Summary: You and Marc are good at reading each other, at figuring out the mood between you and whether you should make love or fuck or something in between.
You thought you’d known what kind of night you were having, what kind of mood both of you were in, or at least had been in.
Or
Marc Spector learns to let go.
Pairing: sub!Marc Spector x f!Reader
Word Count: ~3.8k
Warnings: smut, some references to rough sex, choking
A/N: this was very self-indulgently written. its basically just marc spector getting choked and letting go.
“Oh, fuck.”
Marc’s teeth are clenched.
A bead of sweat trails down his forehead and runs into the divot between his brows.
His eyes are closed, and you can see the jump of his pulse in his neck. Marc clenches his jaw, the thin facade of his control wavering, the green tracery of his veins straining against the warm brown skin of his throat.
The thrust of his hips, the brutal, frantic way he’d been fucking you only moments before, has slowed and stuttered to nearly a stop. You feel peeled open, vulnerable, your chest heaving and skin damp with sweat as you stare up at him, the sharp edges of him. You want to touch those sharp points, to cut yourself on the edges on him, but your wrists are trapped on either side of your head in the cups of Marc’s hands.
Marc is a demanding partner, with eyes of fathomless black and the ripple of muscle beneath taut skin - he wants a lot from you and you’re forever ready to give it.
There’s always something desperate in the way Marc fucks you, makes love to you, takes you - like he’s trying to tell you all his secrets, press them into the plush curves of your skin, whisper them into the hollow of your throat, the crux of your legs, the edge of your jaw.
Like he’s saying things he never could with words alone.
What he needs is different each time you have sex - and you’re happy to give him, whatever he needs, because he does the same for you.
Always.
You’re good at reading each other, at sussing out the mood between you and whether you should make love - slow and gentle and kind, or fuck - rough and hard and passionate.
You thought you’d known what kind of night you were having, what kind of mood both of you were in, or at least had been in.
It’s evidenced in the sprawl of your clothes over the floor of the flat, the crooked lampshade and tower of Steven’s books that had been knocked to the floor. It’s evidenced in the way your lips are swollen and your knees still smart. He’d gripped your hair so tight, shoved himself in your mouth, and called you things that made your eyes roll back and your pussy throb.
His lashes flutter against his cheeks, color rising against his skin and that vein in his neck only strains further, pulses so hard that you fear he’ll break his teeth from the pressure and grind of his jaw.
Sometimes, Marc needs something else.
And you know what he needs now.
He doesn’t want - he doesn’t need, to be the person fucking, he needs to be the one getting fucked.
Your skin is aching in his grip, but when you wriggle your wrist out from Marc’s grasp where he’d pinned both your hands down, he doesn’t try to stop you.
You can sense Marc trying to figure out how to ask for what he wants. You can practically hear his churning thoughts - the anxiety that he’d ask for something different when he’d promised you something else entirely, that he’d ask you for something you didn’t want to give.
But you already know what he needs and you’re not picky, not really. And you’ve never been one to deny Marc anything.
Besides, he’s kind of pretty when he cries.
“Marc?” You ask, pressing your free hand to his cheek and then his bicep, sweeping your thumb over his heated skin, along the inside of his arm. His hips are still against yours now, his cock buried deep inside you. You drag your thumb along the vein in his arm, down to his hand anchored on the mattress beside your head. A couple of soothing passes of your hand up and down his arm does nothing to assuage whatever feeling that was biting through him, to make him say whatever thought was racing around his mind.
“Marc?” You ask again, letting your voice take on a more demanding tone.
Because you know what he needs. You already know. Even if he doesn’t know how to say it.
Sometimes, Marc needs to be the one in control after a hard day or a hard mission, and sometimes he needs to be anything but in control.
And sometimes, those wires of what he needed got a little bit crossed and -
“Honey,” you coo, sliding your hand to his shoulder and then down his chest in a soothing arc.
You hesitate for only a moment longer before you press your hand against the column of his throat and whisper, “Is this what you need?”
He breaks. Instantly.
Like a ship sinking into waves, the acceptance of his fate complete, that he’s willing to drown in you.
You can see it in the way his eyes roll back, in the way a shiver of pure need splits his face open, in the way he releases your other hand and collapses against you. Marc buries his face against your chest and rests his hand over the one you have pressed against his neck, tightening your grip there.
And even though you aren’t putting any pressure on his throat, his voice still comes out choked, a cracked, feeble, “Yes.”
You nod and curl your fingers through his hair, tugging at the dark, sweat dampened strands until he pulls back and you can shove at his shoulder.
Marc rolls onto his back easily, his cock sliding out of you.
You don’t immediately follow him, propping yourself up on one elbow instead to lean your face over his, to bump your nose gently against his. “Did you know earlier?”
“No,” he says, tilting his face into yours.
“Good,” you say softly, trailing your fingertips up his chest, over the ridges of muscle and scar. You pause with your hand against his collarbone, sliding your thumb against the delicate skin there. “You know you can always ask me right? When you need something from me? You can ask for it.”
When he only nods, you press your thumb under his jaw and tilt his head back, demanding his attention from where it had shifted down across your breasts and over your belly. “I need to hear it, baby.”
“Yes,” he answers, eyes snapping to yours. “Yeah. I know.”
You nod and sit up, Marc helping you maneuver your leg over his body until you’re straddling him, his hands soft and gentle against you. It’s so different to a few minutes before, when Marc’s touch had been demanding and bruising and hard.
You gaze down at him for a moment, at the blown out black of his pupils, the dark curl against of hair stuck to his forehead. You reach forward and slide your fingers against his jaw, tracing the curve of his full bottom lip, flicking your eyes over the ripple of contracting muscle in his lower abdomen.
“Can I-,” his hands hover around your hips.
“‘Course you can.”
His grip settles on your hips, draws up and over the curve of your waist, the line of your thighs.
You never deny Marc touch. It’s not the kind of partner you are, and Marc doesn't really respond well to denial anyways. Touch is a language of trust to him, and to break that is to break everything between you.
You know how important it is to him, how grounding it is for him.
His thumbs brush your nipples and you slip your hand back against his throat.
You lift your hips after a few minutes of tracing the lines of his body, when he’s steadied himself against you. A smirk twists your lips because the frustration is starting to creep in, that lovely neediness you ache to see splayed across his features. “Help me put it back in,” you hum, rocking your hips against his. Marc’s eyes flash to your pussy, the wet slit of you leaving his abdomen damp, your thighs glistening with moisture from how he’d been fucking you. “I wanna feel your cock. You wanna feel me again?”
“Yeah, baby, fuck,” he groans, his hand briefly trailing to your cunt, his thumb pressing against your clit, his hand spread over your lower belly.
And fuck, do you like that, the way his hand looks against your skin, the large splay of his fingers over you. Your belly clenches, pussy spasming as he traces circles into your heat. You dig your fingers into his hair, yanking on the strands a little harder than you normally would. “Thought you were gonna help me, hm? Getting a little distracted aren’t you, sweetheart?”
His eyes roll back at your words, eyes fluttering shut again, brow crinkled. “Fuck. Yes,” he answers. “Yeah,” he nods to himself, lust blown eyes flickering open with some trouble, reaching around to grip the base of his cock, his other hand going to your waist to help you lift your hips and sink down onto him.
The stretch of him inside you is so good, so fucking full. Marc’s hands are hot, like coal against your hips where he holds you tightly. The vein in his throat is straining again, his mouth a determined line. You groan and toss your head back, letting Marc sweep his hands over your belly and chest, his fingers deftly pinching your nipples until you arch into his hands, cupping the weight of your breasts in his palms.
You roll your hips against his, setting an agonizingly slow pace. You lean over him, anchoring your hands to the mattress on either side of his head, lowering your mouth to his ear. “Why can’t I hear you? Why are you so quiet?”
“Fuck,” his response is breathless, fingers tightening against your skin until its painful. “Sorry, baby, I-,”
You nudge your nose against the shell of his ear, nipping lightly at the skin, the fire of Marc’s touch roving up and down the tops of your thighs to the dip in your waist - like he was helping you keep the steady slow pace of your hips against his.
“You like to hear me, don’t you?”
“Yeah,” he sounds breathless and so you help him a little, moving one hand to curl around his throat again, only this time you put pressure on his skin. You apply steady pressure to the sides of his neck until you feel his breath scrape.
“Lemme hear you, Marc,” you whisper, curling your tongue against his ear before you pull back, never breaking the languid pace you’ve set.
His breathing hitches, blown open eyes finding yours.
Marc’s eyes flutter shut just as quickly, the sweep of those ungodly long lashes against his cheeks like the tips of angel’s wings. “You feel so good like this,” you encourage. “Wish I could tell you how good. So full. I can feel you in my lungs.”
“Fuck,” he whispers and you increase the pressure on his throat, keeping the pace of your hips torturously slow.
“Mhm,” you whisper. “So good. You feel so good. Let me hear how good I’m making you feel.”
Marc finally let’s go with the words of your praise ringing in his ears. The groan is loud and long and choked, the whispered curses like music to your ears and its a struggle not to just fuck him, to make him scream.
You squeeze his neck instead until his breathing rasps, and you relent a little. “Tell me what you need.”
You never make Marc speak, never make him use words if he didn’t want to. But he had to show you - and he does now, reaching up to press his hand over yours on his throat, tightening your grip again.
“Good,” You praise him, letting him cradle your hips with large hands, urging the pace of you along. You take one of his hands away from your waist and press his fingers to your pussy. “So good, Marc,” you whisper, leaning over him to kiss him gently, the part of his lips making it easy to slip your tongue against his. “I get to come before you,” you tell him, just to see the pretty flutter of lashes, the pulse of his throat, the way his Adam's apple bobs as he swallows thickly and nods.
You lean back and take your hand away from his throat.
The sound that escapes him is tortured, like he’d do anything to keep your hand there, like he trusted you to give him exactly what he needed.
And he does.
Marc trusts you, to be like this with you.
You shush him, letting his hands drag your hips harder still against his. You swirl your hips and lift yourself up on your knees a little, so you can give him what he clearly needs, something faster and firmer.
“Baby,” Marc’s voice is strained, rocky. The sound is delicious, makes you ache for him all the more. “I need to-,”
“No, you don’t,” you say quietly, stemming the flow of words, the way he’s starting to ramble. You curl one hand against the back of his neck, pressing your forehead to his. “You can take it. I know what you need. Not you. You don’t need to think about it.”
His body arches up into yours, his eyes like the darkness of an abyss staring into yours, like inkwells and cups of coffee and the dark spaces between stars.
God, you love his eyes, the warm umber like something you want to float in, to wait for time and space to eat you whole.
“Baby,” Marc tries again, begging now, the hitch of a sob in his voice. “I can’t -,”
“You can,” you whisper, cutting through the chatter that keeps spilling from his lips. You’ve never seen him like this, lost and babbling. You need to keep him here with you, keep him from feeling like you were too far to reach, like he’s floating on his own. “Hey, you’re doing so good. I know you can hold on.” You draw your hand around his throat to trace his clavicle. “You feel me?”
He nods, one of his roving hands finding your pussy, rubbing your cunt for you, the other going to your waist, the backs of his knuckles dipping along the curves of you.
“Good,” you say, digging your thumb into the hollow at the base of his throat.
You nip at his bottom lip until he kisses you sloppily, his tongue sliding messily against yours and flicking against your teeth.
“I want you to come,” he says, sounding desperate. “I want to feel it, baby.”
“Make me then,” you tell him, your belly tightening, the slick sound of your pussy around his cock stroking something deep inside you. You preen, with the way he trusts you and lets you take him, with the way your thrusts become frantic, the sound of your skin sliding against his. “Know you can do it.”
A shiver rocks through him, Marc’s hips lifting to meet yours push for push. You slide your hand over his chest and abdomen when you sit back again, watching the hazy fade of his eyes fasten to the way your body swallows him.
You feel like a goddess like this, like Marc was someone that would worship you.
But, you feel too, like the reverse is true.
Like Marc was the center of the universe, and what the universe needed, you would give.
And right now, he needs this.
He needs you.
To be at your mercy, because you’re always so good, because you always know what he needs.
“Fuck, look at you,” you say, tracing that vein in his neck that you so loved, the clenched jaw that you dreamed of, before you press your fingers between his lips. You feel his tongue slip around your fingers. “Like that?”
He nods, moans around your hand. “Sweetheart,” you grunt, raking a desperate hand through his curls, dark and damp. “Suck,” you command lightly, and he does.
The flat is silent except for this, except for you and him.
The air is humid with summer heat, the crease of your bodies together a kind of torture that you love. Sweat pearls and beads across both of you, your mouth hungry for the salted taste of him.
Your belly pulses, your pussy contracting around him, and Marc releases a loud moan, broken off around your fingers in his mouth. Spit trails from his mouth to your fingers when you pull them back.
“Please, baby,” Marc is begging, his voice an echo around the room, on the verge of breaking down, becoming a mess, of floating away.
This is exactly where you want him, just on the edge of too much.
“Please what?” You ask sweetly, raking your fingers down his chest. “Say it.”
“I want you to come-,”
“Want?”
“Need,” he corrects desperately. “Need. I need you to come. I need - I - I -,”
You shush him. “Good,” you coo. “So, so good. So fucking good for me. I’m gonna come and then you’re gonna keep being good and come for me, aren’t you? You wanna come?”
“Fuck. Yes. Yes. Please,” he begs.
You stoke a soft hand down his cheek, caressing his flushed skin, and for the last time that night curl your hand around his throat. “Help me then, baby,” you demand. “Wanna come on your cock.”
Marc’s hands fly to you, one rubbing tight circles against your cunt as you finally properly fuck him, watching the strong broad lines of his palm cover one of your tits, to sqeeze and knead before drifting to you hip, pushing you faster and faster and -
When he releases a deep guttural moan, eyes still fastened to where your cunt sucks his cock into you, something in you fractures and breaks and you’re suddenly coming so hard your vision goes white for a moment.
You toss your head back, thighs trembling and clenching against his hips and sides, a moan releasing from deep in your chest. “Fuck, Marc, baby,” you groan. “So good, baby, you’re so good for me.”
His eyes are fucked out already when you meet his gaze, his hand reaching up to press over your hand still on his throat until you’re worried it might be too much pressure on his neck. But you don’t stop moving, fucking him frantically as you draw one hand down his chest to his lower belly, the muscle rippling and tense, the flushed skin tight and hot. “C’mon, you’ve been so good for me. Come for me, Marc.”
Marc moans, thrusting up into you so hard your teeth rattle.
There are tears pooled at the corners of his eyes, thin lines of wet running down his temples and inso his hair.
Something feral rips through you at the sight, and you lean down to taste him, to kiss the pretty bow of his mouth.
“Come for me, Marc,” you repeat again against his lips, desperate for it. “Know you wanna come like this. I made you cry for it, huh?” You nudge your nose against the tracks of tears, and his breath catches, hand tightening on yours, when he suddenly breaks.
You feel him come, the hard thrust of his hips bruising with intensity, like he was trying to lock the two of you together, like he could merge with you, if he could only get close enough.
You release his throat, burying your nose there instead as he spills inside you, tears and words flowing freely now.
Marc’s voice is like gravel, warm and grated and shuttered.
It doesn’t matter what he’s saying, you hear him, you hum against him, your bodies still moving together until the last vestiges of lust fade from your veins.
Marc’s arms are knotted around you, his lips by your ear still chattering and whispering and-
“You were so good,” you praise him, stroking back his hair, the curls coiling around your digits.
You want to bleed into him in that moment, to crease your bodies together in a fusion of limbs and hearts and souls. “So good, baby,” you whisper, the cocoon of his arms and the smell of him luring you towards safety and sleep. “So fucking good, Marc.”
His smell is intoxicating - like salt and sweat and the coppery tang of blood, like his cologne and something that you can only name as Marc. His arms are like home.
When hours or days have passed and you feel you can pull back and stop stroking his hair, you speak softly. “Hey,” you lean back and catch his eyes, soft, dark, fathomless depths staring back into you. “Are you okay?”
He nods.
“Can I hear you say it?”
The corner of his mouth lifts in a half smile. “You worry too much. I’m okay. More than okay, baby.”
You bristle just a little. “It’s important.”
“I know,” he soothes. “That’s why I’m saying it. I’m okay.”
You nod and pull back to check over his neck. Of course, you’ve left no marks, you know what you’re doing. You could never hurt him. “Was this good?” You massage the skin below his throat gently.
“Yeah,” he sounds breathless when he says it. “Fuck. So good.”
You nod and move off of him, cuddling into his side instead. In a few minutes you’ll get up, get something to clean you both up with, but you know he still needs you now even if he won’t say it.
The messy sigh of your bodies together is solid and soft, like pieces fitting together.
And he’s pretty like this - fucked out, the tension he perpetually holds in his shoulders gone. His mouth is wet, his cock messy from both your releases, and his eyes are soft and unencumbered by the weight of his usual worries.
“I love you,” you tell him, drawing his attention back from wherever he’s floating off to in his mind.
He doesn’t answer you, curls his fingers through yours instead. “Thank you,” he says and you’re not sure for what - loving him, trusting him, for being able to trust you at his most vulnerable, maybe all of it.
You nod, stroking his hair, tracing over the crests of his cheeks, all the little marks on his skin you know so well.
It’s grounding for both of you, and so good, and you only stop when the stickiness between you starts to become uncomfortable and gross. You kiss him, the closed lids of his eyes, the crease in his brow, the constellation of little scars on his jaw and cheek - so small they were nearly invisible.
Marc’s hand flashes out to grab you when you start to stand and you’re worried for a moment you read him wrong, that he wasn’t ready for you to get up when he says, “I love you too.”
today is the LAST DAY of voting! if you could take a minute of your time to vote and share, my name is Sandra and i’m a finalist for the Musical Theatre Pre-Professional division of this voice competition! https://www.csmusic.net/content/2021-fall-competition/audience-choice-round/?fbclid=IwAR1_TB6cQ6NZGFP9U9vknvuiu3IY4U39Kuqi-FN-1YySk--JOOfdUhuCj-0
<p>2021 Audience Choice Round Sponsored by Appcompanist Vote for a winner of each of the following divisions. You must have a free account a
I debated whether or not to post this, but I decided it’s worth a shot! If anyone is interested in voting for me for this vocal competition, my name is Sandra and I’m a top 10 finalist in the Musical Theatre Pro Division. Thousands of people submitted to this competition, so to be in the top 10 is insane. Anyway, if you would like to make a quick account and watch my submission, and then if you enjoy it, please cast a vote for me! Thank you in advance to anyone who might vote for me!
CS Music is the platform to connect Music students and emerging professionals to universities, training programs, and co...
It is illegal for an individual to knowingly use interactive computer services to display obscenity in a manner that makes it available to a minor less than 18 years of age (See 47 U.S.C. § 223(d)). (As stated in a Tumblr post. Click the link to read it fully)
I have seen a lot of discourse, again, about minors being in NSFW spaces and even some adults defending minors and that's not okay. A friend and I have done some research and have collected the above materials to show minors (those who are under the age of 18) that it is illegal for a minor to write, read, or interact with any sort of NSFW work.
When you do so you are putting adults at risk because adults will have to answer for your actions. You are putting adults at risk of legal trouble. When an adult blocks you it is not because they are trying to be mean, it's because they are trying to protect themselves and in existence you from anything bad happening. Nobody wants to end up in jail over a fucking fictional story. It's not fair to adults that you're putting them at such risk because you want to read about your favorite characters having sex.
An author has a responsibility to tag their stories, put warnings on them, and at times disclaimers for the stories so that the reader can make an informed decision before reading. If a story is marked as explicit or the author says they do not want anyone under the age of 18 to read their content then don't read it.
Everyone is allowed to have boundaries. Smut authors are trying to create safe boundaries so they do not do anything that would get them into trouble. If a person - whether or not an they write smut expresses that they don't want children or teens to follow them then that needs to be respected.
It is not anyone responsibility to provide minors with blogs that are safe for them to consume. If a minor can find NSFW blogs then they can find blogs that are safe for them.
Parents - and I know there are parents on here - need to take it upon themselves to educate their children on internet safety and not going into spaces that are not for them. They need to be more proactive in knowing what their children are doing on the internet. There are too many unsafe places and unsafe people on the internet for children and teens to be on it without parent knowledge.
Minors: you need to think about what you're doing and how you're putting people in danger. It is not worth it just so you can read material that's meant for adults. Stop putting people at risk. Stop not listening. Stop following blogs that are under the age of 18. You are in the wrong, not the adults blocking you.
Remember that time Henry Cavill built a PC during quarantine and everyone lost their collective minds
If Nathan Bateman ever
If
In his tank top-edness
With his arms all out
And he unboxes the pieces, all Blue Book manufactured, and he was like, “Alright, instructions…Don’t fuckin’ need these,” And he like throws the packet over his shoulder and then turns to the camera and goes, “I mean you would, probably.”
And smirks. And laughs a little.
“I’m installing one terabyte of RAM…Got a shit ton’a porn I need to download on here…The maximum amount of RAM to watch the maximum amount of ramming…No I won’t apologize for saying that. Let it resonate with you.”
“Your inability to rationalize your digital porn footprint is not my failing, it’s yours, be prepared. Also don’t use sticky shit and then touch the fucking keyboard. Any of you who do this should be publicly flogged.”
“Unless of course you like the idea of being publicly flogged, in which case you should be privately shamed. Whatever drives the message home. Alright, where’d I put the instructions…I don’t need them, my desk is just wobbling a little bit and I wanna level it off.”
For Kinktober I will be having daily prompts. Each day, you can request what character you'd like me to write for with that prompt. Below you will find the characters I'll be willing to write for the the different prompts for each day:
Here are the list of characters I'm willing to write for:
Oh my god they were roommates (Santiago “Pope” Garcia x GN!reader)
Summary: Santi’s a terrible houseguest… until he isn’t.
Warnings: nudity; mentions of eviction (Santi is never in real danger of “eviction” here and he knows it - they are buddies - but warning all the same); steamy making-out (kissing, undressing) and implied oral (fade to black, reader receiving).
Author’s note: POSTING THIS SUPER QUICKLY SO SORRY IF THERE ARE LOTSA TYPOS! a super quick, fairly light-hearted thing! It has some silliness and then some steam 😊 (Yes I’m still ignoring my actual WIPs and spewing out other things. Oops! I have some much more involved Santi works on the go but for now, pls accept this humble offering which has been done hurriedly before I dash off out!).
Rating: MATURE - sexual themes / steam
GIF: @abelslittlebunny 🧡 (yes I know it’s not Santi but hey)
You are not okay.
You throw your face into the couch to muffle a scream.
You are sweating.
You just saw Santi in the nude.
Full frontal.
And full rear-al.
You’d been nagging yourself to fix the bathroom lock before your long-time buddy moved in with you.
Well. Evidently you hadn’t.
You emit another silent, strangle groan as you hear quickened footfalls down the stairs.
“I’m so sorry. Thought it was locked,” Santi gushes, coming hurriedly down the stairs. “Are you okay?”
Are you okay? Why is he asking that? Is he accustomed to such extreme reactions to his junk?!
“Mm-hmm” you say, your statement somewhat unconvincing since your face is still buried in the couch cushion.
“A little traumatised, huh?”
You hear a fucking belt buckle being fastened.
If he’s still only partially dressed, it’s probably safer not to come out yet.
You are seriously contemplating moving out of your own place and never coming home.
Santi’s voice is closer now. “I’ll go to the hardware store today and-“
“You have to move out! Santi! You have to go!” you yell, near incomprehensibly as the couch muffles the sound.
Santi sighs. He’s obviously getting frustrated.
“Sweetie?” he prompts, and when that doesn’t coax you out of your ostrich hole, he gently jostles your shoulder. “If you’re evicting me can we at least have this conversation face-to-face?” Another jostle. “Huh?”
The heat in your cheeks somewhat subsiding since you caught an eyeful, you loosen your iron grip on the cushion. Gently, Santi teases it out from under you and reluctantly you sit up.
This isn’t what he promised - talking face-to-face?!
Now you’re crotch to face, and you’re not having a good day.
The fucker put on his pants, but clearly he put them on so fast that they’re loose - low-slung around his hips. And you just know he’s not wearing any underwear.
Desperate not to follow that thought all the way through, your gaze travels up, and you continue to get more than you bargained for.
Santi’s bare chested, still damp from the shower, beads of water still clinging to his skin, here and there - some rivulets trickling from his and the tight, dark curls leading down beneath his jeans.
The knowledge that Santi has salt and pepper hair there is not something you could have done without, in all honestly.
Still, in search of a safe spot, your eyes travel up his abdomen, over the swell of it, little rolls of soft flesh at his hips at tummy. Up further, over his infeasibly smooth, tan chest. The chain nestled safely in between his pecs and hardened nipples, and swinging from his roped neck.
Lastly, his shoulders, rivulets snaking over the broadness of him as his dampened, grizzled curls drip water, fresh from showering.
Ugh.
You actually whimper.
You can’t do this.
“You have to move out, Santi.”
“Uh. Okaaay.” He’s nodding, but he looks at you in utter confusion, lifting an arm to scratch the crown of his curls.
He did just get here. Three days ago. You’d said it was okay. You’d been quite emphatic.
You sigh.
You sigh and your gaze naturally resets to eye level, then - fuck, you’re in this hellish crotch to face predicament all over again and you simply cannot.
Can you screw your eyes shut? Would that be weird?
“Can you go and live with Benny or something because you and me… maybe… maybe it’s not gonna work out,” you say a little too fast, your voice tightly strung.
Santi’s shoulders slump dejectedly at that. He rasps a hand over his stubble as he thinks, and shuffles from foot to foot. “Okay…” he says, sombrely, dropping his voice. Using one hand to tug down the crotch of his pants, and looking uncomfortable - he mustn’t have dried off properly there either. You swallow thickly. “Or, maybe we could talk about what’s really going on here?” Santi offers calmly.
Unfortunately, calmly is the opposite of you.
You stand suddenly, and you pace around the room, arms flailing and gesticulating wildly at him, launching into a tirade of complaints. “You put all your dishes in the dishwasher as soon as you’ve used them. You’re ridiculously tidy…”
Santi’s body revolves to face you, as you navigate a semi-circle around the floor, and his eyebrows leap up in ever-increasing confusion. “Hold up. You want me to leave because I’m a good houseguest?”
Okay, that one was reaching.
But you’re digging yourself a hole here and you don’t see any option but to keep going.
You let out a petulant exhale, you arms rising and slapping against your sides with your breath. “No. No. I’m not saying it right,” you whine, folding your arms in frustration. That’s not it at all. “You… You wake up earlier than I do. And… do you have to be so damn thoughtful? Bringing me tea? Setting out my mug and cereal bowl before I come down for breakfast?”
Santi looks more confused by the second, his eyebrows making all kinds of shapes now. Finally, his brows draw down and he shakes his head. “You want me to be more of a dickhead or something? Baby, who the shit hurt you?”
He chuckles in disbelief, but that only seems to wind you up more rather than diffuse the situation. Clearly, you are not seeing the funny side.
“And then!” you screech, voice raised another octave, your eyes wide and your hand gesturing wildly up and down his body. “You’re NUDE! In the SHOWER!”
Yeah. Wow. Nude in the shower. The audacity, huh?
Well. Safe to say, Santi is thoroughly bamboozled now.
“Well, sure,” he nods condescendingly. “Kinda easier to wash that way, cariño.”
God. Why is he not listening? You stomp your foot, and Santi waits patiently for you to be done.
Are you done?
There you go.
With nowhere else for your altogether flimsy complaints to go, you bury your face into your palms and emit another, half-silent scream.
“Hey, come on,” Santi soothes, using the opportunity to slip forwards, and gently clasp your forearms in his warm hands, encouraging you to lower the barrier of them down from your face.
His voice is soft and his umber eyes trail over you in concern. You look at him apologetically, a watery sheen misting your eyes. “Okay. Wanna tell me what’s really going on? Huh?” he asks, dipping his chin down and looking at you from beneath his lashes, brows lifted and furrowed expectantly.
Fuck.
You wish you could cover your face again as ridiculous tears ball in your eyes, but Santi is still grasping your arms so gently, and speaking with you so gingerly, that it would seem a little rude to tear yourself away from his touch.
You take a long, slow, calming breath, and Santi nods encouragingly.
“It’s stupid,” you insist.
His full lips twitch in subtle amusement. Honestly, how much more bizarre can it get? Whatever it is, Santi is ready for it.
You tug in a deep breath, and Santi begins to smooth the pads of his thumbs up and down your arms.
“You’re… sweet,” you admit, not knowing where the sudden tremble in your voice has come from. “You keep being all considerate and thoughtful and pre-empting my needs. You keep making me laugh. Your thighs are amazing to lay my legs over when we watch TV. You look adorable when you wake up and your curls are all… the way they get. And then…”
Santi is still looking confused as all hell; but he’s listening carefully. Trying to understand you. “And then?”
“And then, you’re all… nude. And, I can’t fucking take it.”
He shakes his head. “You’re losing me, sweetie,” Santi indicates generously. Honestly, did you ever have him? You’re not making a lot of sense, to be fair to the man.
Ugh.
Okay, here goes nothing.
“You’re HOT, Santi,” you admit. “You’re in my house being all hot and sweet and perfect and I can’t.” Santi blinks a few times, looking satisfied at the compliment but still - bless his heart - trying to slot all of the pieces together. “You’re giving me thoughts… and…” -has all the air gone from the room, suddenly?- “And feelings, Santi.
Oh.
Oh.
Well, there it is, all laid out. Thoughts and feelings.
Santi’s mouth forms a small “o” and yet no sound comes out. He does manage to move, however, all of a sudden dropping your forearms as if they’re a hot potato and taking a discernible step back from you.
“So. Do you see? You have to go. Because I thought I could do this but I was so wrong. I saw your dick. And it was… very nice.” Jesus- when did your voice get so husky? “And… I’m doing my best to but how can I be expected go on?”
Santi suppresses a smile, with great effort, as you slap your palms to the side of your face like an Edvard Munch painting, with the horror of what you’d just admitted to him.
Santi, for his part, takes it all in his stride (maybe he really is accustomed to these reactions) and nods slowly as he thinks, scuffing his hand back and forth through his sprouting, grizzled stubble. “You’re right,” he nods, finally.
Wait. You are?
Because it really didn’t feel that way at any point when you were speaking.
“I’m a terrible houseguest. Respectful. Clean. Entertaining. Endowed.” Santi, chuckles smugly, so help you. “So maybe I should go…”
You furrow your brow. You emit a telltale, dejected whimper.
Oh boy.
You’re the confused one now.
Santi extends his hands forward to cup your elbows, warm against you again. “But… you should remember, sweetie. You’re hardly the perfect landlord here either.”
Hold up.
Aren’t you?
Your jaw drops open and you are about to express indignation, but Santi’s now smoothing his warm, broad hands subtly up and down your arms, gradually inching his shirtless body closer to yours and all thoughts you’ve ever had or might have leave your head forever.
“You hog the couch,” he complains, his tone syrupy and thick with warmth.
Santi slips his arms around your waist, now smoothing up your back, and drawing his bare chest closer to you. He feels warm. He smells good.
You think you might spontaneously combust.
“You leave your clothes everywhere. You cook like a tornado. And you keep me up at night with your late baths and terrible music.”
He’s looking at your lips, even as they form a gentle “hey” in protest.
Santi moves closer again, until the heat of him is pressing up against you, his hips sturdy against yours.
“But do you know the worst thing?” he asks with a lazy flash of teeth.
You shake your head wordlessly, suddenly grateful that his arms are holding on to you, else you think you might be a puddle on the floor as his robust, warm voice filters over you.
Then, his flash of teeth widens, and he dips his head directly towards the shell of your ear, his stubble deliciously grazing your cheek.
You exhale a stuttered breath.
“You wear far too many clothes,” he whispers, and the words shoot straight to your core, a scorching heat galloping across your cheeks and down your neck.
Ever so deliberately, Santi grazes his stubbled jaw along your throat, his lips dipping to ghost along your collarbone, and then, he pulls back, to check-in. To see how you’re doing with the situation.
Well. How are you hanging in there?
You try your best to speak, but you appear to have temporarily lost all of your faculties. Lord knows why. Nope. No idea.
Then, Santi’s come-to-bed eyes search yours, before his face cracks with an entirely disarming smile. “Need a minute to scream into a pillow again, hermosa? Because, believe me,” Santi purrs as he raises his forefinger, tipping your jaw closer to his inviting lips, “that can be arranged.”
You whimper, eyes fluttering closed as your lips magnetise towards one another, and you open up for Santi’s warm, freshly minted tongue to confidently shove over yours.
Oh, the bastard. He knows exactly what he’s doing to you - and he’s loving it. Especially as he bucks his hips towards you, showing you he’s even more endowed than you had caught a glimpse of earlier.
“Fine,” you concede, giddy and trembling from that kiss. “You can stay, Santiago.”
“Oh yeah?” he asks into your neck, in-between sliding his tongue over the contours of you.
“But you’re gonna have to do something about the clothing situation. The score just isn’t even.”
And, as Santi begins to unfasten the buttons on your shirt, one-by-one, tracing his conscientious tongue over the ridges and peaks of your flesh, you concede.
He might just be the perfect houseguest.
In fact, as his tongue slips below your waistband -as soon as your affirmative is granted- you have no doubt that he can stay.
Summary: You're Blue's girl and everyone knows it. They know not to pursue you. But what if you're the one pursuing them just to get a rise out of Blue?
Warning: jealously, Blue's rough and a dick, smut - spanking, light fingering.
A/N: HAPPY KINKTOBER!!!! Also, some may consider this a bit dark, so i'll be tagging it as such just in case.
Blue hasn't been paying much attention to you since the new girl, Baby Doll, arrived. It hurts. He dotes on her, treats her like how he used to treat you. You watch as he looks at her with soft eyes and that smile, you hate it.
All the girls look at you with concern and you scowl. You march out of the dressing room and go out to the patrons. You know that they know that they shouldn't interact with you. They all know you as Blue's girl, but it seems you're not his girl anymore.
You're sitting on a man's lap, he looks a bit older than Blue, very handsome. Your fingers graze along his salt and pepper stubble. You giggle as the man's rough hands rake up your legs. You moan when his teeth meet your neck and he starts to nibble and suck at you. You're so entranced with the man, you don't see Blue march up to you two, fuming.
"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" he snarls.
The man pulls back and clears his throat, "She said she wasn't your girl anymore, Blue."
Blue looks at you, "That true, Rosebud?"
You shrugged, "You got Baby Doll now. Figured that meant we were over over," you turned back to the man and smiled at him, "Mister Barnes has been real nice to me...unlike some people."
Blue practically growled and pulled you off Mr. Barnes' lap, "My office. Now." he snarls at you with a glare that you knew there was no room for negotiation. You yanked your arm out of his grip and walked to Blue's office to wait for him.
You stared out the window, your eyes starting to tear up. When you hear the door open and close, you dabbed the tears away and cleared your throat. You turned around to face him, "I don't really know why you're upset, Blue. You didn't want me anymore so-"
"Who told you that?" he asked firmly as he stood before you, "Because it sure as hell wasn't me, Rosebud."
You cross your arms over your chest protectively, "Ever since Baby Doll arrived you've been giving her all this attention. Everyone sees it, Blue," you look away dejectedly.
Blue cups your face and gets you to look at him, "Honey, you know you're my number one girl."
You pout, "Hasn't felt like it."
"I'll make it up to you, but....I need to punish you first."
Your eyes widen, "W-Wha-Why?"
"You fucking embarrassed me out there, Rosebud. You lounging around on another guy. Makes people think I can't control ya, plus it's fucking disrespectful what you did."
"You started it though!" You exclaim like a five year old.
"And I'm fucking ending it. Bend over my desk," he demands, riding himself from his jacket and rolling up his sleeves."
You pout as you bend over, body pressing against the cool wooden surface. Blue yanks down your bottoms and you see from your peripherals that he grabs a ruler from the drawer.
"Count 'em for me, Rosie."
Thwack!
"One."
Thwack!
"Two."
"Thwack!
"T-Three."
Thwack!
"F-Four."
"You're doing so well for me, Rosie, baby," you feel Blue's hand soothingly rub across your bottom and then he dips his fingers along your slit, feeling you starting to get wet, "Mmmm. You're loving this, huh?"
"N-No, sir."
"Your pussy's telling me otherwise, baby. Maybe I should go harder?"
"Whatever you think is best, sir." your tone is watery and nervous, but you still give Blue permission to do what he sees fit.
Thwack!
"Five."
"Halfway there, Rosie."
Thwack!
"S-S-Six."
Thwack!
"Sev-Seven."
The last three blows are the most painful. But you still count them out. As soon as he tosses the ruler onto the desk, you collapse onto the floor crying.
He squats down and grabs you by the chin, he thumbs away the tears and then leans in, murmuring, "You disrespect me again, a spanking isn't the only thing that you'll get. Got it?"
You nod, "Yes, sir."
"Good girl," he murmurs before pecking your lips, "You'll always be my girl, Rosebud. Never forget that." he then stands and starts redoing his sleeves, "Now clean the fuck up and make me money." With that, he was out of the office, leaving you to collect yourself. You know it shouldn't, but what just happened set a fire in your belly, striking arousal within you.
i know i’ve been gone a long time. to the 3 people who might care, i’m sorry. writing is hard when you don’t have the motivation to like yourself a little bit. i don’t know if i’ve given up for good, all i know is no one else cares so why should i. i guess i’m on hiatus until further notice. i’m sorry if i’m a disappointment.
Summary: Just because the First Order dismantled, doesn’t mean the Resistance has stopped fighting for the freedom of the galaxy. You’re newly recruited and stationed at a base that’s run by the legend himself, General Poe Dameron. Based on this artwork + my shitty edits.
Warning: age gap, Poe's kinda a dick, smut - rough sex, p in v, choking, oral (m receiving), this Poe is suuuuuuper ooc.
A/N: I'M WRITING FOR POE AGAIN! YAY! Also, I might write more if people want. because i do have more ideas for this version of Poe...
Tagging: @darthdameron @abelslittlebunny
You've been with the Resistance for a short time. A little under five years. Despite the end of the First Order, that didn't mean that there weren't still people who wanted to take over the galaxy. The Resistance still remained in tact taking care of those who tried to take the First Order's place, as well as keeping the overall galaxy safe.
In the time you've been with the Resistance, you heard about the legends such as Rey Skywalker, General Finn, and General Poe Dameron. Rey and Finn were off on the other side of the galaxy, training new and upcoming Jedis. General Poe Dameron? Well, he stuck with the Resistance.
You grew up hearing stories about him. He had saved your parents, Resistance fighters as well, and if it wasn't for him, you wouldn't be here. You thought that when you'd meet him, he'd be just as witty and charming like your parents described.
Unfortunately, he was the opposite.
He was harsh, mean, rough, crass. He'd bark orders left and right, running recruits to the ground. You're not exactly sure what happened, but this definitely wasn't the Poe Dameron your parents told you about.
He entered the comms room, looking striking with his thick beard and growing hair. Greys and whites scattered within tresses of black.
"General Dameron!" you approached him, bright eyed, with a smile on your face, "Hi! I'm Y/N and I'd just like to say what an honor it is-"
"Yeah, yeah. Heard it all before," he pushes you to the side and continues on his merry way.
You watch him go and you scoff, murmuring, "Dick," under your breath and heading back to your station.
Now you understood why people say that you should never meet your heroes.
_________________
You were a communications officer, but you wanted to be a field officer. So when you heard that they were looking for more recruits, you jumped at the opportunity. Unfortunately, Poe would be the one overlooking the training and assessments.
You and the rest of the recruits stood in line, trying not to move or even breathe as Poe paced before you.
"You all better be damn worth it, because just looking at you I can already tell I got a lot of work ahead of me." Your jaw clenched as you bit back some retort. He continued, "This is some serious shit. Yeah, the First Order is gone, but you never know when some new organization will take its place. That's why we're still here. To prevent that.
"Now I didn't get to where I am by lazying about. I-
"We get it. You're a seasoned Resistance fighter," you murmured at a level you thought was low enough, but you thought wrong as Poe stopped and turned in your general direction.
"Who said that?"
You gulped and stepped forward, "I did, sir."
He marched over to you, standing before you and glaring right into your eyes, "And why the hell did you think it was necessary to say that?"
"Well frankly, General, if you want us to be the best recruits for the Resistance maybe you should stop going all 'Back in my day' and actually train us."
You watch as his jaw clench and then he hollers, "Everyone, ten laps around the base! If I see any of you slow down, that's another lap added!" Everyone proceeds to scurry and you're ready to leave, but he stops you, "Not you, princess. You stay right fucking there." He watches as all of your fellow recruits leave the tarmac and when you're left alone with him, he gestures for you to follow him off to the side.
Then out of nowhere, he pushes you against the wall and his hand goes to your throat, you feel his grip tighten, but not too tight, "I have seen and done shit you wouldn't believe, princess. This isn't some game. People die and have died for this cause. Are you willing to do the same?"
You then feel his grip tighten and then he releases you allowing you to take large gasps of breath. You look up at him with fire in your eyes and he waves you off.
"Now get out of my sight. Go join the rest of the sad excuse of recruits."
It was from then on, you would make it your mission to be a thorn in General Poe Dameron's side.
_______________
It's been about a week since you started your training. Poe never let up on his harshness towards you or any of the other recruits.
Your entire body was sore and you were dripping with sweat. Many recruits have already dropped out, not wanting to deal with Poe's ways.
During a five minute break that Poe was "generously" giving you, you were talking with your roommate and friend, Kahli.
"Seriously, what the fuck is this guy's problem? I grew up hearing about how compassionate and understanding he was. Now he's such a fucking dick! Stars, it's a shame too 'cause he's hot as hell.
Kahli choked on her water and shook her head disapprovingly at you, "Dunno what happened since the war ended, but yeah. He's a real jerk. Also, I think you need to get laid soon."
"Does he seriously think what he's doing is really gonna help us? I mean look at us! We already lost a third of the group. With the way he's going, there probably won't be much left."
"Have you had your mind invaded by the First Order?" you suddenly tensed when you heard the voice of the Resistance General behind you. You slowly turned around and faced him, he continued, "Have you watch your friends die by the hands of a powerful sith lord?" When you shook your head, he replied, "I think it's in your best interest, princess, to keep your mouth shut if you haven't gone through the shit I have." He looks at you with the glare and clenched jaw you've become familiar with.
You scoff and then give him a smirk while you glare back at him, "Why don't you make me?"
There was another clench of his jaw and he stepped closer to you, sneering, "My office. Now."
He proceeded to march away and you rolled your eyes. Kahli gave you a look of concern and you just shrugged, before following the general.
As soon as you step into his office, you're pinned against the wallsimilar to the first day of your training. Poe's face in front of yours as he sneered, "You really don't know when you quit do you, sweetheart. "
"And you really don't know when to ease up, do you, Captain Dameron?"
Poe roughly grabs your face, "What the fuck did you just call me?"
You don't reply, only give him a dark chuckle and he lets go of you. He nods and demands, "On your knees."
You smirk, "And why should I?"
"So I can fucking shut you up for once," he taunts, already working on loosening his belt.
You can't help but bite your lip as you slide to your knees. Well, Kahli did say you needed to get laid soon. Might as well be with via hate sex with your General.
Poe's already semi-hard when he pulls himself out. He gives himself a few more strokes until he's fully hard, "Open" he orders you and you do as your told. You move to place your hands on his thighs, but he immediately grabs them. He grips your wrist in one hand pinning them to the wall behind you and starts thrusting.
"Ah fuck!" he cries out as he feels the wet warmth of your mouth. You hollow out your cheeks and breathe through your nose to prevent you from gagging. You look up at him and he remembers those same eyes from a year ago. Bright eyes filled with excitement and eagerness.
He has to look away.
"So fucking annoying. Always disobeying me, questioning my authority. Does it get you off, sweetheart, huh? Riling me up? Getting on my nerves? Is that it?"
He grips your hair with his other hand and pulls you off his dick. You gasp for air and you chuckle, "I'm a Rebel, Dameron. That's what I do, I rebel. It's my job."
He lets go of your hair and pulls you to your feet by your wrists, "Is your job to also be a thorn in my side?" he guides you to his desk, making you face away from him, hands on the surface.
You laugh, "No, I also do it just for fun."
He pulls down your training pants and your underwear. He makes you spread your legs a little wider and his fingers slide along your slit. He snorts, "You get wet from sucking my dick, sweetheart?"
"Shut up!" you snarl.
"Really gotta teach you how to respect authority, princess," retorts and then slides his cock inside you.
"Fuck!" you cry out and he chuckles, "Bigger than what you're used to?" you really wish you could punch him right now.
His hands grab your waist and he snaps his hips into you with quick, sharp thrusts. He moans, leaning in, lips hovering over your ears, "Bet those sad excuse of recruits can't fuck you like I do. Just sad little boys who don't know what they're doing."
He thrusts hard in to you and you grumble back at him, "What, and you do?"
"You tell me, sweetheart." he thrusts into you again and you gasp. He's right. Fuck, he's so right, but you're not going to give him that satisfaction.
He continues to fuck you rough and hard, slapping at your eyes, grumbling under his breath how much of a nuisance you are.
"Such a fucking naive little girl. Don't know the sacrifices we've had to make. Think you can just join the Resistance and not do a goddamn thing?"
You don't know what to do, so you just continue to allow yourself to get fucked by the older General. You try to look over your shoulder, but Poe pushes your head down onto his desk.
"No. You don't deserve to watch me fuck you."
You can't help the way your pussy tightens at his words and he chuckles, "You like it when I give you orders, don't you, princess?"
"N-No."
"Your pussy says otherwise." He then completely pulls out of you, causing you to whine, "Tell the truth, sweetheart. Do you like it when I give you orders?"
"Fuck! Okay! Yes! Now put it back in me, dammit!"
He lowly chuckles and grunts, "Good girl," before thrusting back into you. His hand snakes around you and begins circling your clit, causing you to moan louder.
"Think I can only tolerate you when you're moaning for me," he laughs.
You scoff, "Fucking dick."
"Yeah, and it's my fucking dick that's gonna make you cum. I can tell it's soon from the way you're squeezing me."
You're clawing at his desk, caught between not wanting to cum for him but also just desperately needing the release.
"S-Shit, Poe!"
He smacks your ass, "That's General to you, sweetheart."
"G-General, I'm close."
"You gotta ask me."
"What?"
"You gotta ask me if you can cum."
"But-"
"Ask. Me." he thrusts harder for emphasis, nearly bringing you to your climax.
"Please, can I cum?!"
"No."
"What?!"
"Not yet. Just hold it a little bit longer."
"But-"
"Do. As. I. Say." he orders you and you whine, using all your might to keep yourself from cumming.
Poe leans over, his chest, resting against your back, "See? You can be a good girl and obey my orders."
You whimper, hating how he's right and how his words have an effect on you.
"Good girl. Fuck, that's it. Shit, I'm cumming. Cum with me." he pulls out of you and starts pumping his cock while you continue to lay there, fingers working at your clit.
"Shiiiit! Oh stars, yes!" you cry out as you cum, legs shaking a little and you feel some of Poe's cum splattering on your ass.
Once you've both came, there's only the sounds of your and his panting filling the office.
Poe steps back, tucking himself in and pulling his pants up. He grabs a random rag, using it to clean his hand and then tosses it to you.
"Clean up and get out. Tell the rest of the group training's over for the day."
You stand, taking the rag and cleaning yourself off and then tossing it into the trash bin.
You head towards the door, but before you exit, you look over your shoulder, "Just so you know, this doesn't change anything. You're still a dick."
He scoffs, "Whatever," and you exit his office.
He moves around the desk to sit in his chair. He runs a hand through his salt and pepper curls and curses under his breath, "Shit."
Summary: Your husband’s death leaves you the beneficiary of his insurance policy.
Words: 3k
My Masterlist
Rating: Mature (bordering on explicit)
Warnings: discussion of past domestic violence (not Bud). oral (m receiving).
A/N : Sometime an idea grabs me and doesn’t let go until I finish it. For the seven people who are going to be really into this - you’re welcome.
Your skirt swayed gently at your knees, kitten heels clicking on the new linoleum flooring. The smell of lilies was strong in the air, several bouquets from the funeral still hanging on in various vases around the house. You felt bad throwing them away, they had been given with such niceness and pleasantries it seemed a sin to just toss them. But then again the smell was becoming fetid.
Ignoring them for the moment you sighed as you dipped your arms into the warm soapy water of the sink, grimacing at the feeling. Another day, another casserole dish to return to the local ladies club. When the news had gotten out you had been inundated with food. Casseroles, jellies, a pot of chili - more food than you could possibly eat before it spoiled. You tried to refuse, but the sheer horror that had crossed the women’s faces had you retracting the demur, thanking them profusely for thinking of you and setting the pans on the counter with a wane smile.
Hello friend! Thanks for the prompt, I hope you like it!! 🌹🌸💐🌼🌺🌷🌻
Requests are open ✨
Florist! Armitage Hux x Model! Reader (f)
Warnings: Not really, a little yearning, some slutty narration, it's kind of silly and maybe ooc, but I think that's it.
I've been feeling pretty shitty about myself and my writing over the past few days, and I figured the best way to break myself out of that funk was to write something, even if it was stupid. Sometimes when your brain is telling you that you can't do something, you gotta do it anyway. Let me know what you think, besties!
3. Flowers are often used for photo shoots and Person A gets hired to arrange the flowers for one, but they can’t help getting nervous around the model, Person B from the Flower Shop AU Prompts
Armitage is out of his element.
He's plenty comfortable working with his assistant in the back of the shop, or helping customers as they dither over the size of the arrangements and the available flowers at the counter. But this is madness.
The backstage of the set is absolutely teeming with people, and every single one of them runs past without a glance in his direction, shouting into headsets or flipping through stacks of pages attached to clipboards.
He ventures further, past a few darkened hallways until he finds an occupied room. There's a vanity mirror against the far wall, and a woman sitting in front of it, resting her head on one hand, the other holding a book.
"Excuse me," Armitage knocks gently against the door frame before stepping inside.
You set the book down, greeting him with a smile.
"Hello, are you here for makeup?"
For a moment, Armitage is speechless.
He hadn't noticed your strange apparel when he first caught sight of you, but now he can't seem to look away from the dress you're wearing, a less-than-faithful recreation recreation of a Victorian gown that hangs low on your shoulders and tight around breasts, leaving very little to the imagination.
Is he hallucinating? He's never believed in ghosts before but you do seem like a rather lovely, and strangely familiar, apparition.
Your brows furrow in confusion before you glance down at yourself, eyes going wide like you've forgotten what you were wearing.
"Oh," you exclaim, throwing your head back with a laugh, "it's a period piece were doing today."
"I'm sorry?"
"You laugh again, finding his idiocy endearing instead of annoying, "you're not the makeup artist, are you?"
"The florist."
"I see. We're doing a shoot today, a romance novel cover. Do you read romance novels?"
So that's where he recognized you from. He's seen your face before, many times over. How to Wed a Rascal, Devil's Daughter, Three's a Crowd, and his favorite: Kingdom of Thirst.
He's spent too much of his time—bleary eyed, reading into the late hours of the night—imagining your face, your eyes, the sound of your moans as he devoured book after book, story after story.
But he's not about to tell you that.
"Uh, no, not really," he lies, and you shrug off the answer, turning the seat so that you can face him.
"I've only read a few, and they're alright. The jobs pay well, at least, and they're more fun than most shoots."
He nods, leaning against the door frame in an attempt to appear casual, hoping you'll say more. He likes hearing you talk.
You don't look like yourself in pictures. It's not just the makeup and the editing, although he's sure that has something to do with it. You're much more earnest in person, and surprisingly easy to be around. It's magnetic, your personality, to the point he can’t take his eyes off you. It must be what makes you so great at your job.
"You were looking for a place to put your flowers, right? I can help with that," you say, standing from the chair and moving into the hallway, calling into the empty space, "Hey Stacy!"
The sound of harried footsteps echoes down the corridor, and soon you're greeted by a serious looking woman, dressed in all black with her hair swept up into a ponytail.
"What do you need, babes?" she asks without looking up from her cell phone, "Jack said he'd be here half an hour ago but traffic's got him running late, of course. Shouldn't matter since we're ahead of schedule so far and going for a pretty minimal look this time but I told him to haul ass anyways, traffic laws be damned. Who is this?"
Every word pours out of her mouth without a breath in between, and it's not until she looks up, meeting his eyes that he realizes she's talking about him.
"This is . . ." you turn to look at him expectantly, raising your brows.
"Armitage," he provides, and you nod.
"Right, Armitage," you smile, turning back to Stacy, "and he's got the flower delivery for the shoot today waiting in his car."
Stacy nods, mumbling into her headset. "That's great. I'll have Phil unload them."
Armitage nods, wondering if he should offer to stay and arrange them. It's not something he'd typically do . . . but he's not exactly in a hurry to leave.
Another set of footsteps meets the three of you from the end of the hallway, this time provided by another harried-looking woman, almost in a sprint.
"Bad news, Stacy," she pants when she arrives, out of breath, "Ronan's called in sick. He's got food poisoning."
Stacy groans, and you roll your eyes. "Typical. Did you call somebody else?"
"They're all busy: Theo and Jacob are out of town shooting swim, and Will's best man at a wedding."
"We'll have to call off the shoot, then, won't we?"
You shake your head, defeated. Armitage can't help but feel for you; it's obvious how much work goes into these productions, so much time wasted. Not to mention the six dozen flowers currently dying in the back of his van.
"Not so fast," Stacy holds her hand up, silencing the group. Her eyes land on him, and she chews on the inside of her cheek, thinking.
"It's Armitage, right?" she asks, tapping her finger against her lips, "have you ever . . . modeled before?"
He feels his face grow hot, heart racing, "What? No. Absolutely not."
The other woman catches on, sizing him up herself. "Wait a second, you're right Stacy. He's totally got the look. Those god damn cheekbones could slice through steel. He’s about the same size as Will, too, so costuming wouldn't be a problem. How tall are you? Six foot? Six foot two?"
"No," he steps back, "I won't do it."
You put your hand on his shoulder, begging him with your eyes.
"Please, Armitage. It would really help."
He twists his face into a frown, already feeling his resolve crumbling under your eager gaze.
"Well . . . alright."
The three of you erupt in to cheers. He's absolutely going to regret this.
An hour later—hair done, costumed, and feeling ridiculous—Armitage walks out onto the set.
God, no.
It's a surprisingly faithful recreation—he assumes—sumptuously decorated and absolutely bursting with flowers. That's not the problem.
It's a bedroom, most of the space taken up by a large, dark four-poster, rose petals strewn across its surface. He knows what that means.
Bile rises in his throat, a wave of nausea rolling his stomach. He couldn't do this. There was a reason he read so many romance novels: he liked to imagine he could be someone different, someone charming, passionate, wicked.
Being that person is not in his nature.
Vivian, the costumer, approaches him from behind, startling him.
"You ready?" she asks, gesturing him towards the stage, but he hesitates.
"There's no need to be nervous, hon. Your partner for today? She's a god damn angel, the best of the best. You'll be in good hands . . . or I guess she'll be in your hands."
She laughs at her own joke and pats him gently, wandering away.
He's going to throw up. Or pass out. Or drop dead. He can't handle this.
Then he sees you, gliding in through the doorway. You're sparkling with your makeup and hair done to perfection, your eyes warm and bright, and you're smiling at him. Just for him.
Somebody ushers him towards the set, and you join him, arranging yourself on the bed.
"Nervous?" you ask him, laying down on your elbows, a little too at ease. He doesn't have to answer, he knows you can see it on his face.
You hold out your hand to him, and he takes it, adjusting to the feel of your skin against his. "You don't need to be, it's easy."
You pull without warning, and he falls forward, knees hitting the mattress. His other hand land besides your head, close enough to your face that he could reach out and stroke it, if he wanted to.
"Ready up there?" the photographer yells from across the room, and you give him the thumbs up before slipping in to your proper pose. You place his hand at your waist, tilting up his chin.
"Now furrow your brow a little," you whisper, "and part your lips."
He does as he's told, and soon enough the camera flash sparks in his periphery.
It's not as horrible as he thought it would be, although you are doing most of the work. You shift periodically, sometimes staring deep into his eyes, or looking down demurely with your hand just barely grazing your forehead.
"Alright, that's great, that's perfect," the photographer monologues, never taking his eye from the viewfinder, "why don't we get a couple with your lips at her neck?'
He trembles, his breathing shallow, but you look up at him with the slightest nod, arching your back just a little farther, leaving your skin exposed and inviting.
He bends closer, examining the graceful lines of your body. If this were real, where would he kiss you? If he had you to himself—without all these people watching—in his own bed, no pretense, no costumes . . .
He brushes his lips tenderly against the junction between your neck and your shoulder, and he swears that he can hear you sigh in response, your spine curving against his fingers, your chest pressed tighter against his own.
"That's perfect," the photographer shouts, but Armitage isn't listening, entirely preoccupied with the feeling of your pulse against his mouth, his lips traveling up over your jaw, stopping just below your ear.
You turn to face him, slowly, until nose brushes his, staring into his eyes. If he tilted his chin just half an inch, he'd be kissing you.
"That's great, everybody! I think we're done for today."
The set erupts with applause at the photographer's words, but you still don't pull away from him, smiling gently, whispering against his lips.
"Like I said, you're a natural."
His face grows flush, and he shifts back onto his feet, clearing his throat with a cough.
You stand beside him, brushing your hands nervously over the bodice of your gown.
"Thanks again for doing this, we all really appreciate it."
"Of course, it was . . . fun."
"No really, it was a huge favor. I'd like to do something for you, in return—we could get dinner, maybe? My treat."
You place your hand on his arm again, stroking your thumb down over his elbow. Despite how much he's touched you over the last hour, this contact feels different. Because you're not playing a part this time. Because it's him you're reaching for.
"We can change first, of course," you say, the words rushed as you read his dewy-eyed imaginings for hesitation.
He smiles, placing his hand over yours in reassurance, "I'd like that."
Requests are open ✨
Modern Armitage Hux x F! Reader
Warnings: RC is a sex-worker, discussions of sex, language.
AN: Hi friends! After stressing over the newest chapters of Office Romance for the last, uh, forever, I thought I'd reward myself by writing something fun, flirty and fresh! I started working on this a few months ago after partaking in @thembohux's wonderful sugar daddy content, and then I had to put it on pause for a while until I picked it back up a few days ago.
I have no plans for this story: no additional concepts, no plot points. Mostly I wanted a place to dump PWP in the future. If there is enough interest, or if you guys have any ideas about stuff you'd like to see in this storyline, please let me know and I might continue sooner rather than later.
No sex in this chapter, but because of the nature of the story I'm still gonna ask minors to not read. Thanks!!
He’s already at the restaurant when you arrive.
That never happens. You’ve spent hours alone in restaurants sipping on wine and kissing your teeth, waiting for the moment some investment banker with a receding hairline finally decided you were worth his time—as if he hadn’t contacted you first.
You were hoping for a chance to find the restroom before the meeting, maybe fix your hair and refresh your lipstick—like you normally would before introducing yourself to a new client—and instead you’re rushing to the table, fanning yourself with one hand and hoping that you don’t have any leftovers from lunch stuck in your teeth.
Your heels click rapidly against the tile; you’re practically running over the hostess as she leads you towards the back of the mostly-empty restaurant, right next to the wide picture windows, which overlook the garden and the golf course beyond. There’s only one person seated there—a man much younger than you anticipated, closer to your own age than any of your clients. He has to hear you coming, loud as you are, but he keeps his eye on some distant point beyond the glass, brow creased, looking pensive.
You take stock of him as you approach: he wears a crisp, three-piece blue suit in a classic and well-tailored cut, black shoes shined to a polish, so clean you could see your reflection in them. The watch he wears is out of place, understated as it is; certainly not what you’d expect from a man in his pay-grade. It probably has some sentimental value, considering the signs of wear on the leather straps, and the nicks studded in the metal. His hair is slicked back and neat, a shock of red tamed into submission with shiny gel.
When your eyes trace over his face, you find it difficult to look away.
Pale skin stretches over angular cheekbones and a proud nose, his features carved with the decisive hand of a master. His jaw is strained, eyes severe—storm-colored and intense—but framed by soft lashes and an intelligent brow. The combination makes your legs go numb for a moment.
You didn’t expect him to be so handsome.
The tension in his face is lost as soon as you approach, his full, pink lips part in a whispered greeting as he stands. Chill fingers meet your own, his handshake firm and formal, but his eyes widen when you lean in closer, pressing a gentle kiss to his cheek, catching the faintest mouth-watering whiff of Tom Ford’s Tobacco Vanille on his skin.
He pulls away from the unexpected embrace, taking your chair in both hands as he pulls it out from the table. There’s a rosy tinge over his skin, his hands gripping the wood back of the chair tightly, but you don’t miss the way they shake when he lets go.
He’s nervous. How sweet.
“Armitage Hux,” he offers, the gentle lilt of his accent like a melody, “it’s a pleasure to meet you.”
You offer him a smile, “it’s a pleasure to meet you, too.”
The waiter arrives at the table soon after you’re seated, probably eager for something to do during the post-lunch lull, and you let Armitage order for you, as he’s more familiar with the menu. Soon enough, the table is spread with an array of exquisite desserts and a coffee for each of you.
Armitage sips from his mug as you sink your fork into the chantilly cake, your lips wrapping gently around it, lingering there before you pull it from your mouth with exaggerated slowness, moaning slightly when the fresh berries burst against your tongue. It’s not an act, as far as he can tell, but a genuine reaction of pleasure, as if you couldn’t possibly imagine something more enjoyable than a bite of cake and the taste of a blackberry.
Jesus. What has he gotten himself into?
You sample a few more of the desserts he’s ordered, making silly comments about each, probably sensing his nerves and hoping to put him at ease.
You have kind eyes. It’s the first thing he noticed while scrolling through mountains of photos in the email, discreetly marked as a list of potential assistants for hire. You stood out among all the others; even after his initial hesitance, and the thirtieth or fortieth time he’d decided that it wasn’t worth it, the image of you stayed with him in the back of his mind.
To his dismay or delight—he hasn’t yet decided—the effect is only magnified in person, and he’s glad when you glance away, reaching into your purse and pulling out your cell phone, tapping at the screen a few times before setting it face down on the table.
“I hope you don’t mind if I record our conversation today,” you ask, “I find that it’s helpful to keep track of these introductions, and it would be a little too conspicuous if I pulled out a notepad. Everything that you share with me will be kept between us, of course.”
He nods in confirmation, and you settle into your seat, leaning over the table, attention entirely focused on him. “Alright, then. Tell me about yourself.”
He shifts in his chair, trying and failing to get comfortable. “I’m not sure what you’d like to know.”
“That’s alright. You can tell me about work, or your hobbies. Any pets?”
There’s the softest hint of humor in everything you say, but you treat him like he’s part of the joke instead of its target. He’s not sure if it’s unsettling or not.
“I work in finance—First Order investments. I don’t have time for hobbies . . .” he hesitates, trying to decide if you’re seriously asking him about his pets, “ and I have a cat named Millicent.”
“How sweet. Are you married?”
He splutters into his coffee, setting the cup back down on the table before choking out his answer, “no.”
You wave his distress away with a flighty hand. “It’s alright if you are; I’m not here to judge you. It does help to know, though.”
“No, I’m not married,” he confirms.
“Great,” you lean back in your chair, crossing your legs. The gesture feels more suitable for a therapist than . . . whatever it is you are, “Let’s talk a little bit about why you contacted me.”
“I’m sorry?”
“There’s always a reason. Usually it’s a big life event, but not always. Things like a recent divorce, close family member or friend getting married, a new promotion . . .”
You finish the sentence with a flourish of your hand, inviting him to imagine all the different reasons men would want to buy your company, and his face falls.
If anything, it was the opposite. Nothing had happened for too long, his days all painted with the same brush. Arrive at work. Sell his life for the success of his father’s company. Leave the office too late. Continue working at home, Millie on his lap and a glass of wine.
And then repeat.
“No,” he coughs, clearing the tightness in his throat, “Nothing of that sort.”
You purse your lips. “Is there anything specific you’re hoping to get out of this?”
He turns too sharply, pain singing up the side of his neck, the sun stinging his eyes. How god damn embarrassing, sitting across from someone so lovely, knowing that they had to be paid to be there.
He bites down on the inside of his lip, hoping to stave off any more unfortunate emotions. He’s startled from his melancholy when he feels your hand against his, brushing the tips of your fingers over his knuckles. There’s some hesitation in your touch, a hint of apprehension; it surprises him, and after a moment, he lets his eyes find yours again.
“There’s no shame in being lonely,” you say, before pulling your hand back, a serious look on your face, “it’s the most human emotion.”
He scoffs, “and what would you know about that?”
You glance down, pressing your lips together before offering him a sad smile that’s achingly familiar. “I’m lonely more often than you might think.”
He wonders what might have happened if he met you under different circumstances. If he had found you organically, maybe sitting alone at a hotel bar—would he have had the courage to approach you? Would the conversation flowed this easily, would you have pressed your hand against his shoulder and smiled, maybe left him with your phone number, or held his hand tight in your own as he led you back to his hotel room?
It’s a ridiculous question, a fantasy in the purest sense. You wouldn’t have looked at him twice.
You cough gently, clearing the emotional charge from the moment before continuing your line of questions.
“Why don’t we talk a little bit about your preferences for appearance, like certain kinds of clothing, or lingerie?”
He takes a deep breath, letting out the last of his self-pity with it. Thank god, he knows the answer to this one. “Black lace.”
“Okay, I can do that. Do you have any other requests? Specific hair styles? Nail colors?”
His distaste must be clear on his face, because you laugh, “do people really care about the color of your nail polish?”
“Oh yes,” you nod, eyes wide, “you’d be surprised what some men consider essential.”
“No, nothing like that,” he hesitates, “but if you have any darker lipsticks . . .”
“Of course. What about intimacy? Is there anything specific you’d like to try?”
His toes curl in the tips of his shoes, a familiar guilt accompanying a very unfamiliar thrill, thinking about what he’d like to do to you. He can see it now, the images achingly realistic: his hand circled around your neck as you chase your release against his thigh, or your lips curled around the head of his cock, shiny trails of spit leaking from the corners of your mouth. The way your eyes would roll back in your head as he thrust into you, his lips at your neck, leaving currents of bruises in his wake.
“I’m not entirely sure,” he says instead, embarrassed he had let his thoughts run so wild, especially in public. He digs his nails into his palms, hoping the pain might redirect the blood currently pooling in his dick.
You pluck a stray berry off one of the dessert plates, pressing it against your tongue. “Then we can explore together.”
You can’t help but be pleased; despite a few unorthodox moments, this was a fairly easy meeting. He’s a pleasant person to be around.
You take another bite of dessert, this time choosing to sample the bread pudding, still warm from the oven and coated in a caramel drizzle, letting the sugar melt in your mouth.
“There is one last item we need to discuss,” Armitage says seriously, and you look up at him, setting your fork down again as you swallow, “I have one more request, but it’s a bit . . . unusual.”
Oh, god. Nothing good could come from those words. “What is it?”
He leans closer, speaking quietly. “Unfortunately, my work requires that I attend a variety of events with my colleagues and our clients, and I would like to request your presence as my date. I have a reputation to uphold, both in my personal life and my employment, and I’d prefer to avoid a scandal. To prevent any gossip about this arrangement, I’d like to request your exclusive attention.”
Your teeth click together, jaw tense. Of fucking course something like this would happen—nothing could be too easy.
You take a calming breath, trying your best to give him a diplomatic answer despite your annoyance. “With all due respect, Mr. Hux, this is my job. My employment. I make a living providing my company to a small set of loyal clients, I do my job with the utmost discretion, and if you can’t respect the value of my time—”
“I assure you,” he interrupts, sliding a hand into the inner pocket of his jacket, removing a folded slip of paper, “I understand how valuable your time is, and for the privilege of your undivided attention, I offer . . .”
He slides the paper across the table, and you reach for it, unfolding it in one hand.
It takes a considerable amount of effort to keep your features in check when you read the number—it’s actually a little more than you’re currently making per month between your four other clients.
You chew on the inside of your lip, considering your course. The other girls would tell you to make a counter-offer, but you’d never really learned how to execute a successful negotiation, and just thinking about raising your price has your heart racing, the adrenaline doing nothing to aid your mental calculations.
He clears his throat, reading your panic as dissatisfaction, “and I’m prepared to make that payment weekly.”
Holy fuck.
“I can’t accept that much,” you press the paper back towards him, sliding your hand across the table until he stops your progress with his own, his fingers brushing gently against your wrist. He must not be used to touching people unintentionally, because he pulls his hand away, resting his tightly-clenched fist against the table.
“As I said before, I understand the value of your time.”
You trap your lip between your teeth. “I’ll take this amount, twice a month. Gifts are also appreciated—jewelry, perfume, or clothing—but won’t be considered as part of your payment unless I’m also given a receipt.”
“Of course,” he concedes with the faintest smile, “diamonds don’t pay the rent.”
You suppress a laugh at his dry humor, “and some men have truly horrendous taste.”
It’s only for a moment—the briefest flash of heaven. He smiles at your comment, the sun shining in his eyes, illuminating their emerald facets, and everything else ceases to exist.
He’s going to be trouble. You’re sure of it.
He presses his lips together, embarrassed for his little lapse before returning to his serious demeanor, “what happens now?”
“Now, I formalize a contract that I’ll have you sign covering the details of what we’ve discussed today. Then, I’ll contact my other clients and let them know that I will be unavailable for the foreseeable future, and then—” you lean forward, deciding to tease him, leave him wanting, “—you can take me to dinner.”
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