🌬️itsjustsannniii💨

#sanniispeaks 23♏️

[theyscreamsannii]

WELCOME

*coryxkenshin voice*

on any post, i'm shocked that ppl actually engage. never seen this many ppl like, comment, or reblog on any app before at any point in my life.

thank you all so much for making me feel noticed in life. you can stay for the ride if you want, i'll love you just the same if you don't, but either way...

✨ have a blissed one, cousins! ✨

[abihuluv2hate]

god made you a woman because she knew you could handle it.

#woman to woman

[ridingreeves]

𝖡𝗂𝗀 𝗉𝖺

𝖯𝖺𝗂𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀－𝖤𝗅𝗂𝗃𝖺𝗁*𝖲𝗆𝗈𝗄𝖾*𝖬𝗈𝗈𝗋𝖾𝗑𝖡𝗅𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝖱𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋

𝖲𝗎𝗆𝗆𝖺𝗋𝗒－straight nasty

𝖠／𝖭－ 𝖧𝗂 𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎．．．𝗅𝗂𝖿𝖾 𝗎𝗉𝖽𝖺𝗍𝖾？？？？？

Video(ignore caption)

She always knew Smoke had a switch in him.

Most days, he carried himself like nothing could shake him—quiet, steady, the type of man who didn’t waste words because he didn’t have to. People listened anyway.

She usually did too.

Usually.

But tonight, something in her just wouldn’t sit still. Maybe it was the way he’d been brushing her off earlier, barely reacting to her running your mouth. Maybe she just wanted attention. Either way… she pushed.

And pushed.

And pushed.

“You act like you ain’t hear me,” she muttered, leaning against the wall with her arms folded.

“I heard you,” he said calmly from across the room, not even looking up at first.

That made it worse.

“Then why you acting like it don’t matter?”

That’s when his eyes lifted.

Slowly.

And there it was—that shift.

Not loud. Just… different.

“You just don’t know when to stop, do you?” His voice stayed even, but it carried weight now.

She rolled your eyes, like that didn’t do anything to her. Like her stomach didn’t just tighten a little.

“I said what I said.”

Silence.

Then he stood up.

The air changed.

He didn’t rush. Didn’t storm over. Just walked toward you with that same steady pace, and somehow that made it worse. Made your heartbeat pick up in a way you refused to acknowledge.

“Say it again,” he said, stopping right in front of you.

Her chin tilted up, stubborn. “You heard me the first—”

Her words cut off when his hand gripped her chin.

Not rough.

But firm enough that it meant something.

“Smoke—”

“Come on.”

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t a shout.

But it wasn’t a suggestion either.

Before she could decide if she was going to fight it, he was already guiding her back toward the couch. Each step felt slower than it should’ve, like her body was suddenly too aware of everything—his grip, his presence, the way he wasn’t letting go.

“Still got something to say?” he asked, sitting down and pulling her with him in one smooth motion.

She barely had time to react before she was on his lap, her knees on either side of him, her hands instinctively landing on his shoulders to steady herself.

The position alone knocked the edge off her attitude.

“You real bold over there,” he murmured, his hands settling on your hips like they belonged there. “But now you quiet.”

“I’m not quiet,” she shot back, even though her voice didn’t sound the same.

His thumbs pressed lightly into her hips, just enough pressure to ground her—just enough to remind her exactly where you were.

“Yeah?” His head tilted slightly. “Then why you breathing like that?”

she hadn’t even noticed.

Now she couldn’t ignore it.

“I’m not—” she started, but her words faltered when his grip tightened just a little, pulling her down more firmly against him.

her breath hitched.

There it was.

That reaction she didn’t want to give him.

His eyes darkened just slightly, catching it.

“That’s what I thought,” he said quietly.

She tried to push back, to hold onto whatever attitude she had left. “You doing too much.”

“Or you just not used to a nigga checking you?” he countered, calm as ever.

Her hands tightened on his shoulders, fingers curling into his shirt. She hated how steady he was. How in control he stayed while she felt like she was slipping just a little.

“I don’t need you to check me,” she muttered.

His hand slid up her side, slow, deliberate, before settling on her lower back.

“You sure about that?” he asked, leaning in just enough that his voice dropped lower, closer.

The warmth of his breath brushed her skin, and her body reacted before her pride could catch up.

She shifted slightly—just trying to get comfortable, she told herself.

His hand immediately adjusted, holding you in place.

“Don’t start moving now,” he warned softly. “You weren't moving like that a minute ago.”

Her lips pressed together.

He noticed everything.

“That mouth get real quiet when I get you like this,” he added, almost like he was thinking out loud.

“I’m not quiet,” she repeated, weaker this time.

“Then say something smart.”

She opened her mouth—

Nothing came out.

Because now all she could focus on was the way his hands were moving again. Not rushed. Not grabbing. Just slow, controlled, like he had all the time in the world to let this build.

Her breathing gave her away before she could say anything else.

“Yeah,” he murmured, watching your face closely. “That’s what I thought.”

She looked at him, really looked this time, and there was no teasing in his expression. No rush either. Just that same quiet control that made everything feel heavier than it should’ve.

“You like acting up,” he said, voice low. “But you know exactly what you doing.”

She swallowed, her fingers tightening slightly against his shoulders.

“And you know exactly how this ends,” he added.

Her attitude had slipped somewhere along the way, replaced with something softer. Something quieter.

But not weak.

Just… aware.

“I wasn’t even doing that much,” she muttered, though it barely sounded convincing now.

One of his brows lifted slightly.

“No?” His grip tightened just enough to make her breath catch again. “So this don’t got nothing to do with me?”

She didn’t answer.

Couldn’t.

Because now the tension sitting between them wasn’t just about the argument anymore. It was something else entirely—something heavier, slower, pulling tighter the longer she stayed right there on his lap.

His gaze dropped to her  lips for a second, then back to her eyes.

“You done?” he asked quietly.

Her voice came out softer than before.

“…yeah.”

A pause.

Then his hand slid up her back again, slower this time, less about holding her in place and more about keeping you there.

“Good,” he said.

But he didn’t move her.

Didn’t let her go.

Just kept her right there, like he wasn’t in any rush to end it either.

And the worst part?

She didn’t want him to.

𝖶𝖤𝖤𝖪 𝖫𝖠𝖳𝖤𝖱

(𝗂𝗀𝗇𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝖿𝖿𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗂 𝗐𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗌 𝗍𝖾𝖼𝗁𝗇𝗈𝗅𝗈𝗀𝗒 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝖻𝗅𝖾𝗆𝗌)

"All fuckin' day, you've been pushin' buttons, mama," he says, his voice gravelly and low, laced with the edge of a man who's on his last nerve . He steps in front of her, his footsteps quiet on the carpet, closing the distance in three long steps. Before she can say something disrespectful, his rough hand wraps around her wrist, yanking her up. He bends her over his lap, her belly pressing into his thighs. Her short skirt comes up immediately, bunching around her waist and showing him her lace panties.

She twists, trying to wriggle free, but his other arm comes across her lower back , pinning her in place. He grunts as he slides you up a bit. "Think you can mouth off to me? Acting like a nigga won´t put you in your place?" He says, making her feel hot all over. He rubs her ass , taunting her or getting her ready, then his hand comes down, smacking her on her ass. It stings, making her yelp, her fingers digging into the couch cushion.

He doesn't give her time to recover. Another slap lands on the left, harder, the impact making her ass turn red. "That's for the attitude at breakfast," he says,  each word coming with a smack—smack, smack—alternating sides. Her thighs press together instinctively, but the growing ache between them betrays her, a slick warmth starting to pool between her thighs. She bites her lip, stifling a whimper, but he hears it anyway "you like that, hm? Ms nasty  gettin' wet from a spankin'?"

By the fifth hit, her ass is red, each new slap  burns her eyes watering. She buck against him, half protest, half plea, but he just tightens his grip on her hip, holding her steady as he delivers two—smack, smack—right where her thighs meet her ass. The pain twists into something hotter, needier, her pussy clenching around nothing as she soaks through her lace panties. "Pa, please—" she whimpers, voice cracking, but he silences her with a firmer swat, his fingers splaying wide to cover more area, his hands rough against her tender skin.

"Please what? You gon apologize for bein' a bad girl hm?" He asks, tilting his head, his hand rubbing slow, circles over her red ass, kneading the soreness in a way that makes her arch into it despite yourself. But mercy's not his style tonight. He hooks his thumbs into the waistband of her panties and pulls  them down her legs, the lace catching her knees before coming down to her ankles. She's fully exposed, her wet pussy glistening in the low light, ass cheeks marked with his handprints.

He exhales a low curse, his fingers tracing the evidence of his work before dipping lower. "Fuck, look at this pussy. Drippin' for big pa." His fingers part her  lips, sliding through her wetness to circle her swollen clit with agonizing slowness.  She whines,her ass pushing back against his hamd  for more, but he pulls away just as she  starts to grind against his hand. He slapped her inner thigh. Making her yelp "Not yet, baby. You gotta earn it." He manhandles her then, flipping her onto her back, her head on the arm of the couch. Her  legs spread open as he kneels between them on the floor, shoving her skirt higher until it's out his way. His hands grip her thighs, thumbs digging into the soft flesh as he forces them apart, exposing her pussy to his hungry gaze. His grills showing as he smirks,he leaning close enough for her to feel his nose on her clit.

"Beg for it. Tell me you're sorry for runnin' that mouth." His tongue licks her clit, flat and broad, licking a long stripe from her slit to her clit to her hole. His tongue makes her hips buck,but he pins her hips down with his large hand. "Words, mama'. Don't make pa ask twice."

"I'm sorry, pa," she whimpered, the words tumbling out as his tongue flicks  again, his lips sealing around her clit and sucking with just enough pressure to make her toes curl. Pleasure coils tight in her belly, but he nibbles at her sensitive clit, a sharp reminder of his control, before flicking his tongue inside her. He fucks her with it,  curling it to the right angle,  his free hand squeezed her ass.

She rides his face, her hands holding his head, gripping tightly as she moans his name. He growls against her pussy, the vibration humming on her pussy, he adds a finger—then two—stretching her  walls as he sucks at her clit. She can feel the tightness in her belly, her breaths coming in ragged pants. "Fuck, pa... please, I need—"

He pulls away quickly, licking his lips, his eyes filled  with lust and anger. "You need to remember who owns this pussy," he says, his voice  rough as he unties his sweatpants. The sweats drop, and he shoves his boxers to his knees, his dick hitting his stomach —thick, veined, the head already leaking pre-cum. He wraps a fist around it, stroking once, twice, watching her squirm. "Spread wider. Show me how bad you want pa dick."

She listened, hooking her knees over the couch cushions, baring herself completely. He rubbed his fat head against her hole, teasing her clit with slow rubs before pushing into her slowly. He stretches her, her pussy clenching around his fat dick as he bottoms out, balls pressed against her ass. "That's it—take it like the good girl you can be," he grunts, pulling back only to thrust  in again, harder, the couch moving slightly due to his thrust.

He sets a fast pace,  his hips snapping forward as he plunges himself in her. Each thrust hits deep, his dick dragging against her walls, his fat tip hitting that perfect spot inside. she cries out, her nails digging in his back, leaving red welts  on his chocolate,inked skin. He holds her face with his hand, looking into her eyes as he fuck her, his weight pressing her into the leather. "Say it—tell me this pussy mine. No more actin' up."

"Yours! I'm yours, Pa—oh my goodness" She silently screams as he angles his hips, pounding harder, his free hand sliding between their bodies rubbing her swollen clit. Sweat slicks her skin where they connect, the wet sounds of him fucking her filling the room alongside his groans and her moans. He lets her face go to grab herthroat—not choking, just holding, thumb stroking your pulse as he watches her face twist every time he thrust into her .

The pressure builds, her orgasm comes hard, her pussy fluttering and squeezing him in rhythmic pulses. She screams his name, back arching off the couch as her eyes roll back. He doesn't stop, pushing  her through it, his thrusts turning erratic as he chases his own nut. "Gonna fill you up—mark my pussy so you know who it is," he snarls, bottoming out inside her deep one last time. His dick throbs, hot cum flooding her pussy spilling out of  him as he grinds against her oversensitive pussy.

Finally done, he lays on top of her his forehead resting against hers, both of them breathing heavily. He pulls out slowly, watching his nut drip from her pussy with a satisfied smirk, then pulls her against his chest. His arms wrap around her, one hand gently massaging the lingering ache in your ass while he presses a kiss to her neck. "That's my girl. No more bullshit tomorrow, hm?" His voice softens just a bit, the edge of dominance giving way to that rare tenderness he saves for you.

But as she is on him, the throb between her legs whispers a promise: next time she pushes, it'll be even rougher. And deep down, she knows she'll crave it just the same.

[bamb1ss]

NEXT TO YOU.

pairing cameron cade x black fem!reader

in which, you and cameron had been sworn enemies from the moment you were introduced, but one night together changed everything. now you have to figure out if it’s for better or worse.

¡warnings! smut. 18+ (story building/lotta plot if you into that!) frenemies, hidden feelings, party setting, alcohol consumption, explicit language&use of the n word, adult themes, yearning, angst, heavy tension (cameron in his feelings bad chile.)

a/n was in a horrible writing slump, but i’m coming off it. had to participate in my lovely moots challenge! i got some more good shit for y’all as well! just getting started i promise. 🫦

your best friends engagement party couldn’t have come at a better time.

after the insanely busy week you’ve had preparing for your next feature release, you’re looking forward to a moment away from the noise. surrounded by people you love and too many drinks that you won’t even bother keeping count of.

but when you finally turn into the cul de sac, all pristine lawns and dreamy homes hidden behind tall, iron gates, your smile fades. that matte black audi rsq8 amongst a sea of cars crowding the street catches your attention instantly.

your foot slams down on the brake. hard.

tires screech loudly, and your whole body jerks forward before flying back against the seat, the cool leather biting your skin from such force.

“you have to be fucking kidding me…” you whisper in disbelief. frozen in the middle of the road, eyes glued to what you’re praying is a figment of your imagination, but there it is clear as day.

his truck.

cameron cade—heartthrob. rookie of the year. the san antonio saviors’ steel armed quarterback whose earned himself the cover of every magazine imaginable celebrating the insane season he’s had. whose name claimed too many news segments to count.

how can you not love him? they say,

so charming. so charismatic.

but to you he’s an egotistical, loud mouthed asshole.

you’ve only tolerated him because he happens to be your close friends teammate, and right hand man. in the entire year you’ve known him, getting along with someone has never been more difficult. the two of you can’t go ten minutes in the same room without butting heads.

he’ll comment on how you should loosen up and stop taking shit so seriously, then you’d shoot back with an insult to his intelligence and recklessness.

a never ending cycle.

well…at least it was.

before you teetered off the line of ‘toleration’ into something much, much worse.

it started off as a normal enough night. you sat alone, tucked away in your usual shadowy corner of the hole in the wall you escape to whenever you’re tired of your meticulous schedule. humming along to familiar songs and letting your body catch the beat of the rest, nothing but your watered down daiquiri keeping you company.

until somehow, your eyes found each other’s through the violet haze that swallowed the room.

a slow, patronizing smirk curved at his lips as he watched you. i mean he always did, but this time felt different. suffocating. even with the sea of bodies that thrashed wildly in the space between, his stare was cutting through everything else like you were the only thing he cared to look at.

that was when you forced yourself to tear your eyes away from his. briefly, anyway.

because the next time you glanced in his direction he was already dapping the man beside him, and, annoyingly, making his way over to you.

his stride was relaxed but careful. broad shoulders leveled as he smoothed a hand over his head, dressed down in a simple black tee that stretched with the muscles of his biceps, and camouflaged cargo’s hung low on his waist. the diamonds layered neatly around his neck danced and shimmered with every step he took,

and then he flashed that pearly smile. the kind that always comes with too much charm and even more calculation. almost like his signature

“what you doing in here by yourself?” his low red eyes roamed over you, “actually, nah, don’t tell me— he paused dramatically with a hand held out “one of your niggas stood you up”

straight out of his provocative playbook. he knew exactly what to say, what to do to get a reaction from you

and of course it worked.

you scoffed, folding your arms over your chest

“i’m enjoying my alone time. you need something cameron? or do you just enjoy fucking with me?”

“a little bit of both, sweetheart” he answered easily through a laugh that rivaled the music thrumming loudly in the air.

“not your ‘sweetheart’.”

he laughed again, harder.

the scowl on your face should’ve been enough to send him back where he’d come from, at least it did the trick with every other man who’d tried their luck, but cameron cade never worked like that.

instead, he wore your annoyance like a badge of honor. it only made him want more. need more.

despite your very clear protest he slipped past the divider separating your empty, quiet corner from the chaos of spilled drinks, drunken off-beat dancing and slurred lyrics and plopped down beside you on the suede lounge sofa. dangerously close. arms outstretched along the back, claiming the little space left between you

then came the stupid jokes, and the laughter that you’d tried so hard to fight. you don’t remember how things got so .. comfortable. touchy. but his fingers traced idly over the skin of your inner thigh right at the hem of your skirt as he talked you into a shot,

“just one,” he murmured, those greenish blue eyes burned into yours, and the heat that crawled up your neck under his gaze should’ve been your first warning.

“i promise. i’ll let you go back to your ‘alone time’. you can keep acting like you hate me” his tongue moved slowly over his bottom lip before he caught the plush, pink skin with his teeth

you shifted in your seat some, not by much, just enough that his fingers inched higher,

but you didn’t stop him. if anything, you settled into it. comfortable with the warmth sneaking across your skin

yet another warning.

“fine. one shot. then you’re leaving”

“say no more”

as the night progressed one shot became three, then six, then ten, and cemented stares loaded with desire quickly turned into his large, greedy hands firm on the curves of your hips pulling you back flush against him, welding your bodies together on the dance floor.

“so damn pretty” he lowered himself to your ear, “ion think you should be dancing on me like this.”

you fought a smile, trying to ignore the way his thumbs drew slow, measured circles into the dips in the skin of your lower back,

“unless you tryna get us into some trouble”

you remember the way your breathing hitched. the quiet laugh you tried, and failed, to swallow. pulse quickening

“that’s inappropriate cameron” you warned, amused. still winding your hips teasingly as the rhythm of how many drinks moved through you. a rough, throaty sound escaped him, and his grip on your waist tightened.

“mm,” he hummed, “you ain’t deny it yet.”

he lingered on your ear for a moment before his lips crept down your neck, whispers of his breath rolled down your skin, warm, gentle. despite the way your heart pummeled through your chest you forced a scoff

“please. you’re drunk, and obviously horny—”

“nah” he cut in. “i think we both know that’s not what this is.” his voice dipped seductively low, “just been waiting on you to let me know sum”

he pressed his palms down harder, guiding your hips right into the thick outline of him sitting heavy against your backside through his pants.

your eyes grew wide as he rubbed up against you. awestruck by how big he was, and the heat growing in between your thighs was a betrayal to your detestation for him, yet you let yourself melt further into his arms as they snaked around your bodice.

fingers grazing gently up his forearms locked around your waist and resting at the crease of his elbows. his hands slid higher, unhurried over your bust, and before you knew it the pad of his thumb rested on your chin, lifting your face to meet his

every dangerous word hanging between you barely hid behind his hazeled eyes.

you gulped,

“cam…” you said through a shaky breath, unsure if it was another warning for him or your own needs clawing at you

he smirked, “be a big girl (Y/N)” he murmured, slowly closing in on your lips “gone ‘head, tell me what you want”

that night, you relinquished yourselves to each other completely.

you heard it in the way he breathed your name, felt it in the way he mapped out every inch of your body with his tongue and his lips, memorizing, like you belonged to him.

but then you woke up the next morning cocooned in his egyptian cotton sheets, his large arm draped over your thigh, loosely but still claimant, his flushed face softened with content, pink lips parted as he snored softly.

that’s when the gravity of everything came crashing down on you.

you realized that you didn’t regret a single thing. how easy you gave in to temptation, how you’d let yourself fall into him. how much you wanted to do it again.

and that was exactly the problem.

you knew it wouldn’t just go away, fade into nothing like your usual one-offs do. this wasn’t that. whatever it was held weight, so much so that it swelled and bloomed in your chest, all invasive. eating at you the longer you stayed.

so you left quietly and convinced yourself it was the best thing for both of you.

then the unanswered phone calls and endless texts came rolling in, each one more revealing and a lot less composed than the last.

(11) cameron.

cameron.

9:17 am

you okay? why’d you leave?

9:50 am

wya?

11:23 am

(Y/N).

12:11 pm

?? damn so we just not gone talk?

still, you didn’t respond. you couldn’t. you were too afraid of what would come of it, and what it might mean moving forward.

your heart pounds the more you think about it all. his chains cool against your skin, draped between your bodies glistening in sweat. his sea green irises fixed on yours as he delved slow and deep into your sweetness. savoring every second he had you to himself. whispering every filthy thought that he’d been harboring against your parted mouth.

a violent shudder moves through you, your breathing hollow as you sink lower into the seat.

fuck.

having to be in the same space as him now, forced to face the fact that you’ve been blatantly avoiding him for weeks feels like some kind of cruel joke played by the universe.

but maybe you’re being dramatic. at least you hope so. you’re both adults who are more than capable of celebrating your friends without the extra,

right?

you tighten your eyes shut, take a deep, steadying breath and then slowly ease your foot off the brake,

cameron’s annoyed, for lack of a better word.

not the kind that could easily be hidden behind the dark tint of his shades, or cloaked by a practiced confidence that he’s gotten way too good at—the warm smile, easy laugh, relaxed shoulders. it’s loud, and strikingly obvious.

truth is he doesn’t know if he’s more annoyed with you or himself. not because he regrets it, no. never. if anything that’s the problem.

it’s because whatever he feels for you isn’t new. it snuck up on him, surface level in the beginning. a pretty face with too much attitude, a body that you have to see to believe. but then it festered into something deeper. hidden in plain sight. right beneath every snide comment, every pointless argument in an attempt to garner attention from you.

maybe it was the way your intelligence seeped into the insults you threw at him, those dimples carved deep into your cheeks softening words that were supposed to hurt, or how your round hips swayed in that hypnotic, mouthwatering rhythm even when you were storming away from him like he didn’t matter.

but when you’d disappeared so suddenly, the radio silence, the avoidance after everything that happened. he couldn’t help but wonder if maybe that night means more to him than it does to you.

and even still, that didn’t stop him from canceling his obligations for the weekend to be here, in your vicinity.

it didn’t stop his fingers from hovering over your contact name just this morning, rereading every unanswered text. hoping that you’d finally find something, anything to say back.

irritation grows the longer he lets his mind wander. he shakes his head slightly, his tongue pressing hard against the inside of his cheek as he tries to settle himself, balancing the glass of champagne that he’s barely touched on his restless knee.

he leans back into the garden chair with his long legs outstretched over freshly cut grass, one arm draped over the backrest, almost like a statue planted in the middle of a heap of people bustling around him.

everyone’s some kind of tipsy. loud, dancing and singing along horribly off key to the kaytranada mix pulsing from speakers placed throughout the backyard

“yo,”

jeremiah, the man of the hour announces himself as he approaches, winding between the guests scattered in his path.

“you good? over here looking like security, scoping the scene out and shit.”

cameron manages a small chuckle at that, sliding the shades down the bridge of his nose and peeking over the rim at his homeboy

“it’s a nice day. maybe i’m just enjoying the weather, nigga.” he lies easily as he brings the champagne he’s been babysitting to his mouth and taking a more than generous sip of the peach flavored bubbly

jeremiah narrows his eyes at him unconvinced

“weather my ass,” he mutters “you ain’t moved from that spot since you got here. you high?” he quizzes

he grumbles. if only. maybe he’d actually be enjoying himself. probably catch a dance or two with one of the many women flashing bright smiles and lustrous eyes in his direction, indulge in the chase until the party thinned out, get a happy ending,

but he couldn’t. not even close. and he hates that he knows exactly why.

“shit, i wish.” cameron hums into the glass, still sipping, trying to focus on anything but you and failing miserably.

jeremiah huffs a laugh, “man come on. it’s some people i want you to meet”

he finishes off his drink with a hard swallow before obliging, and as he stands from his seat he can’t stop his eyes from flickering back to the sliding glass door that he’s been keeping watch on all morning. silently bracing himself for the moment you walk through it.

meanwhile, you and delaney walk arm in arm through the corridor. after you’d squeezed the life out of her—erupting squeals of congratulations and gushing over her engagement ring—it took no time at all for the scolding to start.

“you told me he wouldn’t be here! i cannot believe you set me up like this” you whisper yell

“i did not! he specifically said he had to be in atlanta for the weekend” she argues “well, that’s what he told us at the time” she adds, quieter now “but everything’s chill i swear. there’s a lot of people who can buffer, it’ll be fine”

then she snorts, “and this is partially your fault for being fast anyway.”

you’re chuckling before you can stop it, but you straighten up immediately

“shut up. don’t try to shame me. i’m grown”

“girl, whatever” she swats a hand at you with a laugh “you know he asked me if you were coming right? must’ve put it on him good”

“delaney, please stop talking.”

“i’m just saying!”

your hushed bickering bounces off the tall walls and high ceilings.

the further you move into their gorgeous, spanish revival style home, the livelier it is. every shade of pink and green imaginable has taken over the space.

music bleeds in from the dj booth outside, laughter and chatter heavy in the air as familiar faces blur past. the sweet smell of waffles and syrup circles, indulgent scents of grease and seasonings from fried meats threaded into it all.

but none of it does anything to calm the nerves coursing like lightning through you.

“i need a drink. there’s no way I’m dealing with this shit sober.” you mutter, already veering toward the neat lineup of mimosas and champagne

delaney hums thoughtfully beside you,

“mmm i don’t know, you get real talkative when you drunk.” she pauses “that’s probably how you ended up folded like a pretzel in the first place” she jokes

you bump her with your hip, eyes rolling as you help yourself to a glass “do not piss me off.” a laugh escapes “you already skating on thin ice. better be lucky you look cute in that dress”

the pair of you make your way onto the deck outside and you down half your mimosa in one go, watching the crowd stir

across the yard cameron stands amidst a group of men, sipping on his second drink. barely listening to jeremiah’s relatives run their mouths about the saviors getting to the super bowl next season.

he’s being attentive of course, he has to be. the facade wouldn’t work otherwise. so he gives a nod here, an opinion there,

until he takes yet another absentminded glance at the door out of muscle memory, and finally sees you.

just that quick, he almost forgets how you’ve slighted him. he can’t think about that right now. not even a little bit. everything else fades into nothing, jeremiah’s voice and the hearty laughter that follows dulls once his eyes latch onto you. unmoving.

your smooth chocolate skin catches the sunlight like it belongs to you, meshing deliciously with the capris set that clings to your figure like a canvas showing off the work of art underneath.

he bites down on his bottom lip to contain a grin that's forming at the disgusting thoughts that begin running rampant.

and then, somehow, when you’re squeezing your way through all of the commotion,

your eyes find him. and he’s already looking back at you.

dressed in an off-white knit shirt, paired with a leather jacket and light washed jeans. a silver patek gleams on his wrist each time he lifts the glass to his lips courtesy of the sun, and his sandy brown hair is buzzed low and neat. casual, put together. dangerously so.

your breath catches, and every hazy memory of that night wrecks into you instantly as the depth of his stare reaches you from clean across the yard.

cameron’s mind betrays him as well. he can’t unsee your perfect, bare body beneath his. glazed in sweat and kissed by beauty marks in all the right places. your legs closed tightly around his figure pulling him closer as he slowly burrowed himself as deep as he could go into your sopping wet warmth.

and that voice.

his name has never sounded so angelic coming from you.

judging by the way you’re looking he knows none of what took place is lost on you either. that alone is enough to satisfy him

a slow, knowing smirk pulls at his lips as he raises his glass, still holding your eyes. taunting you.

your heart thrums faster and you tear your eyes away from his, leaning into delaney,

“i can’t be around him. not right now”

“you’re a damn editor, i thought y’all worked better under pressure?”

if looks could kill, she’d be good as gone.

“delaney, i’m serious.”

“okay, okay” laughter slips from her “we’re just gonna go speak real quick i promise” she assures, keeping her stride, closing in on the collection of men faster than you’d hoped. the panic on your face is clear as day.

“and please relax. you look like you about to pass out”

“don’t tell me to relax!” you whisper yell

jeremiah notices the two of you first and turns to face you as you approach, his eyebrows lifted in surprise

“well damn,” he drags out, grinning “look who finally found her way here” he reaches for his bride-to-be’s hand instinctively before sliding an arm around her, pulling her to his side

“you had her on lockdown or something?” he passes a glance back and forth between you,

“it’s good to see you too jer” you huff a laugh, trying to keep yourself steady “and congratulations again” you raise your glass before taking another much needed sip

they all pass head nods and greetings. all of them except him.

cameron doesn’t say a word, but he doesn’t have to. his stare says it all.

and when you turn to meet his gaze, it feels like a rip current pulling everything you’ve been trying to ignore free. those icy blue irises bore straight through you.

“hey.” you manage

he doesn’t respond. not yet, anyway.

his jaw tightens as he takes you in slowly, top to bottom. plump lips lathered in your signature liner and gloss, your breasts spilling perfectly into the the blush pink satin, those round hips curving into your thick, soft thighs, like a full course meal. and he’s starving.

still, his mouth opens before he can think,

“you good?” it isn’t an ask, it’s a statement. the venom threaded into his tone couldn’t be more obvious.

jeremiah notices the heat building,

“oh shit,” he leans down to whisper to delaney “they finally did it huh?” he chuckles. “hush, babe i can’t hear” she palms his chest, watching along with him

you clear your throat, “um…yeah, i’m fine” you say quietly “are you?”

he simply nods, “i’m straight.”

he isn’t. not in the slightest.

probably because you’re standing here looking so pretty and put together, untouchable—unbothered while he’s burning up beneath the surface. it’s fucking with him. badly.

he steps closer, and the air thickens immediately. you stiffen at the closeness

“ion like assuming, so i’ll ask. you been ignoring me?” he quizzes. well, kind of. it seems more accusatory than anything.

“no i’ve just been busy. haven’t had any time to do anything else besides work, really.” you answer through a quiet, nervous laugh. lying straight through your teeth.

camerons lips twitch into a smile. he can’t decide if he wants to laugh or lose his mind

busy.

he almost glances around for a camera, fully convinced you’re playing a trick on him. you have to be.

he then inches even closer to you, so close that heads are starting to turn in your direction,

“‘busy’,” he reiterates, voice dipped as he tilts his head at you, “so thats what it is now?”

a dry humorless chuckle escaped him, “you bullshitting, (Y/N).”

you gulp

heat claws at your neck, and your gaze drops to the shine of his shoes for a split second, voice hushed,

“cameron..please. don’t.”

“nah, i’m just curious” he shrugs, calm, but the the unwavering, hard stare tells another story “tryna understand how you so busy that you can’t answer a call or a text.”

“what exactly do you want me to say?”

“i want you to stop playing with me.” he says quietly, still holding your eyes as if he’s daring you to look away. somehow, the whispered words feel more dangerous than if he’d yelled,

and that alone is enough to make you feel things you’re not supposed to. not here. not now.

“i’m not trying to..” you wrap your arms around yourself, shifting weight from one leg to the other,

the party is still coursing around you despite your own issues brewing, music still thrums loudly, people still dance wildly, but even then you catch the eyes of a few in the group watching the interaction, whispers traveling back and forth between them as they tune in. cameron follows your gaze

and then,

“come here.” his hand comes up, fingers lightly brushing your elbow

your breathing catches “people are looking—

“i don’t care. you think i’m finna have this conversation in front of everybody?” he grasps your arm, not firm but still enough to let you know it’s not a request

he then turns placing his half empty glass onto the bar, before you know it he has your hand in his steering you through the thickening crowd. past the pool full of children screaming and laughing, the table of elders slapping cards down and shit-talking as they play a game of spades,

and somewhere behind you, delaney and jeremiah smile knowingly at each other,

“pay up, you lost. i told you it was coming” he hooks an arm around her neck and delaney playfully rolls her eyes at her fiancée

“looks like we’ll be at another wedding soon”

you’re pulled into a room tucked away on the far side of the house, free of anyone who could’ve wandered off from the party. crisp white linen’s and natural light pouring in from the windows illuminating the space on its own. he closes the door behind himself, the soft click of the lock sounds off right after

doesn’t say anything for a while.

he simply slides his hands into the pockets of his jeans and leans back coolly against the door, as calm as ever, like he isn’t obviously blocking your only way out. guarding it almost. head tilted as he studies you

the weight of his stare makes your stomach tighten, and then he quietly laughs, but there’s no humor in it

“you really ‘bout to stand here and act like nothing happened?” he asks pointedly.

you shake your head “that’s not what i’m doing, cam. it’s just not as simple as you’re trying to make it.” you fidget with the rings on your fingers, attempting to ground yourself,

“and we were drunk.” it comes out quicker than you can think

silence stretches between you. so charged that you can feel the tension circling you both as challenging stares passed back and forth

and then a sharp breath slips through him, “well it’s simple as fuck to me. drunk or not, i don’t bring just anybody back to my crib and do everything we did”

“that’s hard to believe,” you shoot back instantly “and today isn’t even about us, but who’s surprised that cameron cade can’t stop thinking about himself for one fucking second.”

of course you’re projecting.

he sees it all over your pretty, conflicted face.

truthfully, you just don’t want to face the fact that in all of the intricate responses you typed out but never sent, you wore your heart on your sleeve. you let yourself be honest about your feelings for once, and you hate that he is the reason.

the man that’s so easy to despise, so easy to dislike is the one that has you scattered.

a smile creeps across his lips. the way your delicate brown eyes flash at him, and those shimmery lips wrapping around each word, yeah, you look good.

way too good.

just the sight of you like this is making his pants swell

“you can’t stop thinking about me either,” he says softly, tilting his head as his brows lift in amusement . “felt good letting it all out for me that night, didn’t it?” he taunts, pushing himself off of the door as he speaks.

your breath snags in your throat,

“stop.” you say, barely above a whisper

“why?” he steps closer, “you wanna keep pretending youn want nothing to do with me?” you swear you feel the wood beneath your feet shifting with the weight of him

you take a step back out of instinct to put space between you but he just advances faster, closing the gap in one single stride. the distance between you shrinks to almost nothing,

“cam—

“i guess that’s easier than admitting you want me— he smirks, clearly amused as he gestures back and forth between you “this, right?”

“now you’re just being arrogant, per usual. move.”

it comes out sharper, louder than you want it to, but it’s the only thing keeping you from combusting right now.

you try to slip around him and start toward the door but he swiftly grabs ahold of your arms as you pass, spinning you right back into him. you gasp, the wind knocked from your lungs at the sudden closeness. too close. you’re chest to chest

his breath rolls down your cheeks, those lustful eyes locked onto your face, your lips as he anchors you to him

“or what?” he murmurs

“cameron,” you warn, averting your gaze “i’m not playing.”

his hand shifts from your arm and slithers up the side of your neck until his thumb dips below your chin, tilting your face back up so you have no choice but to meet his eyes again

“(Y/N),” he says quietly, his face mere inches from yours, closing in slowly “i’m not either.” he whispers

your breathing picks up and your heart beats so hard that it’s ringing in your ears, it feels like it may burst through your chest. you shouldn’t be, but fuck you’re a mess.

and he knows it.

your lips trace each others now, teasingly,

you breathe, head shaking slightly “w-we can’t do this here, the party—

“watch me.”

his lips crash into yours, sending the both of you stumbling back into the door with a heavy thud, and despite every warning blaring loudly in your head, your body is taking the lead before your mind can stop you.

your hands move quickly along the front of his toned chest, yanking the leather from his arms and tossing it aside, leaving him in the shirt underneath.

now the two of you are in a whirlwind of deep, messy, tongue heavy kisses, the only sound filling the room being your desperate moans each time you retract and the sticky wet sounds of saliva being passed back and forth as your lips melt together

“fuck i missed you” he groans against your mouth, “swear i been going crazy thinking about you, us, everything” his muscles are flexing and contorting as he fumbles with the waistband of your capris, dragging them down roughly over your hips.

his large hands travel until he’s palming your ass cheeks, and then without a single warning his hand flies down hard against your soft skin. the sound cracks like lightning,

you gasp, eyes wide “ohh— a whimper slips in between kisses. combined pain and pleasure lingers, stinging and flooding the seat of your panties all at once,

“don’t do that shit again. when i call, answer”

“cam—

another smack comes down onto the other cheek even harder, your knees almost give out beneath you, buckling from the force

“ever. say it.” he demands roughly

“mmh—fuck,” you breathe, “i-i’ll never do it again” a smirk tugs at his lips, satisfied before he pulls you back into the kiss,

“good girl.”

his tongue slides deeper and slower into your mouth, he then catches your bottom lip gently between his teeth, drudging a gasp from you

“you love when i get rough with you huh?”

you nod feverishly, almost desperately, your face softening under his hungry gaze. his fingers hook into the waistband of your hot pink lace panties already ruined by the sticky heat between your thighs from his touch. you shimmy a little to help him get them down your legs.

he pulls back and pauses his movement just to stare at you. reveling in your beauty. your two toned lips kiss swollen, slick and glistening with saliva, coils falling freely cradling your face. everything about you is unreal. he’s practically foaming at the mouth.

“i’m never letting you go, i promise” he shakes his head, and then he’s back in action again. rushing to undo his belt before the button of his jeans. rushing to get his hands on you how he’s been dreaming about since the last time

you don’t have any time to catch your breath before his large, muscled arms are lifting you onto his waist effortlessly, flattening your back against the door.

there’s no slowing down now. not that you want him to.

your legs lock around him, and you’re ready to take everything that he’s been more than ready to give you.

he presses his forehead against yours and lines himself up with your entrance. in one quick motion his hips snap into your pelvis, filling you with every inch of him in a single deep, hard thrust.

“shit!” you yelp, teeth sinking into your bottom lip. an intense pleasure rips violently through your core and both of you grapple tightly to each other, shallow breaths traveling between your parted lips,

“so fucking tight, mama” he strains. a guttural sound escapes him as your slick warm walls clench around his length.

“god—wait” you plead, louder than you should, but the sweet sound of your voice, so melodic and needy just ignites a fire in him.

“after all that shit you been talking, you can’t take it?” his brows furrow as he taunts you, rolling his hips in a torturous rhythm. stretching you to fit the girth of his shaft just right with each push

“you’re just s-so deep, cam, fuck” you cry, tightening your eyes shut, trying to take him fully. steadying yourself with a grip on his broad shoulders as he delves into you faster “mhm,” he hums, voice rough “i want you to feel every fucking inch”

he’s watching intently as your face contorts into a pouty, fucked-out mess, which only gets him harder

he then hoists you up higher, angling you just right for more access, stimulating pleasure in all the right places.

a throaty, broken moan leaves him, “pussy taking me so good, getting wet as fuck for me—” his jaw falls “all fucking mine, ain’t you?” he’s slamming everything into you relentlessly, the wood bends and creaks beneath your bodies, his large fingers indenting your thighs to ground himself as he drives into you harder.

you inhale sharply, “y-yes, cameron i’m yours!” he sinks deeper. closer than you thought possible. your head rolls back, eyes drifting to the ceiling and slow, warm kisses creep up your neck before he suctions his lips to your sweet spot, sucking hard enough to undoubtedly leave a mark behind,

“baby— nngghh— fuck, you so perfect” he mutters breathlessly into your skin, thrusts deepening like he never wants to leave. the sound of your combined juices echoing off of the walls, sticky and wet

“can’t believe i ain’t get my hands on you sooner”

it’s confetti from there. your moans rivaling each other’s, skin smacking, and you both unraveling completely.

“please don’t stop, cam” you mewl, heat burrowing in your core, twisting and curling through every inch of your body as you get closer to the edge

he slides a large hand into your hair tangling his fingers tightly in your coils, forcing your eyes to his

“you gonna cum for me pretty girl? hmm?” he hums against your parted mouth. his hips snap harder, drilling precisely into that same spot over and over,

the repeated pummeling of your button drags a long, feeble moan from your lips,

“mhmm let it all out, i’m right here, baby. i got you”

and just like that, you tip over your breaking point. pleasure springs from the pit of your stomach, bursting with an intensity too overwhelming for you to handle.

you fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt to pull him closer, “fuckk cameron im cumming— i’m cum- you bawl against his parted lips, gasping and shivering, walls tightening as you melt into him and he comes right behind you. driving himself as deep as he can go, burying himself there

“mmm s-shit— a low, choked moan tears through him and he brings his mouth to yours, kissing you slow and filthy, his breathing uneven as he holds you there. filling you up with his warm seed.

he breaks the kiss and rests his forehead on yours, but you don’t speak. you can’t. instead, you melt further into the other’s embrace. something unfamiliar—new dances between you, and all either of you can do is stare.

silently coming to terms with the fact that there’s no going back after this.

the room is eerily silent as the both of you get yourselves together. not in the awkward way that feels suffocating and uncomfortable. it’s more … warm.

and then,

“i meant what I said (Y/N)” he turns to face you after he gets his jacket on, bringing a hand to the curve of your hip and pulling you in, “i don’t wanna let you go. this ain’t just sex for me”

“i know...me neither, it’s just—” your eyes fall from his for a moment and you exhale slowly, letting yourself feel everything you need to before you continue,

“you and me—this could be messy. always moving, always trying to keep up with our careers. that’s not easy”

he huffs quietly, nodding as he takes your words in, “that’s true, but nothing good ever come easy. how you think we got here?”

“still, cam” you shake your head “everything would change. our friendships could too. you can’t just say that without knowing what it means.”

your eyes find his again, and you can visibly see him pondering on whether or not he wants to go through with speaking his mind, and then he finally decides,

“i said it ‘cause shit already changed, a long time ago. before today, way before that night” he reasons, “i was damn near doing and saying anything just to get your attention at one point. it been that bad.”

you tilt your head and a smirk curves at your lips. shock decorates your face at the admission. of course you assumed there was mutual attraction, he’s a handsome man, you’re drop dead gorgeous, and you’re both well established, but you didn’t think he’d ever let it get deeper than that.

hell, you didn’t think you’d ever let it get deeper than that.

both of his hands grace your hips now, rubbing absentminded circles “listen, i’m not asking you to figure all this out right here. i just need you to know where i stand”

the usual edge to his tone isn’t there. he’s..him. not cameron cade, just cameron. it makes you want to melt.

even scarier, it makes you want to believe him.

“oh really? where is that?”

he smirks, pulling you closer

“with you, if you let me”

[azarathzinthoss]

cameron cade x reader

summary : cameron's competitive nature gets the best of him.. and you

word count : 800?

warnings/tags : 19+ MDNI, porn wit ZERO plot lolz, p in v, unprotected sex, ROUGH sex, creampie, daddy kink, he smacks y/n's ass like one time? im prolly missing sum but u get it! oh and y/n uses she/her pronouns

song inspo. : d33p3r - mike will made it, teezo touchdown, & luda

one thing’s certain about cameron cade - he was excruciatingly competitive. he desired to win everything, regardless of how major or minor it is. this urge to be champion translated over into his relationships as well. arguments, petty games, impromptu harmless wrestling matches - he won them. he’d proudly flex his gorgeous muscles while you roll your eyes and scoff.

you’d let him win because you love him. and, frankly, because he’s a sore loser. all his pent-up rage and anger festered and ate him alive. which led to cameron taking it out on you. rough sex, bite marks, you in a heap of sweat and tears apologizing profusely. the mess he often left you in was a double-edged sword. you hated that you bent a knee for cameron, giving into the fear he'd make you feel from one look alone. but you loved when he got in this mode. taunting and ignorantly treating your body like a toy to satisfy himself and teach you a lesson in the process. he knows you’ll submit everytime. which is why tonight was no different. a petty disagreement you two had days prior rolled over into a very contentious debate.

this time, you held your ground, refusing to be the understanding party. frustrated, cameron slammed the door to your shared condo and went for a walk. you attended to some chores, hoping a routine cleaning would help calm you down. cameron not being the condo certainly did help. you were on the couch folding clothes when the front door swung open, cameron stood in the doorway. immediately, you froze in place.

his icy blue eyes bore deep into yours, the lines around his mouth hardening. fuck, he’s mad. you knew this only ended in two ways - cameron going to his ‘man cave’ to simmer down or your body becoming a victim in his path of terror. it was the latter today. that’s how you ended up where you are now. bent over in a dining room chair, no place to go, and no one to hear you scream. “baby, no more.”, you pleaded, dragging out the 'baby' for mercy. your lover could care less. cameron’s hands gripped both arms of the chair, holding it still while he ravaged your body.

your back was arched, face pressing against the cold wood. tears and snot dried on your hot cheeks. he was right behind you, his tall frame surrounding your body. cameron’s pelvis just centimeters away, his dick digging into you in ways you never thought you possible. for the past hour, cameron switched between pounding you relentlessly and eating you out from behind. you were at your breaking point. your pussy throbbing, your knees trembling trying to keep still, you felt like you’ve been in this position for hours. wet, creamy slick pooled onto the edge of the chair. you almost slipped, but cameron caught you just in time, “stay still. i’m finna cum.”

you groaned but still complied. “cam, you’re so fuckin’ deep, it’s too much.”, cameron laughed at your pathetic whines. he wouldn’t verbally admit it, but a small part of cameron enjoyed seeing you like this. at his grace, under his dominant frame taking stroke after stroke until you collapse and cry. “you’re so deep.”, he breathily mocked you. cameron pressed on the small of your back, slowly stroking deep into you. his hips angled down, hitting spots you never dreamt he could. he did this on purpose. those meticulous, but sharp strokes made your body crumble. another orgasm creeping inside you, your legs closing out of habit. tears threatened to fall again. afraid of cameron retaliating, you asked, “please, daddy, can i cum?” cameron roughly tugged on your hair, you gasped in surprise. 

his breath tickled your ear, “tell me ‘thank you’ when you cum on my dick.” a soft ‘yes daddy’ left your lips. cameron calmly picked up the pace, pulling on your shirt and hair to keep you in place while you unravel beneath him. your clit jumped at the steady, but harsh stimulation of his balls hitting it. you couldn’t scream or cry, just broken chants of ‘oh my god, oh my god, oh my god’. you nails dug into the expensive wood, tiny creaks filled the spacious condo. your pussy squelched around cameron’s dick. a harsh slap landed on your ass, “what did i say?”

“thank you, daddy, thank you! ”, you cried. your body trembled under him, but he didn’t stop. his hands returned to the arm chairs. the chair scratching against the floor from the brute force of cameron’s thrusts. you screamed, feeling slightly embarrassed, wondering if your neighbors heard you. the chair went from scooting ever so slightly to fully rocking. your body fell slack in the chair, the pleasure becoming unbearable at this point. “fuck, you boutta make me cum, baby.”, cameron groaned through gritted teeth. you begged for him to cum, to end this agonizing war of pleasure and pain.

a final, hard snap of his hips and he released inside you. your pussy achingly pulsated the longer he stayed inside of you. his chest pressed onto your back. both of your bodies respectively holding the other person’s up. you finally gathered your breath, “truce?” he lowly chuckled upon your body, “truce.” 

[calmbelly]

lack of manners is such an unattractive quality in a person

[rarestsparkle]

You need to touch saltwater sometimes not always grass.

[juava-min]

Tell Me You Don't Want Me

SneakyLink!Stack x Black!Reader

It's just like Stack to get what he wants under the guise of proposition. Joke's on you, he's the only one who knows it's a premonition spoken under the glitter of sunrise.

angst, profanity, sexual content, familial dynamics, stack is his manipulative self if you close one eye and tilt your head, use of the n-word because I'm black, reader is early-mid 20s, stack is mid 30s, fluff if you squint | minors dni |

wc: 6478

part 1

The soles of two pairs of feet were heavy as you both stepped loudly through the house. The wooden floors almost bouncing as you chased your sister through the kitchen and the dining room. Her voice shaking. Irritation clear as day. 

“Nah Sissy you been knew! You not about to turn this around on me. You been knew and you come home telling me you, ‘Got something to do.’ you outta your damn mind!” 

Your head is spinning as she yells. Purse, house keys, and baby monitor jangling as you follow her into the garage. The basement door taunting as you race past it. Bare feet barely making it into your slides as her shiny boots click effortlessly across the concrete and through the open garage door.

“Nie wait! I forgot I had something to do! Ple–”, she cuts you off sharply.

“No! No, no, no! You knew we was leaving today! I can’t believe you! Out all night just to come home with some B.S.? Not even in time for us to figure something out? That’s how I know this some mess because ain’t no way the sister I know would be on some shit like this!” 

You both stop before Smoke’s truck, the thrum of the vehicle light as she stares you down, eyes big and focused. You knew you were wrong for this. But if you had known what would happen way back when you had agreed to watch the kids, well… it never would’ve happened. Now you were about to be on your sister’s shit list, because sure as hell was hot she wasn’t losing this fight. 

You knew it. But you had to try for your own sanity. 

Just so you could say you hadn’t just given in. Rolled over and showed your behind. But the way this was going, yelling through your sister’s house, nervous sweat dripping down your chest in this heavy sweatshirt…Lord, you was doing just that in more ways than one. 

Eyes closed tight, you blurted before you could stop yourself. 

“Why can’t that nigga in the basement watch’em Nie?! He’s the grown one here…”. You opened your eyes and watched her stare you down. Her teeth visible as her mouth opened slightly. The look on her face was one you hadn’t quite seen before. Your knees starting to ache from the chill when she took a minute to respond. Her chin high and her fists resting heavy on her waist through her pretty blue coat. 

Your stomach was flipping. Anxiety forcing your whole body to a steep, metaphorical, ledge as the low hum of the refrigerator and his voice pressed fresh in your mind. Heavy hands on your waist, warm like the residual heat of an open fire, melding through the thin layers of your pajamas. His proposition low in your ears. Sticking to the inside of your skull like honey sticking between your fingers. A mess you thought you avoided when you carefully opened the bottle. 

You were afraid his proposition wasn’t really a proposition at all, but a premonition. A statement that was never a question. Not a matter of if, but when. You were afraid and you were making your sister mad, but the thought of Stack coming home, the girls being in bed, and you being there too…with him? It was telling you something about yourself you weren’t ready to face. That what happened in that basement wasn’t just a one off you could credit to impulsivity or lack of care. It was need. Need for a man that you knew was never going to need you like you may end up needing him. 

Finally your sister looked down, only to look back up quickly. A low burn in her eyes as she stood up tall, gaze hard as she looked you in the eyes. Ones that matched her own.   

“This may be news to you cher…but you grown too. And if you ain’t noticed, Stack got a job and for the most part he got a life. You the one that didn’t want to go back to Momma and Granny. And you sure as hell ain’t wanna traipse yo’ ass over to Daddy’s for no help. Now me and Elijah have been more than accommodating. I love you…but whatever you got going on up here–”, her manicured finger pointed staunchly to her forehead,  “ –it better be in check by the time we get back. We got enough attitudes to deal with.” 

As if on cue, the white baby monitor in her hand crackled to life. Laila’s cries piercing and sad. Swallowing hard, you wetly  blinked at her as you backed down. She didn’t need you and the baby screaming for her attention. 

Nie’s sigh was heavy as she looked down, her head shaking slightly as all you could do was watch her. The urge to cry was heavy, your nose burning,  but crying would just tell her something was eating at you, and if you could help it you were not opening that can of worms with her in the middle of her driveway. Her baby screaming through the monitor. Their weekend away skating farther and farther from her grasp with each argument and cry. You was really making this hard.

“I’ll go get her–”

“Nah. I’ll go get her. Tell Smoke I’ll be right back.” 

With the switch of her skirt your big sister was off to comfort her baby. The crack of the door from inside the open garage loud as you pulled anxiously at the fabric of your sweatshirt. Slides scraping the concrete as the hum of the car compelled you. Feet heavy as you walked towards the driver’s side window. 

Smoke’s stare was damn near icy as you looked through the rolled down window, and with his jaw tight and brows heavy…you knew he had heard everything. Your whining, your attitude, your disrespect. He looked right through you, and while you knew he loved you like a big brother should, disrespecting his wife, whether you were her baby sister or not, was not something he would tolerate. Especially not under his roof. 

Sucking his teeth he scratched lightly at his chin, one hand tapping gently on the center console out of view as he began. 

“I’m not gon’ say what I wanna say, cause your sister damn sure shut you up–”, Well damn. His gaze heavy as you avoided his stare.

“ –but me and my wife work hard, so our kids can live soft. Not waited on, not spoiled…but soft. I extend that same care to you because you part of the same heart that make that woman whole. But imma tell you this…even that ‘nigga in the basement’ only got one chance to disrespect me or my wife. This is the first and last time I’m having this conversation with you.” 

Looking up from your chipped toes, you began to speak.

“Smo-”

“And one more thing–”, he raised one thick finger in the air. His deep eyes meeting yours as he gave you a funny look. Sighing deep and sucking his teeth again.

“Don’t nothing go on in my house that I don’t know about…so I need whatever went down…to be resolved by the time we get back.”

Stomach dropping to your ass, you knew your eyes were as big as saucers as you looked at him. Mouth moving before your brain could even catch up to what he had said. 

“Wha–” 

Before you even had time to respond, the door in the garage opened, you and Smoke looking back as Annie came down the driveway. Baby wrapped up in a blanket in one arm and purse in the other. Her eyebrows still knit tight together and pursed lips shining demurely with gloss. 

Walking up to the driver’s side, you wordlessly stepped back as Smoke and Annie cooed lovingly at their youngest. Smoke leaning through the window to kiss all over her face, Annie pecking one of her round cheeks as her giggles trickled through the tense air. 

Turning to you then, Annie sighed as she handed the baby to you. The little one’s weight anchoring you to the driveway as her tiny fingers reached for your face, pinching your bottom lip lightly as you stared slack jawed at your older sister. 

“I love both of you. I know you know, but the twins get out of school at 4:15. If there’s an emergency you know what to do. ‘Course Stack in the house, but we trusting you.”

Still flustered and avoiding her husband's stare, you murmured a soft love you too, before watching her run her fingers through the baby’s curls one more time. You listen as her feet scuff against the concrete, walking around the car as Smoke begins to roll up his window. His stare and past words heavy as you pointedly look down at Laila, her fascination with your lips keeping you and her distracted as you listen to your sister get in the car. 

-

“And stop running in the house Vada!” 

Reaching into the backseat you unbuckled Laila. Her big eyes wide and framed with pretty lashes as she watched you yell over your shoulder at her sister. Kaia watching through the window from the other side of your small car. None too eager to follow her twin into the house.

“I don’t know why she running through the house like that. Like you not gon’ tell Mama and Daddy.” She deadpans out. Backpack dangling from her fingers as she watches you slam the car door. Following as you walk to the door into the house, kicking off your shoes at the threshold and stepping into the heat. 

“Well Kai…I might not for real. Unless ya’ll tear something up, I got other stuff to worry about. Lock the door for me.” 

“ –and you know she gon’ do just that…”

Listening absentmindedly as she locks the door, you make your way towards the livingroom. Baby heavy in your arms as you pass Vada, coat and backpack thrown wherever. T.V. already blasting as you enter the hallway to the guestroom; the room you had been calling your own for the past couple weeks.

The door already open you slide in, sitting the baby up on the bed as you unzip her coat. Small hands and feet already trying to stand herself up on the bed as you toss your keys on the bedside table and grab the remote. Fingers running over rubbery buttons, you turn on the T.V., plopping up next to the baby, your arms immediately go over your head. Temples pounding as you take in the reality of your situation. Body taut with tension. 

Breath in.

Breath out.

You groan. Removing your arms as you open your eyes. Staring at the back of Laila’s curly head of hair as she looked up at the screen. Bright colors occupying her little brain as you zoned out. Thoughts wild and scattered. 

Taking care of the girls was light work, you had done so since the twins were baby babies. But taking care of the girls while trying to wrap your head around how to act around that man? Your sister’s brother-in-law? The man that had put you through the mattress? That was an entirely different beast. Required a different part of your brain even. Because why the fuck had you even let him touch you? And apparently Smoke knew!?! You felt fucked in more ways than one. Even more embarrassed at what had gone down. 

It was still confusing. You had never looked at Stack that way, and according to your knowledge, he sure as hell wasn’t interested in you. But what did you know about Stack? About Elias Moore? Mind’s eye flashing to those deep eyes and shiny golds, you wracked your brain for answers. You hadn’t even been around him much until a few years prior. Taking up residence in your sister’s basement when whatever he had going on went south. Any talk about him from your sister full of sarcastic remarks and deadpan looks until whatever beef they had fizzled out, and  he was just the live-in uncle. 

Turning onto your stomach and scooting closer to the baby you wrap your arms around her, putting your nose to her small shoulder. Breathing in the baby lotion and cocoa butter as she fidgets and squakes at the ticklish air. Her attention being caught again by whatever was on the screen. 

What did you know? 

He came home late and left early. You knew that. You knew that because he had woken you up that early morning after he had you. Calloused hand running up the smooth skin of your back under your oversized t-shirt. He had tapped your ass lightly. Whispered in your ear, voice like rolling steam. 

“You don’t want them seeing you come up from down here.” 

His front pressed lightly to your back as he followed you like a ghost to the steps. Bare feet creeping up carpeted stairs and pajama pants thrown haphazardly over your shoulder. Not even thirty minutes later you heard the rumble of his truck, the crank of the garage, and the low purr of his engine as he left.  And it had been that way the entire time you’d been staying at your sister’s. His life a mystery but his routine as sure as that man knew himself. 

Startled from the clacking of beads and barrets, you look up into the doorway as two heads pop up from around its edge. Vada’s voice loud and sure. 

“Titi what we eating for dinner?!”

-

Descending from the last step, the downstairs is dark as you pass through the hallway into the living room. The flashing fluorescents of the t.v. screen stark in the dim room. Curtains pulled over even darker windows and pillows formally strewn from couch cushions snatched from the hardwood, you begin to reset the room. Backpacks and clothing zipped up and relocated. Cups tossed into the sink and paper plates pushed into the kitchen trash. The house is void of noise except for the low hum of the t.v., its volume low and indiscernible. A calming background thrum to your mindless work. 

Cutting off first the light in the kitchen and then the dining room, you float through the house. The living room still dim as you feel over soft cushions for the remote, thumb running over rubbery buttons as the room's only light source dissipates. 

12:02 a.m.

Flashing green in the dark, you can’t help but see the clock in the living room as you toss the remote mindlessly. Floor creaking as you pass through the hallway to the guest room. 

Room bathed in the low golden dim from the small lamp sat tastefully on the night stand, the creamy color of the comforter invites you into its expanse. Its softness a cushion for the turmoil of the day. Unnecessary fights and childish antics burrowing. Settling deep into the spot between your eyebrows.

You need to get ready for bed.

Fishing the baby monitor out of the front of your sweatshirt you let out another groan. Setting it up on the nightstand, you leave the bed. Gathering your night time caddy and heading to the downstairs bathroom to clean up.

-

Left the lamp on. 

Peaking through low lashes, you blink up at the golden glow of the lamp. Disoriented, you stare blankly. Mind still in the throes of sleep as you wake up from your snooze. The arm you were laying on shifting as you laid in the quiet of the bedroom. Of the house. 

Toes wiggling and blanket ruffling as you breathed through your nose. You eye the baby monitor. Its screen a clear view into the crib of your sleeping niece. Her chest rising and falling gently. Unbothered. Eyes settling on your phone next to your head, moments away from toppling off the edge, your arm slides out from the warm cocoon of your comforter. Finger tapping the dark screen, you watch it light up as the time flashes across your sleepy gaze. 

3:18 a.m. 

Why were you up?

KNOCK. KNOCK. 

Head snapping quickly over to the door, you're spooked momentarily by what greets you. Head in the pillows, you stare into his eyes, a deep black from where you lay. Their chocolate brown hidden by your distance as you watched each other. Seeing him now, you’re unsurprised by his presence. You expected him at some point over this weekend. His body broad in the doorway. Hands heavy in his pockets. Dark work pants almost disappearing into the black of the hallway that framed him. 

A spectre in this house. A dream even. A fantasy made up to satisfy the warmth that made itself known late into the night. When the slip of cool fingers between heated thighs or the twisting of hips against lumpy pillows could no longer be stood alone. 

Heart a repeated fist against the inside of your ribcage, your lips part. The warmth of your tongue a salve to the dry skin as you wet them quickly. His eyes follow the movement, and when you don’t speak, his posture changes. No longer a lean against the doorway, his stature apparent as he stands to his full height. Shoulders back. Hands still pushed deep into his pockets, he moves. A shift felt deep in your stomach as he passes the threshold. The veil of your sanctuary, a reprieve from the festering phantom that was your shared encounter, broken in the blink of an eye. 

He stops at the end of the bed.

Thick hands pulled from his pockets, he sighs and leans over. Palms meeting the creamy sheets as he bends at the waist. His left hand sliding over its expanse. Slithering its way across the pretty printed patterns as he searches. Scratching along its surface until he finds your foot through the blanket. Warmth encompassing your appendage as your stare down continues. It probably hasn’t even been five minutes since you’d opened your eyes. But with Stack staring down at you. Touching you through the only thing concealing you from him. 

It felt like it'd been an eternity. 

The silence stretches on, heartbeat in your ears until it's not. Chest calming as you shuffle up onto shaky elbows. 

“You ain’t got nothing to say?”

The question comes quiet but bold. His murmur passing through thick lips and under fluttering lashes. Fingers firm as they move along your ankle and back down. Almost tickling you as he begins to massage your foot. Eyes unyielding under thick brows. Releasing breath from your lips, you finally look away. Eyes meeting his chest, the heat of his stare no longer making your heart race, but intimidating all the same.

“You the one upstairs, Stack.” 

You don’t expect your voice when you speak. It's a soft flutter, a cloud passing through warm wind. Shifting further under the comforter, you begin to pull your foot from his grasp, your breath catching immediately as his grip tightens. The muscles of his forearm shifting under his pushed up sleeve with the firm and surprising tug of his arm. His speed unexpected and your elbows shifting down along soft sheets. 

“You the one that’s been runnin’ though.” 

He was right. But he was still the one here in front of you. His aura rolling off of him like raindrops down a drenched window pane. Finding his way to you in this dark house the same way bare toes found purchase up carpeted steps after the glamour and heat had broken. His touch burned away by the safety of the rising sun. 

“I-I don’t know what you want me to say for real. I—”

You rack your brain for something. A comeback. A retort. But there’s nothing. Your thoughts quiet save for the childish and petty part of you scrambling for higher ground. Really, not even after all that rehearsin’ in the shower? 

The silence beats on, until with the clearing of your throat as you speak. Sleep still heavy in your voice.

“ –it should’a never even happened…and you tell me in the kitchen, we can have fun or go back to how it was. Well…I ain’t been back in the basement…”

“Mmm…”

So why are you up here? Is what you really want to say, but the words are caught in your throat. Your eyes finding the chain around his neck. Nerves once again preventing you from looking him in the eye. His hand still wrapped around your ankle, he squeezes gently and finally releases you. Your eyes immediately bulge out of your skull however when both immediately find the bottom hem of his deep grey thermal. Retching the fabric over his head, you’re left speechless as he throws it to the ground. His white beater flush and stark against his chest and abdomen. 

Finding his eyes, your lips part as you sit up on your hands. The blanket falling from your chest and revealing the thin, baby pink camisole you slid on without a second thought. 

“Wh–,”

“So tell me you don’t want it then. Tell me you don’t want me and I’ll take my ass down there right now. Dick between my fucking legs.” 

He reaches for his beater, the ribbed fabric rolling over his torso and over his head as it’s balled up and thrown right at your head. His musk and cologne more tempting than you’d like to admit as you retch it from your face. The fabric tumbling from the side of the bed. The jingling of his belt is all you hear as the blankets are pushed away hurriedly, your brain scrambling to catch up to the moment as you sit up quickly on your knees. The grey sweats covering your lower half slipping with your quick movements. Hands outstretched you wave them as Stack reaches for his zipper. The eye contact intense as he watches you blubber. 

“Hold on now! Stop tryna strong arm me into this shit!” 

“I’m not! Tell me to stop. Tell me you don’t want me…and I’ll go.” 

His hurried movements still. His breath heavy along with yours as you’re left with nothing to say. The shift in his voice a neon sign for what he was feeling. Not just for what he wanted from you. Tell me you don’t want me. 

Were you wrong for thinking there was something he wasn’t saying? 

Sitting back on your haunches, you could tell your face was twisted up. Your confusion diverging in every which way as the air thrummed with the sparks between you. This was too much. He was too much. Nothing was making sense and the frustration bled into your words as you blurted. Overstimulated and aghast at whatever the fuck was going on right now. 

“Stack…I can’t say that! But—but I can’t let you push up on me either when who knows what the fuck else you got going on! I—this is too much, too close to EVERYTHING, when you just finna fuck off and hunch on some new bitch tomorrow E.! We live in the same house and your brother know we fucked and—” 

“Hey! Hold on—,” 

“No! Elias! Listen! This—”, your arms like lead you gesture between the both of you.

“ —it can’t happen! You don’t even want me for real!” 

The room is quiet as you come down. The glimmer of his eyes in the dim light of the lamp a reminder of his attention on you. You deflate a little as he stands there. Shirtless. Your brain can’t help but mention. His face is hard, his mind fumbling like yours no doubt as his jaw tenses. Lips twisting until he finds his words. His tone softer than it had been. 

“You think I would’ve ever touched you…if it was in my mind to fuck whoever? Of all people…Annie’s sister. LITTLE sister at that, and you thought I was finna fuck around?” 

His question is incredulous. Littered in disbelief at the thought. 

“I could fuck any bitch. I could’ve fucked you and ignored the fuck out of you after. But here I am. We right here—,” his fingers point between your eyes and his.

“ —and I’m begging you to tell me you don’t want me so I can get the hell on. I’ll gladly take Smoke’s bullet in my ass if I’m coming on too strong. But tell me you don’t want me first.”

“ …no.”

 “Then lay the fuck down.”

Before your head even hits the pillow his hands are back at his button and zipper. Movements quick as thick fabric is pushed quickly down his legs. A single hand reaching to palm the growing print through his briefs. You shimmy out of your sweats, hands sliding smoothly under warm fabric. Before you can roll them off your ankles, his hand is there. Fisting the bottoms and yanking them from your feet. Thrown down into the heap of his clothing below. 

Knees meeting the bed, he’s on you quickly. Body crowding yours as you scramble for your top. Reaching to pull your camisole over your head, you’re surprised by the large hand smacking yours away. He smirks then, humor floating with each word exhaled from his chest. His grillz winking at you from the inside of his mouth. 

“You and these damn itty-bitty tops. Make a nigga wanna snatch you up everytime I see you in one.” 

He grabs it at the top hem, retching it down under your titties and immediately dives in. Thick lips meeting your left nipple in a wet kiss. A surprised breath leaving your lips as a sharp nip follows. A large hand smacking the other. Massaging its same weight with the tender roll of his fingers.

“Ow! Stop bein’ so rough!” 

He laughs around your tit in his mouth. Eyes meeting yours across your chest. 

 “Girl, you ain’t seen rough. You probably not gon’ see rough for a minute the way I be wanting to fuck you slow.” 

His words make your stomach flutter, their message sweet but obscenely cloying. Arousal pooling warm and slow when his warm pecks float across your sternum in apology. Their journey over your chest, and up your neck thrilling. The rolling in your belly a testament to his care as your nerves alight. Hands meeting his shoulders, you feel the softness of his skin, nails scratching down warmth and power. His arms barely holding his weight over you as he pushes you down into the mattress. Finding your chin, he leaves a wet peck. Their warmth creeping along your jaw until he finally finds your lips. His kiss like a rolling wave over stagnant shores. Overpowering your own in an experienced fervor. A thrall to his heat and your own arousal as you can’t help but squirm. Pulling away you look him in the eye. Your teeth biting your plump bottom lip, the words tumble from your mouth before you can stop them. 

“Touch me…I want your fingers.” 

Breathing in the same air, his eyes flit over your face. Their glint mirthful as his lips meet yours once more in a playful mush. Bright teeth winking at you as he responds in a light murmur. 

“The way you was droolin’ and cryin’ last time, you really thought I wasn’t finna fuck you on my hand—,” his lips find yours again, their heat quickly becoming a burning distraction as he speaks again. 

“ —maybe have you squirmin’ on my tongue?”

His warmth leaves you as he sits up, hands finding your knees and pulling them open. Their warm heat sliding down smooth thighs to your exposed center. His thumbs tickle the skin of your lips as he works up a small massage. Hands splayed over your pelvis and hips, he watches himself work. Lip caught beneath shiny teeth. 

“You so goddamn pretty.” 

The way he says it, like he means it. Is almost too much under the heat of his gaze. The warmth of his hands. The way his thumb plays in the wetness he made. It’s sticky pull almost embarrassing, a testament to his charm. 

He’s intoxicating.

You watch as he spits. It’s wetness hitting your clit before his thumb is there again. Working it into your folds and opening. The image of your fluids mixing a tantalizing feeling and thought. Your moan flitting through the air as your head rolls back. Eyes closing under his touch. Your body a broken faucet as your wetness seeps from your center. His fingers playing in your sticky cunt. 

“Oooh…E…please.” 

Middle and fore fingers finding your hole he tests its resistance, their girth sliding easily into your wetness. His shallow pumps an agonizing tease as you open your eyes to watch him through your parted thighs. Each breath a sigh as he works you open. His hand speeding up with the frequency of your vocalizations. The squelch of his fingers loud and almost obnoxious. Moans embarrassingly pornographic as you twist and twitch at his work. His other hand working hard to keep your legs from closing. 

Between his fight with your legs his dick stands tall through his briefs. The dark grey stained black in a single spot, his arousal giving away his need under his focused gaze and punishing fingers. Mind heavy under his care, your hand reaches for his bulge. Fingers finding the heat of him as your fingers roll over its rigid length. The hum in his throat heard even over the sound of your sopping heat. His voice comes unexpected in the moment. A stark song in a moment filled with moans and wet heat. 

“When I get in this pussy…you better look me in my eye.” His fingers slow to a slippery pump, your whine ringing out before he shoots you a look. Your thigh in his hand receiving a mean pinch as he finds your eyes. 

“When I get in this pussy you gon know who fuckin’ it…watch me pump my nut in this hole. Feel everything you was running from. You understand?”

Your fingers still as soon as his fingers do. Both of your breaths are heavy as you stare each other down. His eyebrow raising when you don’t answer. Your wet tongue wetting your lips, you watch him follow your tongue, exhaling before you speak. 

“I understand.”

“Good, now put them legs up.”

The command in his voice does something to you. Curt and expectant. No room for playing as you pull your legs up to your chest, his fingers stark still in your pussy until your legs are up. Arms wrapping underneath your knees. His fingers pulled from your heat in a slow drag. Wetness wiped on your ass cheek as you feel and hear him move. The removal of his briefs apparent when he scooches closer and leans over you. His dick heavy and firm against your lower half as his thick arms cage you in. His weight is a comforting blanket against the chill in the air. One of his thick fingers reaching briefly to nudge your chin gently.

You’re taken back to the kitchen under the gentle touch. 

Staring into his eyes, you whimper under the feel of his fat tip nudging against you. Playing in the wetness he milked from you, hips moving in an irritating grind against your twitching heat. His teasing disrespectful when you were so desperate for his touch. Before you could complain however, his tip was back at your entrance. Pushing against your opening all too quick, he’s pushing in. Dick drawing back and pushing in a couple more times until he’s grinding into his hilt. The yell you let out all too involuntary as he bullies his way into you. His fat lips beneath his teeth as he watches you struggle to look at him. 

Lashes fluttering, hands reaching to grip his shoulders, you lay under him and take each heavy push of his hips. Your body a molten glaze as your pussy welcomes him eagerly. Each twitch of your walls beaten and smoothed out by the weight of his burrowing member. Nerves alight under his attention. Your chest thrumming in an unfamiliar ache as you stare into his eyes. Each one of your actions together, the stolen glances,  the basement, the kitchen, him here in your bed fucking the shit out of you…it was too much. It felt too good. 

Eyes closing and head tipping back, you can’t help but cry into the air as you feel everything he’s giving you. Your mind slipping until his voice is loud in your ears as he scolds you. 

“Nuh uh, open you fucking eyes!” 

He leans on you in a nasty press that makes you whine, your back arching as he lets up and leans back. His rough hands meeting the back of your knees as he pushes them up to your ears. The stretch an added sensation to the ache between your legs as his hips start up again. Each thrust a mean jab against a spot inside of you that has you seeing stars and leaking heat. His demand an after thought as the pleasure takes you deeper into the syrupy gloop of your mind. His voice now an irritated bark between thrusts. 

“Look at me when I’m fuckin’ you! Ain’t no backshots this time! I want you to watch me own this pussy!” 

What he was asking was just as mean as his thrusts. Unfair. 

Letting out a sniffling sob into the sticky air, knees bouncing next to your ears, you barely knew where you were. Could hardly stop squirming under the weight of his hips, unrelenting. Pussy lips drooling with each plap, plap, plap, of his dick between your puffy walls, and he wanted you to look at him? 

“Ss–c-can’t…oh my Goooood—,”

Each punch of his cock is exhilarating. Your eyes rolling as he never lets up, his grip on the back of your knees an incessant reminder of his power over you. The pleasure he’s giving you a gift felt over and over with each pull of his flesh against your own. Each slide of your bare back against the sheets a cradle against his assault. 

Through heavy breath, his tone is harsh as he pushes deep. Hips stilling in a mean press that arches your back from the bed fully as his timbre rumbles from his lips.

“I ain’t ask if you could…I said look at me.” 

Oh fuck. You’re cumming. Each nerve in your body is alight with small bursts of electricity as you let out a groan. Thighs trembling in rough hands as your hands find your chest. The smooth skin rippling under your grip as you clench and cum on his cock. The wetness of your release an after thought as each pulse tumbles from your body. Knees desperately working to close, but Stack’s grip keeps them open as he watches your pussy gush underneath him. His chest and abdomen reflecting the golden light of the lamp as he perspires. 

Your bonnet is probably half way across the room with how much your head is twisting into the pillows and sheets beneath you. Head tilting to the side, your lashes flutter. Vision blurry as you open your eyes against the fatigue already setting in. Eyes cutting to the man on top of you. Chest heaving, your eyes watch his face. Dark brows knit together. His thick bottom lip caught between white teeth, and smoldering eyes glittering over your bottom half. Your pussy still split over his stiff cock. Walls clenching along its weight in the aftermath of your release. He looks up then. Brown meeting brown as he releases his lip. 

His hands leave your thighs, and you whimper as he shifts. Heavy thighs falling around his hips as he bends. Forearms meeting the bed on either side of your head as soft lips find your own. His wet mouth a salve to your own. A distraction more so when you suddenly feel the shift of his hips against you. The push and grind of his hips a reminder of this give and take. His knees pulling up into a kneel against the mattress as you feel the pull of his dick from your heat. A shiver rolling up your spine as he forces himself to the hilt again…and again. His rhythm picking up speed as rough hands find your cheeks. 

“Now…watch me fuck my pussy.” 

Looking into his eyes is like peering into the richness of the earth. Their brown beaconing you. Their pull a spell unknown to you in the heat of this room and the afterglow of your pleasure. The tingle of your hole as she twitches for rest. The hug of your thighs against his slick torso. Your hands a mirror of his own as they find the skin of his jaw. Each pump into your center an overstimulating pulse of pleasure and heat. A stinging euphoria that thrums through each of your limbs. Your insides reaching a boiling point. The hot air from between your lips not unlike the screech of a heated kettle. 

“St-Elias…pleeeaaase.” 

The murmur of his name from your shaky lips makes him groan, eyes closing, sticky forehead finding its way into your neck as his breaths puff from open lips. Hips pushing again and again, his rhythm steady. Your own groan crooning through the air as your fingers find the nape of his neck. Nails scratching gently as each push of his hips renders you breathless. The head of his cock prodding every point of interest. Nerves alight under the overstimulating push of his sticky, stuttering hips.

“Fuck!”

His voice is strained. The quiver of his body is an intoxicating tell as each pump of his hips turns heavy, shoulders taut with tension and arms curling around your body as he pushes one more time and grinds slow. The first spurt of his release hot and electric. His groan vibrating through your body as he pumps each spurt of his release into your slick cunt. Chest to chest, belly to belly in the soft sheets of your bed. 

You both breathe heavily, you into the air above your bodies, and him into the sticky skin of your chest as you both remain silent. The seep of his release as he shifts from inside you eliciting a soft purr from your lips. Eyes heavy with fatigue and body loose from his attention. You might as well be asleep by the time he moves off of you. His lips a wet mush against your cheek as he lifts himself over you, falling to the bed as his front pushes against your back. His facial hair tickling your skin, arm resting under your head and hand finding your stomach.

No words spoken between you under the golden glow of the lamp.

🤷🏾‍♀️: congrats to Mike on his win, and for giving me this fine shit to work with 🤞🏾 there may be an epilogue but I'm unsure fr, enjoy!

-

tag: @liliacsdelight

[sonder-slut]

wild thang — tyriq withers.

pairing ⁀➷ aaron x plus-size black reader.

synopsis ⁀➷ the way you speak to aaron drives him insane.

song of chapter ⁀➷ ‘let’s make love’ by silk.

word count + warnings ⁀➷ 645 || 18+, nsfw content, no minors! dirty talk, doggystyle, foul language, pet names, cumming inside.

‘toss your body back and forth, so i can watch you ride.’

ᥫ᭡

you were a danger to aaron’s entire existence.

aaron often found himself breathless while in the act with you. his vision shifting as he gazed down to watch, mouth hung open in silent pleasure and surprise, as your heavy ass bounced back against his hips.

you left him speechless.

nowhere near a pillow princess, you worked hard to receive what was yours. reaching back every so often to pull him closer, needing to feel his skin against yours, holding your ass cheeks open to make him dive deeper inside—-and your mouth…? aaron could barely find the words to describe the number you did on him. he was only able to rock forward in shock as you moaned out the filthiest things to him.

“stretch me open, baby, i want you to fuck me good, daddy. can you please, baby, please, please?”

“fuckkk,” he physically shivers, as the sounds you make mixed with the sight of your messy pussy is near fatal. “why you talkin’ to me like that, mama? why you sound so fuckin’ good?”

“cause you fuckin’ me so good, baby, oh my goodness. you feel so good inside of me.”

“this pussy got me losing my mind, girl. you got me fuckin’ stuck.”

there’s a sound of a laugh and moan as you continue to throw your ass back on aaron. your face is muffled behind fluffy pillows, your arms tucked underneath them as you take all that aaron gives you.

“want you to fuck me up, want you rough with me, aaron. please aaron, please fuck me harder, daddy.”

“shit, you a nasty ass bitch. you talking so fuckin’ crazy and this pussy soakin’ me all the way up. you want me to beat that pussy up, want me to tear this lil shit up?”

“yea, aaron. want you to pound me so good. i want it so bad, i need it so bad. want that dick in me deeper, baby.”

you’re going on a nonsensical rant, so horny and ready to cum that you have no clue what you’re talking about. aaron exhales, shaking his head while trying to think clearer. folding his lips inward, his hands grip your hips with enough strength to leave marks, but you mind none because aaron’s doing what you requested.

as he moves with more force, you cry out into the pillow while your eyes roll into the back of your skull. “yessss, baby, yessss, fuck—fuck me just like that, aaron, just like that, daddy. you’re fucking me so good, oh my god!”

and aaron’s silent up to this point—unable to hold in his moans, aaron cries out brokenly. gasping and groaning as he attempts to pull out and nut over your ass, but your hand around his and the words you utter out make him pause.

“cum in me, baby, i want you in me, aaron. i want you dripping out of me, daddy, please, please.”

“ahhh, ohhh, fuckkk,” aaron can hardly breathe, mindlessly doing as you plead by staying inside your already wet pussy and fucking his cum into you until you’re both moaning out in satisfaction.

aaron’s entire weight crushes when he falls onto you, trying to catch his breath as you both are spent from the heated moment.

“goddamn, y/n.”

he chuckles and you do the same, ass still raised in the air, as he slowly pulls out of you. aaron takes his time and watches in admiration as his hot sperm spills out of your pussy and onto the mattress. a fucking mess, but he loves it.

“so fucking good, girl,” he smacks your ass while your pussy clenches, emptying the last of his nut out. you begin to shake your ass in a teasing manner, and aaron’s groaning and growing hard once again.

“do you think you got one more in you, baby?”

[theegoldenchild]

Part Three: Planted Seeds Of Repentance

Author’s Note: I have no idea how this one-shot turned into three parts but here we are. I might write more in the future teehee 🤸🏾‍♀️

Warnings: +18 | Hardcore Smut | Spitting | Rough Sex | Oral Sex | Squirting | Overstimulation | Face Fucking | Anal Sex | Degradation Kink | Creampie | Religious Kink | Smoke is so mean but that’s dada man |

The following morning crept in through thin curtains like a pale intruder, striping the room in lines of soft light that caught on the edges of dust and wood grain. Smoke had been awake long before the sun made its climb. He always rose early, but today his body had refused even the faintest chance of sleep. His knees had already pressed into the hard floor before the altar. His lips had already shaped themselves into prayer. His chest had already carried the heavy rhythm of repentance.

Yet when the words left him while he whispered into the shadows, they felt hollow. He had prayed for forgiveness, begged the Lord to take the taste of you from his mouth, the scent of you from his skin and the fire from his veins. But even as he spoke, his body still throbbed with the memory of last night. His jaw ached from clenching through it, his hips remembered the way your body molded around him, and his tongue still burned with the sweetness he had sworn himself against.

Ten years of silence. Ten years of denying himself the sins of flesh. All undone in a single night. And the cruelest part of it all? He didn’t regret it. Not fully. Some parts of him held regrets, but the part that was still man before the priest, relished the ruin. Relished the power. Relished the surrender that had poured out of you like confession itself. By the time he returned to his quarters, he was dressed properly again, his black slacks crisp and the white collar stiff against his throat. He rolled his jaw, testing the tightness there, trying to grind away the lingering taste of sin until all that remained was the shell of Father Elijah. His boots pressed quiet against the floorboards as he stepped back into the bedroom.

There you laid, a tangle of limbs and thin cotton, face pressed into the pillow, breath shallow and soft as though you had been dropped into another world. You were still in his bed, his own narrow cot of penance and it looked wrong with you in it. You made his space seem too full, too warm, and much too alive. For a moment he simply stood in the doorway silently watching, with his hand curling at his side like it needed restraint. 

A frown coated his face as he crossed the room and his shadow loomed over you, blotting out the weak sunlight. He reached down, fingers brushing through your messy kinks and coils, the tips dragging against your temple, then down the curve of your cheek. The softness was a fleeting moment he happily stole. His hand patted your face lightly, the contact sharp enough to rouse you.

“Wake up.”

Your sleep-crusted lashes blinked rapidly and for a second you were still caught in the haze, body heavy as your mind replayed flashes of what had happened: the floor, the belt, his mouth, his voice. Your thighs pressed together instinctively beneath the thin sheet, muscles remembering even as your mind tried to catch up.

Smoke clicked his tongue, the faintest shake of his head cutting through whatever warmth might’ve lingered in his touch. The softness vanished from his face, replaced once more by that mask of stern judgment. His eyes darkened, dark as judgment day. “Get up,” he said, voice clipped and cold. “Day already startin’. Ain’t no rest for you.”

You blinked up at him, disoriented, lips parting to form some kind of plea. But his posture left no room for argument.

“The floors still need scrubbin’. Them windows need cleanin’.” He straightened, adjusting his collar, the priest once more. “House of God don’t care how tired you feel.”

The weight of his words settled heavy in the room, stripping away the memory of warmth and closeness. What remained was duty, labor, and punishment disguised as work. He turned toward the door, his shoulders square, his voice final. “Up. Now.”

The command in his voice lingered in the air, and you obeyed without hesitation. The soreness in your thighs made your steps uneven, yet you carried yourself to the corner of the room where a small porcelain basin had been set out. The water inside was cool, a shallow pool reflecting the first strokes of morning light through the curtains. You knew why it was there. Smoke had thought of it before you ever opened your eyes.

You lowered yourself gingerly onto the little stool beside it, the wood creaking under your weight. The hem of your thin nightdress brushed your calves as you gathered the courage to lift it. When your hands dipped into the basin, the shock of cold water bit at your fingers. You scooped and pressed the cloth between your legs, wincing as the sting of tenderness flared. The mess from last night was still there like a reminder etched into your very flesh of what you had begged for and what he had taken. You worked quietly, biting the inside of your cheek as you tried not to make a sound. It wasn’t shame alone that kept you silent, it was fear that he would hear, that he would know how raw you still felt... that he would think you were weak.

When you finally straightened, there was relief in seeing the dress he had left out. Dark cotton, long-sleeved, its hem brushing the floor. Modest in shape, blessedly concealing the bruises and red prints scattered across your skin. You slipped it over your head and let the fabric fall, grateful for the coverage until you realized how snugly it clung to your waist and hips, more fitted than the shapeless frocks you had been given before.

Your hands smoothed over the fabric with suspicion, the thought already forming on your tongue. “This don’t fit like—”

“The others ain’t clean,” Smoke cut in, his voice even and flat. He didn’t look at you when he spoke, busy straightening his collar in the warped mirror that hung over his door. “Only one I could pull from the washroom without the Sisters askin’ questions.”

You swallowed your doubt. The explanation didn’t sit right, but you weren’t bold enough to challenge it. Not with your backside still burning from the memory of his palm.

When you reached for your soiled undergarments, folded at the edge of the stool, his voice came again, sharp enough to halt your hand. “Leave ’em.”

You froze. “But—”

“You don’t need ’em under that dress.”

Your stomach turned with the weight of the lie. No priest had reason to dictate what underthings a woman didn’t or didn’t wear. But your body remembered the belt. The sting. The command. You lowered your hand and said nothing.

By the time you left the room, Smoke had already transformed back fully into Father Elijah. The great preacher and the almighty man of God. His stride was steady, his face carved in discipline. He moved through the house of God with the cold certainty of someone who had never sinned.

When your steps carried you past the windows of the chapel, the illusion of holiness cracked. The sunlight struck the fabric, turning it sheer in fleeting strips. He could see everything he had branded the night before. From the outline of your breasts, to the dark hue of your nipples tightening against the cotton, and the curve of your waist that the Sisters’ dresses had always hidden. Worse still was when you bent at the pews, rag in hand, scrubbing the varnished wood. The angle and light betrayed you cruelly, showing the swell of your core, still puffy and tender, the very place he had filled and tasted like a man starved.

Smoke’s jaw ticked, the muscle cords in his neck pulling tight. He pressed his palms against the pulpit as if anchoring himself to holy wood could quiet the storm inside him. But the heat only climbed. His blood only burned. And more than once he had to step away with his hand adjusting the weight in his slacks, his body betraying the image of righteousness he wore like a holy shield. Every time he returned, his eyes found you again. Bent low, dress pulled tight, and the sunlight stripping you bare in his mind. And each glance tore at the fragile wall he’d built between priest and man.

The air in the church was still and stifling by midday, heavy with the scent of soap, beeswax polish, and heat trapped in the rafters. You had been bent low for hours, scrubbing the length of the pews with aching arms, the snug dress clinging to you in ways that betrayed you every time the sun slanted through the high windows.

Smoke had tried with every ounce of discipline he had carried for ten years to keep himself in check. His jaw had stayed tight as he led the noontide prayer. His hands had gripped the pulpit until the wood bit his palms. His strides had been steady as he crossed the nave. By the third time he caught himself palming himself through his slacks, he snapped.

The rag you held had barely hit the bucket before his hand clamped around your wrist. You gasped, startled, but he didn’t give you a second to question it. His boots pounded against the floorboards as he dragged you down the narrow hall and past the vestry, until he shoved you into a small closet meant for linens and cleaning supplies. The door shut with a hollow thud, and the sudden dark pressed in around you both.

Smoke’s breathing was ragged already, shoulders squared like a man about to go to war. “Stay quiet,” he hissed, his voice a low growl, rich with warning.

Before you could nod, he spun you, your back colliding with the shelves. Glass cleaner bottles rattled above your head. His hands were on your hips, dragging the skirt of your dress up with a single pull, baring you to him in one furious breath.

“You been walkin’ round temptin’ me all damn mornin’,” he grunted, pressing himself against you. His manhood, hard and heavy, nudged the inside of your thigh. “Think I ain’t see how that sun strip you bare? Think I ain’t notice every outline?”

You whimpered and your thighs pressed together, but he kicked them apart with a sharp thrust of his knee. “No hidin’ now.” And then he drove into you. The intrusion was swift and brutal, his length stretching you wide in one deep stroke that sent pain and pleasure colliding through your body. Your muffled cry echoed into his chest, your fingers clawing at his shoulders.

“Quiet,” he snarled, his hand clamping over your mouth. “Not one sound. You let anybody hear, I’ll stop.”

Your body betrayed you instantly. The soreness from last night flared like fire, every nerve raw, every squeeze of your walls making you whimper into his palm. You couldn’t help it, the sharp sensitivity made you quake around him, your thighs trembling against his hips.

Smoke’s brow furrowed, his jaw ticking in frustration. He stilled inside you, chest heaving, and then he sucked his teeth, the sound low and sharp with irritation. “Damn girl… still tore up from last night, huh?” His voice cut through the dark, flat but edged with hunger.

He pulled out slowly, the drag of his length against your swollen walls making your knees buckle. His hand left your mouth only so he could grip your chin, forcing you to meet his eyes in the sliver of light slipping beneath the door. “Can’t even take me proper. Tch.”

You blinked, tears pricking the corners of your eyes, your breath stuttering as shame and need tangled together inside your chest. “I—I can—”

“Shh.” He pressed a finger against your lips. “You gon’ be quiet an you gon’ let me handle it.”

Before you could ask what he meant, he dropped to his knees. The shift was fast and purposeful. His shoulders wedged between your thighs, forcing them wider, the wooden shelves digging into your back as his calloused palms hooked beneath your knees and held you open like an offering. The first brush of his breath against your swollen folds made your head thump back against the wall.

“You so swollen little lamb,” he muttered, the words curling like sin itself. “Look at this mess. Wet an twitchin’… an all from me.”

His tongue glided against you in one long lick from the rooter to the tooter. The sound was obscene… wet… hungry… and unashamed. You clamped your hand over your own mouth, desperate to hold in the cry that burned in your throat.

Smoke chuckled low, cruel and satisfied. “That’s it. Hold it in,” he growled against your skin. “Don’t you dare let anyone hear whatchu’ sound like when I’m eatin’ you alive.”

His mouth sealed around your clit, sucking hard, drawing the nerve into his mouth with merciless meticulousness. Your whole body jolted and your knees threatened to close, but his grip on your thighs was steady. He teased you without pity, his tongue circled your sensitive nub then retreated, he then pressed deep to taste every drop of you, pulling back only to let the cool air sting your soaked skin before diving in again. Each flick, each slow grind of his tongue, all of it was intentional torture meant to pull you up to the high heavens just to deny you the ability to fall.

“Stay quiet,” he rasped, breaking away just long enough to look up at you. His lips and jaw glistened in the dim light, his eyes sharp and mean as hell. “Keep that screamin’ in ya head, little lamb.”

You bit down hard on your knuckle, tears slipping free as his tongue lashed you again, faster now, his growl vibrating against your clit. The sensation ripped through you like lightning, every nerve raw, every inch of you begging to shatter. And he knew. He felt the way your thighs quivered, the way your hips tried to buck forward. He purposefully slowed, pulling his tongue away, blowing a cool breath across your drenched folds just to hear the strangled sob catch in your throat.

“You close, baby?” he taunted, his tone mocking, dangerous. “Body twitchin’ like it’s ready to break. You want to let go?”

Your head shook frantically, front teeth digging into your hand as you tried to hold back the scream clawing up your chest.

“Uh huh,” Smoke chuckled, his voice dark with satisfaction. “That’s how I like it. You beggin’ me in silence. You fightin’ with yaself not to cry out while I taste you.”

Then he flattened his tongue against your clit and dragged it in slow, unrelenting circles, not easing up no matter how your body jerked and twisted. He held you pinned, his thumbs pressing bruises into your thighs as he consumed you like a starving man that never tasted this sweet forbidden fruit. Your vision blurred, your lungs seized, and finally your body gave out. The climax that surged through you was so violent and overwhelming, causing every nerve in your body to explode in white heat. Your muffled scream broke past your hand anyway, filling the tiny closet in a raw, desperate sound.

Smoke didn’t stop when you came. He greedily gobbled up your release, tongue working through every twitch and wave, drinking down your juices as though it were holy communion. When you collapsed against the shelves, trembling and spent, he finally pulled back. His lips glistened, his chest heaved, and his eyes that were full of lust and locked on yours. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then smirked faintly, cruelly.

“Quiet enough,” he said, voice rough, ragged. “But you gon’ learn. You always gon’ learn with me.”

He didn’t give you a chance to catch your breath. His arms slid beneath your trembling thighs, lifting you as if you weighed nothing. The shelves rattled behind as your back pressed deeper into them, his grip locking you into place, your legs spread wide over his hips.

“Bite down on my shoulder,” he ordered, voice filled with authority. His eyes bore into yours, daring you to disobey. “‘Member you make a sound, an I’ll stop. Understand me?”

You nodded weakly, heart pounding. His wide shoulder pressed against your face, and you obeyed as your teeth sunk into the fabric of his shirt where it stretched tight over muscle. The taste of sweat and sin filled your mouth. He angled his hips, his thick length brushing through the wet heat of your folds, nudging against your entrance. The pressure made your eyes squeeze shut, anticipation tangling with fear.

“Deep breath,” he whispered, his voice vibrating through the shoulder you clung to. Then he pressed forward.

This time it wasn’t the sharp tear of pain that made you whimper into his shirt, it was the steady, filling weight of him sliding in with patience he hadn’t shown before. Inch by heavy inch, your body opened around him, taking him deeper, stretching, and molding. The sting was still there, but dulled now by the slick warmth of your own arousal, by the way your muscles had already been broken to his shape. You almost moaned at the feel of it, pleasure spilling through the edges of restraint but before the sound could leave your throat, his hand cracked across your ass, sharp and punishing.

The smack echoed in the tiny closet. Your cry was muffled by his shoulder.

“That’s for forgettin’ what I told you,” he rasped, jaw set, his hips snapping forward suddenly. The angle forced him deeper, the tip of him grinding against that tender, secret place inside you that made your whole body reset. Then he started to move in hard merciless strokes, drilling into you with a rhythm that rattled the shelves and snatched the breath from your lungs. Each thrust jarred your body upward, your teeth digging harder into his shoulder to keep from screaming.

“Mm. That’s it,” Smoke growled, his words strained between clenched teeth. “Take it like a good little harlot.” Your nails clawed into the back of his shirt and your thighs shook as they wrapped around his waist. He gripped you tighter, his arms flexing as he held you pinned, lifting and dropping you on his dick like he was determined to drive every inch into memory.

“Thought you couldn’t handle it,” he grunted, the sound sharp, guttural. “But look at you now… squeezin’ me, drippin’ for me, takin’ me like you was born for it.”

The closet was filled with the wet slap of flesh, the muffled sound of your choked cries, the scrape of wood as his boots shifted to keep balance. And all the while his voice cut through the dark, harsh and commanding. “You keep bitin’ down,” he warned, his pace quickening, hips smacking into you with savage intent. “You cry out an the whole world gon’ know you a sinner twice over.”

Your body convulsed against him, pleasure building hot and fast, your thighs twitched violently. You couldn’t hold on much longer, not with the way his rod drilled deep and relentless, forcing you into a blissful state of ruin.

Your whole body was strung tight ready to snap as your walls fluttered frantically and desperately around the thick length battering you. Smoke’s grip on you was unyielding, his arms flexed hard beneath your thighs, his chest pressed into yours as he pounded up into your swollen core. Every thrust drove deeper, harder, the rhythm turning savage until the shelves behind you shook and the air itself seemed to hum with the wet sound of sin.

He groaned low in his chest, the sound of a man undone. “Little lamb… little lamb…” he muttered, the words cracked, heavy with strain. “You feel too good baby…”

Your head dropped back, mouth open against his shoulder, but the cries building in your throat were too wild, too loud. He felt your walls spasming fast, frantic, the desperate clutch of your body telling him you were right on the edge. He could sense you were about to be too loud and grunted in dissatisfaction before catching your face in one rough hand. He dragged your mouth to his, and sealed the sound with his lips. The kiss was deep and devouring, his tongue forcing its way inside as his hips continued to snap cruelly against you. Your muffled scream spilled into his mouth, hot and broken, as your climax tore through you.

You shattered against him, your pussy gripping hard, jumping in spasms that dragged a pleasured groan from his chest. He didn’t stop as he drove through the clenching waves, his dick grinding into your overworked walls as if trying to brand himself inside you.

“Fuck,” he hissed into your mouth, hips stuttering, rhythm breaking as the sensation of his own pleasure finally seized him. His body locked, his dick pulsed hard, and then he spilled deep inside you. The heat of it filled you in thick waves, each twitch of his release pushing more of him into you until the wetness between your thighs grew hotter and heavier, dripping down his shaft. His mouth stayed pressed to yours, swallowing your cries, even as his own ragged groans slipped free against your tongue.

He hadn’t meant to. He knew better. He knew he was supposed to pull out, to keep this sin from planting deeper than flesh. But caught up in the tight clutch of your pussy, the taste of your kiss, the way your body shook around him… he forgot. By the time he realized, it was too late. His baby batter was already buried in you, hot and unrelenting, claiming what he had no right to claim.

“Shit,” he rasped, forehead pressing to yours, his chest heaving like a man who’d run out of prayers. “Shit. Shit! Goddamn it.” He cursed again under his breath, over and over, jaw clicking as sweat dripped from his temple. But he didn’t pull out. His dick remained rooted deep, still semi-hard inside your twitching walls, holding you full, keeping the evidence of his mistake right where it didn’t belong.

Your body quaked against him, sore and overstimulated, but the feel of him still inside left you feeling marked, branded and owned.

Smoke shut his eyes tight, grinded his teeth down and muttered a bitter prayer like it could undo what he had just done. His chest rose and fell like bellows before he shifted, his arms tightening beneath your thighs as he lowered you. Your feet hit the floor unsteadily and your legs wobbled so badly they gave out. You sank to your knees, your cheek brushing against the coarse fabric of his trousers before you tilted your face up towards him. He loomed over you, his muscular frame filling the dim space, eyes shadowed and sharp with judgment. The muscles in his cheeks twitched and he didn’t speak at first, he just looked down at you like a man weighing damnation in his hands.

Then his hand reached, rough fingers threading into your sweated out hair, gripping the back of your head firmly. He guided you forward, pressing your lips to the mess you left on his dick. You didn’t wait for instruction. Your mouth opened obediently, tongue sliding over the slick length, cleaning the mix of his release and your own ruin from him with lustful licks. The salt and musk filled your senses, and with each flick of your tongue, he hardened again in your mouth, thick and swelling against your lips.

A primal sound escaped him, a mixture of half satisfaction and half repulsion. “Do you even know,” he rasped, voice low and biting, “what kinda sin you just partook in?”

You looked up at him with hazy eyes, lips stretched around the weight of him. Your answer was muffled. Nothing but a helpless whimper and nod around his dick.

He sucked his teeth, grip tightening in your hair as his hips shifted forward, pushing deeper onto your tongue. “That was a slip up,” he mumbled, more to himself than you, his tone rough with annoyance and lust. “Can’t be lettin’ seed spill where it don’t belong. Not in you. Not when I’m meant to serve the Lord.”

Your throat flexed around him, taking the deeper thrusts, tears welling in your eyes as he held you there. His gaze stayed locked to your face, watching the way your lips clung, the wet shine smeared over your chin.

“Means I’m gon’ have to train you some more, little lamb,” he went on, his voice harsh and loaded with intent. His hips pressed closer, dick sliding against the back of your tongue as he spoke through clenched teeth. “Gon’ have to use that other hole. The one that won’t bring no children in this world.”

You whimpered again, your body seizing at his words even as your mouth stayed devoted to its dick. His thumb stroked your jaw, almost gentle, though the look in his eyes was anything but.

“I’m a man of God,” he said, tone sharp. “Ain’t meant to father no child. Ain’t meant to leave no mark of flesh behind. But you…” He grunted as your throat squeezed around him, his voice breaking on the edge of desire. “You my perfect vessel. You gon’ do as I tell you. Give me every part of that body so I can let loose without fear.”

His grip in your hair yanked harder, forcing your gaze up as your lips stretched wider, mouth filled with the thickness of him. “That means you gon take me where I put you. Every time. No question.”

Your throat bobbed around him in obedience, your lips wet and swollen from the weight of his sinful command. The rough grip in your hair never eased, his calloused hand guiding your mouth along him until your jaw ached and your lips glistened with spit and seed. Smoke’s breath dragged through his chest, a hoarse sound breaking free as he tilted his head back, the sinews of his throat flexing with restraint. His hips shifted, pressing forward, making you take every inch of him down to the root until your throat clenched tightly around his girth.

“You gon’ learn somethin’ ‘bout men like me,” he whispered. His eyes dropped back to yours, burning and merciless. “One load don’t never satisfy. Not a man built the way I am. Not with this much wickedness in my veins.”

Your tears streaked down your cheeks, mixing with the spit that dripped on his dick. He pulled free suddenly, the heavy weight smearing across your cheek, dragging up to your temple, then down over your lips until you could taste him without even opening your mouth. The scent of him coated your skin like oil, hot and humiliating, and still your pussy ached desperately for more.

Smoke grunted, amused by the way your tongue darted out on instinct to lick at the salt left on your lips. “Back in my younger days,” he said, words grinding through strained teeth, “I’d go for hours. Hours, girl. Fillin’ women over an over ‘til they cried they couldn’t take no moe’. I’d lay in they beds ‘til the sun was high an their bellies full of me, an even then, I wasn't finished. I’d cum ‘til my well ran dry.”

He pressed the thick length against your face again, dragging it over your chin, smearing the sticky sheen across your skin like a mark. His voice dropped lower and harder. “But I’m righteous now. I ain’t that man no more. So I’ll teach you gradually. Train you till you can take four of mine in a session without fallin’ to pieces. That’s gon’ be ya burden. An ya blessin’.”

Your moan slipped out before you could choke it back. He chuckled darkly at the sound, his calloused fingers tapping against your cheek almost like a pat of mock approval.

“An when I give, you gon’ give thanks.” His words carried the weight of a commandment. “Every drop I put in you, every stain I leave on that pretty skin, you gon’ bow that beautiful head of yours an tell me ‘thank you’.”

He shoved his dick forward again, sliding it wet across your cheekbones, your nose, your lips, until the filth was painted over your face. Then he held it still, looming above you, his shadow devouring the dim light of the closet. “Now, tend to my balls,” he ordered, pushing your head lower.

Your lips found the heavy weight of him, tender flesh already tight from use. You licked and sucked obediently, tongue tracing the ridge while your fingers stroked the slick shaft above. His groan rumbled through the close air, his hips flexing, his hand tightening cruel in your hair as he rocked against your touch.

“Mm. That’s it,” he rasped, voice jagged with strain. “Take care of me proper. Like a good holy slut.”

Your mouth worked dutifully, the tangy taste of his skin and the heat of him overwhelming your senses until your jaw started tensing from holding him steady. He swelled heavy in your grasp, his dick throbbing with the promise of release. Then he yanked your head back. You gasped, lips parting, and in that instant he spilled again, thick ropes of white streaking across your face, painting your forehead, cheeks and mouth. The mess clung hot, dripping down your chin, burning your skin with its weight.

Smoke stood above you, chest rising and falling like a man who had wrestled heaven itself and won. His eyes bore down into yours, sharp, demanding. “Now,” he grunted, “thank me. Thank me for the two I done gave you already.”

Shame and heat tangled in your chest, but your lips parted, trembling. “Thank you, Sir… thank you.” But your hunger betrayed you and the words tumbled out soft and pleading before you could stop them. “Please… more.”

That was when his gaze hardened, the softness of lust vanishing, replaced by the steel mask of Father Elijah. His hand dropped from your hair, his jaw set, and his voice cut clean, colder than stone. “You too lustful,” he said, the cadence of a sermon rolling from his tongue. “Beggin’ for what you don’t deserve. I done given what the Lord allowed, an still you crave more like a damn glutton.”

He stepped back, adjusting his collar and fixing his pants, his expression stripped of desire, leaving only judgment. “I got souls that need tendin’ to. Work of God waits. Not ya filthy hunger.”

The air outside the closet hit you like a slap, cooler and thinner than the stifling dark you had just left behind. Your legs trembled as you staggered into the hall, your body still sticky, your skin still carrying the wet weight of his release. The stone corridor seemed to mock you with its silence. Every footstep you took echoed like an accusation, and still his voice rang in your head… too lustful… glutton… work of God waits.

You slipped into the washroom before any of the Sisters could see. The basin water was cold, biting at your raw cheeks and tender skin as you scrubbed frantically. Each swipe of the cloth smeared more than it erased, spreading the mess until your reflection in the warped mirror stared back with your eyes brimming and lips swollen from service. You pressed harder, teeth gritted and anger building beneath the shame.

You weren’t mad about the act itself because you agreed to be 100% his, you were mad because this wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair that he could shove you to your knees, fill your mouth, your body, your very thoughts with his hunger and then step away cloaked in righteousness while you were left ruined. He told you to be grateful, to thank him for every drop, yet when you whispered for more, he shielded himself in holy armor and casted you off like temptation itself. His rules bent always to his need, never yours. He indulged, he decided, he judged. And you… you obeyed like a good little lamb.

You continued to clean yourself until the water turned cloudy and your face burned raw. When you finally lifted your head, the mirror showed a girl stripped of dignity but not of fire. Something inside you simmered. It wasn’t enough to defy him outright, but enough to harden your spine as you wrung the cloth dry and left the basin behind.

The church stretched long and hot under the afternoon sun. Dust motes swirled like restless spirits in the shafts of light that poured through the windows. You carried the bucket and rag back to the pews, your body aching from use and your chest knotting with irritation. The wood smelled of polish and old incense as the floor creaked with every careful step. You bent low again, scrubbing, but this time you fixed your gaze hard on the grain of the wood, refusing to let your thoughts drift to the man behind the collar.

Just like always, you heard him before you saw him. His boots paced slowly near the pulpit while his baritone voice carried through the air as he rehearsed verses under his breath. The scripture rolled over you, sharp and steady, a reminder that his mouth could shape holy words just as easily as it had shaped filth against your skin. Each syllable scraped across your raw nerves until you forced yourself to shift down the row, keeping a safe distance and keeping your eyes lowered.

Hours bled away like candle wax. The heat grew thicker, pressing sweat along your back, making your somewhat modest dress cling tighter to your curves. You scrubbed the pews, polished the altar rails, and fetched fresh candles from the storeroom.You quietly completed your tasks without letting your gaze drift toward him. Every time his shadow stretched near, you shifted to another task. Every time his footsteps echoed close, you bent your head lower, hands working faster, and hiding your face.

And yet, no matter how you tried to avoid him, you felt his eyes. From the pulpit, from the back rows, from the side aisles, he was always watching with eyes heavy as judgment. You pretended not to notice, your rag moving in practiced circles, but each glance you caught in the corner of your eye lit the irritation hotter in your chest. He was allowed to look. He was allowed to want. He was allowed to take until he was satisfied. But you, his precious little lamb? You were only ever allowed to be shamed for craving more.

The imbalance between you two festered like a bruise. You scrubbed harder, knuckles whitening, and wood grain biting into your palm. No prayer left your lips that afternoon, no whispered thank-yous, no meek glances toward the man of God. You worked in silence, swallowing your hunger and choking down your resentment, until the shadows in the chapel grew long and the air shifted cool with evening.

By the time you lit the last taper at the altar, your arms ached and your dress was damp with sweat. You stood back, chest rising and falling, your face still flustered with the memory of his seed and his scorn. Smoke lingered in the far pew, one arm draped over the bench, his collar gleaming pale in the fading light against his mocha brown skin. His gaze cut across the nave, dark and stoic, but you didn’t meet it. Not tonight. Instead of acknowledging his presence, you turned, gathered your bucket, and slipped into the side corridor before his voice could call you back.

The church quieted with the fall of evening, the last golden slants of daylight bleeding away through the high windows until only the dim flicker of lamps remained. Supper was served in the small hall, the Sisters setting out bowls of broth and hard bread. Their chatter was faint, the scrape of spoons soft. You sat at the edge of the long table, your hands folded neatly in your lap as your stomach twisted with both hunger and defiance.

When a Sister asked gently why you hadn’t touched your bowl, you forced a thin smile, shaking your head. “Ain’t hungry,” you lied, voice small but steady. You rose before more questions could be pressed, murmured some excuse about weariness, and slipped away while the others bowed their heads in prayer over their meal.

The corridor back to your quarters stretched long, lit only by the dim sconces nailed into stone. The air smelled of wax and wood polish, carrying the faint trace of incense that still clung to the rafters from the noontide service. You moved quickly, your dress brushing your ankles, eager to vanish into your room before he could notice your absence… But he was already waiting.

Smoke stood in the shadows near the side arch, broad shoulders filling the narrow alcove. His clerical collar caught the faintest glint of lamplight, stark against the black of his shirt. His arms were folded across his chest with his stance deceptively calm, but his eyes tracked every step you took.

You faltered for a second when you saw him, but immediately began quickening your pace and ducked your head low with hopes that maybe, just maybe, you could slip past him. Apparently God was clocked out for the evening because you didn’t even make it three steps.

Smoke’s hand shot out, catching you at the elbow and spinning you firmly until your back met the cool stone wall. The impact stole your breath away as his other hand lifted, rough fingers gripping your chin, forcing your gaze upward until you met the judgment of his stare.

“You needa’ eat,” he said, his voice full of authority,  leaving no room for excuses.

Your jaw tightened under his grip and your eyes narrowed with the smallest flicker of rebellion. “Don’t have to,” you whispered, the words bitter on your tongue. It was the only power you felt left with that small refusal, that sliver of control.

Smoke’s thumb pressed harder against your chin, his gaze narrowing. “Don’t test me, little girl.” His voice dropped even lower, the southern drawl thick as it scraped against your ears. “Ya’ soul under my spiritual care. Every sin, every thought, every cry for mercy… you gon’ answer to me for that.”

His face dipped closer, his breath warm and his eyes unflinching. “An that body,” he continued, his tone unyielding, “that’s under my physical care. Which mean when it’s hungry, I make sure it’s fed. When it’s weak, I make sure it’s strong. You don’t get to starve what belong to me.”

The words hit your ears like shackles snapping closed. His hand stayed fast on your chin, his grip tilting your face higher until your spine arched against the wall. The iron certainty in his voice left no room for rebellion, yet the spark of irritation still burned hot in your chest. You wanted to push back, to spit out that it wasn’t fair, that he fed himself freely while shaming you for craving more. But the weight of his stare and the hard press of his fingers on your skin pinned the words in your throat.

Smoke didn’t waste another breath on you once he had you cornered. His hand left your chin only long enough to wrap around your arm and pull you down the hall. His boots struck the floor in heavy beats with his silence louder than any sermon as he reached your door. He pushed it open, ushered you inside with a rough tug, and shut it behind you.

“Stay put,” he ordered, voice sharp, the command ringing final. He didn’t give you a chance to argue before he disappeared again, his shadow slipping back down the corridor.

You stood in the dim room, heart hammering, fists tight against your dress. Your little cot waited in the corner, the air faint with candle wax and soap, and all you could do was pace around relentlessly. When the door creaked again, he returned with a plate in one hand and mason jar in the other. The smell of stew rose into the room, warm and rich, making your stomach twist with both hunger and resistance.

He set both down on a little side table, then straightened, his eyes cutting toward you. “Eat.”

Your lips parted, the beginnings of refusal curling up your tongue. “I don’t—”

The look he gave you cut the words off clean. His jaw was set, his gaze iron. There was no give in him, no softness. The message was clear, he would not repeat himself.

You swallowed the lump in your throat and slowly picked up the plate. The broth sloshed and the bread looked harder than stone, but you lifted it to your hands all the same. You turned, ready to sink onto the edge of the cot and choke it down, but his hand shot out, catching your arm before you could bend.

“Stand,” he said. “Eat like that.”

Confusion rippled through you, but the stern weight of his voice left no space for questioning. You obeyed, shoulders stiff as you balanced the plate in your hands.

Behind you, the sound of fabric shifting broke the silence. Then the creak of wood as he lowered himself to his knees. Your body froze, breath shallow, until the sudden lift of your dress made your heart lurch. The cool air kissed the backs of your thighs, your bare skin exposed as his large hands spread the fabric higher, baring you inch by inch.

You stiffened when the first touch landed and his fingers, slick with ointment, pressed against the bruised swell of your backside. The cooling salve spread over your tender skin, easing the sting, the ache, the fire. His hands moved slowly as he kneaded the softness of your flesh, smoothing the balm across every mark he had left.

The sensation pulled a shaky breath from your chest, but you lifted the spoon to your lips anyway, forcing down a mouthful of broth.

Smoke’s hands slid lower, broad palms gliding over the curve of your ass and down the backs of your thighs. The ointment trailed after his touch, leaving a cooling path that chased away the soreness. He worked with patient thoroughness, fingers spreading the salve in firm strokes, down to the bend of your knees, back up to the tops of your thighs.

When he reached between them, your body jolted. The slickness of his fingers brushed your swollen folds, and you flinched, your plate rattling faintly in your hands.

“Shhh,” he cooed, voice softer now, steady as stone but layered in something gentler. His hand steadied your hip while the other traced careful, delicate lines along your core, the balm easing over tender flesh. Heat stirred despite yourself. The ointment cooled, but his fingertips pulled bubbling pleasure and teasing wetness from your body. Your spoon paused halfway to your lips, fighting the tremor building low in your belly.

He didn’t taunt or scold you about how you sensitively reacted to his touch. His silence was its own kind of torment, broken only by the sound of him shifting lower. The brush of his lips landed next, calculated kisses against the inside of your thighs. Featherlight, patient and tender in a way that made your chest ache.

You faltered again, spoon lowering, hunger forgotten in the haze of sensation.

The sharp pat of his palm against your ass snapped you back into reality. “Keep eatin’,” he grunted, voice rough near your skin. “Ain’t done till that plate clean.”

Your stomach twisted and your chest tightened with the weight of obedience. With trembling hands, you lifted the spoon again, forcing broth past your lips while his mouth moved against your thighs, while his fingers worked the ointment in careful circles over your most private flesh. The mingling of command and care bounded you in a way words never could as you were fed by his order, touched by his hand, and silenced by his presence. 

And all the while, the plate in your hands grew lighter, the room filled with the sounds of quiet eating, quiet breath, and the low, steady devotion of this self proclaimed man of God on his knees behind you. His mouth worked with merciless patience, each flick of his tongue dragging shivers down your spine. You bit back a yelp when you felt him kiss your untouched tight chocolate ring of muscle again and again, as though he meant to consecrate it with every press of his lips.

Your legs quivered and the almost empty plate shook in your hands. Every time you thought you couldn’t take more, his tongue pressed deeper, teasing, tasting and forcing your body to betray you with the wet heat spilling lower.

“You heard me, little lamb?” he groaned, his voice vibrating against you as his tongue flicked sharp and quick. “You gon’ take me here tonight. Tight as you is, stubborn as you been, Imma stretch you ‘til you shaped to me.” He kissed you again, wetter this time, his words hot against your skin. “An I promise… I’ll make it feel good. So good you gon’ beg for more like a proper jezebel ‘til mornin’.”

Your head dropped, plate tilting dangerously, a whimper caught between your teeth. The shame, the pleasure and the command, it all tangled inside until you thought you might spill from the inside out. At last, he pulled back and the loss of his mouth left your skin tingling and twitching as your body swayed. His hands smoothed over your cheeks once more, a final rub of ointment, then he stood.

“Enough,” he said. The word carried no harshness, just finality. He plucked the plate from your hands, set it on the table, and wiped your thighs with a cool cloth until the dampness of his attention was gone. The motions were brisk and practical, but his touch still lingered where the cloth passed, as though he wanted the memory of his hands to remain when the wetness was gone.

When he was satisfied with his cleanup, he reached for your dress and pulled it over your head, baring you to the dim glow of the lamplight. His eyes raked down your body, hard and silent, but his hands were steady, folding the dress and setting it aside as if every act, no matter how intimate, was an extension of his control.

Your bare feet brushed the wooden floor as you stood there, heat prickling along your skin beneath his gaze. Last night’s memories flashed sharp in your mind, your body still ached from it, your thighs still marked. 

Smoke’s jaw flexed as he bit down on his bottom lip, eyes darkening, his silence heavier than any sermon. At last, his hand closed around your wrist again and pulled you forward. “Every night,” he said, his voice low and carved from stone, “you gon’ keep my body warm. That’s ya’ duty now. An you gon’ be grateful for every single thing I give to you. ‘Member that.”

He guided you to your cot and pressed you to sit on its narrow edge. The springs groaned under your weight, the thin blanket scratchy against your bare skin. He stood before you, his tall frame shadowing the lamplight, and began stripping himself down. Each piece of clothing landed on a nearby chair in steady order—collar, shirt, slacks—until at last he stood bare before you, carved muscle glinting in dim light, his manhood already thick and swelling with promise.

Your breath hitched, but you didn’t wait for any instructions. You leaned forward, taking him into your mouth, your lips wrapping around him like you had been secretly waiting all day to taste him again. His hiss escaped through clenched teeth, his hand sliding into your hair as your tongue worked along his length. You bobbed lower, deeper, saliva spilling from your lips as you sucked him hard, your devotion frantic.

Smoke groaned low, the sound torn from his chest, his hips flexing toward your face. Harder and harder he grew in your mouth until he was stiff as a board, veins pulsing beneath your tongue. By the time you pulled back, breathless, he was harder than diamond and every inch of him was ready to split you wide open.

You wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, panting, then leaned back on the cot, eyes locking with his. “Why,” you whispered, voice quaking but insistent, “why ain’t it okay for me to ask for more?”

His face hardened instantly, gaze like fire and iron. “‘Cause them desires you got,” he said slowly, “they rooted in lust. An lust is poison.”

He stepped closer, looming over you, his shadow stretching until you were swallowed in it. His hand caught your chin again, tilting your face up so you couldn’t look away. “I’m ya’ spiritual leader,” he continued, his words biting as scripture. “It’s my duty to carve that poison out this body. Not feed it. Not let you drown in it.”

His grip tightened. “I’ll give what’s necessary. I’ll take what’s mine. But ya hunger—” his thumb brushed against your trembling lips, smearing spit and pre-seed—“that ain’t nun’ but a sickness. An I aim to cure it.”

Your lips parted, words tiptoeing on your tongue, desperate to make sense of his reasoning. How could it be sin for you to crave more when he was the one who demanded it of you, who split you open again and again, who filled you until you shook? You wanted to argue, to rationalize, to make him see the contradiction in his gospel of flesh.

But before you could string the thoughts together, his hand was already pressing against your shoulder, guiding you down. “On your stomach,” he ordered, voice quiet and final.

You obeyed, turning until your chest met the rough blanket of the cot. The scratch of fabric against your skin bit into you as you stretched out flat, the narrow bed too small for comfort and way too tight for escape. The lamplight flickered dim against the stone walls, throwing his shadow long over your body as he positioned himself behind you.

Your heart pounded as his hands gripped your hips, lifting them just enough to angle you the way he wanted. He spread you open again, baring every vulnerable inch to the cool air, his calloused thumbs pressing into the softness of your ass until your body quivered.

The mason jar cracked open again, the scent of the ointment rising sharp and clean. His fingers dipped, then returned slick, cool liquid dripping as he rubbed it slowly between your cheeks. He worked it into the tender ring he had teased before, spreading the salve with patience. His touch circled, pressed, withdrew, and returned, until the place that had once clenched tight began to yield beneath the steady coaxing of his hands.

“Good,” he muttered, almost to himself, his voice a gravelly hum. “You openin’ already.”

Your nails curled into the blanket, your breath shallow as you tried to hold still. The coolness of the ointment soothed, but every stroke of his fingers sparked a new shiver. You bit the inside of your cheek, torn between fear and anticipation, the echo of his promise haunting your ears… You gon’ take me here tonight.

His touch grew more insistent, sliding lower, then back again, alternating between the folds of your honeypot and the tighter ring above. He circled, pressed, teased until your thighs trembled, until the slickness he found below betrayed you, mixing with the balm and easing his work.

You flinched when his fingertip finally pressed harder, nudging against the resistance. A whimper slipped free before you could choke it down.

“Shhh.” His voice soothed, calm but commanding. His free hand smoothed over your back, his calloused palm dragging down the curve of your spine in slow strokes. “Ain’t here to completely break you. I’m gon’ make sure you feel good.”

The cot creaked as he leaned closer, his lips brushing your shoulder, his breath warm against your ear. “Trust me,” he whispered, his finger still working in gentle, patient circles. “Trust me to guide you through it.” The words burrowed deep, your body betraying you with the heat gathering between your thighs, the way your hips lifted unconsciously into his touch.

“There she go,” he said softly, the warmth in his voice edged with dark satisfaction. “You startin’ to open up for me. Be good an let me in.”

His fingertip pressed again, firmer this time, and the initial resistance gave just slightly, a small and tight give beneath the pressure. The sensation was foreign and overwhelming, nothing like the stretch of his fingers inside your pussy, nothing like anything you had prepared yourself to feel. It was deep in a different way. Invasive in a way that made your breath stutter and your toes curl into the blanket.

“Oh—” The sound escaped you before you could catch it.

“Breathe,” he ordered, voice low. “Don’t tense up on me now. You breathe through it.”

You forced air out through parted lips, and as you exhaled, the tight ring of muscle yielded another fraction beneath his patient insistence. He groaned softly behind you like a man who hadn’t expected something like this to turn his brain woozy with lust. He removed his finger slowly, reaching back into the jar, coating his fingers more thoroughly before returning with slicker, more generous pressure.

This time his fingertip slipped fully inside you with ease. You cried out into the blanket beneath you, not because of pain but from the feeling of this forbidden intrusion that was driving you mad. The feeling was completely different from how he filled your core.

Smoke stilled completely. His hand on your back steadied. “You good?” His voice was gravel-rough but stripped of cruelty for a rare moment.

“I—” Your voice cracked. “I-I don’t know.”

“You gon’ be fine,” he said. No room for argument. But his finger didn’t push deeper. It held right there, letting your body adjust to the first couple inches of invasion, letting the muscle shudder and contract and slowly begin to accept the intrusion. The ointment made the stretch bearable. The warmth of his hand on your lower back kept you grounded.

When he began to move, barely a fraction, a slow coaxing in and out at that shallow depth, the sound that left your mouth sounded like music to his ears.

“That’s it,” he said, his voice dropping back into that low, husked register of command. “There she go. Body don’t lie, little lamb.”

He worked the first finger until your whimpers softened and the tension in your thighs released by a small but measurable degree. Only then did he withdraw, slick his fingers again, and return with the deliberate stretch of two. The burn was immediate and sharp. Like a bright, stinging flare that radiated outward and made you jerk forward.

“Don’t run,” he said, catching your hip with his other hand and hauling you back into place. “You stay right where I put you.”

You buried your face in the blanket and gripped the edges until your knuckles ached. Two fingers inside your asshole felt humanly impossible, yet somewhere beneath the burn, beneath the stretch and the fullness lingered a raw vulnerability of being opened somewhere so private. And beneath that vulnerability lay a humming warmth that had no business being there. Your body wept with arousal despite itself, slicking the insides of your thighs, betraying you utterly.

Smoke saw your juices dripping from your needy pussy and groaned to himself. “Looka here,” he muttered, his free hand dragging two fingers through your soaked folds, gathering the mess you couldn’t hide. He sounded almost reluctantly impressed. “Here I am stretchin’ out this tight little hole, an’ this pretty pussy drippin’ like a summer storm.”

You whimpered, too far gone for shame.

He scissored his fingers inside you and slowly spread them inside of you, causing a sound to rip from your throat that you didn’t recognize as your own voice. The stretch in your puckered starfish widened, burned, and throbbed in waves that rolled up your back and down your thighs. But his other hand never left your core, his fingers sliding against you, circling, easing, and giving your body somewhere else to focus its overwhelmed nerve endings.

“You doin’ so good,” Smoke’s words were quiet and entirely unlike him, stripped of mockery. He was watching you like he understood that what he was asking of you was enormous, and that you were giving it anyway because you were his and only his.

After a minute or two he withdrew his fingers completely from both of your holes. You heard him shift behind you, then the wet sound of the jar again, and finally something else… his palm working against his throbbing erection, slicking his length with ointment in long, measured strokes. The sound of it made your breath go ragged.

“I need you to stay real still for me,” he said. “Can you do that?”

You nodded into the blanket, your whole body quivering under his attention.

That nod was enough confirmation for Smoke to continue as he pressed the thickness of his glistening tip against your fluttering ring of muscle. You were well aware that your chocolate starfish would be the hole that would be filled to the brim and prepared yourself mentally for the intrusion… or so you had thought. The reality of that flushed head of his nudging against the place his fingers had only just begun to open caused your body to involuntarily lock up.

“Breathe,” he said again. His hands gripped your hips as he used his thumbs to rotate soothing circles into your flesh. “Out slow. An’ stay with me.”

You closed your eyes and exhaled as he pressed forward.

The first breach happened slowly, but he was so enormous the motion stole every single thought from your mind. The stretch was unlike anything you’ve felt up until this point. Unlike his fingers, unlike the fullness of him inside your pussy, unlike any sensation your body could’ve ever conjured up on its own. It was burning and overwhelming, and your body’s natural resistance kept fighting him even as the patient pressure of him continued inward.

You made another sound you had never made before as your fingers shredded the blanket beneath you and your thighs shook violently.

“Shhh… shhhh… You takin’ it,” Smoke cooed, his voice strained, and control fraying at the edges. He was doing his best to keep up a facade of indifference but he felt everything your body was doing around him: the grip, the heat, the impossibly tight squeeze of you fighting and yielding in turns. His jaw was clenched so hard the muscles in his neck corded beneath the skin. “Great God almighty,” he breathed, and it wasn’t a prayer. It was pure, unfiltered sensation dragging words out of a man who prided himself on silence.

He pushed forward another inch. You sobbed openly, face pressed into the blanket, tears soaking into the fabric as the stretch flared into a radiating burn.

“I know,” he said roughly, his hand releasing your hip to slide around to your lower belly, grounding you. “I know. You doin’ good. You hear me? You doin’ real good.”

He held still inside you, just the first few inches of him seated in the tight heat of your body, and let you feel it. Let your muscles shudder around him, let the initial shock of the breach settle from screaming into something bearable. His hand on your lower belly pressed more soft soothing circles, until his thumb grazed lower and the brush of his fingers against your swollen clit made your hips jerk violently.

“Oh—!” You choked, the sensation crashing into you from two directions at once. The fullness and pressure of him seated inside your ass, and the electric, sudden shock of stimulation against the front of you.

“There it is,” he said, the strain in his voice tipping into something lascivious. “That’s what I wanna hear, babygirl.” His fingers circled again as he relished in the way your body responded immediately, how the clench around him deepened, and the wet heat of you bloomed against his hand. He exhaled hard through his nose. “My perfect lil’ Jezebel. Know how to balance pain an pleasure when somebody bother to help it.”

A couple more experimental rubs against your pulsating clit and he began to move. It was barely anything at first, just a shallow, rocking pull and press, barely an inch drawn back before he returned. His movements were patient and utterly methodical. Nothing like the savage rhythm he took with your core. This was different. It was like he operated with full control in a way that cost him something, because your body felt like heaven around him and every instinct he had was screaming to take… take… take… but he didn’t… not yet.

He continued circling your overworked bundle of nerves and rocked into you as he let the sensation build from the bottom up. Your walls fluttered helplessly around him, your breath fragmented into tiny desperate pieces, and the burn of the stretch transfigured steadily into something impossible to name.

“You a heaven sent slut. You know that?" he murmured, low against your ear as he bent over you, his chest barely grazing your sweat drenched back. “Both places singin’ for me at the same time.”

You nodded, your voice entirely gone, replaced by soft, continuous sounds that spilled out of you with every shallow thrust. You weren’t prepared for how full it felt. Couldn’t have imagined how the pressure of him inside you from that angle sent sensation ricocheting through your whole body and how every small movement he made reverberated outward, amplified by the tight hold of muscle around him.

When he withdrew almost entirely you felt every ridge, every inch of him dragging back, and your mouth fell open at the sensation… and then he spit. The sound was explicit and the warm, wet press of it landed directly against your stretched entrance, dripping down to mix with the ointment.

He stroked himself with one hand, slow and indulgent, his knuckles grazing the cleft of your ass as he selfishly worked his length in his hand and took a second to admire what little innocence you had left before completely ruining you. You felt the heat of his eyes on you. On the place his body had just vacated, pink, stretched and gaping, glistening with what he had given you. He made a low sound in his chest. Something possessive and gratified.

“Looka’ you,” he muttered, dragging the pad of his thumb across your stretched entrance, watching it jump around the touch. “Openin’ right up for me. Like you was made for this.” He pressed the head of himself back to your stretched asshole and slid inside again, deeper this time, the second breach easier than the first with the slick his own spit had provided.

The moan that clawed from the center of his chest was guttural and genuine, snagged from somewhere behind his ribs. “Lord forgive me,” he breathed, as his prayer came out wrecked and entirely too late to save him. “Lord have mercy… this ain’t fair… so fuckin’ good...”

He wasn’t speaking to you. He was speaking to whatever divine authority he still believed was listening. He was confessing to God what he was doing to you even while he continued to do it, his hips pressing steadily forward, his fingers finding your clit again with renewed purpose. As he continued to indulge in your body, he realized something that unsettled the priest in him but relieved him as a man. Fucking you this way adsolves him of his sins. This was a door God had intentionally left open for him. A loophole in the law of flesh that would leave him with no child or consequence. Just you and his pleasure.

While his mind continued to rationalize and exculpate his actions, he began to move in earnest with longer strokes. Each one pulled back far enough for you to feel the loss before he pushed forward and reclaimed every inch. His fingers worked against your clit in skilled rhythmic circles, keeping pace with the rock of his hips, giving your overwhelmed body two points of sensation to follow. The burn of the stretch was still there, and would always be there, but beneath it the pleasure had taken root and begun to climb, threading through the pain until the two were indistinguishable.

You heard yourself making sounds that didn’t belong in a house of God. Continuous, helpless sounds that built with every thrust, each one slightly louder than the last. You tried to be quiet. You truly did. You bit the blanket, pressed your face into a nearby pillow and attempted to swallow every cry before it fully formed because somewhere in the back of your dissolving mind you remembered the Sisters sleeping down the hall, remembered what walls in an old church sounded like, and remembered that shame came in the morning even when the night felt like paradise.

But Smoke was making it very hard to stay quiet as he continued to effortlessly take you apart.

He pulled out again, a full withdrawal this time, and you heard him spit again, felt the warm press of it against your gaping, fluttering starfish before his hand worked it in with his fingers, spreading you again, reminding your body that it had already learned to accept him. Reminding himself, too. He stroked his own length with needy pulls, watching the mess he had made of you, watching your body reach blindly backward for what he had taken away.

“Pretty hole beggin’ for moe’,” he said softly, dangerously. “Reachin’ for me. Body screamin’ for what the mouth won’t say.”

He pressed back inside of you deeper this time. His hips finally flush against the curve of your plump backside, every inch of him seated inside you in a way that made your vision go white at the edges.

“Take a breath,” he ordered.

You inhaled on a sob as he moved without holding back. He still refused to drill into your ass the way he drilled into your core, but he definitely wasn’t gentle anymore. Each stroke pressed deep and pulled slow, his fingers against your clit never faltering, never losing the pace he had set. The sensation was overwhelming and it filled your entire body from the inside out. The pressure, fullness, and pleasure were so layered and tangled that your brain couldn’t process it cleanly. It could only receive it in waves that crashed and receded then crashed again.

“You bein’ so good,” he said, the words dragged out rough and quiet, half to himself. “Takin’ it. Takin’ all this dick.”

The praise hit you somewhere unguarded and something warm and helpless spread through your chest despite everything. You had been called a sinner, jezebel, slut, temptation, and everything in between. Hearing Smoke call you ‘good’ in that particular voice, in this particular moment, broke something open in you that none of the other words had reached.

You started to cry. Not from pain.

“I know,” he said, and he didn’t mock you for it.

His fingers worked faster, pressing firmer against your clit, and you felt the pressure building from somewhere catastrophically deep. This wasn’t the same as before, not the gathering tightness you had come to recognize. This orgasm that was bubbling to the surface felt different… it felt bigger… It started at the base of your spine, spread down through your thighs and gathered low in your belly like water behind a dam. Your legs began to shake uncontrollably, in long, rolling tremors that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with what was rising inside you.

“Sir—” Your voice was barely sound. “S-S-Sir, E-Elijah! S-Somethin’s—somethin’s different—I don’t know what—”

“Mhm, I got you,” he said, the steadiness in his voice cutting through the rising panic. “Whatever it is, I got you. Don’t fight it.”

He thrust forward again, deeper than before, his fingers unrelenting, and the dam broke.

This climax felt like your soul levitated from your body, bowed at the feet of God to ask for forgiveness, and then crashed back down into your used vessel as your whole body seized. Your thighs locked, your back bowed deep into Smoke’s chest, your hands clawed at the blanket as every muscle contracted at once, and finally a moan climbed out of your esophagus that you would be ashamed of in the morning. The release that flooded from you was warm and entirely out of your control, soaking the blanket beneath you in a rush that shocked you senseless.

Smoke pulled free of you in one swift motion, and before your still-shuddering body could register the loss, his hand was already shoving your shoulder down into the mattress. He positioned you exactly the way he wanted you, angling your hips higher and tilting you open. 

“Filthy lil holy slut,” he breathed, the words tumbling out rough and unguarded, stripped of the composure he usually kept lashed tight around himself. He said it like a man who hadn’t meant to say it at all. Like it had been dragged out of him by the sight of you, soaked and trembling and spread beneath him. “Looka’ what you done to yaself. Look what you made me do to you.”

He wasted no time as he wiped his length off before pressing into your quivering pussy in one deep, decisive stroke. Your walls gripped him in violent, rhythmic pulses that were still caught in the tail end of your orgasm, your body spilling around him in waves that wrapped his entire dick in slick, impossible heat. He drove forward and held there, jaw locked, eyes squeezed shut, and chest heaving as the sensation worked through him like judgment.

“Fuck… you feel so good,” he breathed. “God — you — little lamb—”

He pulled back and thrust again. And again. The rhythm turned savage almost immediately, his control dissolving in real time, each stroke chasing the clench and the flood of you around him. The wet, obscene sound of your drenched core meeting his hips filled the small room. It was slick, relentless and loud, a filthy percussion that rose above the creak of the cot and the groan of the old floorboards. Every thrust dragged a new sound from your body, the mess he had made of you squelching around his manhood with shameless, slippery evidence of just how thoroughly he had ruined you.

And you were getting loud. Far too loud. Girl be quiet tf.

His hand came down over your mouth before another sound could fully escape, his broad palm sealing your lips, muffling the broken wail that had been building in your chest. He felt it vibrate against his palm anyway and the wet heat of your breath plus the desperate press of your lips drove forward harder.

“Quiet,” he growled, his mouth at your ear, his hips snapping against you with a force that jolted your whole body up the cot. “You know the rules. Wake them Sisters up, I’ll stop. You understand me? You keep that noise right here.” He pressed his palm firmer against your lips, the weight of his hand an anchor as much as a warning. “You cry into my hand like a good girl an take what I’m givin’ you.”

Your nails carved into the blanket. Your thighs kicked uselessly around his waist. You cried into his palm exactly as you were told.

“That’s it,” he rasped, his voice stripped raw. “That’s my good little lamb. This pussy gon’ get use to takin’ this dick real soon.” His free hand pressed flat against your lower belly as he felt the shape of him moving inside you, the obscene fullness he was giving you. “Cooze so good I’ll have to repent ‘til sunrise.”

He stroked harder, the wet slap of his hips against your thighs rising above the muffled sound of your cries. His length dragged across that deep, tender place inside you on every stroke, using the position he had you in to his advantage as he pulled pleasure from you effortlessly. 

“Keep gushin’ for me,” he ordered, his voice cracking around the edges. “Gimme all of it. Every drop of that nasty little flood. You hear me? Don’t you fuckin’ hold it back.”

The pressure building inside you was catastrophic. Again, it started at the base of your spine and spread down through your legs before gathering low in your belly like water behind a dam. The same impossible, unfamiliar pressure from before, rose faster this time, with less warning and your walls began to spasm around him in rapid, frantic pulses.

“S-S-Sir—” The word dissolved against his palm.

“Mhm… I feel it,” he said through his teeth. “I feel you gettin’ close. Give it to me.” He drove forward again, relentless, the soaked, slapping sound of your body taking him filling every corner of the quiet room. “Now.”

The dam broke once more. 

Your whole body convulsed, the muscles in your thighs turned to jelly, and your release flooded out of you in a rush that soaked him completely. From his hips, to his thighs, to the already soaked blanket beneath you. Smoke swore into your neck, the word half prayer and half profanity, his thrusts stuttering as he felt it pouring over him.

“Filthy, gorgeous thing,” he gritted, his rhythm turning erratic. “Drenching me. Makin’ a mess of everything I own.” His voice broke on the last word. “F-FUCK… Can’t — I can’t—”

He quickly pushed you back down into position and pulled free with a sharp and ragged sound. His jaw set with the effort of it, his dick slick and furious from the denial. He stroked himself twice, three times, fast without stopping, and then pressed the head of himself back to your stretched, tender asshole. The intrusion was swift and purposeful. He seated himself there with a punishing grunt, burying himself just deep enough, and released ropes of his hot sticky seed. 

The groan that crawled from the depths of his core sounded completely undone. He held himself there, his forehead dropping to the back of your shoulder, his body shuddering through each pulse of his release as he emptied inside the tight heat of you. His hand pressed flat against your lower back, keeping you angled, keeping you still and open as he finished.

When the last twitch faded, he carefully pulled from out of you. He reached for the nearby cloth, wiped the tip of himself clean in a single brisk pass and then pressed back into your swollen pussy without preamble.

You sobbed at the sudden invasion, the sound muffled against the blanket.

“One more,” he said. His voice was quiet and absolute. “You gon’ give me one more.”

He fucked you with single-minded focus as his hips rolled in tight and precise angled strokes. His hand slipped beneath you to find your clit again and his fingers circled with relentless, practiced pressure. Your walls were spasming still from the last orgasm, hypersensitive and trembling around him, your body threatening to combust entirely at the slightest push.

“Look at how easy,” he muttered, watching your hips jerk against his hand, watching your legs shake around him. “Body already right there. All swollen up an’ stupid for me. Can’t even pretend you don’t want it.”

Your voice had given up on words entirely. You shook your head against the pillow and your hips rolled backward into him anyway, your body betraying every last pretense you had left.

The third orgasm crested with almost no warning forcing your mouth to fall open in a silent scream as the flood broke from you a final time. Smoke hissed through his teeth, his dick driving through the convulsing clench of your walls, prolonging it, pulling more from you than you thought your body had left to give. The soaked, ruined blanket beneath you bore witness to every shudder.

When your convulsing dimmed down to a subtle tremble he pulled free and his hand wrapped around his length, already working himself back up to his second orgasm. Before your spinning mind could process what was happening, he was already repositioning your body on your back and moving. He climbed up your body, his knees bracketing your ribs as he repositioned himself above you. His heavy sack settled low, hovering just above your mouth, the heat of him radiating against your lips.

“Open,” he said, looking down at you with dark, molten eyes. “You know what to do.”

And you did as you opened your mouth, your tongue finding the soft, drawn weight of him, licking and suckling with the last reserves of devotion you had left. He groaned quietly above you as his thighs flexed and his hand continued working his length in long measured strokes. You worshipped him with your mouth the way he had never allowed himself to be worshipped by anyone in ten long years, and you did it without being told twice.

“Good girl,” he breathed, the words falling loose from his lips in a way he hadn’t intended. “My good… filthy little lamb.”

His hand worked faster, his breath turning ragged, the muscles in his stomach pulling tight above you. When his thighs tensed and his grip shifted, you heard the change in his breathing that meant he was close and without warning his hand fisted in your hair. He yanked your head forward, tilting your face up, and drove into your open, waiting mouth with two short, sharp thrusts that made your eyes water and your throat work around him.

He came with an animalistic groan that he swallowed mostly into silence as his length pulsed against your tongue, flooding the back of your throat with heat and salt. The overflow spilled from your lips, streaking warm down your chin, dripping to your throat and chest as he drew back and finished against your open mouth and face, painting the last of his seed across your cheekbone and lips.

He held you there for a moment, his fist still loose in your hair, breathing like a man who had just survived something. When he finally decided to release you, you laid exactly where he left you. You were entirely undone, your chest was heaving and thighs were soaked and glistening as you looked up at him through heavy glossy eyes.

Smoke looked down at you and the lamplight caught the lines of his face. He studied the ruin of you with something that moved behind his expression too quickly to name before he locked it away again. Before you could question him, he reached for the cloth once more and cleaned your face like you were a precious jewel and not a vessel of pleasure. He cleaned your chin, your cheek, and your throat. The same hands that had just destroyed you did a 180 and carefully tended to you like you actually meant something to him beyond the physical. 

When he was done, he set the cloth aside and looked at you one last time.

“You took two,” he said. His voice was way too calm and composed as if he had simply completed a task. “You gon’ learn to take all of that an more without fallin’ to pieces.”

He reached down and pulled your soiled blanket off of your cot before reaching for a nearby spare and covering your shivering body with it.

“Sleep,” he said. “You gon’ need it.“​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

.

.

.

.

.

.

Author's Note: Wowzers I am on a roll. I'm the dice. Teehee

[neighbourscat]

pervy!ex boyfriend cameron cade . . . must apologize. something icky has seriously come over him. he shouldn’t’ve gone back. but how could he not when those shorts looked like that? [inspired by joe goldberg & his oddness.] first. second. third.

and around 4:10pm, cameron cade is right where he has to be. in bed. your bed. it was . . . a pretty short story. he saw the email pop up from amielle, bolded in the subject line: URGENT!! MUST GO SHOPPING!! so, yeah. he rushed back to his tree and you were on the move, heading toward the student parking lot to meet your friend group. really, he should thank those girls for getting you out of the way and out of those itty bitty shorts. he owed them, big time.

. . . before getting in your twin xl though, he grabbed your computer and sank into the teal beanbag and smells your ladybug socks and sips cold hibiscus tea from your polka mug. cameron checks through your browser history. he wasn’t looking for any in particular, he just wanted to take a quick glance about.

and as he takes another sip of that cold tea, he sees those teeny tinies. that’s what he’d come for. them right there. but also, your panty drawer. he snatched a pair, any pair, from your beautiful stockpile and rolled it into his pocket for safekeeping. . . . for another night’s fist-session.

by 4:30pm, he’s using his cum as a lubricant to keep jerking his heavy cock through the now-sticky cloth of your shorts. eye-lids low and panting up a storm, there’s not a single thought in his head aside from exploding once more. he’s so sensitive, yet cock still throbbing and swollen with blood. he immediately misses the sensation of your sweeter, much softer hands.

he’s savouring the first few proper strokes, then quickening pace to comfortably ease into gratification from gentle teasing. “ffucck-uhh.” his head tipped lazily, your fluffy pillows catching him.

“yee-s . . . babybabybaby- hnng- “. he goes non-verbal here, twitching and just a mess of incoherent babbling and whimpers of your beautiful name. he wants you. so bad. he wants you to finish him off. your mouth. fuck- your mouth. he wants to fuck your mouth, and watch you swallow his love. you’d do that for him, right? you still loved him, you’d do it. you would and you’d enjoy it. “shhit, babyplease,” his deep voice quivered. “pleasepleasepleasepleasee.”

now, he does loooong strokes, base to tip, adding a twist at the slimy mushroom head. cameron opens his eyes and watches how the material darkens with each disgusting pass. he tightens his grip a tad, unable to hold back a guttural groan. his toes are curling and his eyes were rolling to the ceiling. he bucked, drilling into his fist- which should be your pretty mouth.

. . . that would be incredibly hot. and nasty. and you’d be so bothered and squirming, because he’s just too big. then he’d say, you’re doin’ so good, my baby. makin’me feel sofuckin’ good. shiiit- keep doin’ what you’re doin’nd i’ll pump a baby in you. and you’d stop, because that’ll sound like a threat? a serious threat. but cameron’ll tssk and guide your head back down, fingers at the corners of your mouth. helping where he could, like a good boyfriend. husband. a good husband! relax, not yet, baby. but he thought about it . . . spilling his seed . . . every time you laid back and opened your legs.

and his hands’ll find the back of your neck to hold you in place . . . while he abused your throat in a delicious, lazy grind. and you’ll be moaning and slurping and grinning at the way he praises you. it would be very rude of him and borderline criminal if he even tried to blink away the tears. you’d moan once more, sending a strong buzz through his body and he’d shoot the roof of your mouth, flooding all over your pink tongue.

swallow, baby. pleaseplease swallow, please. and you would, with a loud gulp. couldn’t be denied. and you’d stick out your tongue for confirmation. fuckbaby, and he’d give you anything- whatever you wanted. everything you wanted. he’d provide.

and when the ghost of you disappears, cameron is shivering. his cock protests now that he’s stopped yanking. his fiery tip’s smacking wetly against his flexed abdomen and sprinkling the final remnants of his spend onto your shorts, white beads bleed through and paint his tan skin.

the stuffed animals that line your bed stare at him. though lifeless, their expressions were bright and childlike. he remembered each one and felt so guilty for doing what he’s done in front of them. no, he didn’t feel bad for soaking your shorts in cum, but the post clarity hits harder now that he knew he was being watched by the plush toys you considered your bestest friends.

cameron voiced a low apology to those inanimate objects, then attempted at picking himself up from your bed. it was no good. he plopped back and remained there; over the blankets you slept in just last night, with the inner most part of his elbow over his sleepy eyes. a small nap would fix him. he wasn’t sure when you’d be back . . . and he’s so nervous, the idea of you finding him like this . . . even if the relationship hadn’t broke off, it would still be weird.

ten minutes. that’s all. and then he would be gone. back into his own building and his own dorm room. and when there, he’ll shower and brush his teeth and wash his face, preparation to save you from penelope.

[neighbourscat]

pervy!ex boyfriend cameron cade . . . can’t believe he let it slip through his fingers. in a matter of seconds he loses all branches of your communication. it sucked, but he knew a friend who could help; this friend had a bill that hasn’t yet been resolved. [inspired by joe goldberg & his oddness.] fourth.

at 10am, cameron cade’s stopped in front of the science department’s main entrance. students squeeze through and are careful not to bump into his huge arms. he’s reading. and the pink case of your old phone stands out cutely against his yellow top and deep colored jeans and chunky sneakers.

you got an email. from some dude in your 8:30am class. you are the best! thanks for the review. (-: i owe you a cup of coffee & hot croissant. i’ll come find you after my 12:30. cya. and who is this jolly asshole? ‘i’ll come find you-?’ the fuck? who the fuck is this? he won’t be finding shit. and suddenly, cameron didn’t feel like crap about penelope anymore, if anything, he felt like a villain for what he planned on doing to this dude.

he clicked out of the chatbox. he searched the dude’s name. and over twenty columns of messages appeared. all with a miniature lock icon at the top, securing . . . bits. “bro, c’monnn.” he tapped a row and watched as a slim text-box displayed itself: hello! enter your eight digit passcode! since . . . when? what were you hiding from cameron?

cameron tried your birthday. no. he tried your mother’s birthday. no. your cousin’s birthday? no. penelope’s . . . birthday? fuck no. he tossed his head back and thanked the sky. then, he decided to try his birthday. . . . and to his surprise, the lock icon toggled. and maybe his day wasn’t ruined. he no longer cared about the messages. knowing that your ‘eyes only’ password was his birthday meant something to him. something serious. romantic. this was romantic as fuck!

and then came the accidental shove from behind. your pretty phone goes airborne and splat!, slapping the concrete screen down. shhiitt. the student dashing for his 11am job interview offers an apologetic wave, “sorry, man! got’a run!” cameron bent down and tears began to swell in his eyes. not only was the screen shattered, the device wouldn’t even turn on. this was a serious problem.

“jus’ tell me if you can fuckin’ fix it or not.” and at 11:40am, he’s in the computer lab . . . having slipped out of his class minutes ago, lying about needing the bathroom. he knew a friend. and after every programming class, this friend would stay back an hour to practice. “bro, you are just like my grandma- my focus is data science, i’m not tech support.” samuel stood and jabbed the phone into cameron’s chest, thinking ‘woa. he’s solid’. “i don’t fix phones and shit.” samuel also realized he should’ve been gentler.

cameron smacked the phone onto the desk, chipping the glass more, and startling samuel. samuel dropped back into his rolling chair and wiggled those thin-wire framed spectacles up the bridge of his greek nose. “figure it out.” samuel had until 5pm and cameron trusted him. he really did. “text my number when it’s done.” cameron clapped a hand over samuel’s shoulder, more as a: don’t piss me off, just do the shit.

it was 1pm when cameron left the science department. he felt lost. out of your loop. it’s been two hours, about that, and he hasn’t gotten any update. he knew that e-mail inbox of yours was blowing up crazy. and your instagram/s too. the left side of his chest was an itchy mess; heart thumping, he clutched a hand at his shirt. and he wasn’t being dramatic. this was serious. this was scary as fuck.

cameron grabbed onto a tree, needing a moment to catch his breath. he smacked his pockets for his own cellular device and came up with your lost ID. he’s considering it. he knew your schedule. you were an hour into your midday break. and you were off with that dude. or maybe, you weren’t. he had to check. he hoped you were away. he had to release this frustration into another pair of your perfect panties. just thinking about it seemed to relax his tense shoulders.

cameron changes his cap from backward to forward. he stands across the grass patch and your window is open (curtains drawn up) and he watches you pour granola chunks into a zebra-printed bowl of 17g protein vanilla yogurt. and students pass your first floor dorm, just barely above their eye level. they don’t even stop to stare though you’re braless in a loose tee and the cutest mini shorts. you are lucky this wasn’t the super-packed clarkson building: students going in and out, shattered around the lawn and courts.

cameron cups a palm over the tent in his jeans, dick swelled and waiting. he feels a glimmer of nostalgia, of deja vu, and he can’t quite place what it is. he jerks up and down once, masturbation the only thought that takes coherent formation. . . . but, no. not here. don’t be creepy, cam.

it’s 3pm when cameron gets back into your e-mail. he sits in a corner of the library with his body fully facing outward, so that the screen could only be seen by his eyes. he tried not to look so sneaky. he hated that he was so grateful to be acknowledged in your most recent message to penelope. he drank from a plastic water bottle and the gears in his head churn for something to say. penelope silenced you: i’m introducing you to a good friend of mine. name’s isaac. or zeke. math genius, baseball moron, fat monster cck. (-: trust me.

cameron typed ‘ew! you bitchy cunt’ into the notepad and clicked backspace. he hoped you’d do it for him. and you did. good girl. you didn’t say that exactly though. he refreshed the chatbox. you stood up for cameron’s dick, and penelope wasn’t too happy about that: noone can plow better than that one. trust me. cameron’s proud of you and penelope sends a large block of laughing emojis. you see? total fucking bitch.

cameron sees the party flyer in an e-mail penelope forwarded at 5am. come experience project x, the digital poster read. don’t be a sucka! tell a friend ta tell a friend! he’d seen the movie when it came out last year. not a bad watch. but it wasn’t your environment, he knew. you agreed to this? seriously? fuck, penelope’s done some serious witch damage to his sad, vulnerable wife. never has he been able to talk you into a party. . . . was penelope holding something over your head? what did she have on you? . . .

doesn’t matter. just know that he’ll be there too. and he’ll save you.

[neighbourscat]

pervy!ex boyfriend cameron cade . . . is not a bad person. and neither are you. he’s upset with you, but he’s pissed with her. you are in a weakened state, open to just about anything. and that was his fault, but . . . he had a plan to fix that. [inspired by joe goldberg & his oddness.] third. fourth.

by 9am, cameron cade has hot water running over your pink, cum-stained panties. no, he didn’t plan on returning them, ‘cause that would be weird, but the fabric’s too pretty to just leave ruined the way he had ruined his socks during his preteen-ed years. he’s unlocked your old phone and he’s watching the interaction between you and a classmate. a girl. raegan, who went by just rae. she asked for your school e-mail two classes ago, wanting help with an upcoming project. being the sweetheart you were, you grabbed a purple post-it note, deep green pen, and wrote down your account.

she was stupid. or rather, she asked stupid questions. many, stupid questions. when cameron was much smaller, he was told that no question is a dumb question. and while he still agrees, a question is only stupid when the answer is right there. when you can quite literally step outside and answer your own question- because it’s right there- in full force.

now cameron wasn’t the brightest red apple on the tree and he currently wasn’t registered in a sociology course, but anyone with eyes could see that race shaped systemic inequality and, more often than not, social status. he tssked at rae’s ignorance and refreshed your e-mail’s chatbox . . . nothing.

you were a good person: popping the bubble of those who were prone to letting it expand than to crash down on their own. you kept a lot of ignorant people in your circle. like natasha (tasha) and amielle (ami) and morgan (morgie pooh). he played football and recreational basketball with their boyfriends, and the stories he’s heard? it actually disturbed him that you were even associated with those girls.

but, he wouldn’t hold that against you. there were individuals who hated being buddies with others that possessed a greater iq. you were just too smart for your peers. . . . cameron saw you first during a campus tour. you walked with a woman he later found to be your mother and another, younger, a cousin from dad’s side. he would talk to your cousin first. she wore her high-school’s varsity jacket and that was his cracked window. she played basketball. he asked what you did. she said swim, tennis, and decathlon and he wanted to know you right away. he was patient that tour. he made her laugh, but he wanted to make you laugh too. if he even could. he assumed your intelligence was . . . up there.

anyways, he got you alone. and your instagram handle. you practically dove headfirst into his inbox, giddy, charming. and of course, cameron was on that same typa timing. he knew you missed him. and he knew that you weren’t over him. and since you weren’t over him, he could have you back. he just had to be smart about it. he had to tug that heartstring- take you down memory lane, show that the cameron you adored was still here.

he was hopeful until you have a separate private e-mail exchange with this p.montoya person. he tapped down, and sighed. he knew penelope montoya; or penny or penn or penne or peepee or moni or monti. not as well as you did, but he knew how different you were with her. you and penelope shared almost every highschool course and extracurricular activity together. he saw the pictures; you and her were joined at the hips. penelope spoke freely and could get under your skin quickly. cameron’s told you before to just drop her, but she also told you to drop him . . .

cameron envied penelope. he did. she was the first to see your boobs. . . . slumber-party dare. shouldn’t matter to him, that’d been the summer before sophomore year of high school and he didn’t know you then. but he’d known you the spring of senior year, when she gave you your first kiss. first french kiss. penelope would forever be two up on him and he hated that.

she was never impressed by anything cameron did for you. the competition was constant. oh, he pocketed a new animal-print phone-case for your collection? well, she’s swapped two yankee candles from walmart and a diamond bangle from tiffany’s; thought you’d like it. he’d get a makeup catty stacked with tubed lipglosses you’ve wanted to try so badly and she’d shrug. “trust me girl- i have ‘em. strawberry banana and pink lemonade dry out my lips. seriously. and marshmallow toast stains ‘em in this disgusting purple. it’s so gooey and nasty.“

your natural allegiance toward penelope made you stupid. sorry. but you stopped thinking for yourself. you had a blind spot for this girl, and honestly, he never understand why. she was a bitch. is a bitch. an asshole. a fucking nightmare of a person. people like her don’t change, doesn’t matter how long it’s been. . . . cameron hated that he wanted to impress her and he hated that he was so easily impressed, because he too could steal a few candles and hundred dollar bracelets. whatever.

but you weren’t materialistic. cameron learned soon enough. and that’s all penelope knew. she comes from money. the old, generational kind. she liked buying your love. cameron never had to buy your love. you were more of a home-made / d-i-y kind of girl. you liked his chicken-scratch, stick-figure drawings of your future family. you liked the wonky pipe-cleaner butterflies and flowers with googly eyes. and the picture frames tacked with buttons and beads and stickers. for you, cameron cade returned to elementary crafts, and the effort was attractive.

cameron turned the water off to read your e-mails better. he wrung out your panties, folded them between sheets of paper towel and went back for his single dorm room.

the world is an even shittier place when he refreshes the chatbox because not only have you agreed to a party, but you told her: thank you soooo much 4 reaching out. i’ve been needing 2 get off campus. you have no idea!

:: what’s goin on babes? )-; <3

:: cameron.

:: fuk not again

:: no! not again! hell no. i mean, i’ve been keeping my presence to a min. yk? classes only.

:: ohhh

:: yea. i cannooooott deal w cameron. it’s like, everywhere i look, he’s there, fkn staring @ me & sht. like, tf? leave me be, sicko.

:: mmmmmmm. well. i toldya. come 2 skool w me. but noooooo. you wanted dic

:: no, i wanted an education.

:: & his dic. u could’ve gotten ‘an education’ & better d here. we could’ve dormed together, like we plannned.

:: that was UR plan

:: & it was a damn good one. e-mail ur advisor. transfer babes

:: idk p

:: or continue to walk campus paranoid. das supes fun 2

:: maybe. i’ll think abt it

:: i could kiss u rn omg YES!

cameron’s upset with you. and the saddest part is, now that you’ve got your head screwed on backwards, you are the you cameron couldn’t win and have. penelope has you now. and just like that, you’ve ruined his entire day.

[neighbourscat]

pervy!ex boyfriend cameron cade . . . has never felt as safe and at home as he did with your panties snug around his cock. [ inspired by joe goldberg & his oddness ]. second. third. fourth.

cameron cade still had your old, missing phone and he still checked your school e-mail and your instagram/s and your facebook. you still loved him, he knew. and one of these days, you will find a way to admit that the relationship shouldn’t’ve ended at all. he was getting there. you were acknowledging him . . . sort of. every now and again he’d spot you about on campus, minding your own, and stare real hard until you felt it: the lasers that he bore into your skull. you’d look back at him, wave, smile that sweet smile, and return to your group of close friends. he was getting there.

he loved you so much that he couldn’t willingly close down the access to your communications. it was a true invasion of privacy, but he liked having your school e-mail. he liked having your instagram/s. and he liked having your facebook. it had taken weeks, but his checks were at their lowest this month. even on mondays. usually, mondays were pretty hard on him. that monday morning was the last spent together. it was a good thing he took a screenshot of your i love you cam text that morning, because at 1pm, something was different.

he remembered the week prior. on a sunday morning, you had sent him the most feared response in the world, more terse than any other word, more concealing than a ttyl, and awfully hypocritical for someone as in love with energy, language, and him as you claimed to be. k, it was. a single k. nothing else. just a desire to end the conversation.

he asked his co-captain to stand in for him, pick up where he slacked off, but he couldn’t. even half of cameron’s shoes were too big to fill. practice went poorly. he was fucked. talking to himself in the locker room and looking at pictures of you and losing his patience with his suite-mates and he went to bed early that night and he called you . . . but got sent to voicemail and he left you a message asking when could he see you.

it was 5am the next day you finally respond and as it turned out, there was something much worse than the shitty k. :: hi. mb 4 th late txtz. got a long day 2day. myb tmrw? lunch@2. xoxo. and he just could not believe it. still didn’t. because never have you ever messaged him like that. boneless and emotionless and stupid. it was ugly and designed to drive him away.

on tuesday, he stole your phone. he told himself that he had to. he was worried that you were drifting. maybe there’d been another man in your ear? or it was those shit friends of yours. whatever or whoever it was, he had to see for himself . . . and getting your phone, he was sure he’d find an answer. it was crazy to do. he was glad to’ve not discovered anything, but it made stealing your phone for nothing. and he couldn’t give it back, he didn’t know how . . .

you were present. you were focused. you were his again. that was the help, or push, you and cameron needed. relationships did that . . . they fell off. but the real test of love was in one’s will to bring the dynamic back.

and then came that horrific monday. you found a box, the one he called ‘the evidence of my affection’. you saw things you shouldn’t’ve and called cameron fucking weird. and fucking creepy and fucking obsessed and fucking sick and fucking- you need fucking help, you psychopath! you were judgmental and nasty and he could only blame himself.

losing you was like losing a vital organ. his heart. you were his heart in human form. a walking love letter personified . . . so every following monday of the fall semester, that month of winter break, into the spring semester, and that week of spring break . . . he cried and cried; emotions too big for his beefy body- which was intense, considering his size.

these last five, almost six months without you . . . he’s given up on sleep and other women entirely, because he realized their hair wasn’t the exact thickness of yours and they didn’t smell enough like you. he tried tonight though. only this one time. he and that young black woman were about two-fourths into their kissing session when cameron kicked her out. nothing about her made his cock stand up.

her thumbs worked fast above that keyboard on the way out, telling the group-chat how unamusing the cameron cade had been. nothing went in, nothing came out. he couldn’t do it. he couldn’t make love to another who’s eyes looked to him only in lust. cameron cade was a lover. he only wanted to know the sounds of your moans and the feel of your insides; they were simply one-of-a-kind. your body was made for his, as his was for yours.

he made a mistake. he’s a piece of dog shit. and he could admit that. yes. but he swore he’s learned. he wouldn’t do it again. he just needed one more chance. he wanted to prove himself to you; that he was worthy of you. cameron missed you. a lot. so very much that it burned. and tonight, because he couldn’t sleep . . . he did what any touch-deprived man would:

cameron grabbed your panties.

he still had the ID keycard you supposedly lost. he swapped it from your desk months back, when you didn’t hate him, and paid residence life the new-ID fee. he knew how your single dorm looked last, but thought whatever you had going on now was beautiful. very unique. it smells like you and cameron picked up some leggings you tossed on the floor earlier and dug for the panties; he knew you liked to just step out of everything at once. his heart’s calmed down in the warmth and his dick’s so hard for you.

while you lie atop that twin xl, amongst textbooks and notebooks and pencils and pens and highlighters, cameron rummaged around in your gym duffel bag and picked out your sweaty bra and used panties, still dewy with you, and he gets so lost in imagination and now he is in trouble. . . . he lets his drawstring loose.

cameron whimpered softly, wrapping the crotch around the head of his weeping cock. and he’s strokingggg himself real good, holding back his moans through gritted teeth whilst you slept like the angel princess you are. he prays for the night he could have you in bed again. and he swears he’ll let you be in control . . . the entire time too. he wouldn’t take over, like he always did. he’d let you do it all- take whatever you could.

it had taken no real effort to picture a ghost of you before his frame, pretty soft lips swollen with fatigue yet hallowing beautifully around his girth, as if your absolute everything. “fff-nngh-“ harshly gulping, mouth gasping and whining for fresh air. or you; the smell of that cinnamon body butter you lathered on after every shower.

cameron sighed heavily. he stares down and watches how the slimy strings of his arousal cling and web between himself and the cute fabric of your panties. he’d take a nut like this over whatever that girl had in mind. his fist is so messy and his thrusts are so sloppy. it’s loud and squelchy and clicky and tacky and fuckkk he’s about to cum.

he thinks about having you in a different position before he cums . . . pressed against the wall and with his hand closed over your neck the way you love, and you’ll cry for him to slow down! and to ple-pleas- stoppp! fucking you so hard, yet, you’ll be gushing and spraying streams around his cock. knees getting ready to buckle, every limb shivering, teeth chattering. and you’ll whine daddy- please! . . . and here’s when he’s blinking through tears.

“sshhiit- shit- shit- shit-“ cameron stains your dirty panties; spewing a tankload of hot thin, gooey stripes of seed into the crotch lining. a pond of white. and it should’ve been painted along your womb.

[ibuprofein]

anything w/ ony — 🐭

UPSTAIRS

𐙚!!── ony makes sure to take his time with you upstairs before you head downstairs to the party.

↳ ❝ { cw: nsfw mentioned, light! usage of n word, dom!ony , teasing, fingering, dirty talk, oral (fem rec), begging } ¡! ❞

𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

the evening sun casts long shadows across onyankopon's bedroom floor. your overnight bag sat open on his beanbag by the window, a small monument to the weekend you'd already shared at the frat house. tonight was the frat's quarterly bash which meant dressing to impress for the party downstairs.

you stood in front of his tall dresser mirror, a black leather corset top laid across your chest, its lace up front waiting to be tightened. your matching leather capri pants were already zipped up and hugging your hips.

ony lounged on his bed, propped up against the headboard, watching you. he wore only his black sweats as his bare chest and tattooed arms laid on display, the fading daylight glinting off his chain and studded earrings.

"you really facetimed me just to tell me to bring this?" you asked while smiling as you began threading the leather cords of the corset. "you could've just texted."

"i love the way you look in it," he said, his voice a smooth drawl. "don’t act like you weren’t gonna show out anyways."

you laughed while pulling the cords tight, the leather cinching around your ribs and lifting your breasts into a perfect shape. "i don't show out. i just like being…best dressed.”

"yea…that's what you do," he agreed as his eyes tracked your movements. the corset was his idea, of course. he had a vision of how he wanted you tonight as he was helping you look for an outfit in your closet during your facetime call before he came to pick you up.

as soon as he seen the mini laced corset, he pointed it out on his screen, “that one. for the party.” a command he disguised as a suggestion.

you finished lacing the final knot sitting just below your sternum as you look at him through the mirror. the look was cute as your silhouette was defined by the black leather. your capri pants cut off just above your calf, leaving your legs exposed and ready for the black kitten heels waiting by his door.

"you look," he started then paused while choosing his words with deliberate care. "too good, mama."

a thrill of satisfaction shot through you as you turned from the mirror to face him directly. "good. that's the goal."

he didn't move from the bed but his look intensified. "the goal is to look like that, walk downstairs, and have every nigga in this house remember exactly who you belong to?"

"you think they'd forget?" you teased as you walked toward his bathroom.

"no," he said simply as his eyes dropped to the top of your corset, to the way it pushed your breasts up, the plump curve sitting above the leather. "they'd just get stupid and i'd have to fuck them up."

you reached for the small curling iron you kept in his bathroom, a need for fixing the "morning afters." this morning had been one of those afters. he'd put you through the mattress, as promised, your silk scarf torn off in the heat of it, and your leave out in a wild frame around your face. you'd fixed it a little this morning but the party required some more fixing.

you plugged the iron in by his desk while waiting for it to heat up. as you stood there, testing a section of hair, you felt his presence shift. he rose from the bed and he came up behind you, his chest not touching your back but radiating a heat that you felt through the leather.

his hands settled on your hips as his fingers curled over the top of your capris. he didn't speak while he watched you in the mirror. you smoothed a curl as your focus divided between the task and the pressure of him behind you.

"almost done," you murmured, your voice softer than you intended.

"i know," he replied as his hands slid up and over the leather of the corset while tracing the lace. he found the knot at the center of the lacing as his fingers toyed with it. "this is a lot of work. for a party."

"it's for you," you said while turning your head slightly to catch his eye in the mirror.

a slow smile touched his lips. "i know."

the curling iron was hot as you finished the last few curls, your hair now falling in soft curls around your shoulders. you unplugged the iron and set it aside. you were finally ready as you turned to face him fully, expecting him to step back and lead you downstairs but he didn't.

instead, his hands returned to your hips as he guided you backwards until his thighs met the edge of his bed. he sat down on the mattress, pulling you with him, so you were standing before him, his face level with your stomach.

"what?" you asked in a playful suspicion in your tone.

he didn't answer with words as his hands went to the knot of the corset and with a slow pull, he undid it. the leather laces loosened but he didn't remove it as his large hands then went to the waistband of your capris. his fingers find the button as he pops it open and pulls down your zipper.

he looks up at you as he says, "i want to taste you before you go down there."

your breath catches as you run a hand over his freshly shaved fade. "ony… the party starts soon."

"i know," he says as his voice leaks with hunger. "and i want to taste you. right now."

he didn't wait for permission nor did he ask as he leaned forward and pulled you in closer by the back of your thighs. with one smooth motion, he guided you to sit on the edge of the bed as he slid the leather pants and skimpy thong down your legs. they pooled around your ankles into a leather puddle on the floor.

you were half naked, the corset still hanging open above, and your lower half bare before him. he loomed over you, his frame blocking the light. “open this,” he murmured, fingertips hooking under the bottom of your tank.

you obeyed while pulling the cords and opening the corset enough for both of your breasts to fall out. the air felt cool on your skin as his eyes drank in the sight of you, bared before him in his room.

he didn’t rush as his hand returned to your stomach then glided upward, over your rib cage, until his palm cupped one breast. his thumb brushed your nipple, once then twice in a slow tease. it peaked instantly, hard and sensitive under his touch as you arched into his hand, a silent plea.

“not yet,” he whispered, reading you perfectly. he shifted while lowering himself so his mouth was level with your chest. he kissed the space between your breasts, a soft lingering press. then his lips traveled to the side, skirting around the swell of your breast, avoiding the nipple you desperately wanted him to touch. his mouth was warm and everywhere but there.

you let out a frustrated sigh as your hands come up to clutch at his shoulders. the muscle of his shoulders strained under your grip.

he smiled against your chest. “you want something?”

“you know what i want.”

“do i?” he teased, his mouth finally drifting closer to your nipple. he hovered then he blew a cool stream of air across it. the contrast made you gasp. “tell me.”

“paaa…” you whined, the nickname a plea.

“not good enough.” his hand slid down from your breast and over your stomach as his fingers rested on your lower abdomen, just above where you needed him. “tell me what you want.”

your mind fogged as the party downstairs was a forgotten echo. his presence and his control was all that existed. “touch me,” you breathed. “please.”

“where?” his fingers flexed, pressing deeper into your abdomen, but not lower.

“lower.” you were grinding against his hand now, seeking more contact.

he removed his hand entirely as you groaned a sound of pure frustration. he chuckled as he leaned back, looking at you spread before him— flushed, bare chested, legs wide open, and your expression openly desperate.

“you’re not begging,” he said as he stood up from the bed, and for a terrifying second, you thought he was leaving. he only walked to the door and turned the lock with a quiet click. then he returned as he knelt on the floor beside the bed, his face level with your thighs.

his hands returned to your thighs, smoothing up the insides, his thumbs brushing close to your lips but not touching them. the near contact was electric. “now,” he said, his voice a low command. “beg f’me.”

the words hung in the air as you sat wet and aching for him. the sight of him so controlled and so patient, waiting for you to beg, unlocked something deep as your pride melted.

“please,” you started with a shaking voice. “please, pa. touch me. i need you to touch me. i can’t… i’m so empty. please, baby. please put your hands on me. i’ll do anything. just… please.”

a slow, triumphant smile spread across his face as he’d broken you down to your raw wanting core. “gladly,” he purred.

finally, he moved. one hand came up as his fingers parted you with slow pressure. his fingertips slick with your wetness as he circled your clit with a precision that made your back arch off the bed. a sharp cry tearing from your lips.

“there,” he murmured, watching your face contort in pleasure. “that’s what you wanted.” he said as he kept that circling pressure. his other hand joined, fingers sliding lower, and dipping inside you with a penetrating stroke. you were so wet, his fingers met no resistance. they filled you as he curved them and began a slow deep rhythm.

the dual sensation was overwhelming as you moaned, loudly, uncaring of who might hear beyond the locked door. your hips rolled, matching his rhythm, and seeking more. “more,” you gasped, already begging again. “please, more.”

he added a third finger, the stretch becoming full. his pace increased as his fingers pumped deeper while his thumb on your clit pressed firmer. the room swam as your vision blurred at the edges. your moans became a continuous, breathy stream, punctuated by his name. “ony… yes… right there… don’t stop…”

he didn’t as he watched you unravel, his own breath coming heavier, and his composure finally showing a crack. his jaw was tight while his eyes glued to where his hands worked you and to your face lost in pleasure. “you’re gonna come for me,” he stated, his voice thick with lust. “right now. come on my hand.”

the command paired with the sudden curl of his fingers inside you and the rapid flick of his thumb, tipped you over. the orgasm crashing through you as you clench around his fingers with trembling limbs. you cry out a sound torn from your chest as your body arches and then collapses back onto the bed, spent.

he slowed his movements, gentling you through the aftershocks. he withdrew his fingers slowly while bringing them to his lips, his eyes locked on yours as he tasted you.

"taste so good, mama." he whispered.

he rose from the floor, his print evident in the tightness of his sweats. he didn't address it as he turned his attention to you, to fix the mess he made. he helped you stand on shaky legs as he pulled your leather pants back up, zipping them with careful hands. he put your breast back into your corset as he re-tied the laces, tightening the laces with the same deliberate focus he'd used to undo them.

he fetched your kitten heels next as he slid them onto your feet. then he took your curling iron and with a few expert passes, he smoothed the leave out hair that had frizzed from your sweating and thrashing. you watched him in the mirror as your tall, commanding man now tended to you with a focused tender care.

when he was done, he stepped back while surveying his work as he nodded a silent approval. then he reached for his own shirt, a simple black tee, and pulled it over his head. "now," he said, his voice returning to its usual calm cadence as he leaves a kiss on your forehead. "let's go downstairs.”

[herweirdass]

when people spoke of great romances and gut wrenching unconditional love you never believed them. that was until you met tyriq. everyday felt like a romcom. he was your fairytale.

you didn’t even notice it at first. it wasn’t some dramatic, slow motion moment with music swelling in the background. it was quieter than that. softer. it was the way he looked at you like you were something he had been searching for without even knowing it. like finding home in a place he’d never been before.

the first time he made you laugh until your stomach hurt, you remember thinking—this feels different. not butterflies. not nerves. something steadier. something that didn’t feel like it would disappear the moment you blinked.

tyriq was patient in a way the world rarely teaches people to be. he listened—really listened—when you spoke, even when your thoughts came out messy and tangled. especially then. he never rushed you, never made you feel like you were too much or not enough. with him, you just were. and somehow, that was everything.

late nights became your favorite. talking about dreams, fears, childhood memories. the kind of conversations that stretch for hours without either of you noticing the time. sometimes you’d catch him staring at you, a small smile playing on his lips.

“what?” you’d ask, half shy, half curious.

“nothing,” he’d say, shaking his head.

he learned you in ways that mattered. the way you liked your food, the songs that made you happy, the things you pretended didn’t hurt but actually did. and he handled all of it like it was fragile, like your heart was something worth protecting.

you didn’t have to perform with him. no masks. no pretending. just soft mornings, shared glances, inside jokes that made no sense to anyone else. it felt easy—but not in a careless way. easy like something meant to be.

of course, it wasn’t perfect. there were moments—misunderstandings, silence that stretched too long, the kind of arguments that left your chest tight. but even then, he never walked away. he stayed. he chose you. over and over again.

and that’s when it hit you.

this was the kind of love people talked about.

not loud, not always pretty—but real. grounding. the kind that holds you together when everything else feels like it’s falling apart.

one night, laying beside him, your head resting against his chest, you listened to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. his hand traced slow patterns along your arm, absentminded but comforting.

“you’re thinking again,” he murmured.

you smiled softly. “i just love you.”

“good, cus you’re stuck with me baby.” he smiled.

you laughed, rolling your eyes a little, but your heart… your heart believed him.

because with tyriq, love didn’t feel like something you had to chase. it felt like something that finally found you.

[laceofgrace]

Like a madman - Jean Kirstein

Pairing: Jean Kirstein x Singer!Fem!Reader

Summary: New York, 1960s. You're a jazz bar singer who's dedicated your lonely life to music. Jean Kirstein is a weary businessman who finds meaning in your music.

Tags: Jean Kirstein is inspired by Donald Draper, madmen refernces, cunnilingus, creampie, p in v, Jean kirstein is half french, making out in a cab, making out, Jean is desperate lowkey, a tons of praising, pet names, my phone is lagging

MDNI

Standing on the stage of "Rattazzi" the luxurious bar, for probably the hundredth time, you feel a multitude of eyes on you. Your dark blue dress with a knee-high slit and your graceful, smooth locks shimmer under the warm spotlight.

Like a siren, you capture the attention of every person in the room. Your voice is captivating, making their hearts flutter. The musicians behind you play soft jazz, complemented by the bliss of your voice.

Everyone's eyes are fixed on you. Admiration is written on each of their faces. You glance at each one, sometimes spotting those you've seen before at your performances. Your gaze sweeps across the tables, and each time you approach a certain spot, your heart begins to flutter and change tempo to a frantic speed.

As always, you find him in his usual place. You don't rush to meet his gaze right away, scanning the rest of the bar first, keeping the tantalizing intrigue to yourself, giving yourself and him time.

He always sits in the same place, no further, no closer. He always drinks the same scotch. He always watches the same singer - you - and disappears until the next day of your performance. He did the same thing now.

It's been a tough day. Your manager is pressuring you, signing contracts on your behalf with people you don't want to deal with. You're a beautiful young woman in a world of wild men. You're surviving, forced to play by their rules. Which is why you still haven't been able to find the love of your life.

Everyone who knows you sees you as a piece of meat, a toy. They don't take you seriously. In a world where can't give anyone your all, you gave your all to the stage.

You needed to catch your breath, to take your mind off those clinging eyes. So, after leaving "Rattazzi", you settled into the "P.J. Clarke's", not bothering to change into your stage attire.

Ordering a whiskey and soda, you down the glass, feeling the liquid pleasantly burn your throat. Without giving yourself time to catch your breath, you repeated the order. The bartender peered at your expression with interest, but politely spared you any comments or uninvited dialogue.

When a soda appeared in front of you instead of the third whiskey, you looked questioningly at the bartender. At that moment, he handed you a note.

"Spare yourself the morning headache." J.

The bartender pointed to a man sitting at one of the tables. You cautiously turned around, and your heart skipped a beat. It was him. Your quiet listener, with whom you'd never exchanged words before, and you didn't need to. Silent glances were enough.

He'd already bought you a drink at the bar once, but being tired and overworked, you couldn't think of a better option than to leave. Although, of course, the main reason was that you were afraid to trust a man. In a world where you'd only ever had your heart broken, you didn't want to be alone again, picking it up piece by piece.

But he won't let you sleep peacefully. Showing up at your performances, he's become so ingrained in your head that, without even realizing it, he's become a frequent guest in your dreams.

You want to approach him, to say something. At least to thank him. But you're afraid. However, the next moment, you had to thank heaven for him standing up and walking over to the bar, sitting at the next stool.

"Forgive me if that was impudent of me." He took off his hat, placing it on the counter.

'So that's what his voice sounds like.' You think.

"Oh, actually I wanted to thank you." You spoke, clutching the glass in your hands.

For some reason, you thought he was nervous too. As if he'd been trying to muster up his courage the whole time he'd been sitting alone at the table.

"No need to thank me, it's nothing."

His voice was soft and velvety. It combined weariness, calm, and a certain comfort. Even as a singer yourself, you wanted to listen to it.

"Just tell me if there's anything else I can do for you. Everyone has tough days. It's important not to be alone."

Damn, he speaks so beautifully. Even the simplest words from his lips sound like poetry. He's so captivating that you forget to answer him.

"Forgive me if I'm intruding. I have no intention of disturbing your peace." He barely reached for his hat, but your voice stopped him.

"You're not disturbing me at all. Honestly, you've brought me the peace. Otherwise, I'd have gotten drunk. Thank you." You said softly, sipping your soda.

"I'm glad I helped in some way. However, one "no" from you and I'll be gone; I don't want to disturb you." A brief silence. "It must be hard to endure so many glances in an evening?"

It was as if he read you like an open book. As if he'd come not to a performance, but to a conversation with you, where, through your glances, he understood absolutely everything.

"You could say that. But don't let it bother you. As you said, everyone has tough days." You drained your glass, still finding it difficult to look him in the eye. The scent of his perfume wafted through your eyes, clouding your mind like alcohol.

"I also said it's important not to be alone."

You looked up at him, seeing a slight smile on his face, and couldn't help but smile too. Even sitting there, it was clear he was a very tall man. He was very handsome in general. His ash-brown hair was perfectly combed, his eyebrows were thin, and his jawline was sharper than a knife. His sharp eyes could pierce you, but they looked at you cautiously. A dark circles were visible beneath them. He must have worked hard.

Without bothering you with questions, he put on his hat and rose from the table. Yes, he really was very tall.

"Would you like to take a walk?" He gallantly extended his hand, helping you up from the bar.

New York at night was mesmerizing, the streetlights shimmering with colors. It was especially pleasant to have such a man and his scent nearby. You walked side by side, only your shoulders brushing, and at first, you were both silent.

"Tell me about yourself, J." You finally broke the silence, and your question made him smile.

"Jean Kirstein. I work in advertising."

"Advertising? What exactly do you do?"

"I develop advertising concepts with my team, attend client meetings at bars, and go on business trips. Nothing special."

"That sounds interesting. So, you...take clients to the bar where I perform, too?" For some reason, you felt sad.

"No, no. I always go to your perfomances alone. Those disgusting rich people will never understand the art of your music. I'd hate to share such beauty with them."

A sigh of relief, but your heart began to beat faster.

'How beautifully he speaks.'

"So you understand it? The art of my music?"

"I'd like to believe so. At the very least, I interpret it to suit my own life."

"That's exactly how I want my music to be received by listeners. As for me, there's no need to adapt to my perception if I'm a singer. After all, everyone lives their lives differently." You reason, walking side by side with him.

"Then I'm doing everything right." He looked down at his feet and, sighing, continued. "You know, I should thank you for your music. When I was feeling down, I'd come to "Rattazzi" and listen to you. And I'd truly forget what had previously driven me crazy. You saved me. Thank you for that."

"Don't thank me. I'm doing what I love. What saves you saves me."

"Then we're even." He smiled, looking in your direction.

"I guess so." You met his gaze.

A cool wind cut through your skin, causing you to involuntarily press closer to Jean, searching for even the slightest source of warmth. Naturally, he noticed it immediately. Without hesitation, he pulled off his coat, and it settled on your shoulders.

"Sorry I didn't do this sooner. I should have known you'd be cold in a dress."

"Please don't apologize. It was my fault for going out like that. Thank you so much." You hugged the jacket to yourself, warming yourself. The scent of his expensive perfume now enveloped your body. "Where are we even going?"

"Honestly, I forgot myself while talking to you. We're just walking straight ahead." He cleared his throat. "But you seem cold outside?"

"A little, but it's okay." You lie, but only to prolong the time with him.

"I'd invite you over, but that would sound like I'm trying to lure you into bed." He awkwardly turned away.

"No, it's fine. I wouldn't thinm that"

"Then I'll catch a cab."

He hailed a passing taxi and opened the door for you, then climbed in next. The car headed towards Jean's address.

You sit so close, and even though the car is warmer than outside, you snuggle into him again. His cheek brushes the top of your head; it seems he's been waiting for this.

You lift your head and see that his gaze is fixed on you. He's so close that you can hear his even, slightly ragged breathing. It's as if Jean is afraid to scare you off by making the first move. So you decide to take it yourself.

You carefully move your face closer to his, and see him doing the same. Then you decide to close your eyes, surrendering to what's about to happen. Your lips finally touch in a tender, warm kiss. But after a few seconds, you break the kiss, studying each other's reactions. Seeing the green light in your eyes, he continues, connecting again in a more passionate kiss. He gently placed his hand on your cheek, tracing it with his thumb. Your hand clutched his shoulder, as if you were about to collapse.

The car stopped. Jean generously paid for the ride and, taking your hand, led you into a large apartment complex.

The elevator doors closed behind you, he quickly pressed the button for the 99th floor, and without wasting a second, he pressed you against the elevator wall, causing you to gasp in surprise.

"Sorry, did I hurt you?" He pressed his forehead to yours.

"No, it's okay."

And you were kissing each other again, as if this was your life's purpose. One of Jean's hands held the elevator wall, while the other found its place on your waist, perfectly accentuated by the sparkly dress.

"You're so beautiful." His lips hungrily moved from yours to your cheeks, to your forehead, to your chin. From the way he sighed, you could tell he'd been craving this for a long time.

"Fuck, you're so beautiful, my god." He continued to whisper between kisses. However, he was interrupted by the ding of the elevator stopping.

He led you again, holding your hand. Quickly opening the door to his apartment, he let you in and slammed it behind him.

You looked around and saw a luxurious penthouse with expensive wooden furniture. A large TV box stood in the living room, leaving no doubt about Jean's wealth. The interior, in shades of brown, burgundy, and gold, gave the apartment a rich feel. Jean definitely had taste. The room smelled like a bar: of alcohol and perfume. Jean himself smelled almost exactly like it.

You took off your jacket and wanted to hang it up somewhere, but Jean picked it up and tossed it on the floor. He didn't care about it right now.

He led you into the bedroom by the waist, and you stood right over his large, high king-size bed. However, he took his time.

"Tell me you want this. I won't dare touch you without your permission." He whispered in your ear, leaving a trail of lips along the way.

"I really want this, Jean. I need you." Your hand moved to the back of his head, your fingers slowly combing through his hair, causing him to close his eyes.

"Good. Let me take off your dress."

You turned around, giving him access to the zipper on your dress. The clasp creaked, and you felt your breathing ease. Jean carefully pulled the dress off your shoulders, immediately covering them with hot kisses. The dress slid down your body, revealing you in just your underwear.

"You're gorgeous."

However, he noticed the blush rising on your cheeks and the way you involuntarily tried to cover your body with your hand.

"Are you embarrassed? Look at yourself, you have a perfect body. No need to hide yourself." He ran his hand over your skin, causing goosebumps to rise in his wake. "I can't take my eyes off you."

You listened silently to his compliments, wondering when you'd last heard anything like that about yourself, other than nasty comments from drunks.

You reached for his shirt, unbuttoning the buttons with trembling fingers. Then you pulled his undershirt off, revealing his toned body. Jean clearly worked out regularly. He wasn't a super-muscled guy or, on the contrary, a skeleton. This was the body you'd always considered ideal in a man. The body you'd fantasized about on lonely nights.

Your hand slid over his chest, his sculpted abs. Without giving you much time to admire him, he gently cupped your chin and captured your lips again. Jean took his time, but the kiss was so passionate, like thousands of flames mingling into a single, searing bonfire. You'd forgotten that just half an hour ago you'd been freezing on the streets of New York. Now you see this city from a large window 99 stories up, and you feel warm. Hot, even.

He slowly lays you down on the bed and hovers over you, never breaking the kiss. His tongue glides between your lips, and you part them, inviting him in. Now his and your tongues are intertwined in a single vine, moving in unison. He lets out a low sigh, matching dozens of yours.

Your fingers run through his hair, tangling the strands you'd tousled in the car. He begins kissing your neck, leaving hot, wet trails and a wave of goosebumps in his wake. You tilt your head back, giving him more access, and he begins to cover every accessible area of ​​your skin with his warmth. Moaning under his touch, you can only lie there and feel your body being worshiped. However, Jean doesn't demand anything else.

After kissing your entire neck, he moved lower, sliding his tongue along your collarbones. Then lower still, reaching the edge of your bra.

"Can I take it off? Please." His light brown eyes were filled with animalistic need; it all brought him a wave of pleasure.

"Y-yes, of course."

He lifted you from underneath and, with a deft flick of his hand, unclasped your bra, pulling it off with excruciating slowness.

"So beautiful. Damn, I've never seen a woman more beautiful than you." His lips were on you again, first in the valley between your breasts, then on one hardened nipple, while his fingers played with the other. All of this created an incredible feeling of intoxication, causing your toes to curl.

Without lingering in one place for too long, he moved even lower. Jean's tongue deftly glided over the curves of your body. He kisses your stomach, reaching the hem of your panties. Instead of taking them off, he slowly spreads your legs, positioning himself between them. Just short of touching you, he returns that pleading look in his eyes, as if he desperately needs to touch you there. "May I..?"

"Yes, please.."

He slowly runs his middle finger over the now-wet fabric. You both sighed simultaneously: you from the pleasure of feeling it, he from the pleasure of seeing it and being the cause.

After a couple of slow strokes, he moves the fabric aside, finally revealing the sweetest part. Your folds have long been wet, glistening under the light of his chandelier. His eyes play with both lust and tenderness, and it's unclear whether he balances effortlessly between them or is actually struggling between the two.

His finger is there again, but without the interference of the fabric, and it makes you squirm from the warmth of his fingers.

"Already so wet for me? I barely touched you." He smiled, continuing to move his fingers.

Then he lowers his face to your cunt, and you completely lose your composure as his tongue touches your swollen folds. His name leaves your lips with such need that goosebumps run through him. He knows he's damn hard, but first, he wants to focus on your pleasure.

Jean's tongue swirls with such precision and speed that it creates a perfect rhythm. You feel your head go dizzy, long since carried away by the wave of pleasure. Your fingers grip the sheets, and he intertwines the fingers of his other hand with his, supporting you.

"Fuck, so sweet. You're so sweet." He eats you out like he hasn't eaten in hundreds of days, and now it's time to feast. The room fills with the slurping of his tongue against your cunt and your moans.

As if you weren't dizzy enough, he decided to add his fingers, carefully entering you with one. Then, slowly, the second one entered you. His long fingers reached spots you couldn't reach on your own.

He slowly pulled them out and then back in, playing with your clit with his tongue. When you got used to his fingers inside you, he began to spread them, stretching you for more. Your back arched and your hips moved toward him, but he held you back by hip with his hand, preventing you from moving.

"Can you stay still for me, ma belle? Gotta stretch you open, okay?" He spoke to you tenderly, continuing to pleasure you with his tongue and fingers.

"Of course, sorry. It's just...fuck, it feels so good." You responded, breathing heavily, trying for him.

"I know. I know, pretty. You'll feel even better soon, ma jolie."

"Are you French?" Your question, asked between moans, caught him off guard.

"Only a half." He smiled, continuing to pleasure you, spreading his fingers inside you.

You felt especially good when he touched that sensitive spot. And now, when he does it again, you feel a volcano awaken inside you. He noticed how your legs trembled and your body tensed, so he sped up the movements of his tongue and fingers. As the "volcano" erupted, you forgot everything except his name, which you clung to so desperately.

"Jean! Jean!" He uttered, accompanied by moans and ragged breaths.

"You're doing so good, cum for me, beautiful." He praised you as your hole squeezed his fingers.

When the wave of orgasm passed, he lifted himself up, and you noticed how his lips and chin glistened, drenched in your arousal. But Jean seemed only too happy about it.

He hovered over you and kissed you, letting you taste your own arousal. Kissing and lightly nibbling your lips, he involuntarily began to rub his bulge against your thighs.

"Can we continue? Or are you tired?" He asked in a whisper, silently praying that you wanted more.

"Yes, of course. I need you inside me, Jean." You drawled, sending shivers down his spine.

"Fuck, Angel. I feel like a madman with you."

He wastes no time unbuckling his belt, then the fly of his perfectly pressed pants. Then he pulls down his boxers. Now you see how big he is. Not ridiculously big, but impressive.

Jean reached for the nightstand for a condom, but you stopped him.

"That's not necessary, I'm on the pill."

"Are you sure?"

Your nod was enough. He's above you again, his hand to your mouth. You immediately understand for what, and spit into it.

"Good girl." He lubes up his cock and spreads your legs. "Spread those pretty legs wider for me, dear."

You do as he says with obvious impatience. And your body language doesn't go unnoticed.

"So eager for me, aren't you?" He smirked lightly, brushing the head of his cock, leaking pre-cum, against your entrance.

"Jean, please..." You whine with anticipation.

"Please what, ma belle? Tell me what you need." He gently stroked your hair, feigning confusion.

"Please put it inside me." If only you knew how much he wanted it, but held back to please you before.

"You want it that much, hmm? Who am I to deny you?" He slowly moved his head along your entrance again. "Now breathe."

And you felt a pleasant stretch inside. His hard cock entered you slowly, causing your toes to curl and your head to tilt back. Jean bowed his head, exhaling heavily. "Fuck, so tight even after all that stretching."

"Jean!" You moaned, holding onto his broad, strong back.

"I know, honey, I know." He tried to soothe you, even though he himself was on the verge of losing his mind.

"Fuck...I can't..." Your eyes sparkled with the pleasure that enveloped you completely. But Jean was there, looking at your cheek and kissing your face relentlessly.

"Yes, you can. See how good you're taking me already?" He repeated the praise over and over, mixing english and french. It seemed he wasn't even aware of the pace.

After a moment, he began to move inside you. Back and forth. Your voices and sighs blended into a single symphony of meaningless words.

"You sound even more beautiful in bed than on stage. Please keep saying my name, angel." He pleaded with you with the most desperate look on his face. He sped up inside you. Back and forth. You're gasping for air, scratching his back, and he keeps kissing your face like you can slip out of his hands.

When it became too much for him, he buried his face in the crook of your neck. "How are you feeling, beautiful? Is it enough?"

Oh.

He fucks you like he's given you a second wind, and he dares to ask if it's enough?

"Jean...you're so good...oh my god." Your voice cracks, trying to say something coherent, but you feel too dizzy to care.

You thought he was as deep inside you as possible, when he manages to go even deeper, reaching a sensitive spot. You feel your vision blur as tears start to form again. It doesn't hurt, no. He would never allow himself to do that. You cry from how pleasantly Jean Kirstein moves inside you.

"Fuuuuck, ma belle." He himself is barely holding on, though. Seeing the tears in your eyes, he began to collect them with his lips, continuing to cover your face with kisses. The taste of your fluid on his tongue mingled with the taste of your tears.

Still moving inside you, he began to massage your clit with his fingers, driving you completely crazy.

"Jeaaaan...'m so close..."

"Me too, honey. We're gonna cum together, yeah?" His breathing became even more ragged, his moans grew louder.

A few more measured, sweet thrusts, and you both tensed, looking into each other's eyes.

And it came. The most pleasant and gracious orgasm of your life. You both felt transported to paradise for a while. It was impossible to feel such tempting pleasure in the real world.

You felt him fill you with his seed. Warmth spread throughout your body as you are recovering from the wave of orgasm.

"Gorgeous. You're so gorgeous. So perfect." He couldn't stop praising you. He could go on an on praising you endlessly.

He pulled out and stroked your legs with his hands. His lips covered your neck and shoulders with kisses.

"Do you need anything? I can order some food and I have a TV." He asked, tucking a strand of your hair behind your ear.

"No, thanks. Right now I only need you. And a shower a little later." You laid your head on his chest, and Jean covered you both with a blanket.

"Of course." He kissed the top of your head. "How are you feeling?"

"Dizzy and sleepy. But I've never felt so good."

"Me too. You were magical." He stroked your forearms with soothing movements. "Sing me one of your songs."