this is my side blog so expect to find (mostly) all the smut I don’t dare post on my main (: if you wish to check out my sfw fics, refer to this masterlist
But what about a frustrated tt!aerion after a hard day at work. so he just so aggressive and annoyed. And an ovulating!reader that was on him as soon as the door opened. she’s begging him when he just wants a cigarette, a beer and football on.
OMGGGGGOSHHHHH this scene im dying!!! anywaysss lols
tt!aerion coming home exhausted and you are ovulating...⋆.˚
the screen door slammed shut with a force that rattled the frame, the sound echoing his frustration before he even stepped into the house. aerion kicked off his boots, sending one skittering into the wall with a dull thud. he reeked of motor oil and sweat.
his boss had been on his ass all day, some new kid had stripped a bolt on a classic engine, and to top it all off, the ancient ac unit in the garage had chosen today to die, leaving him sweltering in the southern heat.
all he wanted was a cold beer, a cigarette, and to drown his brain in the mind-numbing roar of a football game.
he stalked into the living room, grabbing a beer from the fridge and popping the cap on the counter edge before heading for the couch. he was just sinking into the worn-out cushions, reaching for the remote, when he saw you.
you were coming out of the kitchen, and the look on your face was one he knew all too well. a hungry, determined gleam in your eyes that meant you were about to be all over him.
"hey, baby" you said, your voice a little too bright, a little too eager. "long day?"
"the longest," he grunted, his thumb jabbing the power button on the remote. the screen flickered to life, the sounds of the pre-game show filling the room. he fumbled for the pack of cigarettes on the coffee table, his movements jerky and impatient.
you didn't take the hint. you padded over to the couch, settling onto the cushion beside him, much closer than necessary. "i missed you," you murmured, leaning into his side. your hand came to rest on his thigh, your fingers tracing idle patterns on the worn denim of his jeans.
“i missed you more,” he finally got a cigarette out and stuck it between his lips, patting his pockets for his lighter.
you just hummed and leaned in closer, your lips brushing against the side of his neck. you knew all his spots, the little clusters of moles just below his jawline, the sensitive skin right behind his ear. you pressed a soft, open-mouthed kiss to one of the moles, and he couldn't stop the shudder that ran through him, "c'mon, baby, not now."
"i'm serious," he grumbled, but he didn't push you away. he found his lighter and flicked it, the flame dancing for a moment before he lit his cigarette. he took a long, deep drag, letting the smoke fill his lungs, hoping it would calm the thrumming irritation under his skin.
"i know you are," you whispered, your breath warm against his ear. "you just need to relax. let me help you relax." your hand slid higher up his thigh, your fingers brushing dangerously close to his crotch.
he was so tired, so pissed off, that his body wasn't cooperating. a part of him, the primal, lizard-brain part, was responding to your touch, to your scent, to the soft, pleading tone of your voice. but the rest of him was still stuck back at the garage, still fuming about the stripped bolt and the foreman's condescending tone.
"baby, please," he breathed, the words coming out as a half-hearted plea, half-growl. he took another drag from his cigarette, the smoke curling up around his face. "just...let me watch the game. five minutes. that's all i'm askin'."
but you were in full-on ovulation mode, a woman on a mission. you weren't listening to his words; you were listening to the tension in his body, the subtle way his hips shifted towards your touch. you straddled his lap then, your knees on either side of his thighs, your weight settling over him. you took the cigarette from his fingers, stubbing it out in the ashtray on the coffee table before he could protest.
"hey," he started, but you cut him off with a kiss.
it wasn't a demanding kiss, but a soft, coaxing one. your lips moved against his, gentle and persistent, your tongue tracing the seam of his mouth until he opened for you. your hands came up to cup his face, your thumbs stroking his stubbled cheeks. you kissed his jaw, his chin, his cheek…
"please, aerion," you whispered against his skin. "i need you. i've been thinking about you all day."
he let out a ragged sigh, his resolve crumbling. he could feel the heat of you through his jeans, the soft press of your breasts against his chest. his hands, which had been hanging limply at his sides, came up to rest on your hips, his fingers digging into your flesh.
"can't ever take no for an answer, can you?" he murmured, but there was no heat in his voice now, only a cocky resignation.
you just shook your head, a small, triumphant smile playing on your lips. "not when it comes to you," you whispered, leaning in to kiss him again.
this time, he kissed you back, his lips parting under yours, his tongue meeting yours in a slow, deep kiss. the tension was still there, coiled in his shoulders and his back, but it was changing.
he broke the kiss, his eyes dark as they bored into yours. "alright," he said, his voice a low growl. "you want it? you got it. but you're gonna do all the work. i'm too fuckin' tired to move."
you just grinned, already reaching for the button on his jeans. "deal," you whispered.
with a deft flick of your fingers, you popped the button and slid down the zipper. the sound seemed unnaturally loud in the quiet living room, punctuated by the distant roar of the crowd from the television. you didn't hesitate, your hands hooking into the waistband of his jeans and his boxers, tugging them down just enough to free him.
he was already half-hard, heavy and warm in your hand. you stroked him once, twice, your thumb brushing over the sensitive head, and he let out a low, guttural groan, his head falling back against the couch cushions. his eyes fluttered closed, his long lashes casting shadows on his cheeks.
"fuck," he breathed, his hips rocking up into your hand. "just like that."
you leaned in, your breath warm against his already-hardening length. you could smell him, a heady mix of sweat, soap, and something that was all aerion. you stuck out your tongue, giving him a slow, deliberate lick from base to tip, and his whole body shuddered.
you smiled, pressing a soft, open-mouthed kiss to the tip of his cock, your tongue swirling around the sensitive head. you took your time, exploring every ridge and vein. you weren't trying to get him off, not yet. you were just playing.
you kissed your way down his shaft, then you took one of his balls into your mouth, gently sucking it. he let out a string of curses, his hips bucking up off the couch.
"jesus fuckin’ christ," he gasped, his hand tightening in your hair.
you could feel him getting harder, thicker, his cock standing at attention, a bead of pre-cum glistening at the tip. you leaned in, licking it away, savoring the salty taste.
"you're such a tease," he growled, his voice thick with arousal. "gettin' me all worked up for nothin'."
you looked up at him, "who says it's for nothin'?" you whispered, leaning back in to continue your sweet, slow torture. you had all night, and you were determined to make him forget all about his bad day…
(i have another thought...like when he is super worn out and pissed off he for real just gets aggressive and rough and pins you down and shoves his dick inside you just to get you to shut up lols)
in which you discover that bb has... an unusually long tongue.
His mouth tastes like nothing.
You noticed that early on. Not like absence of taste, not like water. Like nothing, a perfect void where flavour should be, and somehow that's become the taste you crave most in any world.
Your back finds the wall, or what passes for a wall here, that faintly warm surface that breathes if you press your palm flat long enough. BB's other hand slides to your hip, fingers curling into the denim, and the sound he makes is low and human, pulling at a tether behind your navel.
You open for him. BB licks into your mouth, careful, so careful, and you feel the soft drag of his tongue against yours—
And it's good. It's so good. He's come from that first time when he said "teach me how to kiss you properly". His thumb traces your hipbone through your shirt and you're arching into him and the kiss deepens, turns slick and urgent, and you stop thinking.
Which is maybe why it takes you a few seconds to register it.
The texture shifts first. That smooth, wet give slowly becoming something denser, something with grip. Almost velvety, almost ridged, like the pad of a finger where a tongue should be. And then the length. BB's tongue curls past where a tongue should end. It slides along the underside of yours, keeps going, keeps going. A slow, sinuous coil that wraps once around the muscle of your tongue and tightens.
Your breath catches.
You pull back.
His mouth is still open. His eyes snap to yours and you watch it happen. The full-body freeze, every single micro-movement ceasing at once in a way that is deeply, fundamentally not human. No one goes that still. No thing goes that still except something that has learned, through meticulous and painstaking practice, how to move in the first place.
The tongue—
It retracts so fast you almost don't track it, pulled back behind his teeth like a flinch, and his jaw clicks shut.
BB doesn't step back. He doesn't breathe. The bright blue of his eyes goes flat and cautious.
"Sorry, baby." His voice is perfect. Bobby's voice is always perfect. The pitch, the drawl, the way the vowels open warm and lazy. But the word comes out clipped. Bitten off at the root. "That was—I wasn't— "
He's afraid.
The recognition hits you somewhere below your ribs and spreads.
Not afraid of you. Afraid of what your face is doing right now, afraid of whatever you're about to say. That this is the seam you'll hook your fingers into and pull until the whole beautiful lie peels apart and you see whatever's underneath. That you'll scream or you run or you look at him like he's a thing to be hated and feared.
"Hey." Your voice comes out steadier than you feel. "Hey. Come here."
You bring your hands up. Cup his jaw. His skin is warmer than usual. You wonder if it's the kissing or if he thermoregulated to a point of contact that your nervous system reads as safe.
You feel the rigid clench of the muscle beneath.
He won't look at you. He's looking at the wall behind your head with an expression so perfectly, carefully neutral it makes your chest ache.
You run your thumb across his cheekbone. "BB. Show me."
The stillness fractures. There's movement behind his eyes. Not the black, not yet, but something vast and uncertain, something that doesn't fit inside the geometry of a human face.
"You don't—"
"Show me. Please."
You lean in. Press your mouth to his, soft, no demand in it. Just heat, just contact, just here, here, I'm here.
He makes a sound against your lips. Low, resonant, tectonic. You feel it in your teeth, in the juncture of your jaw, a vibration that no human throat could produce and that your body interprets as the auditory equivalent of being held. It rumbles through the wall at your back. The fluorescent lights above you flicker, once.
Your tongue finds his.
BB hesitates. You feel it. The moment of restraint, the tension of something held deliberately in check. You press closer, flush against him now, fingers sliding into his sandy blonde hair, and lick along the seam of his lower lip.
And you wait.
Slowly—so slowly—it unfurls.
The velvety texture meets yours first, denser than before, slick-soft and fever-warm and alive in a way that makes the hinge of your jaw prickle. It slides along your tongue with a deliberateness that is almost shy, tasting you in a way that feels less like a kiss and more like a question, and then (gently, gently) it coils.
Once around yours. A slow, sinuous wrap, delicate, barely any pressure. The ridged texture drags against your taste buds in a rolling wave that lights up nerve endings you didn't know a mouth had.
Your breath stutters. Heat drops through you like a stone into dark water, pooling low and heavy in your belly. Heat tightens behind your navel, and your fingers curl hard in his hair and you hear yourself make a sound, a small wrecked thing, muffled between your mouths.
BB goes rigid against you.
Then the rumble comes again—deeper, shattered open with raw and desperate and relieved undertone—and the coil tightens, just barely. You feel the tip of it trace the roof of your mouth in a slow electric drag and your hips roll forward into his without your permission, your whole body clenching.
He shudders. Full-body. Not a human shudder. Too fluid, too thorough, like he's settling into his own skin for the first time.
BB's hand on your hip tightens to the edge of bruising and the wall behind you pulses warm, buzzing of the lights shifting pitch. They drop into something almost harmonic, almost musical, and you realise distantly that the hallway around you is responding to him. To this, to whatever is flooding through whatever he uses for a nervous system right now.
BB pulls back just far enough to breathe against your mouth (he doesn't need to, you know he doesn't need oxygen, he's overwhelmed, he's—).
His lips are wet from you, glistening in the warm light. His eyes are searching your face with a frantic, ravenous attention that has nothing to do with hunger and everything to do with the way a creature that has taught itself love, painstakingly, from the outside in, needs to check—needs to know—
You press your forehead to his, cupping one side of his face.
"Again," you whisper, breathless.
The sound he makes isn't a word in any language. But you feel it everywhere.
High Valyrian Sex Phrase Compendium (unofficial) 🔥🐉🥵😫💓💕💦💦💦
one small step for man and so on and so forth.
Welcome to the HV sex compendium, it's gonna be disorganized, sorry. Feel free to send me an ask/DM if you can't find what you're looking for, or if you need longer phrases translated. I can (and will) translate just about anything 💗
Resources:
High Valyrian dictionary
High Valyrian grammar
Letters with hats, for ease of copy-pasting:
Ā ā Ē ē Ī ī Ō ō Ū ū Ȳ ȳ Ñ ñ
General terms:
*terms with an asterisk were devised by me (tumblr user tereshkina) and must be taken with several grains of salt.
**unless otherwise specified, all nouns are listed in their nominative-singular form and all verbs are in their infinitive form. you're gonna want to conjugate/inflect accordingly when putting them to use.
sex (noun) — ojenilla
to have sex/to fuck (verb) — ojenillagon*
"I want to have sex" — "Ojenillagon jaelan"
"Do you want to have sex?" — "Ojenillagon jaelā?"
"They (plural, specific) are having sex" — "Boni ojenillsi"
"Let's have sex" (subjunctive) — "Īlon ojenilloty"
"We had sex" (past-aorist) — "Īlon ojenilliti"
to touch oneself — zirȳla renigon
masturbator — jālarentys*
"I touch myself" — "Nykēla renin"
"You touch yourself" — "Aōla renī"
"Were you touching yourself?" (past-imperfect) — "Aōla renīlē?"
"You're going to get me pregnant" — "Yne rūhormonilā"
"I want to get you pregnant" — "Avy rūhormoñagon jaelan"
to be impregnated (passive) — rūhormoñakson
"I want to get pregnant" — "Rūhormoñakson jaelan"
to produce children (polite, said only of the one who is carrying the pregnancy) — āpykagon
"I will give you children" — "Aōma āpykinna"
Terms of address:
**all of these terms are listed in their vocative form-- the vocative is the case used to "call" someone (eg. "good morning, campers" or "what's wrong, babe?" or "get in loser, we're going shopping")
my love — ñuhys jorrāeliarzys
beloved — raqiarzys
beautiful — gevies
baby — rūs/rūsītsos
sweetie — dōnītsus
slut/whore — ilībios
my little slut/whore — ñuhys ilībītsos
good boy/girl — sȳres taobus/riñus
bad boy/girl — qubus taobus/riñus
Dialogue phrases (pre-packaged):
"I want to fuck you" — "Avy ojenillagon jaelan"
"Do you want to fuck me?" — "Yne ojenillagon jaelā?"
"I can take it" — "Ūī mazōregon koston" (add "daor" to the end of the phrase to say "I can't take it")
"You're taking it so well" — "Ūī drējī syrī mazōrē"
"Oh, yes" — "Oh, kessa"
"Oh, gods" — "Oh, jaehossa"
"I want more" — "Tolī jaelan"
"It's too much (for me)" — "Ynoma tolī issa"
"It hurts" — "Ūja yne ōdras"
"Please" — "Kostilus"
"Thank you" — "Kirimvose"
"I'm close" — "Vamīha iksan"
"I'm going to come" — "Nykēla tatiñinna"
"I want your cum (sperm)" — "Aōhi nūmori jaelan"
"I want your cum (sperm-less)" — "Aōhi lōzāvī jaelan"
"May I come?" — "Tatiñon botaks?"
"Not yet" — "Sīr daor"
"Does this feel good?" — "Kesy dōna hylaks?"
"It feels so good" — "Drēje dōna hylaks"
"You feel so good" — "Drēje dōnys hylāks"
"Yes, like that" — "Kessa, hae kesir"
"You make me so hard/wet" — "Drēje qopsa/lōz yne ilzȳnā"
"You're being so good for me" — "Drēje sȳz ynoma iksā"
"You're mine" — "Ñuhon iksā"
"I'm yours" — "Aōhon iksan"
"You taste so good" — "Drēje dōna sylutēks"
"I want you inside me" — "Avy yno iemnȳ jaelan"
"I want to be inside you" — "Aō iemnȳ sagon jaelan"
"I want to be under you" — "Aō gōvilagon jaelan"
"You're so [adjective]" — "Drēje [adjective] iksā"
nasty vile thoughts have plagued my mind ya'll ⋆˙⟡
aerion is a spitter
nasty mean humiliating you.
he holds you by the hair, your back arched over a heavy oak table, and lets a thick glob of saliva fall onto the swell of your naked breasts, watching it trickle down your skin before he roughly smears it along your hardened nipples.
he loves the contrast, the way his spit glistens on your skin before he smears it with his thumb, marking you as his property. NASTY.
he'll make you hold his spit in your mouth, clear gloppy spit that you're not allowed to swallow until he gives the command. your cheeks burning with shame as he just watches you deal with the disgust and humiliation. “swallow it," he growls, “and learn when to hold that tongue of yours, lest i find another use for it."
AND when he's fucking your face, he doesn't just use his cock. he pulls out to spit on your lips, mixing his precum with his saliva before shoving back inside, making you taste the mess while he coos at you.
“oohh i know messy girl, suck it. suck it.”
he'll spit on your clit, watching you jolt from the shock and the slick warmth before he rubs it in with rough mean circles with a smirk on his face. you know that when he wants to treat you like a dog there's absolutely nothing you can do but take it.
modern aerion would wear silk boxers if they existed
modern!aerion would not wear silk boxers "if they existed." modern!aerion would have silk boxers MADE. bespoke. measured. probably in three colours. there's a man in oldtown who has his exact measurements on file and and knows better than to ask questions anymore.
and he's not wearing them for himself. let's be clear about that real quick. he puts them on, leans in the bedroom doorway, one arm up, hip cocked, and waits for you to look. not asks. waits. because you looking is the point. the way your eyes drop. the way the silk sits low on his hips and catches the light and you can see the exact shape of him through the fabric. he knows what he looks like. he got dressed specifically so you could undress him.
with your teeth. obviously. that's not a request, that's the terms and conditions of the purchase. he spent money on these. he looks incredible in them. the least you can do is get on your knees and pull them down with your mouth while he watches and does absolutely nothing to help. he'll put his hand in your hair though. generous king.
pairing: camboy!bobby franklin x f!reader
summary: you're two months behind on rent and terrence knows a guy. the said guy is annoyingly pretty and cocky. it's only downhill from there.
contents/warnings: 18+, explicit smut, discussions of sex work/adult film industry, financial desperation, power dynamics, oral sex (f receiving), breast sucking <3, spitting, vaginal sex, dirty talk/praise, hair pulling, filming during sex, bobby franklin's mouth (this is its own warning lol).
notes: Inspired by this ask, and the 20+ of you who flooded my inbox asking for more. Can be read as a standalone but could also be read as alt universe to my better bobby series.
✶ better bobby series.
"So Terrence told you what I do."
It's not a question.
Bobby Franklin sits across from you in a vinyl booth at Moreno's, which is the kind of diner that serves coffee the colour of motor oil and bacon that's either raw or carbonised and nothing in between. It's 9 AM on a Thursday. You're eating eggs because eggs are cheap and the rent was due six days ago.
He'd walked in with a swagger that bordered on offensive. Bobby Franklin doesn't strut. Because that would require effort and effort would compromise the relaxed swagger.
He moves through space like it's already made room for him. Like rooms rearrange themselves slightly when he enters. Leather jacket despite the California heat, sunglasses pushed up into sandy hair that's a mess in a way that probably took zero minutes to achieve, a thin chain necklace catching the light at the hollow of his throat, and—you'd spotted this immediately, against your will—a small silver hoop in his left ear. He'd slid into the booth across from you with the ease of someone who's never once wondered whether he belongs somewhere.
You'd been here for twelve minutes already. Sitting. Sweating. Running through a mental list of reasons this was a terrible idea and arriving at the same conclusion every time: the rent. the rent. the rent.
"He mentioned it." You push the eggs around the plate. They're overcooked. Everything at Moreno's is overcooked. "He said you were—that you make films."
Bobby's mouth twitches. "Films." He takes a mouthful of the motor-oil coffee. Doesn't flinch. "Yeah. I make films."
He's watching you. You can't help but notice that Bobby doesn't stare the way other men stare, heavy and obvious.
He watches. There's a difference. Staring is passive. Watching is a skill.
You can see it in the way his eyes move: cataloguing, framing, composing. Those eyes. Pale blue, sharp, amused in a way that suggests he's always in on a joke nobody else has heard yet. They land on your face and stay there with an intensity that makes you want to look away and also makes you want to never look away and you're not going to think about that right now. Even in a shitty diner booth with fluorescent lighting and a crack running through the formica, Bobby Franklin is looking at you like he's already thinking about angles.
"And you're—Terrence said you do everything yourself? Shoot, edit, all of it?" you croak out, forcing yourself to swallow a mouthful of coffee.
"I don't trust anyone else with the camera." He says it the way other people say they don't trust anyone else with their car keys. Flat. Non-negotiable. His fingers are wrapped around the coffee mug and you notice—you're noticing too much, you need to stop noticing—the veins on the back of his hands, the way the leather jacket sits on his shoulders like it grew there, the silver hoop catches light every time he tilts his head. "It's a one-man operation. Well." The twitch again. Almost a smile. "Usually two-man. One behind the lens, one in front."
You nod. Push the eggs. Your fork makes a sound against the plate that's louder than it should be because neither of you is talking and the diner is mostly empty. The jukebox in the corner is broken and has been broken since Reagan. Your knee is bouncing under the table. You press your palm flat on your thigh to stop it. It only partially works.
"How behind are you?" Bobby drawls.
Your head snaps up. "What?"
"On rent," he clarifies patiently. "Terrence said you were in trouble. How behind?"
He leans forward when he asks it and the chain shifts against his collarbone and you catch a breath of him leather and something underneath, warm, clean, just skin—and your stomach coils.
You're nervous. You're nervous and attracted and the two are braiding together into something that makes it hard to hold your fork steady.
This would be easier if he were sleazy. If he looked like what you'd imagined when Terrence first explained the arrangement. Some greasy guy with a moustache and a waterbed. Instead he looks like this. Sharp jaw and piercing, amused eyes and an earring, a chain and a full mouth that does that little twitch and you're in so much trouble.
You put the fork down. Two months. You're two months behind because the temp agency dried up and the waitressing gig fell through and you've been living on ramen and the leftovers your neighbour leaves outside her door in tupperware containers that you're pretty sure are meant for the stray cats but you're not proud enough to care anymore.
"Two months," you admit, staring down at the eggs. Not looking at him. Looking at him is becoming a problem.
Bobby whistles. Low. Through his teeth. "Well shit. Landlord breathing down your neck?"
You scoff, swallowing down the bitterness. "He's past breathing. He's at written notices."
Bobby leans back in the booth. The vinyl creaks beneath him. He's got one arm stretched along the back of the seat and the other hand wrapped around the coffee mug and the morning light from the window is hitting the side of his face and you think, abstractly, the way you'd think about a painting in a museum: he's beautiful. Sharp angles. Pale eyes. Cali tan and an ease in how he slouches in his seat.
"The money's good," he says suddenly, tongue poking his cheek as he drags his attention back towards you. "That's the first thing. I'm not gonna bullshit you. It's not Hollywood money, obviously, but for Santa Clara? For a couple hours of work?" He tilts his head. "It'd cover your rent. Easy. One shoot."
You stare, unblinking. Sceptical. "One shoot."
"One shoot."
You pick up the fork again. Put it down again. Your fingers won't stop moving.
"Look—" Bobby leans forward. Elbows on the table. The leather jacket he's wearing creaks with the movement, and he's closer now and the watching has intensified into something that feels less like a camera and more like a hand on your skin. "I'm not trying to pressure you into shit. Terrence vouched for you because I asked him if he knew anyone and he said he knew a girl who was real smart and broke and—"
He stops. Mid-sentence. The watching goes still. There's a shift in his expression. A loosening, a slip, the mask of professional detachment developing a crack.
"Shit," he says softly. Almost to himself. "You're pretty. Real pretty."
You bristle. The flinch is automatic. A full-body tightening that starts in your shoulders and works down, because you know this game, you've played this game, the compliment that's actually a crowbar, the flattery designed to pry you open. Men in diners don't tell you you're pretty because they mean it. They tell you you're pretty because they want something and that something is usually between your legs.
"Don't do that," you say sharply. Your voice is harder than you intended.
Bobby blinks. The crack in his expression widens and what's behind it isn't a game. It's surprise. Genuine, unperformative surprise, the kind that creases the corners of his eyes and makes him look younger than however old he is.
"Do what?"
"The—flattery thing. The buttering up. I don't need you to tell me I'm pretty to get me to agree, I already—" Your throat tightens, and you knot your fingers in your lap, setting your jaw. "I'm already here. I'm already desperate enough to be sitting in this diner talking about—so you don't need to—"
"Hey." His hand comes up. Not touching. Just a gesture. A pause button. "I wasn't buttering you up. I was just—" He runs a hand through his hair, clipping his sunglasses. He looks, for a half-second, almost flustered. "I was looking at you and it came out. That's it. That's the whole thing. You're pretty and my mouth moved before my brain did and I'm—" He picks up the coffee. Takes a long sip. Sets it down. "Sorry. Professional hazard. I notice faces."
You stare at each other in silence.
He wasn't mocking you.
The realisation lands with a warmth that starts in your chest and spreads to places you weren't expecting.
He wasn't mocking you. He was sitting across from you in a vinyl booth and the light caught your face and he thought you were pretty and he said so because his mouth was faster than his filter. And now he's drinking burnt coffee to cover the fact that he's embarrassed about it.
"Okay," you say quietly.
He pauses, cup halfway to his mouth. "Okay?"
"Okay, tell me the terms."
Bobby sets the coffee down. The professionalism clicks back into place but the tips of his ears are still pink and you file that away somewhere warm and private.
"I shoot everything at my place. My equipment, my setup. VHS. I've got two cameras, one static, one handheld. The handheld's the one that matters. That's the one I operate." He taps the table with his index finger. Rhythmic. A habit. "I edit everything myself. I distribute through a guy I know in the valley who handles the duplication and the mailing list. You never have to talk to him. You never have to talk to anyone. Your face, your name, none of it goes on the packaging unless you want it to."
"What name do you use?" you ask, curious despite yourself.
"For me? Bobby." He shrugs. "I'm not creative about it."
"And for—"
"Whatever you want. Pick something. Pick nothing. Some girls just go by a first name. Some make something up. One girl I worked with went by the name of her landlord's dog. Said it felt like revenge." The almost-smile again. "Point is: it's yours. The whole thing is yours. You say stop, I stop. You say no to something, it's no. I don't push. I don't coerce. I don't do anything you haven't agreed to beforehand and if you change your mind halfway through, the camera goes off and we're done. No questions. No attitude."
He says all of this in the same tone he'd use to explain how a camera works. Methodical. Clear. Like he's said it before and means it every time.
"How much?" you ask.
He tells you.
You put your fork down carefully because the number he just said would cover two months of rent and groceries and the electricity bill that's been sitting on your kitchen counter turning into a small paper monument to your failure.
"One shoot," you say again, making sure.
"One shoot," he echoes with a nod. "Couple hours. You walk out with cash."
Hope and desperation surge up your spine, working your tongue. "Cash?"
"I don't do checks. Checks leave paper trails and paper trails make people nervous." He drains the last of the coffee. Grimaces. Apparently even Bobby Franklin has limits and Moreno's coffee has found them. "You don't have to decide now. Think about it. Call me."
He pulls a napkin from the dispenser and writes a number on it in handwriting that's surprisingly neat for someone who looks like he's never filled out a form in his life. Slides it across the table.
You look at the napkin. Look at him. then back at the napkin.
You pick it up, folding it neatly.
"Tomorrow," you say. "I can come tomorrow."
Bobby's eyebrows rise. Just slightly. Then he nods slowly. "Tomorrow works."
He pays for your eggs. You don't argue. You should argue but the rent was due six days ago and the eggs were $2.15 and the pride you'd normally spend on "I can pay for my own breakfast" has been liquidated to cover more pressing debts.
At the door of the diner he holds it open for you. Not performatively. Just does it. And when you pass him your shoulder brushes his chest and he smells like that warm thing again, the underneath thing, and his pale eyes track your face one more time and he says "See you tomorrow" in a voice that's dropped half a register and the warmth in your chest migrates south and you walk to your car thinking fuck, fuck, fuck, what am I doing?
You're covering rent. That's what you're doing.
That's all you're doing.
His apartment is above a furniture store.
You stand on the sidewalk for four minutes before you go up. The building is nondescript. Beige stucco, iron railings, a set of stairs on the outside that lead to a door that needs painting. There's a cat on the landing that looks at you with the serene judgment of a creature that has never once had to worry about rent.
You envy the cat greatly.
You're wearing a sundress because you didn't know what to wear and the sundress felt like a compromise between "trying too hard" and "not trying enough." You changed three times.
The first outfit was too casual. The second was too much. The sundress is yellow and you hate that you care what colour it is.
You knock.
Bobby opens the door and the first thing you register is that he's not wearing the leather jacket.
T-shirt. White, thin, cropped in a way that shows the shape of him underneath and is making it difficult to maintain eye contact. Jeans slung low on his hips. Bare feet on the hardwood. His hair is damp from the shower and pushed back off his face and without the sunglasses holding it up you can see the full architecture of him.
The jaw, sharper in natural light than in the diner's dimness. The earring. The chain, sitting in the hollow of his throat, rising and falling with his breathing.
He looks good in his own apartment. Relaxed in a way he wasn't at Moreno's, the professional edge softened into something more lived-in.
He leans against the doorframe and says, "Hey. Come in" and the drawl is thicker in the morning.
You're going to be professional about this. You're not going to think about his forearms, which are now visible because the t-shirt sleeves are short and his arms are lean and tanned and there's a vein running from his wrist to his elbow that you're staring at. Stop staring at it.
The apartment is small and clean and full of light. Not the fluorescent light of the diner but real light, California morning light, pouring through windows that face east.
There are photographs on the walls, black and white, and you realise after a second that he took them. They're good. They're better than good. A bridge in fog. A woman's hands. A street at night, wet, reflecting. He has an eye. You knew that from the diner, from the way he watched, but seeing it on the walls makes it real.
Bobby Franklin has an eye and he uses it for this and also for what you're about to do and the cognitive dissonance of "artist" and "adult filmmaker" is something you're going to have to sit with.
"Coffee?" he asks, padding toward the kitchen. Bare feet on linoleum.
The t-shirt rides up slightly when he reaches for a mug on the top shelf and there's a strip of skin above his waistband and the muscle that cuts along his hip and you look away so fast you nearly give yourself whiplash.
"Please."
He pours you a cup. You stand in his kitchen and drink it and it's good. Your hands are shaking and the cup rattles against the saucer and you set it down before he notices except he's already noticed.
"Hey," he calls out, leaning against the counter. Arms crossed. The t-shirt pulling across his chest. His stare is piercing, amused, reading you the way they read you at the diner except now there's nowhere to hide behind a menu and a plate of eggs. "We don't have to do anything today. We can just talk. Get you comfortable. No pressure."
"I'm fine," you force out.
He gives you a sceptical once over. "You're shaking."
"I'm fine and I'm shaking. Both can be true."
His mouth the twitches, the almost-smile that you're beginning to understand is Bobby's version of a laugh. A contained one. Controlled. Like even his amusement is something he runs through a filter before letting it out. But his eyes crinkle at the corners and the amusement reaches them and it's warm, genuinely warm, and some of the tightness in your chest loosens.
You talk.
He asks you questions. Mercifully not invasive ones, not the peeling-back kind. Surface questions. Where you grew up. How you know Terrence. What music you like. And you find yourself answering, not because he's charming (he is) but because he's easy. Bobby Franklin is easy to talk to in a way that contradicts everything about his sharp jaw and pale stare and the fact that there are two video cameras set up in his bedroom that you can see through the half-open door.
He listens the way he watches: completely, with his whole attention, like whatever you're saying is the only thing happening in the world. And he's funny. Dry, quick, a deadpan that sneaks up on you.
You laugh at something he says about Terrence and his face creases in a way you haven't seen before. Surprise. Pleasure. Like your laugh was an unexpected pleasure.
He tucks it away fast, smooths the expression back to amused neutrality, but you saw it. You saw it and it made your stomach warm.
An hour passes. Your hands stop shaking. You've stopped noticing the cameras through the doorway. You've started noticing other things.
The way he gestures when he talks about photography, loose and animated, the only time his cool composure fully drops. The way he licks his bottom lip when he's thinking. The way the chain shifts against his throat when he laughs. The pale eyes that keep finding your face and staying there a beat longer than conversation requires.
You're attracted to him. This is no longer a thing you can file under "irrelevant." This is a thing that is happening in your body, in the kitchen, in the warm light, and it's making the prospect of what comes next feel less like a transaction and more like something you might actually want and that's more frightening than the cameras.
He shows you the bedroom eventually.
It's not what you expected. No red lighting, no satin sheets, no sleazy backdrop. Just a bed—queen, white sheets, a quilt that looks like it came from someone's grandmother—and two cameras. One on a tripod in the corner, aimed at the bed. The other on the dresser, smaller, a different angle. Both VHS. Both off.
"The one in the corner is the wide shot," Bobby explains, standing in the doorway behind you. Professional. Tour guide. "It runs the whole time. Catches everything. The one on the dresser is for close-ups. I adjust it as we go. The handheld—" He nods toward a third camera sitting on the nightstand. "That's the one I use. That's the one that makes the money."
You nod, staring at the bed. The white sheets. The grandmother's quilt. The two dark eyes of the cameras. Your pulse is loud in your own ears.
"I'm sorry," you blurt out, not looking at him, still staring at the bed. "I'm being weird about this. I've obviously never—I haven't done anything like this before and I don't know how to—"
He kisses you.
His hand is on your jaw first, angling your face toward him. Gentle but sure, the confidence of someone who knows the effect he has and is choosing to use it kindly. And then his other hand comes up. Both hands cupping your face now, his palms warm against your cheeks, his thumbs resting along the line of your cheekbones, and his mouth finds yours.
The first press is soft. Almost chaste. Just the warmth of his lips settling against yours, testing, asking. You inhale sharply through your nose, and he catches it. Absorbs it. Tilts your face up with those hands and kisses you deeper.
Bobby's mouth opens yours. Coaxing, slow.
His bottom lip drags against yours, the faintest graze of teeth, and then his tongue follows. Warm, unhurried, curling against yours in a way that makes your knees actually weaken.
You've kissed people before. This is not that. This is Bobby Franklin kissing you with both hands cradling your face like you're worth holding and his tongue moving against yours with a patience that suggests he could do this for hours. Just this. Just the wet slide of his mouth on yours and the taste of good coffee and the way your breath mingles when he tilts his head and changes the angle and finds something deeper.
His thumb strokes your cheekbone. Back and forth. This light, rhythmic brush while his tongue curls against yours, while his bottom lip catches between your teeth and he makes a sound—small, low, a vibration you feel more than hear—and your hands are on his chest. When did your hands get on his chest?
You can feel his heartbeat through the white t-shirt, fast, faster than his relaxed composure suggests, and the knowledge that Bobby Franklin's heart is hammering while he kisses you makes you dizzy.
He tilts his head the other way. Your noses brush. The tip of his against the side of yours, a small warm nudge, almost playful.
He kisses the corner of your mouth. Your bottom lip. Takes it between his and sucks, gently, and your fingers curl into the fabric of his t-shirt and pull and the sound you make is swallowed by the warmth of him.
He pulls back.
Not far. An inch. Maybe two. His hands still on your face. His thumbs still on your cheekbones. His forehead nearly touching yours and you can feel his breath on your lips and his eyes are right there. Those pale, watchful, bright eyes, scanning your face. Reading you. Making sure.
Your lips are tingling. Your whole body is tingling. You're standing in a stranger's bedroom being held by the face and kissed like you've never been kissed before.
"Was—" Your voice is thin. Wrecked. He kissed your voice right out of you. "Was the camera rolling?"
Bobby smirks.
Up close, from two inches away, with his hands still warm on your face. One corner of his mouth lifting in that lazy, crooked, insufferable way. His eyes half-lidded. And it goes trough you like wildfire, flooding your nervous system with liquid heat.
"No," he answers huskily, his thumb tracing your cheekbone one more time. "Just felt like doing that."
He holds your gaze. One beat. Two. Three. Letting the smirk settle. Letting you feel the weight of it—the fact that he kissed you off-camera, off-clock, for no professional reason.
The fact that his heart is still hammering under your fists and his pupils are blown wide and he kissed you because he wanted to. Because you were standing in his bedroom apologising for being nervous and he looked at you and his mouth moved before his brain did. Again.
"Still okay?" he asks, softer now. The smirk gentling into something warmer.
"Yeah." Breathier than you want it to be. Your hands still in his t-shirt. "Yeah, I'm okay."
"Good." His hand drops from your jaw. Trails down your arm. Fingertips only, light enough to raise goosebumps, tracing the inside of your wrist where the pulse jumps. "I'm going to undress you now. Slow. Before the cameras go on. Just us. That alright?"
You nod.
He starts with the straps of the sundress. Easing them off your shoulders one at a time. Not pulling, guiding. His knuckles graze your collarbone and you shiver, his eyes tracking the shiver down your body with an attention that makes you feel like the only light source in the room.
"You wore yellow," he notes conversationally. Like he's remarking on the weather while his fingertips trace the neckline of your dress. "Looks good on you. Warm. Shows off your skin."
The dress pools at your feet. You're standing in his bedroom in your underwear and the morning light is on you and Bobby is looking at you the way he looked at you in the diner when his mouth got ahead of his brain.
"Pretty," he murmurs. Like he can't help it. Like the word just falls out of him when he sees you. His thumb traces your hip bone above the elastic of your underwear. "Real pretty."
This time you don't bristle.
He reaches past you. Flicks on the tripod camera. A tiny red light. Then the dresser camera. Another red light. Two eyes, open, watching.
"Don't think about them," Bobby says, his mouth near your ear. His hands settle on your waist, warm palms on bare skin. "Don't think about the cameras. Don't perform. Just feel me. Can you do that?"
You jerk your head. "I can try."
"That's all I'm asking." His lips brush your ear. Down. Along your jaw. The corner of your mouth. His hands slide up your ribcage and his thumbs trace the underwire of your bra and you exhale, shaky, and he catches it. "There you go. Just like that. Stay with me, yeah? I got you."
He unclasps your bra with one hand. Practiced, efficient, but the way he peels it away is anything but. Reverent, almost, easing the fabric off like he's unwrapping something valuable. The air hits your skin and your nipples tighten. Bobby's gaze drops and his jaw flexes and for a moment, just a moment, the professionalism wavers. His throat moves on a thick swallow.
"Lie down," he instructs, a little rougher than before. "On the bed. On your back."
You lie down. The sheets are cool beneath you, the quilt soft. on your skin
The light from the window falls across the bed in a warm band and you're naked except for your underwear and Bobby is standing over you still fully dressed and the power imbalance should feel wrong but it doesn't because his eyes are eating you alive and his hands are clenched at his sides and you realise, with a jolt that goes straight through you: he's holding himself back.
This is Bobby exercising control. This is what it looks like when he wants to touch something badly and is making himself wait.
He picks up the handheld camera. Lifts it to his eye. And something shifts in him. Visibly. The control locks in, the professional takes over, and he's Bobby-behind-the-lens. Steady. Composed. Seeing everything.
"Touch yourself," he says. Director voice. "Just your skin. Nothing heavy. Just run your hands over yourself. Get comfortable."
You do. Your own hands on your own body, palms skating over your stomach, your ribs, the swell of your breasts, and it feels strange and exhibitionistic but then Bobby says "gorgeous, just like that, you're doing so good" and the praise lands in the pit of your stomach like a lit match. Your back arches. Barely. Just enough.
"Yeah," Bobby breathes from behind the camera. "That's it. That's perfect. Look at you."
He films you touching yourself for what feels like hours and is probably three minutes. Then he sets the handheld down on the nightstand. Red light still blinking, and he crawls onto the bed.
Not between your legs. Beside you. Lying on his side, propped on one elbow, his face level with yours. Close enough that you can see the flecks of darker blue in his irises and the faint scar on his chin and the way his throat moves when he swallows. Still dressed. T-shirt. Jeans. Bare feet.
"Keep going," he murmurs, watching your hands on your own body. "Don't stop on my account."
Your hands move. Over your stomach. Up. And Bobby's hand joins them. One warm palm laid flat against your sternum, between your breasts. Not groping.... just resting. Feeling your heartbeat through your ribs.
"Fast," he notes. His thumb strokes the valley between your breasts and you shiver. "Slow down. You're rushing."
You do as he asked, your hands sliding over your skin with less urgency and more intention. Bobby's hand follows, learning new terrain, the dip of your waist and the flare of your hip and the soft give of your stomach where you've always been self-conscious and he presses his palm there like he's making a point.
Like that spot, specifically, is worth his hand.
Then his mouth replaces his palm.
He starts at your throat. A kiss. Open-mouthed, warm, the press of his lips and the faintest edge of teeth. Then your collarbone. The notch at the base of your throat where your pulse is hammering. Down. The flat of his tongue dragging along your sternum, tasting the thin sheen of sweat that the California morning and your own nerves have produced.
His mouth is unhurried. Exploratory. He's not kissing you so much as he's mapping you with his lips, charting the terrain the way he'd scout a location before a shoot. Finding the light, finding the angles, finding what works on you.
His mouth finds your breast. Kisses the swell of it. The underside, where the skin is softest. And then his lips close around your nipple and he sucks—not hard, not gentle, somewhere in between, a warm wet pressure that sends a bolt of sensation from your breast directly to your cunt and your back arches off the mattress.
"Oh."
Bobby hums against you. A sound of satisfaction. His tongue circles your nipple, flattens, flicks.
His free hand slides up your ribs and cups your other breast, thumb rolling across the peak, and the dual sensation—mouth and hand, wet and dry—makes you reach for him. Your fingers find his hair. Sandy strands, still slightly damp from the shower, thick between your fingers. You grip. Pull.
Just... needing something to hold onto while his mouth does this to you.
The pull makes Bobby groan. The sound vibrates through your nipple and into your chest and your hips lift off the bed involuntarily, pressing into nothing.
He feels it and his mouth tightens. Pulls harder. His teeth graze the sensitive peak and your fingers clench in his hair and you tug, genuinely tug, trying to pull him up, pull him to your mouth, because you need to kiss him, you need—
He doesn't let go.
His mouth stays locked on your nipple, sucking with a focused intensity that borders on stubborn, and you're pulling his hair and he's groaning and he will not come up, will not release, and the wet heat of his mouth is making you clench around nothing.
Your thighs press together, your hips rocking against air, seeking fullness, friction, anything, and Bobby—Bobby, who is supposed to be a professional, who is supposedly in control of this situation—reaches down with his free hand and cups you between the legs.
Just cups you. His whole palm, warm, pressed against the soaked cotton of your underwear. Just holding the heat of you in his hand while his mouth works your nipple and your fingers twist in his hair and the sound that comes out of you is breathy and too high.
"Bobby—please, I need—"
He releases your nipple with a wet pop that you feel in your spine. Glances up at you, his lips swollen. His eyes heavy-lidded and dark and his hand still cupping you, pressing against the damp fabric, feeling the heat seep through.
"Need what, baby?" Low. Rough. His fingers flex against you, palm grinding just slightly against your pulsing core, one small movement of pressure through the cotton. "Tell me."
"Touch me," you plead, trying to press closer. "Actually touch me."
His fingers slide under the elastic. Find you bare. Find you soaked. And the sound he makes—a sharp exhale through his nose, almost a hiss—is the sound of a man who knew what he was going to find but is still wrecked by the reality of it.
"Jesus." Barely a whisper. His fingers parting your folds. Not penetrating yet, just circling your clit. Just petting. Long, feather-light strokes through the slick of you, up and down, spreading the wetness with an aching patience that makes your hips chase his hand. "So wet, baby. This all from—was this from my mouth? From me sucking on you?"
You nod. You can't speak. His fingers are petting you like he's got all the time in the world and no intention of giving you what you need. Long strokes. Root to tip. Parting you with two fingers and letting the middle one drag between, barely touching your clit, just enough to make your thighs shake.
"Pretty little pussy," he murmurs, and the words shouldn't work.
They're filthy and crude and you've heard variations in the tapes you've watched that made you cringe, but Bobby says them the way he said "you're pretty" in the diner. Like a fact. Something he can't help observing. Like your body laid out in morning light is a view he needs to narrate. His fingers keep petting. Lazy. Wet with you, making you drip onto his grandmother's quilt.
Then his mouth starts traveling south.
He kisses down your stomach. Your hip bone. The crease of your thigh. Hooks his fingers into your underwear, drags them down, tosses them off the bed without looking. Parts your thighs with both hands, spreading you open, and the sound he makes—not a groan this time, something lower, something guttural, a sound that vibrates in his chest—is not for the camera.
You know this because the camera is on the nightstand and he hasn't touched it and he's not angling for a shot. He's just peering down at you. Spread open in the morning light. And that sound is coming out of him because he can't stop it.
"Fuck," he whispers, his thumbs pressing into the crease of your thighs. "Okay. Okay."
He lowers his mouth to you.
Bobby eats you out the way he kissed you earlier. Unhurried, thorough. Long strokes of his tongue that start at your entrance and drag upward, tasting the length of you, and you feel his groan against your cunt when the flavour hits and your whole body shudders.
He circles your clit with a pressure that's devastating in its patience. He's not trying to make you come fast. He's tasting. Exploring. Learning what makes your hips jerk and what makes you gasp and what makes your fingers find his hair again.
You fist both hands in those sandy strands and pull and the sound he makes—rough, grateful, hungry—vibrates against your clit. Your hips buck and his hands tighten on your thighs. Holding them apart, his thumbs stroking the soft skin in counterpoint to the filthy things his tongue is doing.
He's found a rhythm now. Flat, wide strokes punctuated by the pointed tip of his tongue flicking your clit in a pattern that your hips start chasing, lifting off the bed, grinding against his mouth, and he lets you. Lets you ride his face with his hands gripping your thighs and his eyes closed and his entire world narrowed to the taste and the sound and the wet.
"Bobby—oh my god—"
"Mm." Against you. His mouth full of you. His tongue pressing flat, licking you open in a broad swipe that makes your vision swim. "Taste incredible. Could stay here all fuckin' day."
He could. You believe him. He looks like he means it. Settled between your thighs like he's found the only place in the world he wants to be.
You tug his hair again and his moan is muffled against your cunt and you feel it everywhere, the vibration traveling through your pelvis and up your spine, and you pull harder and his tongue presses harder and the feedback loop is building. Your hands in his hair and his mouth on you and the wet sounds and the moans and you're close, you're getting close—
He pulls back with a wet, slick sound.
You whimper. The loss of his mouth leaving you throbbing, aching, empty.
"Not yet." His chin is wet, his lips swollen. Bobby's eyes are glazed and dark, the professional gone, replaced by something feral that's been living underneath the cool-boy surface and is now looking at you like it's deciding whether to devour you. "Not yet, baby. Want to be inside you when you come. Wanna feel you, yeah?"
You moan in response, dizzy. And your moans are real. That's the thing that's changing the temperature of the room.
You're not playing them up, not pitching them for any microphone, not performing the breathy exaggerated sounds you've heard in the tapes you've watched out of curiosity and mild horror. You're just reacting. And it's affecting him. His breathing has changed. His hips are pressing into the mattress in a grind he can't seem to control and you realise he's hard.
He's been hard for a while. He's been eating you out with his cock straining against his jeans and he hasn't touched himself once.
Bobby sits back on his heels. Pulls the t-shirt over his head in one motion. His chest is flushed. Lean, not bulky, the body of someone who lifts camera equipment for a living and forgets to eat regularly. The belt buckle. The zipper. The happy trail of hair dipping dangerously beneath the belt buckle. He pushes the jeans down and kicks them off and he's—
your mouth goes dry.
Bobby Franklin naked is a problem. Bobby Franklin hard is a crisis.
He sees you looking. The smirk returns. That lazy, insufferable lift of one corner of his mouth. "See something you like?"
"Shut up."
You sit up. Grab his hips. Pull him toward you and the surprise on his face—genuine, unperformed, the mask cracking again—is worth everything.
He stumbles forward on the mattress, knees sinking into the sheets, and your hands are on his stomach, his ribs, dragging your nails lightly down his sides and he hisses. His cock twitches and you feel powerful in a way that has nothing to do with cameras or money.
"How do you want me to fuck you?" His voice is gravel. Wrecked. He's peering down at you with his hands cupping your face, thumbs on your cheekbones, and the professionalism is a memory. "Tell me."
"From behind." No hesitation. The words tumbling out before your brain can edit them. "I want—on my stomach, I want you behind me, I want—"
Bobby's eyes go wide. His whole face flushes harder. Cheeks, ears, the V of his throat. He drops his head against your shoulder and laughs. A real laugh. Rough and bitten-off and disbelieving.
"Shit, baby." Muffled against your skin. "Can't say stuff like that to me. Can't just—" He lifts his head. The flush is gorgeous on him, spreading down his neck. "Yeah. Fuck yeah. Turn over."
He flips you. Firm and purposeful. His hands on your hips guiding you onto your stomach, lifting your hips until your ass is raised and your face is in the pillow and you feel exposed in a way that's terrifying and thrilling.
"Look at you." His hands on your hips, sliding up. Over the curve of your ass. Both palms cupping you, squeezing, spreading, his thumbs tracing the cleft while he breathes hard through his nose. "Every angle. Every fuckin' angle. 'S not fair."
His hand draws back. Comes down on your ass. Not a slap, not quite, a firm pat that's more proprietary than punishing and the sound it makes in the quiet bedroom is obscene. Your hips jolt. He does it again. Lighter. Smoothing his palm over the spot after, kneading with a hum.
"Could cover you like this," he mutters, stroking the curve of your ass with both hands, spreading you again, looking at you from behind with an expression you can feel even though you can't see it. "Just—stay right here. Just like this. Prettiest goddamn thing I've ever shot and I haven't even started the camera yet."
He reaches for the handheld. Turns it on. Red light. Frames the shot—you on your stomach, your hips raised, the curve of your spine. His hand still on your ass. Claiming. Warm.
He sets the camera on the mattress, angled up. Reaches for himself. You hear it. The wet sound of him spitting into his palm, the slick stroke of his fist over his cock, and then he's behind you. The hot thick length of him pressed against you, nestled between your folds, and he groans and you groan, and he doesn't push in.
He rolls against you.
Long, grinding strokes, his cock sliding through the slick mess of you, dragging across your clit with every thrust. The head catching at your entrance and pulling away. Over and over. Using the length of himself to stroke you, to tease you, to coat himself in you until the sound of skin on wet skin fills the room and your fingers are clawing at the sheets.
"Feel that?" His chest pressed against your back. His mouth against your ear. "Feel how hard you got me? Been like this since the diner. Since you sat down in that booth and looked at me with those fuckin' eyes. Thought about this. Thought about what you'd feel like."
His hips roll. The head of his cock catches your entrance again, presses, almost, almost—
"Bobby, please—"
His cock throbs against your core. "Tell me."
"Fuck me. Please." You suck in a shaky breath. "I need you to—"
He spits again. You feel it, warm, landing where his cock meets your cunt. His hand stroking himself once, twice, spreading the slick. And then he notches himself at your entrance and pushes in.
One long stroke. All the way. Your body opening around him and his groan matching yours. Colliding, two raw sounds meeting in the air and becoming something bigger than either. He bottoms out and holds you in place, and you feel every inch of him, the stretch, the heat, the fullness, his forehead dropping against the nape of your neck and he breathes "oh fuck" against your hair and his whole body shakes.
"God—you feel—" He can't finish. His hips twitch, involuntary, the tiniest thrust that pulls a gasp from both of you. "Baby. Baby, you feel—"
He starts moving. And the control lasts about thirty seconds.
Thirty seconds of measured strokes. Finding the angle. Professional. Thinking about the shot, the camera on the mattress, the red light.
And then you push back against him with a greedy sound, meet his thrust with your hips, grinding onto him, taking him deeper, and you moan. Really moan, the sound that's been building since he put his mouth on your nipple and refused to let go, and something in Bobby snaps.
His hand grabs your hip. His other hand braces on the mattress beside your head. And he fucks you.
Not the controlled version. The real version. The Bobby Franklin that exists underneath the smirk and the camera and the professional detachment. Hips driving into you with a force that shoves you into the mattress, that punches the air from your lungs, that turns your vision white around the edges. Sweat beading on his chest and dripping onto your spine. His breathing ragged, broken, gasping against the back of your neck in hot bursts.
And you're both gasping, coiling, pushing into each other blindly. Your hand reaches back, finds his hip, his thigh, pulling him deeper, harder, your fingers digging into the muscle and he groans like you've wounded him.
His hand finds yours, laces your fingers together beside your head, pressing your joined hands into the sheets, and the intimacy of it cracks something deep in both of you.
"So good," he's babbling against your spine. His mouth open, dragging wet kisses between your shoulder blades. "So fuckin' good, squeezing me so tight—can you hear that? Hear how wet you are? Hear what you're doin' to me?"
You can hear it. The obscene wet sound of his cock driving into you, the slap of his hips against your ass, the creak of the bed frame that he's going to have to explain to the furniture store below.
"Bobby—" Your voice is gone. Shattered, croaking. "Bobby, I'm gonna—I can't—"
"Yeah you can." Growled against your ear. His teeth grazing your earlobe. Biting down. "Cum for me. Wanna feel it. Wanna feel you squeeze my cock so tight I can't fuckin' think—"
He lets go of your hand. His fingers fist in your hair. Gathering the hair, wrapping the strands around his fingers. And he lifts your head from the pillow, arching your neck back, turning your face toward the camera on the mattress that's still rolling, red light blinking, catching everything.
"Show them," he murmurs against the shell of your ear. "Let 'em see how pretty you look when you cum for me."
You fall apart.
The orgasm rips through you. An earthquake, seismic and structural that starts where he's buried inside you and radiates outward.
Your mouth opens on a moan that you don't recognise as your own voice, wanton, cracked, genuine. There's no performance, no production, it's pulled from somewhere primal and raw inside you. And Bobby feels it. Feels the clench and the shake and the sound and his rhythm breaks, shatters, his hips slamming into you without finesse, chasing his own end through the aftershocks of yours.
He comes with a loud, greedy moan, a gruff sound of laughter caught in his throat. This breathless, incredulous sound, muffled against the back of your damp neck, like he can't believe what just happened to him. His hips jerk again, pressed flush against your ass. His hand loosens in your hair, fingertips grazing your scalp.
His body shudders against yours in waves that slow and gentle and eventually still.
His lips find the shell of your ear. Warm. Spent. Still inside you.
"With a moan like that," he rasps, kissing the curve of your ear, "and a pussy that grips me that tight?" He laughs against your skin. Loose. Golden. The real laugh, the unfiltered one. "Shit, baby, you're gonna be famous."
You laugh too. Into the pillow. The sound surprising you. The lightness of it, the ease. The fact that you can laugh, right now, naked and sweating and thoroughly ruined in a stranger's bed with two cameras rolling.
You're laughing because he's funny and because the sex was extraordinary and because you came to this apartment expecting something transactional and clinical.
Instead you got Bobby Franklin's mouth telling you you're pretty like he couldn't help it and Bobby Franklin's hands holding yours while he fucked you and Bobby Franklin laughing against your neck like making you come was the best thing that happened to him all week.
He pulls out, slowly, carefully, making you shiver at the loss, and collapses next to you. Reaches over and clicks off the handheld. The red light dies. The static camera in the corner is still running and neither of you moves to turn it off.
Bobby lies on his back, chest rising and falling. Staring at the ceiling with the expression of a man whose professional boundaries have just been comprehensively violated by his own want.
"So," he says to the ceiling. "Same time next week?"
You turn your head on the pillow. He turns his. Pale eyes. Flushed face. Hair wrecked. That almost-smile.
"Same time next week," you agree, still breathless.
The static camera runs for another four minutes before Bobby remembers to turn it off.
In the footage—which he will watch later, alone, ostensibly for editing purposes—you can see two people lying side by side on white sheets, not touching, not talking, just breathing, and at the 2:47 mark the girl in the yellow sundress starts laughing again and the boy with the camera reaches over and takes her hand and doesn't let go until the tape runs out.
☆ ──꒰summary꒱ ❞ trailer trash!Aerion convinces you to let him fuck you without a condom on— he promises on his mamas grave that he’ll pull out! why wouldn’t you trust him?
contains! dubcon/coercion, unsafe sex, aerion is a meanie
authors note: let me know if there are any spelling errors…! inspired by @louloucake’s tt!aerion series!
೯⠀⁺ ⠀ 𖥻 𝗢 ⠀ᰋ the air inside of Aerion’s trailer tasted like stale cigarettes and grease. a rusted fan rattled in the corner, doing a pathetic job of cutting through the oppressive heat of the summer evening. you sat on the edge of his stained mattress, your floral sunday dress bunched around your hips, your knuckles white as you gripped the cheap, yellowing sheets. you don’t even know how you had gotten to this point: discussing sex with Aerion (of all people!) despite the fact that you had sworn to both your poor mama and the heavenly lord that you’d save your body for marriage.
Aerion loomed over you, his shirtless chest glistening with a thin film of sweat. he smelled of diesel and musk—all that time under his beat up pickup certainly showed. he reached down, his rough hand grabbing at your face and holding it so that your cheeks squished together, forcing you to look up into his narrow, predatory eyes.
“stop lookin’ so nervous, girl.” he drawled. “those things mess with the feeling anyways. you want me to feel every inch of that tight little pussy, don’t ya? and i reckon you wanna feel me deep inside you, real raw.”
“but… what if i get pr—”
Aerion stopped your sentence with a sharp tch. “hush now. i promise i’ll pull out. i ain’t trying to tie myself to some… church mouse like you.” he sneered, his grip tightening. “now, you gonna be a good little girl and let me have my way, or are you gonna keep on whinin’ like a bitch?” he emphasized his point by roughly pulling his hand away from your face
you swallowed hard, your heart hammering in your chest. you looked at him, searching for a sign of kindness that you had somehow convinced yourself lived beneath all that aggression. “you promise?” you said, “you’ll pull out?”
“i swear on my mama’s grave.” he said, making a little mock-prayer motion before pushing you onto your back, the mattress groaning. he yanked your dress up and pulled your panties down with a violent tug. he didn’t waste any time with tenderness—that just wasn’t the kind of man that Aerion was—he spat into his palm and gave his cock a few half-hearted pumps to slicken himself up.
“look at you…” his eyes roamed over your half covered body like he was taking in every single detail of your nakedness and cataloguing it for later, “all holy and pure, and here you are, spread out for a piece of shit like me.” he grinned, “you’re just a little slut in her sunday best, aren’t you?”
you blushed a deep red, opening your mouth to chirp out a shaky plea: “please don’t call me that…”
“i’ll call you whatever the hell i want, girl.”
he lined himself up and drove into you with a brutal thrust. you gasped, your back arching in a mix of pain and pleasure at the sudden stretch of his thick cock. Aerion began to hammer into you, his hips slapping against you, the friction creating an intense and searing heat within you.
“god, you’re fuckin’ tight,” he groaned, his pace quickening, “squeezin’ me like a goddamned vice… does god know how much you love this? does he know how wet your pussy is for me?” he laughed, watching himself disappear into your dripping cunt over and over.
“Aerion, please…” you begged, your voice quivering.
“just shut up and take it,” he barked, his movements becoming more frantic.
the wet sound of your bodies colliding filled the small room; a pornographic symphony as he pistoned deeper and deeper into the depths of your holy cunt, stretching you out. your breath came in ragged hitches, your fingers digging into the mattress. you felt the raw skin of his shaft sliding deliciously against your sensitive walls, the sensation overwhelming and terrifying all at once.
Aerion’s breathing turned into heavy grunts. he gripped the soft flesh of your hips, his fingers bruising your skin as he gripped you tight, accelerating to an almost animalistic pace. he was bottoming out, his balls slapping against your ass with every shove. “i’m close, sugar… i’m right there,” he choked out.
you panicked, the reality of the situation rushing back to you through your haze of lusty intertwinings. you tried to shift your weight, pushing against his chest, “pull out, Aerion, you’ve gotta pull out!”
he didn’t move. instead, he surged forward, pinning your wrists above your head with one hand and burying himself to the hilt. he let out a loud, guttural moan as his body stiffened. you felt a hot, sudden explosion of his cum hitting your cervix, wave after wave of thick fluid pumping deep inside of you.
he didn’t pull away. he stayed buried within you, his chest heaving, letting the heat of his seed fill you, like he was trying to make sure it stuck.
you lay there, your eyes wide and watering. “you… you didn’t pull out,” you whispered, “you promised.”
Aerion slowly withdrew, a string of his cum and your slick stretching between you before snapping. he looked down at you, his expression devoid of guilt, he wore nothing but a smug , almost triumphant grin on his face. “well, i reckon i changed my mind,” he said, reaching for a cigarette from the pack on the side table, “now you’ve got a little piece of me inside you, sweet thing.”
⟢ SUMMARY aerion is desperate. the one girl completely out of reach, just had to be the one girl he wanted. he would make it happen. he would will it.
⟢ NOTES this was so long awaited, i'm sorry guys. been missing the peace of akotsk fandom so crawling back into it. hope you enjoy!
⟢ WARNINGS 18+, if you haven't watched obsession then maybe watch it first, smut, toxic!aerion and reader, coercion.
MASTERLIST
"You can't be serious." Aerion scoffed, fiddling with the corners of the small cardboard box his older brother, Daeron, had given him.
"Try it. I'm serious." Daeron reasoned. "My friend knew a guy who wished for a girl to love him, and shit just— happened."
"This? This thing— this twig? Can grant my wishes? Really?" Aerion's tone dripped with sarcasm. Because the idea of snapping a twig to make a wish come true was a concept of fiction, it sounded exactly like something Daeron's stoner friends would say.
Daeron raised his hands, shrugging at his naive brother. "Don't believe me. Or do. Your choice."
The box sat on Aerion's nightstand for weeks, collecting dust just as the thought did in his mind. A stupid prank from his drunken brother, one he wouldn't entertain. Busying himself with work, running the length of his street for an hour each morning and evening, driving until his gas ran on empty. Trying not to let you consume his every waking moment.
But you insisted on it anyway.
You had been friends since you interned at his father's company, only for a summer just to get some experience and a glowing recommendation. Aerion, to his core, was naturally standoffish, so he hadn't warmed to you until you were forcibly locked in his office with him to help stay up to date on reports. One of the boring tasks that Aerion fought defiantly.
It was that afternoon, he finally warmed to you. Though it was more akin to ice melting. He remained silent, gone were the scoffing and pompous commentary. Then, he began to laugh at your jokes. And that afternoon had been the catalyst to a strange friendship.
A friendship of unspoken words, lingering glances when the other was unaware, living life in show for each other. You played the part of friend well; hiding every ounce of yearning in your chest behind your poker face. He was none the wiser to your ache for him; the way he brought you a coffee every morning on his way toward his office, the way he praised you for everything you did to help him, the silent car rides he would give you home.
You would confide in Valarr, another intern you met, who you had found out was Aerion's cousin. Great. No escaping this man. But Valarr didn't much care for his cousin, wouldn't piss on him if he were on fire. So your secrets were undeniably safe with him.
It had been months of yearning of Aerion, veiled with friendly teasing comments and an appropriate distance. Telling Valarr how you wished Aerion would just reject you, so you could move on. But he continued as if your friendship was completely pure, as if he were naive to the way your hands would be less than an inch from each other when you would share his desk for a task. Even when you had left the company after an extended internship, hoping to latch onto someone else at your new job. But your mind refused to unlatch from the pale haired brat you found a friend in.
"I bought you a gift." Valarr had his hands tucked behind his back when he met you at the cafe. You kept touch with him, meeting him for lunch whenever you could. And even today, to celebrate his promotion.
"For me?" You cheered, standing from your seat to embrace him. "You're the man of honor today!"
"Humor me for just a moment. Close your eyes." He took his hands from behind his back, placing the box into your outstretched hands. Your eyes peeled open to see a triangular box, a ONE WISH WILLOW.
"What the fuck is this?" You frowned.
"I was looking for a gift for my dad's birthday and saw that in a crystal shop." He explained, taking a sip of the piping hot beverage you had ordered for him minutes before he arrived.
"You were looking for a gift for your dad in a crystal shop?" Your face scrunched more intensely at your strange friend, the small box still sat in your hands.
"Besides the point." Valarr deadpanned. "It's a One Wish Willow."
"And what does this Willow do?"
"You wish for something and snap it. And your wish comes true." Valarr spoke so casually, as if this were as common knowledge as brushing your teeth or tying your shoes.
"You're hilarious." You gave him a wooden stare, dismissing the small box into your purse. "`What do I wish for? A new best friend?"
"I was thinking you could finally wish for my wretched cousin to cease his existence." Valarr suggested. "Or for him to love you as intensely as you do him."
"Hey!" You exclaimed.
"What? Your love makes me sick." A half-truth. He loved seeing you happy, but not where Aerion was involved. He would snap a Willow of his own to wish you would forget your puppy love for his cousin.
"The only wish I'll be making it for you to be quiet."
Perhaps your neutrality with Aerion didn't just sink into his stomach, or fade into nothingness. Perhaps it mutated in his mind, sending him into a vastness of insanity. The constant, unusual fear of saying something stupid, cheering himself up with watching your social media intently, unwilling to let go of the hold he had on you. He had been driven to insanity over you. That very feeling had him sat in the corner of the backyard, in his designated smoking spot that his father had ordered him to use, because the smoke "keeps lingering in the house".
He held the triangular box in his hand, observing the dated red-and-white design, vexed at himself for even considering resorting to this foolishness.
He studied the box between drags, letting the cigarette sit between his lips as he read the words.
Need help? Call today!
1-323-747-7118
He could wish for his infatuation for you to cease, then he could live his life more peacefully, more for himself and less in show for you. He could wish for you to move out of town, forcing himself to get over you and live your lives separately. But Aerion was a selfish man, he knew it. He wouldn't do anything that didn't serve him.
REMOVE FROM THE BOX AND JUST MAKE A WISH!
SPARK THE MIDDLE AND BREAK IT IN HALF.
WHAT ARE YOU WISHING FOR?
"I wish," he sighed deeply, tapping his foot to find the wording.
It were as if something in his mind had snapped, the sound of a twig snapping echoed in his mind. His emotion felt dialled, it had never burned so violently in his stomach, it had never sounded like a deafening ring as much as it did in this moment.
This was where insanity had taken him, wishing for you to love him as he did you, wishing the one girl who was so passive with him to truly, deeply love him. And so, he spoke his wish aloud. For you to love him, to match his desire. Before snapping the willow, a clean break in the middle as it sat in each hand.
"So stupid." He scoffed, discarding the trinket onto the lawn beside him, stubbing the butt of his cigarette out between the fragments. He hoped to wake in the morning and have this useless feeling in the pit of his stomach to be gone, for you to be gone—
His phone chimed, the screen like a stun grenade in the darkness of the garden.
You: Hey, you.
Aerion's mouth dried. This was stupid coincidence, right?
Aerion: Hey.
Was that too blunt? Did he look uninterested? Had he ruined his wish already?
Aerion: What are you doing up so late?
You: Can't sleep.
Aerion: Me neither.
He watched the typing bubble appear and disappear over and over, impatiently waiting for your reply. He lit another cigarette through pure stress, inhaling it as his phone balanced on his knee.
You: Want to go for a drive?
"How have we not done this sooner?" You sighed, settling comfortably into his fully reclined passenger seat, your view of the city below and all its little gleaming lights.
"Busy, I guess." He shrugged. "We live different lives now."
The words felt like a lie as he spoke them. If you wanted to make the time, the two of you would have. But you had become professional and skirting around your feelings, pretending the blossoming in your chest was simply not there.
"That makes me sad." You sighed, looking over at him as his head was already turned to face yours. "I missed you."
Aerion could feel his mind buzz with anxiety, the hankering for another cigarette had his hands balled tightly at his side. "I missed you."
The world looked darker around you. Each different hue now warmer, redder, than it should be. As if a vessel had burst in your eye, the blood coating your vision until all you could see was Aerion. The man who looked no different than when you worked with him a year ago. Hair still unnaturally white, eyes still sunken and jaw still tense. A cigarette dangling from his lip at any given chance.
You had always admired the small details of his face, but only tonight had you truly seen them. It felt like the wires in your brain had been tangled, heightening any sort of feelings you already harboured. His eyes looked darker, smile wider, you could hear the blood passing through his veins, you could hear his heart pumping rapidly.
Your Willow had worked.
Aerion watched you intently; he noticed your tinged cheeks as you smiled at him, he noticed the way you were intensely staring into him, he noticed how you fiddled with the rings on your finger sheepishly. He wouldn't even admit it inside the privacy of his own mind, he would not give Daeron the satisfaction of saying this stupid Willow had worked.
"Want me to drive you home?" Aerion offered. "You look tired."
"No." You answered quickly, reaching a hand out to settle on his chest. "I like it here. With you."
Aerion placed his hand over yours, where his heart was buried beneath, calling out to your flesh above it. "Then you can come home with me."
You nodded. Your mind wasn't your own tonight, you knew better than to go home with a guy you hadn't seen in a year. But it was Aerion, your heart was encased in tattoos of his name, memories of words he'd spoken to you. He felt like home.
Laying beside him in his bed felt feverish. His sheets felt coarse against your bare legs, his hands were weighted as they rest on your hip. You were looking straight at him and all you could make out were the glints in his eyes. His features kissed by shadow and darkness, just white holes where his pupils were.
"You're freezing." He noted. "Do you want some more blankets?"
"No," you whispered, unable to take your eyes from his, "I'm okay."
"I can make you warm. Come a little closer."
You shuffled your legs into his, feeling that hue of warmth return. Aerion's features had brightened, no longer the scary monster in the closet, but the man you loved. The man you pined for day after day, now beside you in a bubble of quiet, intimate vulnerability.
"This might be crazy to admit," he breathed, no longer did he feel a rush of anxiety when you listened to him, no longer did he fear he would mess up the words he spoke, "but I love you. I have loved you, for a while."
Your heart had ceased its rhythm for a moment, Aerion's words the sole focus in those few seconds. "And I, you."
Your days were taken by Aerion, as his were taken by you. You would wake and sleep together, kiss the other goodbye on your way to work, meet for lunch and stay just a few minutes over. He consumed your thoughts, your autonomy, your heart, body, and soul. You were the object of Aerion's desires, there hadn't been a thought that didn't involve you. His mind was held captive by your memory, work on the back burner as he remembered your laughter at his stupid joke.
His father would click in his face, send him reminder emails, all to remind him there was in fact a world outside of you. But it didn't exist to him; he lived in a world without you for years, spent his days and nights in agony wishing for you to be his. And now he had you, he found purpose, he got as he wanted, he would not let his gratitude falter.
Valarr would watch you in concern over coffee, talking as if from another planet entirely. As if you had met the perfect man, and not the parasite his cousin had become.
"Do you not think this is all a bit... sudden?" Valarr frowned, tapping at the sides of his ceramic mug. The sound rang in your ears, taking you from the story you were just telling him of.
"What?"
"You guys seem very in love." Valarr stated.
"We are."
"It's nearly been a month."
You scoffed. "Love doesn't know time, Valarr."
He cared deeply for you, watched you sing and cry and lose your breath with laughter. But he hadn't seen you so in love before. Not to this extent, where you felt antsy without him. Where each moment spent apart felt like a waste of time.
"Just be careful, please." Valarr intoned. "You know my thoughts on Aerion, and I don't think this is healthy."
"And who are you to decide that?" You laughed, gathering your things from the booth beside you. "Call me when you've learnt my love life isn't your business."
And of course, you ran straight to Aerion. Told him all of Valarr's comments, how he felt about your love, how he stuck his nose where it didn't belong. You sat on his lap as he soothed your tearful words, hand dragging up and down your back to calm you.
"He doesn't understand." Aerion whispered. "The poor boy hasn't felt a love like this, he won't understand until he does."
"I just want to be with you, I feel safe with you." You wept onto his shoulder, your salty tears dampening his shirt. "Don't want to leave."
"Then don't. Stay here, leave that wretched job of yours. I earn enough to make you happy, to keep you here with me." His words carried such weight, despite being unaware of the poison laced within them. He was whispering incantations into your ears, to burrow into the folds of your brain, to darken that hue of warmth you saw.
You felt most like yourself with Aerion. Going on walks, watching movies, baking, grocery shopping, visiting him on his lunch break at his office building. You felt both hands leave the wheel when he kissed you goodbye, but the car maintained its speed. It hadn't slowed down when your hands left the wheel, if anything it gathered speed. Your vision blurred, your heart threatened the break the ribcage that guarded it. You felt on the verge of collapse until Aerion would return home, his hands would settle on your cheeks, and all would be right in the world.
Those feelings of derangement would only flare when Aerion was gone, or an obstacle presented itself. And the newest obstacle had been the secretary, disturbing your private lunch break with Aerion.
"Sorry," she peered through the door with a wide grin, a stack of folders in her arm, "your father told me to give you these."
"Just leave them on that shelf." Aerion instructed, his eyes tearing from you for a moment to gesture to the shelf. "Thanks."
Gratitude. For her. Thanking her for the disruption to your conversation. The world paled until the door clicked shut again, and Aerion's hand sat on your knee.
"As you were saying, sweetheart?"
Locking her in her office felt the most reasonable response, hearing her fists slam against the windows as you walked with Aerion to his car once the office building had shut. It felt good, you moved the obstacle. It was necessary.
But it had failed.
Aerion had been called to release her, as he lived the closest. And your blood bubbled beneath your skin.
"No." You spoke. "I haven't seen you all day."
"I know, sweetheart." Aerion always jumped to comfort you, to soothe your every worry as you did him. "But you locked her in, it's been long enough. I'm sure she's learnt her lesson."
Tears burned at your waterline. Aerion was siding with her, choosing her.
"She disturbed us, she can't get away with that. Who knows what else she'll try next?" You fretted, advancing towards him. Your hands rested on his chest, his hands atop yours. A position you assumed when obstructions appeared.
"Feel that?" He whispered. His heart slammed against your palms, a living, breathing reminder of your wishes. Merged into one, spurring him on. "That's for you."
Your heart was clawing its way out of your body, searching blindly for his own. His hands felt safe, secure, as they pulled you closer to him. There was nothing except him in this moment, just the charge of your skin against his.
"I need you." His teeth nipped at the skin of your jaw, grunts falling from his lips. "I want to crawl inside you."
You whimpered, letting him paw at your shirt. The material was nothing short of an inconvenience, he would tear it from you if it wasn't your favourite shirt. But he felt controlled, he saw himself outside of his own body. Biting at your neck, drawing blood and letting it stray down your skin.
"Aerion," you cried, compressed between him and the living room rug.
"What do you want, sweetheart?" He cooed, bunching your skirt up to your hips.
"I need you... please." You breathed into his mouth, your blood marred his lips so deliciously. His smirk shaped his teeth as fangs, you willed him to drink you in more, to consume you.
He burrowed into you, cradling your back as you arched off the floor. You squeezed around him, pulling him into you further, to keep the connection between you both. He set a firm pace into you, breathing his desire into you, as if being inside you simply wasn't enough.
Whether it be owed to the Willow, or Aerion's true heart acting on behalf of him, he didn't care. He wished for you, he yearned for you, and now he had you. He didn't just have your heart, he had your mind, body, and soul. He had you under his thumb, just as you had him.
the reason that wounds that break the skin hurt is because its always supposed to be dark inside your body and when your blood sees sunlight for the first time it gets scared. and that causes the pain. or maybe it doesnt
