buckets-and-trees - Tumblr blog

buckets-and-trees · 6 hours ago

Note

Soft!dark Ari needing to blow off some steam, and you’re the first person he comes across who peaks his interest and something else 🍆

Siri! I loved this prompt you sent in but didn't have an idea until this week, and then it struck like lightning!

Back Against the Wall

Characters/Pairings: soft dark Ari Levinson x curvy Millennial female!Reader Word Count: 10.7k Summary: You innocently and unknowingly walked into the lion's den when you entered the lakeside casino resort. Anyone else would have been safe, but you were spotted by the lion himself.

Content/Warnings: DUBIOUS CONSENT; stranger sexual danger; explicit smut: oral (male and female receiving), vaginal fingering, unprotected vaginal intercourse, insemination; power imbalance; dacryphilia; innocence kink; implied somnophilia; very mild alcohol consumption (champagne)

Notes: The winner by absolutely only a breath from this poll. Ushering this story into the Chris-mas in July collection, and it feels like the first time in forever that one of my CEvans character stories was something totally new and not a continuation of a WIP hahaha.

↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

Oh.

What is a tempting thing like you doing here?

Ari owns more than one casino, and you certainly could be in any one of them, but he wouldn’t have expected to see you in this one.

This one is lakeside on the outskirts of town, a benign little place designed for senior citizens. Modest indulgence, a haven of novelty, but comfort, nothing fancy. He’s not out to bleed people for every dime here, just offer a place of leisure and games.

You’re a good two or three decades younger than any of the other patrons, so you stand out naturally.

But your age isn’t what ensnares Ari’s attention. There are plenty of employees and vendors coming through this establishment of all ages, and his other casinos cater to your market.

No.

It’s how goddamn wholesome you seem.

You’d stand out in any of his other dens of sin and vice.

He watches you, sees that you’re not alone for long. A woman—white-haired, a floral scarf knotted under her chin, and with the kind of hands that must’ve once been surgical or at least expressive—returns to your side, beckons you to the bar. The resemblance confirms itself—there’s blood, not employment, tying you together. Aunt, Ari thinks. Has to be.

Your aunt commands the space beside you with a single tap of her ring against the marble. “Gin sling, no fruit,” she tells the bartender, who’s already fixed her order to memory. You slide onto a stool next to her, careful with your own drink, and Ari takes a moment to appreciate the tableau: your glass trembling slightly as you smile, her steady hand claiming the stem of hers.

She’s been at the blackjack table, of course. Her type always is. But now she gestures imperially at the roulette wheel, and you follow her, a lady-in-waiting, but seemingly happy to be so.

He leans on the polished metal of the upstairs bannister and continues to watch. You don’t notice Ari watching you, but you would if he wanted you to. There’s a trick to going unnoticed, and another to making yourself unforgettable, and he’s always preferred the latter. You and your aunt look like you belong in some family drama, the feel-good ones with intrigue and dire plot points but always enough warmth and nothing but eventual happy endings.

Not the type of life Ari leads.

Your aunt is a fiend at the roulette table; you’re a gentle satellite, orbiting her, sipping your drink with obvious care. She bets on black, always, and when the wheel hits red, she shakes her head with a doctor’s calm. You commiserate, your hand resting on the felt, your fingers sliding over the smooth side of your drink, playing with the condensation.

He should leave you alone.

As the proprietor of a handful of casinos, Ari's attention is rarely caught so singularly by anyone much anymore, but for some reason he can't take his eyes off you. Maybe it's because he had to fire the chef here this morning, call the supplier about the fuckup with the seafood shipment, and he’s due to head downtown to scare the shit out of a patron at at his premiere casino resort, and all the pent up rage he’s keeping beneath the surface has him pent up like a tiger stalking in an enclosure, and that’s why he’s itching to have you. To hunt you. To ruin you. To split you open on his cock and make you scream his name.

He should sign the invoice for the new ice machine, or head to the kitchen for a face-to-face with the sous chef he promoted this morning, or—anything, anything but this. This staring, this tracking of you across the room, this wanting to see if you’ll win, or if you’ll get bored, or if you’ll finally notice him and shiver.

But you just keep on playing your part, smiling at your aunt, her soft blue sweater and the way she smuggles in petits-fours wrapped in tissues. It’s endearing. You don’t check your phone or flick your hair or scan for prospects, and that’s rare as a blue tulip here.

At some point, your aunt hits a lucky streak, laughing triumphantly, and you join in—not dainty, not put-on, but deep and honest. The emotion on your face is true happiness and you reach for her hand, fingers twined.

But you and your aunt seem hungry for nothing here—not money, not escape, not vengeance. Just each other’s company, the delicate ritual and thrill of loss and luck. A pair of birds content and chirping happily amongst the landscape of the scene.

You’re good at pretending you don’t feel out of place. Maybe you’re not pretending at all. Maybe you know you’re the youngest person in the room by half an age, maybe you don’t care, because this night is about your aunt, and she’s drinking in the room, the wine, the chips, like it’s her birthday and she’s twenty again, or thirty, or any age that allows her to be here, right now, in the thick of things, spinning the wheel like fortune itself rests in her lap.

Ultimately Ari has to end his study of you.

But he flags down the floor manager with a look, points you out as a person on his radar, and then makes his exit to deal with his affairs.

It’s just past 10pm when Ari returns to the property you and your aunt are staying at and knocks on the door of the room you’ve been upgraded to for your stay.

“Who is it?” your voice asks tentatively before opening.

“Champagne,” Ari answers, one of the room service staff leaving Ari with the cart holding a bottle of champagne in a bucket of ice, two gleaming glasses, and a platter of chocolate-covered strawberries.

“Sorry, it must be another room, I didn’t order champagne.”

“It’s complementary,” Ari says, “since you and your aunt had to change rooms. It’s the least we could do.”

“Oh,” you manage, undo the chain, and hesitantly open the door, stepping back to make room. “You didn’t have to—really, you moved us both to luxury rooms, it’s perfect—”

Ari wheels the cart in anyway, careful not to catch the legs against the doorframe.

You step back. “This is so nice, but we’re fine. The new room is, honestly, it’s incredible. I think my aunt called her entire address book just to humblebrag about the view.”

Ari chuckles. “I insisted. As the owner of this hotel and casino, I wanted to make sure you were taken care of.”

“Oh,” you say again, this time coloring it with something different. Not the surprise from earlier, but a note of embarrassment, or confusion, or the small thrill of being paid attention to by someone who shouldn’t take notice of you, or really see you like this. Because at this moment you also seem to have registered your state in front of a stranger in your room.

You’re wearing a worn-in T-shirt and sleep shorts. There is nothing tactical or seductive in it, but it is, to him, an absolute masterpiece of casual. You look like someone’s kid sister, someone’s best friend, the girl next door, not someone who belongs in the company of a man with his intentions.

Not at all.

But you have no idea just how precarious your situation is.

Ari rolls up the sleeve of his shirt, exposing a tanned forearm marked with a subtle but deliberate tattoo. You glance at it, then away, uncertain if you’re supposed to notice. He makes a show of elegantly lifting the champagne bottle from the bucket, peeling back the foil.

“Shall we?” he says, quirking an eyebrow, and before you can protest—or even finish forming a protest—he’s popping the cork with one practiced wrist-flick, the sound ricocheting in the little suite. Foam burbles over his thumb. He grins, pours slow, and delightfully, you see he pours yours first, the glass nearly overflowing. He doesn’t even ask if you want any, just hands it over, and you’re too polite—or too flustered—to refuse.

His fingers brush yours as you take it. He pours a second flute for himself, then raises his glass in your direction. “It’s one of my favorites,” he remarks as he watches you take a sip.

“It’s good,” you say, and then, because you can’t leave well enough alone: “It’s the fanciest thing I’ve ever had in a hotel room, that’s for sure.”

Ari gives a laugh, the kind that suggests he’s heard much better and much worse. “I’ll take that as a compliment,” he says, leaning his hip against the cart, making himself both larger and more casual at the same time. “Is your aunt enjoying the new room?”

“She is,” you answer, “She’s probably asleep already. I think she wanted to ‘rest up’ for the slot machines tomorrow morning.”

He smiles, slow and deliberate. “She’s a shark, isn’t she?”

You nod. “She’s been training since I was born,” you say, letting the corners of your mouth lift in a soft, affectionate smile. “I think I’m just here to run defense. Make sure nobody accuses her of cheating.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Ari says. “Besides, I like to see winners once in a while. It keeps the energy up.” He picks up a strawberry, holds it between his thumb and forefinger, and regards you over it. “Would you like one?”

You hesitate. “I brushed my teeth already.”

He leans in, voice dropping just a shade. “Live a little. The chocolate we use is imported.”

You pluck a strawberry, fumbling with the chocolate, and end up with half of it melting against your thumb. Ari catches your wrist, and before you can react, he’s already wiping the chocolate away with a delicate cloth napkin. He wants to lick it off, but he doesn’t want to spook you yet. And he can feel that his hold on your wrist already has your pulse racing and breath quickening.

He releases your hand a fraction of a second after decorum would dictate, his thumb pressing just barely into the tendon at your wrist, then letting go, pretending to catch himself. “Sorry,” he murmurs, looking away to put you at ease. “Sometimes I get carried away with the hospitality.”

He looks up at you through his lashes, knowing what his eyes can do to a woman.

You laugh—it’s nervous, but he can sense the genuine warmth you can’t help but deal out as well. “It’s okay. I’m not used to the VIP treatment.”

“What a shame. You should be. But don’t be embarrassed,” he says. “I get it. Hotels are weird. You want to relax, but it’s also not your home. It feels like you should behave, even though nobody’s watching.” His voice is lower now, coaxing, inviting you into his trap.

“I can tell,” he says, “when someone’s never been spoiled.” He picks up a second strawberry, rolls the stem between his fingers. “But it suits you. You’ve got that look.”

You glance down. “What look?”

“Like you secretly think you’re an impostor. Like you’re waiting for someone to come and kick you out of the penthouse.”

You shrug, avert your gaze, and take another sip of champagne for something to do.

“You’re nervous,” and he’s gifted with another nervous laugh from your soft mouth. “I don’t want you to be nervous around me.”

He moves just a little closer and holds the strawberry up to your lips.

Your eyes widen, and you freeze—not in terror, but in anticipation, as if the correct thing to do in this moment is to simply open your mouth and receive.

You do.

He presses the berry onto your tongue, just a bit past your lips, which close automatically. He waits, eyes fixed on your mouth, and watches the way you bite down, the way your lips barely glaze the ridges of his fingers, tongue working the fruit as if there’s an etiquette to it, as if you can will away the intimacy by being polite.

Ari feels the moment when you decide to lean in rather than pull away, and he nearly wants to crow in triumph. He knows he will get what he came here for.

Ari continues to watch your face, eyes half-lidded. He takes the bitten strawberry and eats the rest, slow, making a show of it just for you.

He hasn’t done this in a long time, but something about you pulled at him.

And he’s so close to sinking his cock into you.

And he can’t decide which hole he wants to ruin first.

But he knows he’s going to have you and your soft, luscious curves, a body that needs to be savored and appreciated just like the fine champagne and strawberries.

He doesn’t make a move, not yet. Just waits, the weight of his gaze smoothing down your arms and thighs as you lick a red smear of berry from your lip.

“I’m guessing you don’t usually let strange men into your hotel room after hours,” he says, soft, low.

You shake your head, and suddenly all of you is nerves and anticipation, he can feel it, the air in the room shifting from almost harmless to charged.

He leans in by degrees. Not too fast, but with certainty, because the script has already been written. His knuckles brush your cheek, and you tremble but you don’t shy away.

“I don’t—”

“You’re beautiful,” he interrupts. “You don’t know how beautiful you are, do you?”

You hesitate, because of course you do. You didn't come to the lakeside casino expecting to end the night with a man like Ari. You came for your aunt, for her little vacation, for the familiar clink of chips and the sounds of elderly exuberance. But now you are standing a breath away, the mark of a man used to getting exactly what he wants, and he knows you sense that. That it’s intimidating to you, but also heady.

You attempt to laugh it off, summon some kind of armor. "I'm pretty sure I've heard that line before," you say, but your voice is already losing the fight.

He says, "Not from me, you haven't." And it lands at your feet like a dare.

You are not a virgin, but you fundamentally unprepared for men who want to ruin you on sight, and he knows it. Ari leans closer, lifts his hand, warm against your cheek, drawing you closer by degrees. Your eyes flutter closed, but he doesn’t move in for the kill.

He’s patient, coaxing.

He will make you secure your own demise.

He closes the gap, but not all the way. Lets the tension string itself out, spiderweb fine and perilous. Lets you feel the whole, delicate thing shuddering between you. He murmurs, “I’ve wanted to do this since the moment I saw you,” but keeps his voice so low it’s just a vibration in the air between you.

“You saw me?” you blink up at him.

“I watched you for nearly an hour.”

Your breath hitches, and he lets the revelation work at you.

Your tongue flicks out to wet your lips and he does not pretend not to notice. “Should I go?” he asks.

The question is the final element of the trap. You know it, he can see the calculation flare in your eyes. But you’re too honest, or you want to be good, or maybe you just don’t think you know how to say no to a man like him. You say, “No, you can stay.”

The words hang in the air, a fistful of static between them. “Okay,” he answers, the single syllable as smooth and bright as a casino chip. Your eyes are wide. Ari could strip you bare, right now, with nothing but another word.

He doesn’t kiss you, not immediately. He hovers, breathing your air, waiting to see if you’ll close the gap. He lets the static accumulate. Lets the wanting take over the room, humming at the threshold of both your skins.

When you tip your face up, uncertain but willing, he brushes your mouth with his—not a kiss, really. Just a press, feather-light, a test to see if it’s allowed. Your lips react on instinct, and he grins into you, just barely, letting a hum vibrate between both your mouths before pulling back.

You look at him, startled, like a deer caught out but not frightened, just entirely at his mercy. But he steps away, like he really might give you a choice. You blink. The break in tension feels like heat leaving a room.

He lifts the champagne flute again, sips with a certain restraint, as if the sweetness might allow a reset, as if you are safe.

From this vantage the lake outside the windows is nothing but a dark slot in the hills, a velvet sash against black glass. He doesn’t know what compels you to move, but you do: over to the wall of floor-to-ceiling windows, cupping the stem of your glass with both hands, the condensation making your fingertips damp.

Ari follows, not close, but not allowing you the full safety of a retreat. He likes the way you’ve started to grip the stem of your glass like it’s a flotation device, how your smile is so shy and tilted. Ari wants to see how quickly he can spoil every last trace of innocence off your face, how completely he can undo the carefully woven boundaries you travel by. He can already see the future of this night, the outline of a body bent over the leather armchair by the window, hands braced against the glass, hips caught and claimed.

But all in due time.

He lets a silence breathe between you. You make a move toward a chair, then second-guess yourself, and for a wild second Ari wants to ease your tension, but he is too amused to see how long it will last.

So instead, he takes in how you’ve inhabited the room—untidy, bedsheets already haphazardly turned down, a paperback curled on the duvet, a travel mug on the desk beside a laptop and a tangle of charging cables. A sweater is draped over the arm of the reading chair. You notice his glance and say, “I wasn’t expecting anyone, obviously. My aunt says I leave a trail everywhere I go.” You mean it as a light confession, but it comes out uncertain, apologetic.

He waves it away. “Unwound is what these rooms are for,” he says, and you relax imperceptibly, enough to hover closer to him.

The two of you continue to stand by the window. One of your arms is folded over your chest, you take another sip of champagne from your other hand, carefully not looking at him. The night outside is a smear of navy and lights, the lake a flat reflection of the lights from the lakeside town and from the moon.

The two of you stand, pretending to both be fascinated by the view, your silhouettes just inches apart, the air between you now charged and weirdly fragile, like static after a storm. You take a slow sip, eyes on the lake, and Ari finds himself tracking the rim of your glass, the way your thumb knicks at the chilled surface. You glance over, catch him watching you, and the surprise on your face is nearly funny, like you’d already forgotten he was here.

“My aunt will be up at six,” you say. “She’s one of those sunrise people.”

“Then I’ll be gone by five,” Ari says, not missing a beat.

Your breath hitches, almost panicked, but you don’t argue against his declaration. This is what he wanted. You yielding what you never anticipated to yield to him.

Ari barely touches his own glass, letting the champagne fizz dull in his mouth. The room tastes of clean sheets and lake air, but he can already sense the flavor of you—warmth, faint sugar, the tart residue of berry—invading the quiet with every breath you take.

He could take you right there, pin you up against the glass so the night lake pressed to your back, but Ari has always preferred the prowl: a slow circle, a whetting of appetites, the intricate seduction of not just flesh but mind. If he claimed you now, you’d remember this as nothing more than a fuck with a stranger. And he wants to be remembered. Even by a girl with nothing to prove and no intention of returning to his city, not ever, not after the taste of this night.

He wants to make you beg for it. He wants to see you try not to beg.

You watch the lake as if you might leap into it, or as if Ari might. Your arms tangle and untangle, searching for places to be. At one point you laugh quietly, the sound catching on your own shyness, and he wonders if you’ll ask him to leave, if you’ll bolt. Some part of him almost wants you to. But you don't. You just linger, letting the silence work at you, letting the moment get taut and louder.

He steps into it. “Would you like to show me the terrace?” he asks, his voice mild, one eyebrow raised.

You say yes, and Ari expects you to be awkward about it, to deflect or over-explain, but you just set your glass down and move with a briskness that says you expect to regret this but are doing it anyway. That deep streak of defiance in you, that willingness to enter the lion’s mouth because you dare yourself—Ari decides he wants to see how it comes out when you’re desperate.

The patio door huffs against the frame. The evening air is soft and humid, smelling faintly of cut grass and water spark. The terrace isn’t large, but has enough room for two chairs and a small table. There’s a heat lamp. You click it on, not even thinking, and the light casts Ari’s shadow across the concrete. He joins you but doesn’t sit, just stands behind the railing, hands braced on the cold metal, taking in the stage-lit darkness.

You stand next to him, arms wrapped around yourself. Out here, you can hear the gentle static of the waves lapping on the shore.

“Beautiful out here,” he says.

You hum in assent and sip more of your champagne. "Do you actually own all of this?" you ask, turning to gesture vaguely at the casino grounds—at the entire shore, maybe, as if the water is only incidental to his domain. “The manager said you started as a busser.”

He can’t recall if he told the manager to feed you that line, or if it just floats around, staff folklore. “I did. Terrible hours, but good money if you could hustle.”

You look at him in a considering way, lips pursed at the rim of your glass. “How do you — ” A hesitation, a sip. “How does someone… I don’t know, turn bussing into all this?”

Ari shrugs. “If you’re lucky, there’s always someone watching. Someone bored enough to notice when you never make the same mistake twice, or when you never forget a face.” He shrugs again, slower, this time. “Mostly I got to work and just took every risk and every opportunity, full tilt.”

He can sense you trying to read the subtext, see if he’s bragging or warning or confessing. Your suspicion is a sharp tang, but you don’t press for detail. Not yet.

Instead, you tilt your face to the cooling night and the lakeshore hum. “My aunt says casinos are engineered to make you forget time.” You swirl the last of your champagne, watching the gold bubbles flash in the patio light. “But I don’t think it’s the lights or the music. I think people just want to get lost in something.”

Ari almost laughs. That’s it, exactly. He can see you want him to challenge you, force you to admit what you’re working so hard to keep behind your teeth. You want obliteration; you want the bright lights and the endless wheel and the moment of nothing, the pale hush at the end of the coin flip, but you haven’t reached for it yet.

He does too, in his own way. Ari wants to fill the hush with more: words, hands, the heat of his mouth behind your ear. He wants to tell you he knows exactly what you are, what you want, that he’s seen a hundred like you—good girls with something delicate to protect, secretly hoping for it to be taken apart. But he waits, lets you make the next move.

It takes a minute.

But eventually, you do. You clear your throat, and then say, “Can I ask you something?”

He grins, lets you see a glimmer of teeth, a flash of predator. “Anything.”

You don’t look at him when you say it. “Do you always do this?”

He likes you even better for it. He imagines you’ve spent the last ten minutes grasping and grappling around this aspect as much as the rest of this situation he’s put you in.

“Not usually. Not for a long time,” it’s the truth. He lets it rest for a moment, then asks, “Is that the answer you wanted?”

You glance up at him, biting your lip. “I don’t know.”

"You want to go back inside?" he ventures, and when you nod, a little too quick, he lets you lead the way but follows so close his shadow skims your bare calves.

He’s gotten you to let him in your room. He’s moved you outside, and now back inside, cat and mouse without you realizing the extent to which you’re lost in his game. No script but the one Ari improvises, and he’s always the lead, but never the hero.

He waits until you’ve made yourself busy, fussing with the champagne bottle, turning the strawberries so the prettiest side faces out. He likes that you’re not sure what you’re supposed to do now. Normally, a girl would have excused herself “to the restroom” as a brief escape, but you don’t even bother manufacturing a pretext. You let him watch you—watch your profile as you straighten the napkins, your awkward, earnest focus on making a nice mess look less like a mess.

“I guess I don’t really know how this sort of thing works,” you offer, half apology, half dare.

Ari lets the silence do the heavy lifting. “You don’t need to.” He waits until you turn, then sits on the edge of the bed, a few steps away from you, letting his legs spread wide. “Come here and suck my cock, beautiful.”

You freeze. But then you breathe. Set your glass back on the cart. Ari is impressed. Pleased. You walk to him, barefoot on the carpet, and settle to your knees between his spread legs. He looks down at you, his mouth a pressed line, eyes heavy-lidded and expectant, wanting. Maybe you expected kisses and hands tangled in your hair, and he’ll get to that, but he wants this first.

He waits, gives you space to process, but he doesn’t have to ask again. You steady yourself with a palm against his knee and then, with a deliberateness that somehow makes Ari want you all the more, you unbuckle his belt.

You’re clumsy with his zipper—maybe nerves, maybe the chill of the AC in the room, maybe just that you’ve never had to fumble with a man’s slacks under this kind of pressure. Ari lets you, hands loose at his sides, wearing control casually now that it’s been established.

You free him, and his cock is already half-hard and swelling under your touch, the anticipation thick and electric. You hesitate, glancing up like you’re checking for permission, and Ari gives you nothing but a small, satisfied tilt of his chin. He won’t prompt. Won’t cajole. You have to step into the dark on your own.

You do. You lean in, wrap your hand around him, tentative at first, your thumb slowly running over the head of his cock. You stroke the length of him a few times. Ari has seen this enough times, but it always gets him—the moment of hesitancy, the effort to make this into something almost ceremonial, the way you don’t meet his eyes at first but focus instead on his cock.

You’re nervous, but you’re doing it. He wants to reward you for that, so he reaches and strokes the back of your head, gentle, letting you go at your own pace. He doesn’t need bravado from you, doesn’t want porn-star theatrics—what hooks him is that delicate uncertainty, the wince of your teeth catching your lip, the seconds where you seem to consider what your mouth can do, how much you can fit, whether you’ll like it or hate it.

His hand is warm as he helps guide you closer.

He’s surprised how much he enjoys the tension in you; the minute muss of your hair, the unevenness of your breath, the faint chill of your hand on his thighs as you try to keep from trembling. He’s had it rough and wild, but he likes this anticipation, the moment when you still have doubts about how far you’ll go. He can’t recall the last time he had something like this—someone who didn’t already know every trick, every rhythm, every angle of a man’s need. Your innocence is more than an act, and he feels an unfamiliar pang—pity’s cousin, maybe, or at least a lazy fondness for the way you try to do everything right.

You open your mouth and take him in, inch by inch—he can feel you willing yourself not to gag, can feel the deep trembling of your inhale through the head of his cock. Your tongue is careful, clinical almost, as if you could learn him by taste alone. The next stroke is less hesitant, your hand remembering its rhythm.

It’s a lovely tableau, Ari thinks, watching your lips stretch wide, the tears beginning to water at the corners of your eyes, how the delicate tendons stand out in your neck as you angle yourself to take him deeper. There’s no practiced choreography, no choreography at all—just you, deliberate and unhurried, the kind of girl who needs to be coaxed and coaxed before she’s ruined. He likes the slow build, the way you squeeze your fingers tighter around the base, uncertain in his own pleasure, how your cheeks hollow when you try to impress him.

You pause, breathing hard through your nose, lips shiny and stretched, and blink up at him as if for approval. Ari watches your brow crease, the faint shudder in your shoulders as you adjust to his size, your hand working a little faster at the base. He lets you set your own limits. Lets you believe you have them, for a minute.

But only a minute.

When he sees your pace settle into something sure, your mouth working with a clean, determined rhythm, Ari gathers your hair in his fist, holding it back from your face. At first it’s just to watch, to see the slackness in your jaw, the tears begin to thread your lashes, the little gasp-shudders you make every time your throat tightens around him. But then he wants more. He wants to see how much you’ll take, how far he can stretch that sweet, trembling uncertainty before it breaks.

He closes his hand on the back of your head and changes the rules.

He says nothing, but you know instantly: there’s a weight, a shift, a realignment of whose idea this is. He doesn’t jerk or force, exactly—he just applies pressure, firm, keeping you on him, deeper than before. You make a tiny noise, not quite a protest, more a sound of realization. Ari likes that sound so much he has to clamp his jaw to keep from saying so.

Ari tightens his grip, thumb stroking the nape of your neck. He rocks his hips forward, slow at first, but it’s unmistakable—he’s in charge now, he’s going to use your mouth, and you’re going to let him. There’s a pause, a microsecond of resistance in your throat, but he pushes through, controlled, relentless. Your hand flattens against his thigh, your nails digging in, not enough to deter him, more a way to anchor yourself. He feeds his cock deeper, the head pressing into the untrained catch of your throat, and you choke, just a little, watery-eyed and breathless.

He doesn’t stop. He fucks your mouth with increasing force, drawing tiny, helpless sounds from you. Moaning, he imagines, but muffled, strangled. He pulls back only to push further, the rhythm of it building, his hand holding your head as your lips glide over his length, his hand dictating the tempo, your mouth straining to keep up, stretched taut and wet and docile.

He lets it go on, longer than he should. The rim of your lips turns rosy, your eyes water freely, and every few thrusts you make that little sound again, the one he likes best, the helpless choke that says: this is as far as I go, this is the borderland. But even as you break, you stay; you hang on, your hands grasping desperately at his thigh, his hip, and your mouth as full as he demands.

Ari wants to ruin your throat. He wants you to remember him—every swallow, every sore swallow tomorrow, wants you to fail to wash the taste of him away. He wishes you could see yourself—your dignity stripped bare by the mess of spit on your chin, the way your whole body strains to keep pace.

He feels his orgasm climbing, spine tightening, the whole architecture of his pleasure banking for release. Fuck, you’re good at this, even if you don’t know it yet. Ari pulls you as far down as you can go and holds you there, savoring the moment your body fights and gives. He finishes in your mouth, and you gag, reflexive, but you swallow most of it, and the part that spills is left to drip down your chin.

He pulls you off slow, gentle then, thumb tracing away the wet and the mess. You’re gasping, mouth slack. You shudder, tears finally slipping down your cheek, and he wipes those too, as if you’re a cherished piece of glass.

“Good girl,” he says, slow and almost affectionate. This is the most dangerous part, he knows—the aftermath, when a girl might burst into tears, or run, or start spitting apologies like it’s her fault for not meeting some imagined standard. But he wants more, so he’ll anchor you through, stroking your cheek. When you seem sufficiently recovered, he urges you to stand. He sits back farther on the bed, and tugs you up, guiding you to straddle his lap.

Ari doesn’t waste time. He yanks you forward, settling your thighs on either side of his, your knees bracketing his hips. The rough wool of his trousers bites through the skin of your legs, almost abrasive, but his hands are strong and steadying on your lower back. He kisses you before you can remember to be self-conscious.

He tastes himself on your lips and it electrifies him, stokes some primal, proprietary thing. Your face is still wet from tears and spit, your mouth open and disarmed, but he kisses you like you’re the only air left. He licks into you, deep, chasing the salt and the tang and the faint metallic aftertaste and a hint of the champagne. He’s greedy, relentless, hands spanning your lower back, then sliding down and cupping the round of your ass, grinding your hips into him. Your breath hitching in his mouth—he swallows it, wants to devour you whole.

You clutch him, clumsy but desperate, fingers digging into his shoulders, up to his neck, nails scraping his scalp. He loves that you don’t know what to do with your hands, that you can’t decide whether to hold on or push away. He wants to see you lose the last of your footing, wants to taste the moment when you give up pretending you’re not already ruined.

His hands roam, and the feel of you—your ass, your hips, your lower back—is nothing short of worship. Not the kind that’s delicate or scared to leave marks; Ari’s fingers dig in, knead, haul you closer so there’s no air gap, no daylight. He’s getting hard again already, thick and insistent against the seam of your sleep shorts.

Ari finds the hem of your shirt and slides his hands beneath it, thumbs grazing your waist. Your skin is soft, radiating warmth, and he relishes the give of you under his hands. He drags his palms up your back, fingers splayed, mapping every contour, every subtle rise and fall. Your spine arches under his touch, involuntary, and the shirt rides high. He doesn't stop, Ari pushes higher, up your ribs, until the fabric bunches tight beneath your arms and he has to break the kiss just to tug it over your head and off. He wants you undone. Wants you naked, right now.

You flinch, briefly, and your arms come up to cover yourself. You’re not small; you’re built for comfort, as his mom wouldhave said, but he can see that though you’re reasonably confident, you’ve spent years learning how to tuck yourself in. But Ari doesn’t even blink. He loves this. He loves the thick band of your upper arms and the crescent of your belly just visible above the waist of your shorts.

He tugs you arms away from your chest, pins your wrists at your sides and kisses your jaw, your clavicle, the faint hot line where your breasts meet the upper slope of your belly.

He swiftly shifts, depositing you on the bed beneath him, ready and eager to go to work worshipping your curves.

He revels at the abrupt compliance of your body, the exact way your legs splay, unsure what to do with themselves except obey gravity. Your breathing comes in uneven gusts, and you blink up at him as if expecting critique, so Ari gives you nothing but open-palmed worship. His hands are big, warm, and he uses every inch of surface area to learn you—palms to collarbones, thumbs up your throat, fingerpads stroking slow against the sides of your breasts.

You shiver beneath him, a quick ripple from shoulder to spine, and he wants to taste it as it happens, so he bends his face to your neck and finds that hollow beneath your ear, the one that still holds a hint of the day’s perfume and a faint, shaky pulse.

“Relax,” he murmurs, letting it seep into your skin.

You whimper, but it’s in resigned and anticipatory ascent.

He moves lower and kisses the spot above your heart, lips at first gentle, then demanding. He flicks his tongue over your skin, watches your face for tension, then traces the line of your bra with a slow, torturous deliberation before cupping your breast fully in one hand. He doesn’t ask, doesn’t pause. He wants you to feel owned, mapped, and completely exposed.

He pinches your nipple lightly through the fabric. You make a noise, sharp, halfway between a yelp and exhale. He likes that, too. He wants to hear every noise you’ll make for him. He mouths at the other breast, and when he finally yanks the cup down, his tongue finds your nipple and sucks, slow and mean, working the tip until he feels it harden and peak in his mouth. He grazes it with his teeth, just enough to draw another of those uncanny noises from your throat—a kind of startled, involuntary song. He bites down, feels the faint shudder pass through your body and the way your hands tighten in the bedding.

He wants more.

Ari tears the rest of your bra down, baring you entirely. Your breasts are perfect for this, heavy and pliant, and he loses himself in them, in the rhythm of your chest rising and falling as he alternates sides, lavishing his mouth and hands across the soft, yielding surface. He wants to mark you up, wants you to have proof tomorrow.

His persistence on your breasts is luxurious, shameless, bordering on greedy. You could probably come from that alone, if he worked it, but he’s not quite ready to let you lose control. He wants you trembling, wants you pleading, wants it to mean something, even if you’ll forget him by next week.

You make a sound that’s close to a sob, and he swallows it down, wanting to hear it again. He wonders if you’ll cry for him, if you’ll let yourself. He’s greedy for every permutation of your undoing.

He slides a hand under the waistband of your shorts, fingers sifting the cotton crotch of the gusset. You’re already wet, and the thin cotton is no match for how quickly he finds the shape of you, his knuckles pressing up, the heel of his hand grinding in slow, insistent circles against your clit. Your hips pitch up at the contact, a gasp escaping you—so transparent, so gratifying.

He uses his palm to keep you pinned, thumb bracing at your hipbone, fingers working the heat in lazy, controlled spirals. With the other hand, he toys with your nipple—rolling, pinching, tugging, and he watches your face as your lips fall open, eyelids fluttering, forehead creased with confusion or disbelief or something more delicate.

“Look at you,” he murmurs. He strokes, slow, over the fabric, then pushes the panties aside and sinks two fingers inside, testing your reaction. He can feel how ready you are, how your whole body is eager for him to ruin you. “You okay?” He’s not a monster, not exactly.

You nod, chin tight to your chest, biting your lip again.

One hand still worships your tits while the other works inside you, and for a moment Ari just revels in the way your hips lose all decorum and stutter up to meet his every push. You’re so responsive, every touch broadcasting a new pattern of tension along your thighs, your belly, the clutch of your hands in the sheets.

You try to stifle your moans, but you can't. He wants to taste you. He feels you clench around his fingers, feels the exquisite grip of your cunt learning his shape, and he wonders if you always make so much noise or if it's just him, just now.

He wants to strip you, to see the full map of your skin, and so he does: tugs the shorts and panties down in one rough motion. You do nothing to stop him, just breathe in sharp little gasps, watching him like you have no idea how to hide from anything he wants.

He bends in, inhales, takes the sharp, nectar-clean and slightly sharp scent of your cunt, and it’s almost too much. He bites the inside of your thigh, sucking a mark, then licks over it, more gentle than he expected to be.

Your hands flutter to his hair, too tentative to take control but too needy to stay at your sides. He likes the way you hesitate, not sure what’s allowed, not sure if you’re supposed to let go. He wraps both arms under your thighs and hoists your hips up, locking them there, and puts his mouth on you.

Ari eats you with the same devouring patience he applies to work or a game of high-stakes poker: relentless, single-minded, strategic. He starts with a slow, soft glide, tongue wide and flat, not diving in but coaxing. He’s learned most women think oral is about sharp flicks to the clit, about relentless beelines, but he knows better: you have to keep a woman guessing. He lets his tongue skirt the edges, lays down a warm, deliberate stripe from your entrance to the button, then circles, never quite zeroing in, letting the frustration build.

Your thighs tremble. Your hands go from hesitant to clutching, gripping his hair in sudden, startled gasps whenever he closes in on the clit, only to veer away and lavish the soft inner lips, tongue lapping at you with open, almost lazy pleasure. He can hear your breathing escalate—quick, tight, then broader, deeper, like you’re trying to outpace what he’s doing to you. He hums into you, low and approving, and is rewarded with a ragged, grateful sob.

He slides his fingers back in, curling them just so, the pads pressing up until your legs start shaking. He doesn’t stop, not even when you gasp out a broken, “oh, fuck—” and clutch both fists into his hair, yanking hard enough that it actually hurts a little. He likes that.

Ari works his tongue in time with his fingers, faster, then slow, and he doesn’t need to listen for your orgasm; he can smell it, then tastes it when it gushes onto his tongue.

He tilts his face into the slick and suck of you, tongue working you through it as your thighs convulse, the muscles in your calves jumping against his shoulders. The pressure of your grip tightens to clamp his jaw, an almost perfect vise of limb and will. He lets you smother him, lets you ride against his lips, lets your sounds escalate—ugly, keening, mortifying if you weren’t so out of yourself with feeling.

Your cunt clenches around his fingers with a violence that makes him want to laugh, and for a bizarre second Ari nearly does. Instead, he rides your pulse, stokes it on, tongue circling and circling as your breath hiccups and you sob into the bed. When your hips finally stall and your grip goes slack, Ari slowly licks you clean, a solemn reminder that he unapologetically wrung this pleasure from you.

Ari gathers himself up and kneels above you, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. You’re still splayed, spread and exposed. He’s delighted at how much slick he’s wrong from you. He sits back on his heels and just looks at you for a long moment, cataloguing the way you grip the edge of the sheets, the way you pant with a kind of anxious, embarrassed awe. He wants to take you apart for the rest of the night, maybe for the rest of the weekend.

He is ready for another round, but he wants you to ask for it.

He waits. There are a thousand things he could say—compliment, command, prod—but he lets the quiet turn sticky, lets your heartbeat taper to something less arrhythmic.

He leans over, one heavy arm braced beside your head, and the other grasping your thigh. He’s not fast; he’s not in a hurry. He’s ready to linger in it. He runs the backs of his knuckles up and down your bare thigh, the skin hot from where his beard scraped it. He sees your pulse skipping under your jaw, and he coaxes you to look at him.

“Hey,” he says, and it comes out lower than he expects. “You with me?”

Your eyelashes clump with tears, but you meet his stare. “I’m here,” you say, and then you lick your lips and add, “I’m not going anywhere.” A flash of self-mockery in your voice, but also determination.

He likes that. It’s only a half-surprise. He wonders if he can break that.

He claims your mouth again, slow kisses at first. But then he starts to pour more heat back into you, stoking the fire again.

Your arms are limp but you try to wrap them around his neck. Your mouth is clumsy, hungry and sloppy, and it stokes something in him that he didn’t realize he’d been starving for—a girl who doesn’t know how to perform, who doesn’t even know how to fake confidence, who is just feeling as much as she can in the moment, with no script. His kisses grow insistent again, tongue pushing past your lips and taking what he wants, and then you’re starting to match his fervor, his hunger again, second wind stoking the flames of your desire.

He’s still half-dressed, pants undone, fly gaping, shirt rucked up over his chest, and the sight of you splayed under him, tits bare and sweat-sheened, your hair a wild snarl against the pillow, makes him nearly growl with satisfaction. But you finally register that state of his non-undress at the same moment and huff and whine, reaching for the buttons of his tailored shirt, snagging and tugging them open with only some difficulty due to your impatience.

You finally get the shirt open and spread your palms over his chest, as if to confirm that he’s not just apparition but flesh, traipsing over the coarse hair there. Your hands are eager, bold now, and Ari huffs out a laugh. He expects you to shy away, to pause, but you run your hands down over his ribs, rake your nails softly down his sides. You make a low, wondering sound and Ari thinks he could shiver out of his own skin, the way you touch him, like you can’t believe you’re allowed.

He leans back, shrugs out of the shirt, lets you see him fully without pretense. He’s broad, a little thicker around the middle than his custom tailoring suggests, but you don’t seem to care. You trace one lingering finger down the line of his stomach to where the waistband of his pants is half-off, and you pause there, fixated on the silver glint of his belt buckle. You look up as if asking for permission.

He shrugs off the rest of his pants, fierce and unapologetic. He is, for the first time, fully naked in front of you.

You try not to stare. You last less than a second. You’ve never been with anyone who is so undeniably man. Thick, corded, powerful, and it’s physical as much as it is his aura, personality, and presence. You reach for his hip, as if it might anchor you to something stable.

He traces your waist, kneads the soft at your belly. “You’re so fucking pretty,” he says.

Then he leans down again, kisses you hard and fast, needing to devour you. He traces your collarbone with the tip of his finger. You shiver, but then your body seems to focus on that point of connection. His lips move to your neck, and you go still as he runs his finger down, between your breasts, over your stomach, pausing right above your pubic bone.

“You ready to beg me to fuck you?”

Your answer is a low, throttled gasp. You don’t say a word, but you nod with a violence that is almost shameful.

That’s not enough. He pins you at the hip, and Ari growls it, “I want to hear you beg me.”

You swallow, lungs stuttering. “Please fuck me,” you whisper.

You’re such a good girl, but he wants more. He moves his hand between your legs, palm snaking between your thighs. His fingers slide through your slick. “You can do better,” he says, and then his thumb ghosts a circle over your clit, slow, prompting a shuddering breath from you.

He grins, and it’s slow and deliberate, wolfish. “Go on. Say it.”

He can tell you’re not a mouthy girl, but if you don’t say it, he’ll just keep you on the edge for the rest of the night.

You close your eyes. Breathe out, “Please, please, please—”

He rewards you by pressing down, making your whole body bow up off the sheets. “Please what?”

“Please—fuck me,” you bite out, but Ari can see there’s still more you want, something you’re too ashamed to ask for. He circles around but not at your clit again, a steady, devastating rhythm, watching you unravel a bit more beneath him.

You open your eyes and meet his, and that last little shield drops away. “Please, Ari. I want you to ruin me.”

It splits everything open in him. Finally. He braces his forearm beside your head. Then he reaches for the head of his cock and lines it up with your cunt. He wants to see your face when he presses inside you, so he murmurs your name, drawing your eyes back to him. It’s the first he’s actually said it.

He notches himself against your entrance, and it’s so slick and hot that he nearly slips, but he steadies himself and teases, just the head of it, back and forth until you are all but thrashing, the friction too fast or not fast enough, building up that perfect desperation he wants for you.

When he finally pushes in, it’s not gentle, not really. He goes slow for the first few inches, savoring how tight you are, how your whole body clenches at the surprise of it, but then he presses deeper, the full length of him. He hears the shocked peal of your gasp, feels your legs shake and clamp around his hips, your hands flying to his back to grip for purchase. He’s big, and you feel every inch. Ari waits, motionless, just a moment, to see if you’ll flinch or push him away, but you just whimper and rock your hips up, as if you can’t wait to fill every hollow inside of you most intimate parts.

Ari likes to remember the moment a girl’s body gives way. Your eyes are wide, wild, pupils blown. You breathe raw through parted lips. He sees the moment you feel the full shape of his cock, the silent “oh god” echoing in your gaze and the twitch of your thighs. Ari rocks just an inch further in, then back, then in again, a measured, almost sadistic patience. He wants to make sure you’ll remember the exact configuration of him for the rest of your life.

He sets a pace, not fast, but deep and inexorable, every stroke a further demolition of your composure. It’s wordless, a rhythm more than a conversation. He stays braced over you, watching your face as you adjust, as the pain trembles under the pleasure and then is just gone, replaced by something feverish. You blink up at him, dazed, your mouth parted, and Ari sees the point at which you surrender to it.

Your hands go everywhere—his arms, his chest, the rough thatching of his beard, clinging and then letting go, unsure if you want him closer or further away. He leans down, kisses you insistently, and every time he hits bottom you make that sound, the one he’s already addicted to. The sounds sharpen, break the surface. More, faster, different—he can feel it in every urge and thrust, a greed that won’t be satisfied by this single fuck, this single night.

He fucks you slow at first, but it doesn’t last—he wants to see what happens if he goes harder, so he does, hips snapping against yours, the slap of skin on skin as sharp and crisp as the chill outside the window. He wraps his hand under your thigh, hiking your leg high, angling himself in deeper, and you make a desperate, clamping motion with your hands, like even your fingers aren’t sure what to hold. He can feel your cunt pulse around him, feel you struggle to catch up with every new tempo, and it only feeds his rhythm. He wants you loose and wild, wants to see all of you before the sun comes up.

Ari leans in, nips your ear, bites your neck, and you arch up into him, as if trying to fuse your bodies at the seam. The weight of him, the certainty, the brute control, and it shreds away the last of your caution. The noises you make become helpless, untended—messy and real, no script or performance, just the body’s animal reaction to being split wide and made full.

He can’t help himself. He talks to you. Not the filthy play-acting he sometimes resorts to, but something closer: crooning, coaxing, saying “that’s it, good girl, you’re taking me so well,” in a voice that’s only rough because you’ve wrenched him past every decorum. With every thrust, he murmurs your name, or “gorgeous,” or a string of shameless, absolute approvals—because he can see you blossom under it, transform in real-time, see the way you dissolve into a girl who needs to be praised, who needs to be told that she’s worth wrecking.

He watches you fall apart. Watches your hands scrabble for purchase, watches your lower lip tremble, hears the surprised, broken little gasps each time he shifts or sinks deeper. He wants to see how far you’ll go, how reckless you could be, and he’s not sure if the answer will surprise him. Maybe it will.

Sweat beads between his shoulders, at the small of his back; the heat off your skin, the press of your bodies, is high summer thunderstorm, no matter the faint click of the thermostat on the wall. He slows to drag it out, then snaps his hips again without warning and watches the way you arch, the involuntary cry, this perfect sound, raw as a confession. He wants you to scream, wants to hear you lose your last reserve.

When your second climax starts rumbling through you, Ari knows because your thighs quiver, clamp, your cunt tightens on him so hard his vision whites out. You shatter under him, hips pumping up, and it’s a silent gasp of a scream but he knows that’s what your lungs are unable to give, and he fucks you through it, as savage as he needs to be, holding you together even as you come apart. Your nails rake his back, frantic, leaving little crescent moons in his skin. The pleasure is so stark, so unhidden, it almost embarrasses him. But not quite.

He came here specifically on the errand of dark deeds, after all.

He slows the pace, lets your breath even out. He’s not a young man anymore, but he still knows how to make an orgasm last, how to keep a girl floating while he claims every last aftershock. You go limp under him, the fierce grip on his back gone slack; now your fingers only twitch, searching for a new place to anchor but too spent to find it. You look up at him, glazed and shattered. Ari can tell you’re somewhere else, miles off the map, floating in the kind of happy devastation that makes you forget who or where or what you are.

He fucks you through the aftershocks, careful, letting your body adjust. The sweat on his brow drips onto your cheek, and he watches the way you blink, slow, like the world’s been set back a click or two. He’s hit his limit, but he wants you greedy for him—he wants to give you everything, and then more than that, so you will always be haunted by him.

He keeps pounding, producing some more tears from your pretty eyes. He’s past worrying about breaking you: he wants to, and you want it too, even if you can’t say it. The clutch of your body, the collapse of decorum, the overwhelming, mortifying need that’s pouring out of you with every movement een though you’re spent—it unmans him, and he likes the feeling.

He’s so close; he’s going to come again, a rare thing, but you’re so hot and tight and clutching and wild that it’s inevitable. He pistons in, revving up harder, faster, chasing the high. He’s using you, and you’re letting him, and it’s the rawest thing he’s felt in months.

He lets out a low, involuntary sound, barely a grunt, and comes inside you with a force that has his jaw clamped and his vision blurred. He buries himself to the hilt and stays there, pulse after pulse, not stopping until the last wave has wrung itself out.

He goes slack above you, not all at once, but piece by piece—shoulders first, then arms, finally his hips. He braces a hand on the pillow by your head. The sounds in the room dwindle: just the hum of the AC, your mutual ragged breathing, somehow more shocking and intimate than the sex itself for what it leaves behind.

You’re both sweat-soaked, clinging where your skin touches. He slides out, slow, already missing the heat of you even as he does. You flinch at the withdrawal, a small, involuntary movement that’s half protest, half relief.

Ari gathers himself, looks down at your ruin. Body slack and sated, hair sweat-stuck to your forehead, the litany of red marks blooming along your neck and chest and thighs. The evidence of him everywhere.

“Fuck,” he says at last, not expecting or wanting an answer. He rolls off and to the side, careful not to let the wetness between your legs smear the sheets too much, though he relishes the mess of it. He lies next to you, breath returning, and studies the ceiling, and for a moment, feels entirely empty in the best way possible.

He doesn’t expect you to move. But you do. You roll to the side, drape one sticky thigh across his, and for a moment he thinks you’ll say something, make a joke, or ask for a towel. Instead, you just lay your head on his chest and listen to his heart while you catch your own. He could get used to it, a little. The afterglow with you is silent, but not awkward. You fit there: the weight of your body against his, the way your fingers curl on his ribs like a cat that hasn’t decided if it wants to sleep or leave.

He’s not sentimental. Ari likes his trysts neat, clear, transactional. But he almost wants to keep you. This soft, ruined version.

Then, with a slow, shuddery exhale, you blurt a breathy giggle. A loose, animal sound.

“Is this the part where you sneak out?” you say. Your voice is trashed, a ruined thing, but you try to make it casual. A joke between strangers who’ve just obliterated all the boundaries.

Ari surprises himself by laughing, honest and coarse. “If it is, you’re supposed to pretend you’re asleep.”

You flop an arm over your eyes, the other one still thrown wide as if steadying yourself against a world that hasn’t put itself back together yet. “I probably need to sleep for a week.”

Ari could leave.

But he says, “I did say I would stay until five, though,” because he might need to recover, but he wouldn’t mind playing with your delicious body a bit more through the night.

You shift and bite your lip. “You did say that.”

There’s a silence then, but it isn’t awkward, not really. Not with you half-melted against him, fingers tracing little territories on his ribcage, the imprint of your soft thigh still pressed against his. He reaches over to the bedside table and shuts off the lights. This is as close to peace as Ari ever gets—brain blotted out, worries bludgeoned silent by good fucking and the self-hypnosis of afterglow. All the garbage of the day, the supplier threats, the accounts manager’s passive aggression, the chef’s broken nose—it collapses under the simple, dense relief of your breathing, slowing down, matching his. He closes his eyes.

When he cracks them open a few minutes later to glance at you, you’re already drifting, lashes gone humid and dark, mouth parted. The urge is to wake you is strong, but he wants let you sleep, so he can see just how much he can ply and play with your body while you’re out.

And with you staying two nights, he’s altogether certain he’s going to help himself to you again tomorrow night, as well.

🥵🥴

so that happened.

↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest Chris Evans Characters Collection

I do not do tag lists, but FOLLOW @buckets-and-stories and TURN ON NOTIFICATIONS to be updated any time I publish a new work!

#omg reblogged thank you

415 notes · View notes

buckets-and-trees · 6 hours ago

Note

As one of the Christmas presents, your Alpha promises to fulfill one of your fantasies, or introduce you to a kink you secretly wanted to try. What is it and how he's going about it? Does he surprise you with it? Or did you plan to make a special night of it?

Okay, not an alpha, but...

well...

I couldn't get this idea out of my head...

Title: Make Her Glow Characters/Pairings: soft dark!Mafia!Andy Barber x female!reader Word Count: 986

Content Warnings: bondage, established coerced marriage, breeding kink

Logistical Notes: I think technically this is ... going to be a collection now. Sequel to I'm Your Man and a moment from their honeymoon. I just can't resist this Andy (and neither can you, dear reader).

↠ Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

The domestic elements were incredibly important to Andy. He knew they were vital to building a happy, long-lasting relationship between husband and wife, and he wanted nothing less than that for both of you. Putting up the Christmas tree had been something he’d insisted on doing together, just the two of you, the day after Thanksgiving.

He’d driven the pair of you to the nicest tree lot, walked around holding your hand until he knew the two of you had found a tree you truly liked, then paid to have it delivered to your home after lunch. He had you direct the delivery men to put it exactly where you wanted it. He had helped you string it with lights, then decorate with garland and ornaments. You were still guarded – he had broken down many, but not all, of your walls, but it had been a good day.

But by far the most valuable thing from putting up the tree together had been the lights. He saw sheer, unadulterated delight shine through your eyes the first time they lit up. It was the passion he’d seen on your face so frequently during the first weeks he knew you – it’s what made him know he had to have you, and he loved seeing it again.

Each night, you had very easily let him hold you on the couch, all the other lights off, and sit together in the glow from the white lights of the tree. He had pulled so much more out of you each of those nights – memories, wants, dreams, worries.

He always knew you would work.

He knew you knew the two of your would work.

The soft glow of those lights had made you impossibly softer and warmer to him, and he fucking loved it.

But he hadn’t exploited that knowledge until tonight.

Having finally sent all the house guests home, you were turning off all the lights, and about to collapse onto the couch, but he intercepted you a step away from your destination, and tugged you gently upstairs. You knew not to fight him.

He knows you don’t want to fight him; you’re only holding onto small pieces of resisting him because he’s slowly been disarming every last piece of you, making you more and more vulnerable to becoming completely swept away by him.

He closes the bedroom door and then leads you to the bed. He slowly unzips your simple but beautiful party dress from behind, and you shrug it down your shoulders. He presses a kiss between your shoulder blades, and you can’t suppress a shiver. Then he unclasps your bra, and you let that fall to the floor, too. He slides a finger into the waistband of your lacey underwear on either side of your hips and pulls them gently down. You step out of them without direction.

He spanks you, just once, but it elicits the short, gasping moan he loves to draw from you.

“Up on the bed now,” he instructs.

“Yes, Andy,” your voice is soft, and you crawl up obediently.

“On your back in the middle of the mattress.”

As you move into place, you watch him, and he reaches for a box he left under the bed a few hours earlier.

Andy places the box on the bedside table, and first pulls out a thick, forest green satin ribbon.

He climbs up on the bed next to you. “Hold up your hands, wrists together for me.”

Despite everything else up to this point, he’s never physically bound you before.

Although he can see the evidence of your breathing speed up with the rise and fall of your chest, he’s incredibly pleased that you do exactly as he says, surrendering without a fuss. He wraps the ribbon around your wrists and forearms, then strokes your cheek. “Such a good girl for me.”

He moves back to the box, pulls out one end of the string, plugs it into the socket, and you gasp as a full string of white lights comes to life. Andy smiles and turns off the rest of the lights in the room.

Ten minutes later when he’s wrapped the lights around your arms – right over where the ribbons were first placed because he did want to protect your precious skin from being uncomfortable – and then bound you up to the headboard, where he strung the rest of the lights back and forth between the bedposts, and emerges naked from the large master closet, he fully appreciates the warm glow of the lights just as you have the lights from the tree. He more than gets it now.

Joining you once more on the bed, he runs his hands up your thighs, then guides them open and kneels between them.

“You’re so pretty like this, wife.”

You’re wet for him. Waiting for him.

“You want one more Christmas gift?” he asks, his eyes moving up your body to meet your eyes.

You let out a small, whimpered, “Yes,” and he smiles again. “Please,” you add.

“And I think it’s time we start really working on one more gift for me,” he says. He moves one hand to your hip and places the other solidly over your womb. “I’m done waiting to see you growing with my child, and it’s too perfect that you’re ovulating.”

Your eyes widen and your mouth opens just a little.

He smirks. “You think I really wouldn’t know something like that? Well, if you’re going to act dumb, I’ll just oblige and fuck you dumb. But, goddamn, you should know how perfect and beautiful you look for me just like this. Glowing under these lights? Perfection."

He leans down to kiss you. His lips move against yours, easily, he licks into your mouth, and you moan. He doesn't relent until you're breathless, and arching up beneath him.

"Now let’s make it so you glow for another reason.”

I make no apologies for this.

I'm Your Man Collection Masterlist ↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

I do not do tag lists, but FOLLOW @buckets-and-stories and TURN ON NOTIFICATIONS to be updated any time I publish a new work!

#omg reblogged thank you

731 notes · View notes

buckets-and-trees · 7 hours ago