urged you to go in.
The door opens with a clink.
A man in his late fifties stands behind the counter. There aren't a lot of customers as he continues to read the newspaper. You were hungry from not having breakfast; you could use something here, still not sure what had made you visit despite being late. Looking around, you spot a sandwich on the menu.
"Sandwich with pickles, please," you say to the man before the following words slip out like practice, "Can you mush it down real flat? Thank you."
It felt odd, like you were reciting back a suggestion from someone, but you don't remember who it was.
"Reminds me of someone," the man mutters, flicking the newspaper.
Your heart thuds as you ask him, "Yeah, who?"
"I don't remember. But I know he had an Italian Aunt. May something," He pauses, watching you over the borders of the paper, "May... May Parker, I think."
Maybe if you could find aunt May using her last name, you might finally be able to know who this peter was.
Aunt May had passed four years ago.
After a brief amount of research, there was no mention of any relatives of hers. Maybe this was all just a weird, stupid dream you were going to forget about.
Deciding to pay your respects, you buy a bouquet of flowers from the nearby store and take the subway.
The cemetery is pretty empty other than a few people. You look around, trying to find her gravestone, when you see someone already by it.
ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 (MINORS DNI) imagining SCOTT SUMMERS cumming inside you so hard during sex that his glasses slip off…
and instead of the red beams that usually exit his eyes whenever his visor or ruby quartz glasses fall off? it’s… nothing, because his eyes are so rolled back at how hard you got him to cum that the pleasure is physically blocking them from coming out.
your pussy was magic to the x-men leader, he fucking loved it every single day. if he could fuck you every night he could, but sometimes, duty called and duty caught up on the man— but he tried his damn best to be in that pussy of yours every night.
and you loved it when scott fucked you; he fucks like he’s trying to make his mark. he wasn’t a breeding typa man— he didn’t get off to the idea of breeding itself— you pregnant? fuck yes, but the simple premise of breeding? not for him… but he fucked deep, and he fucked raw, and you absolutely loved it.
so much so that when it came to protection? you didn’t care, you let him unload in you as per usual.
and usually? he’s very very keen on keeping his glasses on— he doesn’t want to try anything risky and possibly hurt you, so he kept them on as he buried his thick cock in your pussy… but when he’s fucking you like this, watching your ass jiggle with each thrust, feeling your hand push him back in? he completely forgot about these stupid things.
“c-cum for me, scotty.” you beg, voice broken by your moans as he felt his balls clench, thrusting in and out of your walls. “cum— cum in me, baby.”
his hair was messy, strands sticking in his face as his hands held a firm grasp on your waist, trying to reach his orgasm. your words only affected him more. “baby… baby… oh fuck!”
he couldn’t thrust anymore before he began to unload into you— the wait of having to hold his orgasm back for so long, his balls squeezed and his cock twitched as he cummed deep in you, his head thrown back.
his eyes roll back as he unloads, moaning your name and before he could stop the glasses from slipping; they slip, and you listen to the soft plop of the glasses hitting the bed, feeling his warm cum begin to shoot into you, melting into the bed due to the warm, fuzzy feeling entering your body.
“ohhhhhh goddddd.” he moans, his brown eyes remaining rolled back and full of pleasure. you expected to see the red beams of his optic blasts, expected to feel the heat… but you didn’t. you didn’t feel anything besides his cock. “oh… ngh— fuck, sweetheart… ah.”
looking over your shoulder; his glasses were off, and he wasn’t physically creating holes in the roof… he was so wrapped up in pleasure that he couldn’t physically use his power. “oh god, scott, s’so warm… so full… fuck.”
masterlist is here! click here for more!
ⓘ KENTLUV3R’S WORK. all my fanfics (not the characters) is my very own, coming from my own efforts and my time. do not copy my work, rewrite it, shove it through an ai machine and shit out slop, and don’t repost to wattpad/ao3/c.ai!
✩ REMY LEBEAU, who loves fucking you against the kitchen counter while his gumbo cooks. Who loves the mouth watering aromas filling his nostrils as your dripping pussy flutters so beautifully around his cock. Who loves your soft cries each time he bottoms out, his tip prodding that one spot deep inside you that makes your back arch so beautifully for him.
"That"s it, chére," he says roughly as you moan around him, hands gently keeping you pinned against the counter as he pistons in and out of you. Your small shorts and panties are pooled around your ankles, your shirt yanked up and your bra off so your bare breasts press against the cold counter. "You're alright, you can take it."
"Fuck, Remy," you groan as he grinds deeper inside of you, slowing his pace but deepening his thrusts into your cunt with small grunts. You eyes rolled back as you choked on a moan. "Remy, please go faster-!"
He lets out a breathless chuckle, groaning at the feeling of your sopping heat clenching around him before his hand presses down on your lower back, the angle pushing him deeper inside. "Faster? But you're already making the most beautiful noises Gambit done ever heard."
"Oh," You whine as he reaches with his free hand between your legs, his fingers slowly teasing your clit. You pussy clenches harder around him, and Remy is convinced he's in heaven right now. "Remy, please!"
"Une fille qui a tellement besoin d'attention," he mutters, pressing down harder on your clit and making you see stars as his thrusts pick up speed, soft plaps drowning out your lazy moans. "Alright, ma copine, you asked for it."
Your moans continue to get louder, echoing around the kitchen as you become almost drunk from the pleasure, you mind muddled and mouth unable to form anything but intelligable babbles of how fucking good he feels.
His own noises accompany yours, his deep moans and soft praises in French filling your ears when you finally cum. You gush around his cock, gasping his name between your sounds of pleasure while he pumps his load deep inside you, cursing and gripping your hips so tightly you're sure there will be bruises tomorrow.
"Chére," he whispers after, still inside you as he leans over to trail soft kisses down your spine, and you feel him smile against your skin. "You almost made Gambit forget all about his gumbo. You naughty thing."
He chuckles when you glare at him over your shoulder, kissing you shoulder to soothe you. "Its alright. You sounded too pretty for me to focus on anything but you. So gorgeous."
✩ PUSSY DRUNK!SCOTT SUMMERS who whimpers and moans so pathetically when fucking you.
"Oh, fuck-" Scott moans above you, slowly grinding his cock to the hilt inside of your slick, warm pussy, and you swear he's going to start crying. A few tears slide down the apples of his cheeks from beneath his visor, his lips swollen from his bites parted as he groans with each harsh thrust inside you.
Every time. Every time Scott begs to please put his cock between your thighs, he whines and cries so much when you finally allow him to. He sobs against your breasts, lips latching around your nipples as his hips rut into you lazily, groans vibrating through you.
"Baby, you feel so good," he'd whimper during your fifth round, sniffling softly as his continues pumping his thick cock inside your heavenly cunt. God, he lives for this. If he could live his whole life pleasuring you like this and have this be his only purpose, he would die a completely fulfilled and happy man.
"Scotty-" you'd moan into his ear, your nails raking up and down his back and making his eyes roll back and his cock cum on the spot. He was so easy. So desperate for you and your beautiful pussy. He'd get on his knees and just for a taste of it.
He pumps his load deep inside you, watching it slowly ooze out around his cock with a groan before he starts fucking into you again, both of you overstimulated and whining as the headboard bangs against the wall with each of his deep thrusts.
"Please," he pants against your neck, slowly sucking marks into it and making your cunt clench tighter on his cock. "Oh-please, please, please, baby-"
He feels another orgasm tightening quickly and picks up his pace, the wet plaps and smacks of skin on skin drowning out both of your sounds of pleasure.
"Cum inside me, Scott." you bite his shoulder as you feel yourself on the edge along with him, his moan and whimpers for you like music to your ears and getting you off even more. "Please. Fill me up, baby."
He lets out a sharp noise, a mixture between a whimper and a groan as he fucks into you harder now, your moans syncing as you cum together.
You squirt around him as he buries himself to the hilt, thick white ropes of his seed filling you so deep before he collapses on top of you. He nuzzles into your neck, keeping his cock inside of you as he trembles.
"Let me stay, please," he mumbles, wrapping his arms around you as he shifts, griding himself deeper inside and making you whimper at the feeling of being so full. "Please. You feel so good, baby, dont make me leave. Please."
---
Im just cleaning out my drafts so sorry it's short!
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