Smoke with barely legal virgin reader who he makes ride them for their first time since they “wanted to be grown” and “was talking all that slick shit at the juke joint”
don’t hate me but i feel like this is more elias than elijah sorry friend tw big ass age gap, reader is quite literally freshly 18 so talks of that, elias is a nasty man, reader is a virgin, uses of “girl”, written in a southern accent
oh my god yeah.
just turned 18 a little less than 3 months ago, can still smell the milk on your breath when he’s close enough. can still see that sparkle in your eyes, the same sparkle you look at him with when you’re talking shit that gets his dick hard and so obviously trying to make yourself look older than you are.
elias can see through it all. with those wild eyes, he can see straight through that silky little dress and right on through to your body underneath it, the body you slink over the counter top in a vain attempt to gain his attention.
unfortunately, fortunately, for you, elias has never been the twin to make the rational decisions.
“she a baby,” smoke tells him, ducked off in the corner the day elias starts to give in, but elias is chewing on a toothpick imagining what he could do to you.
“shit,” he starts, “that girl know what she wan’. can’t give her nothin’ she ain’ been askin’ fa’.”
“gon’ give that girl what she askin’ for and see how that work ou’.”
elias ain’t never listened to his brother when it came to women, and he don’t plan on starting now. not when you ‘bout the easiest lil’ thing he’s seen in a long time.
he don’t know how it happened and you don’t either, but someway you end up at the little place he bought with straight cash, that little green dress he’s had the eyes for decorating the body he’s soon to have his way with.
he isn’t your first kiss, but he’s your first kiss like this. he don’t care that you haven’t been touched, he don’t care that the way he’s kissing you and licking into your mouth is definitely too much for a virgin like you, he don’t even care that you’re obviously overwhelmed and biting off more than you can chew.
he loves this shit.
he don’t respect you enough to take your clothes off, and he damn sure don’t respect you enough to even lead you to his bed. right on the couch is how he’s gonna take it from you, thighs spread under you while you grind on him and think to yourself about just how you’re gonna take all of it.
“ay, girl, get this up,” he slurs against your lips, pulling at your dress before he reaches for his belt buckle. desperate and willing, you meet him there and help him loosen his belt and then you’re reaching into his pants and pulling him out of his boxers. overzealous little thing, excited, eyes bigger than your cunt.
“you grown, girl?” he asks, rubbing himself through your oh-so abundant wetness, his bottom lip tucked between his teeth, golds shinin’ like his blown eyes. you nod, whining as you feel his tip glide against you like cold whiskey down your throat. “yeah?”
you feel grown right now. grown as hell. growner than you’ve ever felt before.
“lemme see how grown you is, then. baby talkin’ all tha’ slick shit at the joint, lemme put that money where that mouth is.”
you’d be lying if you said you weren’t scared. but stack’s so fine and it’s now or never, you can’t go back on your word after all you said and done. you wouldn’t go back even if you wanted to. you ain’t letting this go.
elias fucks you like you’ve been takin’ dick for years. hands wrapped around you, big hand pressed to the middle of your back, he stuffs you full and has you choking on your words, has your thoughts jumbling and folding in on each other. green fabric slips down your shoulders and leaves your whole chest bare for his disgusting eyes.
elias feels powerful, and vile all the same. goddamn cradle robber and he don’t feel nothing but pride and power.
“you just a baby, girl, don’ know nothing. but i’ll teach ya’. i’ll teach you good, girl. learn you everythang you wanna know.”
"my heart is thrilled by the still of your hand / it's how i know, now, that you understand... there's no plan, there's no race to be run / the harder the rain, honey, the sweeter the sun"
life pleasure's are best enjoyed slowly. also, you really like kissing spencer.
warnings and notes there’s like two running themes here, my first time writing cowgirl yayyy, fingering, so sappy so much love, unprotected sex, “girl” pet names, spencer’s mouth….. he needs a warning yes he does.
mcon’s note hi guys so i actually started this on august 30th. this is the longest thing i’ve written and finished and posted in a long time so i’m very happy i was able to do this. enjoy pls enjoy enjoy. title from no plan by goatzier hozier. not proofread y'all know i don't do that. 3.8k words <3
Sunlight fades through the window, lighting stripes of fairy dust and pale yellow through the room.
“Spencer,” you whine, dropping your phone somewhere in the covers.
“Yeah?” He responds. It’s light and airy. He loves you.
“I miss you.”
“I’m right here, angel,” he laughs, dog-earring the page of his book and tossing it onto his nightstand.
“I know,” you whine, “But we haven’t kissed in so long. I think I might die.”
How dramatic you are.
“Come here,” he beckons you closer, and he can see the excitement radiating off you as you crawl over to him. His eyes do that thing as you settle into his lap, the thing they always do when you’re this close to him. It’s unconscious, you’re sure, but either way it lights you up inside.
His hands settle onto your waist, comfortable in the spot they’re always in. This near to him, you get butterflies like the day you met him.
With a soft smile he kisses you— and it’s smooth, and deep, and he tastes like the candy you’ve both been nursing— feels just like it too. Smooth like caramel candy shared between two lovers.
Perhaps you’re a little too dependent on his kisses. It’s not your fault, though, really. You feel him reaching into your soul and admiring every part of it whenever your lips touch. If you could bottle this feeling up, you might, but you wouldn’t touch it because feeling him against you is unmatched.
You’re too dependent on his kisses. You’re also dependent on air.
Gasping just a little, you pull back, your eyes blown and your lips a bit slick with his spit. He cracks a smile at the sight, his chest tightening just a little.
“Are you alright now?” He asks, chuckling fondly.
“I live on the edge of needing you to kiss me all the time, and that just pushed me into the safe space. I’m perpetually in a state of needing you to kiss me, though, so I’m alright but in a very baseline, on watch way-”
Oh, he’s so sweet. His lips against yours cut you off and give you what you were rambling for.
You fall in line with his kisses like habit, melting against him so liquidy you might drip straight through the headboard and on into peaceful oblivion. Spencer’s so warm and heady beneath you, solid and overwhelmingly hot. You are melting, goopy like chocolate pressed against a warm body in a pocket. It’s fine, though, beautiful even, because Spencer has just what it takes to handle your melting.
Shifting, you inch ever closer to him. One of his hands finds the side of your face and his thumb rubs softly over the swell of your cheek. Tenderness gives way to more butterflies in the candied pit of your stomach, filled with fluttering. Spencer kisses with intent to devour, and that’s what it feels like he’s doing. He surges forward to have more of you, to renew the kiss and satisfy the hunger that sits impatiently in him until he gets to let it feed.
Your chest tightens.
Bursting with air, you separate from Spencer, finally. You’re a sight for Spencer’s sore eyes, chest heaving, lips shiny with his spit, pupils dilated and your hands gripping his hoodie.
“You alright now?” He asks, but his eyes are low, now, and his voice has dropped an octave or two. God, he’s so pretty. His question is in vain, though. Understanding flashes in his eyes. This time when you kiss him, there’s something else lying underneath.
It’s embedded in the both of you, at this point. Spencer’s skilled hands fiddle mindlessly with the little bow on the front of your shorts as your own hands tangle erratically in his hair. He’s got some type of hold on you, some something that renders you unable to function properly, eating away at your mind until all that’s left is Spencer, and Spencer only.
In the midst of your one-track thoughts, a paired thought exists. You want him. Wordlessly, you urge him to forget the bow and arc over the front of your shorts to touch you. You really want him to touch you.
“Spencer…” you whine, rocking forward on him just a bit before you capture his mouth again.
“Mhm?” He hums distractedly against your lips, still toying with that goddamn bow.
“In.” It’s pathetic, and needy, and you moan it for him so breathily his head spins.
“In?” He asks, moving from feather-light touches to a firmer press along the band of your shorts.
“Please.”
“Okay,” he resolves, thankfully, like he knows you need him to touch you more than you’ve ever needed anything.
It’s always mind-breaking when he first touches you, when his hand meets the warmth between your trembling legs. The sensation isn’t new, nowhere near novel, and yet, you’re gasping and looking down to watch his movements. Slowly, he reacquaints himself with you. His deft fingers kiss softly along the band of your panties, and you stop watching him work to kiss him again, sloppy and hungry and messy.
Thank god for his mega-brain, because your kiss doesn’t stop him at all.
Two fingers stop their playing and focus on their goal. When he slips into your panties and swipes gently over your clit, you moan halfway into his mouth and halfway into the air as you’re forced to break the kiss because fuck.
“You’re so wet, angel. You’re always so wet for me,” he praises, reverently. His words rip a moan out of your throat, and you drop your head down onto his shoulder, hands hanging uselessly over and around his shoulders. Spencer kisses the heated skin of your cheek. You jerk against him. He’s so tender and it drives you crazy.
Feeling explodes through you as he commits to a pass over your clit this time. “Yeah,” you whine, and you whine again when the next firework bursts inside you.
“Baby?” Spencer says softly against your ear. You become aware of your hips rocking against his fingers, but you do nothing to stop them, or your sounds.
“Hm?” You manage, jolting against him when he works another break of pleasure out of you.
“Can we get these off?” He asks over another broken whine from you, Spencer gets to see how much of a mess he’s made of you already when you lift your head off his shoulder to gaze dazedly at him. You nod vacantly, happy to do anything if it means Spencer can touch you more. “Good,” he smiles, his melting eyes warmer than your own skin at the sight of you. Like an addict, he can’t help but kiss you again, and with one hand cupping the back of your head, he lays you down. The hand still in your panties wastes no time in pulling your shorts and underwear down your legs, and still the kiss isn’t broken. Even as he slides your bottoms the rest of the way, you’re still kissing. You weren’t lying about always needing to kiss him.
“Up,” he whispers, scooting back to where he was sitting at first. You follow right behind him, half-lidded eyes focused on his pretty face as you settle into his lap again, curling your hands into his hair and resting your forehead on his shoulder. Now that he can touch you freely he immediately brings his hand between your legs again. It’s so much. His arm braced on the small of your back only adds fuel to the fire.
With no mind for your sanity, he falls into the rhythm that makes you cum quick and easy, circling your clit with the precision of a man who knows exactly what he’s doing.
“Oh fuck,” you groan.
“Mhm.”
“Shit.”
You’re dumbed-down and delirious from just a few touches. Spencer’s fingers are skilled and experienced, and it shows in how you’re beginning to shake against him. He’s done this a thousand times, and each time is different than the last, and beautiful still.
A kaleidoscope of sounds flow together to fill the heavy space. Cars passing, a fan blowing, the soft whirring of electricity throughout the house, and under it all, soft and sweet and pretty, your saccharine moans and huffs of breath, all light for him. Too good and too soft, his fingers crack you open and drift right over your nerves.
“God, Spencer.” You can’t say much more than that, won’t even try. To keep from grabbing his hair far too hard, you move your hand from his hair to his shoulder, gripping the thick fabric of his hoodie once again. You’re surprised the seams don’t give.
You start to grind against his fingers again, and he huffs an incredulous breath of air through his nose. You know that sound like your favorite album— it’s the sound he makes when you’ve turned him on beyond understanding. Spencer’s always loved when you don’t hold back, when you see your pleasure as yours and you treat it as such. He’s always wanted you to feel good. By now, his genes have recoded to the DNA of your ecstasy. His fundamental layers have found you in place of their nitrogenous bases. All there is inside him is you. All this flurries through his mind as he watches you, his girl, bask in the pleasure he’s delivering.
His arm grips tighter around you when you try to lift up away from him. You run, always have and always will. You just get overwhelmed but Spencer sees through it and makes sure you take what you want.
“You’re okay,” he calms you, tightening his arm around your back, “you’re okay.” You whine, petulant and pleasured, so overwhelmed, but you take it. You always do.
If his intention is to break you open and make you feel pleasure beyond anything you’ll ever be able to comprehend, he achieves it. You pride yourself on being pretty smart, and Spencer praises your intelligence at every chance he can, but now, you’re brainless, empty-headed and dazed and confused. Spencer’s just so good, in every way. You think he was made for you, by some design of the cosmos or atoms and molecules predisposed to fit together, something crafted. Everything he does leaves you floating closer and closer to your peak, wafting and swirling through the air on the wind of his patient and practiced work.
“Nothing you haven’t taken before, huh?” He hums, and that… that fucks you. “You’ve taken this before, right, angel? And you take it so well every time, I love seeing you do this for me.”
Before he can finish, you’re cutting him off with a whine from the back of your throat.
“You’re gonna make me come,” you mewl. It’s strained, and a warning and a mindless declaration all at once.
“Yeah?”
“Fuck, yes.”
“Show me.”
There’s a common thought that, if a couple has been together long enough, they begin to resemble each other. Convergence, in psychological terms, you and Spencer have talked about it before. You see it now, as Spencer looses a groan at the same time as you, mirroring your pleasure as you come hard on his lap. All your live wires jump and pop, and he, like breathing, just keeps making you feel good.
“You’re so good,” you hear him hum, and it should be impossible but your climax catches a second wind and you gush out onto his sweats even more, slicking his fingers too. You cry out at his words, shivering as the waves crash again. Like the moon controls the tide, Spencer guides you through your orgasm, his fingers bringing the waves crashing down against a sandy shore, slowing down like the remnants of the ocean still trailing through the sand.
You’re breathing heavy as you come down, tuning into your body again. Slowly, you become aware of Spencer rubbing up and down your back, his head resting on yours. His hand is warm, and it brings you down nicely. The hand that was just on you is somewhere. There’s a beat of silence, maybe two, definitely three, undercut with yours and his breathing, and the quiet rub of his hand against your hoodie.
You’re not quiet for long, though.
“Can we kiss again?”
He laughs, the ridiculousness and endearing nature of your question after what you both just did makes him fall even farther in love with you, despite him already loving you so very much. You lift your head, your hair in disarray, and meet his glowing eyes.
“Of course, angel.”
You waste no time in sealing your lips again. Spencer wastes no time in sliding his fingers down towards where you’re still leaking onto his lap. Against his lips, you moan, and it clips into a whine when he feeds you two soft, sweet fingers. The feel of his fingers inside of you is always mind-blowing, and this time is no different. Spencer can feel you pulsing and beating around him, the rush of blood and feeling tangible around his fingers. He hums as you both settle into this, still giving you the kisses you begged so nicely for.
Moments like these, on days like these, are what you love more than anything in this world. It’s not the sex— though Spencer’s fingers virtually making love to the inside of your cunt is so nice— but the togetherness that exists here and in other moments like these. Where nothing exists but you and Spencer and the beauty of a world made so much more beautiful by a lover.
Spencer’s fingers really are so nice. “Spencer,” you almost stutter when he moves his slow, languid drags inside you to knowing rubs against that spot that makes you feel a little crazy.
“Baby,” he responds, something you love and get even wetter around him about.
He knows you’re about to start running away from it before you do, and his arm tightens around your back, right before you tense and try to move up and away from his fingers. “You’re alright, pretty girl, it’s just a lot. Just breathe.”
Jesus, who taught him to talk like that.
Your compromised and overwhelmed mind is made no clearer by the way he’s curled his fingers and starting fucking you smooth and soft. “That feels so good,” you sigh into his mouth. If you could breathe his air for the rest of your life, you would. Dopily, you let your head fall onto his shoulder.
Spencer sighs just as wistfully as you did, appreciative of this moment just like you are. He’s always loved using his fingers on you, loved having you around him in this way. Sloppily, lazily, you move on him, grinding on his fingers and shooting his heart rate up into the clouds. If he could use his brain right now he’d be thinking about just how fast his heart is beating. His reactions to making you feel good, always so visceral, make it all so much more unbelievable. You can still barely understand the way he groans when you get all tight around his fingers, the way he sometimes whines when you shake against him. You’ve learned that pleasing you gives him gratification beyond anything you thought possible.
He hums again, in awe at the display of rapture laid right in front of him.
“And you’re so wet, baby, dripping all over my fingers. God, I don’t know how you do it. You’re perfect, you know that?”
“Spencer,” you rasp, a warning, one word tells him he’s gotten you so damn close. Always so sensitive and receptive to his praise, always liquid in his hands when he melts you down with his warm words.
“You gonna cum?” He asks like he doesn’t know. He knows all your tells, your shaking thighs and heavy breaths and high-pitched whines that sometimes don’t even make any sound. As if by fate or some cosmic design, he shifts his hand just a little and his fingers brush against that spot so perfectly you’re bursting before you can even register it. You squeak and choke out a moan, seeing nothing but black behind your eyes as you cum again on his hand. Like always, Spencer sends sounds of satisfaction to your burning ears, dragging your climax out so beautifully.
”Jesus,” you laugh breathlessly and incredulously as you move your head off of his shoulder, not even settling into your body this time. Finally, you notice how hard he is in his sweats. Languidly, you drop your hands to the tie of his sweats, toying with the elastics as he kisses you gaudily, open-mouthed and, to be honest, lewd. Spencer can be so lewd when he wants to be, or perhaps when he has no control over it anyway.
You waste no time in undoing the strings and hooking your fingers into his sweats and boxers. Ridiculously you don’t part from his lips and instead lift up in a way that’s slightly uncomfortable, but it gives you what you want.
Spencer’s hand wraps around the base of his cock, a sight that gives you pause where you hover above him. He looks so fucking pretty right now— his eyes burn bright and wide, drawing you in and entrancing you, making you feel like you have syrup running through your veins in the place of your blood. His usually messy hair is even messier, ruffled from your tugging, his lips swollen, shiny, parted to allow his excited breaths room to dance through the air.
“Pretty,” you say simply. Spencer gives you time to admire him, basking in your unashamed worship. With your eyes trained down, you lower yourself to him, and Spencer does his part and lines himself up with you, and he breaks the waters and slips inside of you just a little. Already you whine, and Spencer grunts quietly, this little bit of feeling still enough to enchant you both. His other hand is warm where it sits on your thigh, his thumb rubbing softly over your heated skin. Your face twists as you sink farther onto him and he fills you just like you’re so familiar with. Never afraid to be loud, Spencer moans, throwing his head back to meet the wood of your headboard. His hands find your waist through your hoodie, a tangible weight that adds to your ecstasy.
When you’re flush against him, and your face is tucked into his neck, he can’t do anything but breathe. You, overwhelmingly turned on, can’t wait.
Spencer’s breath, meant to calm himself and keep him in the moment, catches in his throat when you lift up and then move back down, fucking him. Immediately, you ramp your moves up with no purpose and Spencer can see how overzealous you’ve gotten.
“Angel,” he hums, quietly as to not alarm you or make you feel like you’ve done something wrong. “Baby,” he slurs, gripping your hips just a little tighter. “Take it slow. We have all day.”
“I can’t.”
And it really does feel that way. Sometimes you want to fuck him so bad it hurts. But he knows that sometimes, waiting makes the end and all the slow parts in between so much better.
“You can, angel. Do it for me, yeah?” When he asks like that, you have to. You know if he asked you to do something completely irrational, and he asked you like that, you wouldn’t second-guess him for even a second.
So you slow down, bringing your rocks up and down to slow, soft grinds. Like this, it’s smooth and he drags against a static-y spot every time you lift your hips.
“You see how good that feels?” Spencer asks with a strained voice, his eyes low and dark as he watches you work him slow. You look disgustingly perfect, your moves gentle and careful as you do your best not to completely lose your mind. You nod, seeing his chest rising and falling so much faster than normal. That’s what almost breaks you, the knowledge that you’re fucking him up as much as he is you.
“It feels so good,” you mumble.
“So good. You’re fucking me so good, angel.”
“Oh,” you moan so brokenly, laid bare by his words.
“Up and down, just like that, baby. So good when you take your time, huh?”
“Yeah, it’s so good, Spencer,” you cry, so innocently it sends sparks up his spine.
He’s entranced by the way you roll your hips on him, seeking your own pleasure out, very boldly angling your hips to rub him against that spot inside you. You always feel good around him, but when you’re fucking him slow it’s different. Something like magic curls around the two of you and it enthralls him, makes him feel so blissed his lips curl into a dopey smile. Like this, you feed off each other, and his smile has you gushing around him.
Right now, there’s no one in the world but you and Spencer, nothing to do but this. Now, your end goal is out of sight, a distant finish line that bears no importance here.
So you kiss him slow like molasses, just barely moving your hips on him. Your glides up and down his cock have turned into unrushed, legato arcs.
“I love you,” Spencer groans into the kiss, not daring to move his mouth from yours.
“Love you,” you choke out, just barely being able to.
Minutes bend and bow and twist in on themselves, you don’t know how long you grind onto him but you know that distant finish line has become clear.
“Spencer,” you call, muffled by the way you’re so lax your mouth barely moves. Spencer knows your tone, though, and his hand between your legs is instant. He doesn’t rush this either— just runs slowly over your clit, and you fall deep into his touch. You feel suspended, heavy and relaxed. “Cumming,” you sigh, and even this is nice and slow. It flows through you with ease, spreading throughout all of your limbs. It’s serene. You know Spencer won’t be too far behind you, he’s never been able to see, to feel you come and not follow you. You make sure to keep rocking on him to help him through, and it’s not long before he’s humming “baby,” and hitting his peak, too.
Fondly, he places a kiss to the top of your head. You giggle, wrapping your arms around him and finding your fingers behind his back. He breathes out heavily, a sigh of contentment, happy for a slow day with no goal to achieve.
“Did I kiss you enough?” He asks, remembering your words from earlier.
“Nah…” you tease, lifting your head to meet his eyes with a smug smile on your face.
"I don't even know why I asked."
"Me either. You're a smart man, you should know." Your face is bright and shining.
stack the type to use really sickeningly sweet pet names on you while he’s denying and teasing you.
he’s murmuring “aw, sweetheart” at your whining and squirming as you grapple at his belt buckle, but he keeps you pinned down and his hips pulled just far back enough to keep you from being able to make any real progress.
a croon of “hey, sweet thing,” floats over your ears when your eyes start to fill up with tears, your chest heaving as he slows his movements inside you to a sick, evil goddamn drag, pulling your soul out and fucking it back in with every cycle of his hips. “don’t be like that, baby,” he smiles, vile, lewd, beautiful.
long, drawn-out nights in that basement have made you two closer than anyone should be this soon. a person would have to be a damn fool to not see what you two have going on— or what you two should have going. with all this feeling, and no action, it’s insanity.
insanity that breaks one thursday night. insanity that pushes mulder to push you against the wall of your apartment and breathe “tell me to stop” as he finally grabs your waist and finally kisses you.
“tell me to stop,” he pants, ghosting his fingertips up your thighs. his whole body is burning, a thousand suns sitting upon every axon bundle, sending every nerve in him up in flames. he’s been waiting so long. “tell me we can’t, tell me we shouldn’t,” he groans, pained, fighting against all of his better judgement because he knows this is going to change everything.
but is it?
“we gotta stop,” he’s saying, but his lips devouring yours say something different. you just whine against him and hike your leg around his waist so he can press his hard-on against you, and you know it’s only making things worse for him but you’ve been waiting so long, too. you’re not gonna tell him to stop. you never will.
he’s trying so hard to stop. he’s trying, even as you separate from him and give him eyes all low and wanting, your chest heaving, a mix of both of your spit trailing between you two before it snaps, like your already weak resolve.
again, he groans, his knees buckle, and his eyes melt before he kisses you once more.
he’s not going to stop. he knew when he first kissed you that he never was.
“you gotta give me a break, baby,” fox whines, his head rolling back as he prays to whoever’s listening that you’ll stop touching him.
“i gotta?” you question. you don’t plan on it.
“yeah. please— fuck,” he pleads, humping up into your hand to really drive his lie in.
face flushed red, hair messy, lips spit-slicked, his chest heaving, he looks gorgeous. he’s always so pretty when you’re having fun with him, getting him all sensitive and touching him still. fuck that. you don’t have to do anything except what you want to.
so you don’t stop.
fox’s eyes roll with a vengeance when you speed up again, and he fucks into your hand again. from his mouth spills candy, sweet letters spun from sweet silk.
“god, baby, fuck,” he pants, “you’re so good.” he’s almost crying, now, whining and squirming under you like a bitch. “i ca- fuck, ohmygod.”
and, in true fox fashion, he cums without warning. he tenses, his wet green eyes flash open and meet your face, and then his lips twist up and his head falls back as he shoots all over your stomach, and his stomach, and your hand, and his lap, and the couch, too. abs dancing, thighs trembling, hips bucking up into your hand, fox spills himself everywhere. you giggle, siren-like and so, so pretty and that spurs him on, gives him a second wind until he’s cumming dry.
he looks even prettier coming down from a high you gave him.
thinking about richie who wants to be over tiff. he’s pretty much healed from it, good with her, cool with frank, always nice with his kid.
but, ring!richie still resents tiff. he knows it’s resentment for himself, knows it’s his rotten personality and spoiled flesh that drove her away. he can be sweet, can be sugary and sticky, but it rots. he rots.
he melts. right into the rolling fabric of his tattered couch, too broke from trying to keep a dying restaurant alive to have any change left over to buy a new place to rest his aching bones.
and you? you suck. and lick. and spit, and god do you swallow.
he’d rather tiff hated him, to be honest. rather she screamed and yelled and spit at him, anything other than this understanding, this maturity. he wishes he hated her. he wishes he couldn’t sit on a park bench with her and discuss their futures like he hasn’t kissed the two freckles right above her hip bone.
but he can, so he grips your hair in his big hand and pushes you down on his cock so maybe you can shut his mind down long enough to get it off of tiff. to get him off. it feels good like this, getting his dick sucked by a girl half his age.
you feel good, too. you’re warm and wet, aching for his approval so you swallow him down when he pushes you and you give him those eyes he likes. “that’s it, sweetie,” he drawls, a deranged little grin on his face as he watches your air tick away.
you come up hard, gasping for your air, spit and pre-cum dripping down your chin. richie’s rough hand soothes down your face, caressing the apple of your cheek and calming you down. he can be so soft, sometimes.
then, you’re kissing his tip and taking him down again. and richie forgets tiff for just a couple minutes.
because of cherry’s message i’m thinking about fox and his virgin, fox and his virgin who have done everything under the sun except go all the way.
fox, and his virgin who he’s proud to be touching, his virgin who’s never had any fingers besides hers inside of her until he gets his hands on her.
fox’s virgin who sucks his dick just once and learns she can’t go more than two weeks without deepthroating him and drooling all over his balls and thighs. it’s new to her at first, and then she’s grappling at his belt whenever he comes over, sinking to her knees wherever they may be in her apartment and throating him until they both see stars. when he fucks her throat she swears she sees god, and on her knees she finds her altar of worship.
she learns she likes when fox spends ages between her legs, too, she’s learned she likes the sight of his mouth occupied and his eyes fixed on her. she’ll let her legs fall wide open and draw him in, entrancing him with just a glimpse of her cunt, all wet and shining from her own arousal.
fox’s virgin lets him fuck himself between her thighs, too, gripping onto her arms and fucking against her like he’s really inside of her. she can get off just as easily, his eager fingers rubbing frenzied circles onto her clit while he nears his own edge. he’ll shoot white ropes of cum wherever they are, and rub it into the soft skin of her stomach as he comes down, breathing heavily against the heated skin of her shoulder.
on top of him, she’ll grind against his cock, trapped between her cunt and his taut stomach, grabbing at her own tits and putting on a vulgar little show for him in the dim room. he wants to fuck her, then, wants to slip inside and split her open and make her cry.
but there’s something about the wait. something about rubbing his dick through her wetness, so close all it would take is a quick push, but not taking that jump. he gets off on the way she’s so nasty even without going all the way, and her firm standing on what she wants.
fox, and his virgin, who fuck without ever going there.
fox munch….. fox pushes your hand away when you push at his head cause it’s too much, and he hums in disagreement. you look down at him with eyes full of tears and he meets you with hooded eyes, eyes that tell you you’re not going anywhere for a while. “stay,” he whines against your cunt, circling your entrance once, twice, and then slipping two fingers inside you to distract you. sparks run up your spine, and you whimper as you drop your hand down again, this time curling your fingers into his already messy hair.
he’s so pretty like this, with his faced shoved between your legs. dedication makes him prettier, the way he craves your taste and making you feel good so much that he can’t bare to stop. now that you’ve stopped fighting him, it’s all easy, and you’re grinding against him, all but fucking his face. this is what he really loves. your unabashed chasing of pleasure, the way you stutter “right there— please don’t move, stay right there.”
he wouldn’t dream of it.
feelings that you don’t even have words for overtake you as he flicks his tongue against your clit, and then he wraps his lips around you and kisses your clit like he kisses your lips and you swear you’ve never felt anything better. fox is like that, he does his best to make sure you feel as much as you can. it makes his chest swell with pride as he watches you cave in on yourself, listens to you cry his name around big, heavy sobs.
if he’d pulled away when your body gave you those false signals, you wouldn’t have even reached this point. fox knows when to make you stay.
