#you can’t put this in the trailer and then NOT be in it
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hopelesslygaysstuff · 2 days ago
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Thinking about actress Wanda and makeup artist Reader this morning…
- your hands tremble slightly when you first begin to do her makeup
- she notices and talks to you about random things, pleased when your hands become steady as you relax in her presence
- your touch feels almost reverent, and Wanda can’t help but feel beautiful when your brush paints her skin
- Wanda finds herself watching your eyes, admiring how focused you are and loving the way the corners crinkle when she says something witty
- you can’t help the flush that graces your cheeks when you put lipstick on her, your mind wondering what those lips would feel like against yours… Wanda secretly loves it
- Wanda asks to do your makeup sometime, and you agree after a lot of stammering
- she insists on you coming to her trailer, and so you do, awed at the fact that she’s allowed you in her personal space like this
- she sits you on the bed, her knees touching yours as she concentrates, and you are sure that she can feel your pulse racing underneath her fingertips
- Wanda invites you to be her personal makeup artist, so you get to work with her and style her makeup for big events
- you don’t actually go to the events, but you watch her on the screen, not knowing that Wanda wishes you were there beside her
Alsldkdjdjdjdjd I just love this idea so much, it’ll probably be my next one shot
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austinbutlerslovers · 3 days ago
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Behind the Scenes
Label Mature 18+
Summary You’ve never been able to contain your jealousy when it comes to Austin. So when he shoots an intimate scene as Feyd Rautha with his female co-star, your jealousy simmers just beneath the surface, before burning behind the scenes.
❤️‍🔥Passionate Smut❤️‍🔥 jealous passion • make it better • oral on fem • claiming • P in V • sex against a mirror •orgasms• cream pie 🔗Master List
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📖 Proofreader @purejasmine 💭Plot inspired by @psycheetamore 💕
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Behind the Scenes
You had never doubted Austin’s love for you—not really. But being in a relationship with someone so effortlessly magnetic, so achingly handsome and charming, came with its own share of insecurities. His fame was undeniable; his talent, unmatched. But what haunted you the most was how he managed to flirt without even trying. 
The way he held eye contact just a second too long, his easy smile, and the way his voice dipped into a tone that made every word sound like a secret—it wasn’t deliberate, you knew, but it still drove you crazy.
Especially when it came to other women.
Especially when those women were stunning celebrities who practically melted under his gaze.
Lea Seydoux is no exception. You’ve seen her work, admired her elegance and wit from afar, but now, watching her with him on set is unbearable. You can’t help but feel like an outsider—like you’re watching two people who fit better together than you and Austin ever could.
The scene between them is intense. Austin, fully transformed into Feyd Rautha, stands behind her—Lady Margot—his knife pressed against her throat as he whispers into her ear. His menace is undeniable, his brooding presence intoxicating, and you can’t deny how convincing Austin is in the role. But when she leads him to the next room to continue the scene, something inside you twists.
He follows her through the doors as she sits on the bed, the scene unfolding like a deadly dance. She perches on the edge of the futuristic bed, her movements precise, calculating, the perfect Bene Gesserit.
“Kneel,” Lea commands, her voice laced with quiet authority, and Austin obeys without hesitation. He sinks gracefully to his knees, his sharp, predatory energy tempered into dangerous submission.
Your eyes narrow as they lean toward each other, their faces inches apart. The tension between them is unbearable, the kind of chemistry that makes your envy uncontrollable. You can’t tear your eyes away. It looks like they are about to kiss—a slow, inevitable collision—until Lea breaks the moment with her next line.
“Put your hand in the box,” she says, her voice low, her French accent only adding to the sensual edge of the scene.
In her lap is cradled the prop of the “Jom Gabbar,” the iconic Bene Gesserit pain box. In her other hand, she holds a needle poised near his neck. The camera zooms in, capturing the dangerous intimacy between them, the way Feyd’s defiance melts into reluctant obedience as he extends his hand.
“Cut!” the director finally calls, breaking the spell. But the tension between them is too real, too raw, and even though the cameras aren’t rolling, it doesn’t stop.
Austin grins at something Lea says, her fingers lightly brushing his chest. The inky darkness of his black out smile makes the gesture both unnerving and magnetically attractive as she leans in closer to playfully tease him.
The ease between them lights a fire in your stomach. The kind of fire that burns and sears and leaves nothing but jealous ash in its wake.
By the time the filming for the day ends, you are brimming with resentment in Austin’s trailer, your thoughts racing, your chest tight with the weight of everything you’ve seen.
He emerges from the shower, his hair damp and slicked back. A towel hangs low around his hips, exposing the sharp lines of his torso, every muscle carved and glistening. The pale body paint of Feyd has been rinsed clean, but the intense persona lingers.
“You’re mad,” he says, tilting his head as he studies your expression. His voice is low and commanding. “Let me guess. Lea?”
“Don’t say her name like that,” you snap, crossing your arms. “I saw the way she was touching you, Austin. The way you were looking at her.”
He smirks, leaning casually against the doorframe, every bit the picture of arrogance. “I was acting, but perhaps my talent is something you can’t discern yet,” he says, his tone dripping with mockery, the smirk on his lips daring you to argue.
“You weren’t acting when the cameras were off,” you shoot back, your voice laced with frustration and something sharper—hurt.
His smirk deepens, infuriatingly slow. “You’re jealous,” he says, the words rolling off his tongue like a quiet taunt.
“Of course I’m jealous!” you blurt, stepping closer. “Do you have any idea what it’s like, watching everyone throw themselves at you? And you—you just… let them.”
His eyes flicker, cool and unreadable, and for a moment, he says nothing. Then, with a slight tilt of his head, he gestures toward the chair beside you. “Sit.”
You bristle at his tone, crossing your arms. “No.”
“Sit,” he repeats, his voice sharper now, and it isn’t a request, Austin is being uncharacteristically insistent.
Instead of obeying, you turn your back on him, shaking your head. “I’m not doing this,” you say, your voice laced with frustration and defiance.
Before you can walk away, you feel him move behind you, his presence looming, suffocating. His hands come to your shoulders, firmly stopping you in your tracks. Slowly, his fingers slide down your arms, sensually grazing your skin in a way that makes your breath catch.
His voice is low and commanding as it brushes against your ear. “Don’t walk away from me,” he whispers, the edge in his tone unmistakable. “Not when you’re unsettled like this.”
You try to shrug him off, but his grip tightens as he steps closer, his chest brushing your back. His hand slides up, tilting your chin so you’re forced to look at the full-length mirror in front of you.
“Look at yourself,” he says, his reflection towering over yours, his eyes locking onto yours in the glass. His hand stays on your chin, keeping you in place. “Do you see what I see?”
You swallow hard, your heart racing as his words settle over you. The intensity in his eyes, the dominance in his stance—it’s Feyd, unmistakably. But somewhere beneath the surface, there’s still Austin, the man who always seems to unravel you with a single glance.
“Do you think I would let anyone ruin what is mine?” he asks, his voice a low rasp that sends a shiver down your spine. His hand moves from your chin to your waist, pulling you back against him. “Answer me.”
Your breath catches, your reflection betraying every crack in your composure. The line between Austin and Feyd blurs, their edges indistinguishable in his gaze. “Austin, stop it. You’re not—”
“Not what?” he interrupts smoothly, his lips brushing your ear, his voice low, almost dangerous, sending a shiver racing down your spine.
He trails a finger down your throat, slow and deliberate, the weight of his touch making you swallow hard. It’s as if he’s still lost in the scene, his intensity blurring the line between acting and reality. Instead of a knife, his hand moves lower, settling over your chest, his palm cupping your breast, his fingers kneading it gently.
“Is this what you want?” he rasps in your ear, his words dripping with wicked intent. His eyes lock onto yours in the mirror, his piercing gaze daring you to look away.
His mouth presses against your neck, and when his tongue flicks out, you catch it in the mirror—his slow, deliberate lick up the column of your throat.
He makes sure you see it, makes sure you feel every inch of his dominance as his tongue drags along your skin in a way that leaves you trembling.
Your breath comes out in a shallow gasp as he presses closer, his body aligning with yours, the hardness of his need for you unmistakable.
“Tell me,” he whispers against your ear, his voice like a dark secret, “—Tell me that you want me to kneel for you,” he rasps, smooth and tantalizing.
His lips brush the shell of your ear as he lingers, letting his words settle deep in your chest.
“Austin—” you manage, but his name comes out more like a gasp, stunned and unsteady. Your mind spins, caught between disbelief and the undeniable heat coursing through you.
Austin steps around to face you, his movements slow and deliberate, his eyes dark with intent. His hands slide up your sides, grazing the curves of your breasts before lifting your shirt up and over your head.
Your breath hitches as his tongue darts out, licking a slow stripe along the valley between your breasts before his hands slide up cupping them. His lips close around one nipple, sucking gently but firmly. The heat of his mouth sending a jolt through you, your body responding instantly.
His eyes flick up, catching yours, watching every shift in your expression as he works, his tongue teasing one sensitive peak before moving to the other, the intensity in his gaze holding you captive.
Then slowly, deliberately, he sinks to his knees before you, his movements fluid and commanding. Your eyelids flutter as you feel him hook his fingers into the waistband of your leggings.
With practiced ease, he slides them down along with your panties, the cool air of the trailer brushing against your heated skin as you step out of the fabric.
Without hesitation, his hands cup the back of your thighs, pulling you flush against his mouth. Your knees nearly buckle as his tongue meets you, hot and insistent. All you can do is watch in the mirror, your reflection a blur of flushed skin and trembling limbs as he devours you hungrily. The obscene, wet sounds of his movements fill the room, his mouth working you over with a precision that makes your head spin.
Your hand finds its way to his hair, gripping tightly as your mouth falls open in a silent cry. He flicks his tongue against your clit mercilessly, the rhythm relentless until the pressure inside you builds into something you can’t contain. His hands slide up your thighs, gripping your waist as he looks up at you. The sight of him, his face buried between your legs too much to bear.
Your voice chokes off, your body shuddering as the wave of your orgasm crashes over you. He stays with you through it, his mouth slowing but never stopping until the last moan fades from your lips. Then, with maddening calmness, he wipes his face along your thigh, his teeth grazing the soft flesh there as he nips at you, leaving a faint mark.
Standing slowly, he towers over you, his presence consuming as he turns you, pressing you face-first against the full-length mirror. The cool glass against your heated skin makes you shiver, but his body is there behind you, warm and solid.
His hand slides down, loosening the front of his towel before letting it drop to the floor. You barely have time to process the sight of him before you feel the insistent head of his cock slipping against your wetness, poised to enter you.
“Now,” he says, his voice low and raspy, the hunger in his tone unmistakable as your eyes meet in the mirror. “Let me show you exactly who I belong to.”
His hands grip your waist firmly as he thrusts into you, hard and powerful, the force of it stealing the air from your lungs. You moan, your palms pressing against the cool glass for balance as he sets a relentless pace in you. It’s overwhelming and intoxicating—there’s something darker, more commanding in his movements, and you savor every second of it.
“Tell me how much you like it” he rasps his hips snapping harder with each deep driving thrust, his body unyielding as he pushes you further into the mirror.
“Yes, F—Austin,” you moan, your voice breathless, trembling under the pressure. “Don’t stop—please, don’t stop.”
His abs flex with each thrust, his body relentless as his thighs clap against the back of yours the sound echoing in the space.
His hand tangles in your hair, tugging with just enough force to pull your head back. “Look at yourself,” he demands, his voice rough with exertion. “Watch what I do to you.”
Your eyes flick to the mirror, the sight of him behind you—his body moving with raw power—sending a new wave of pleasure crashing over you. The intensity is too much, the rhythm of his hips, the pull of his hand, the way his cock hits that perfect spot inside you again and again.
Your body trembles as you close your eyes, giving in to the overwhelming sensations as you cry out, your release washing over you in waves. He doesn’t slow, his movements coaxing every last contraction from you as his grip on your waist tightens, lingering as you orgasm completely.
His pace falters slightly as his control slips, his breaths turning into deep, guttural grunts thrusting harder and faster chasing his release until you feel the unmistakable twitch of his cock inside you.
A groan rips from his chest, low and primal, his hips pressing flush against yours as his release spills, filling you completely. His fingers dig into your waist, anchoring himself in the intensity of the moment as the warmth of him come spreads between you. His eyes flutter shut for a moment, his features softening in pleasure before his piercing gaze finds yours in the mirror again.
He slows his movements, pulling back to slip his satisfied cock from you, and his hands slide to your hips, steadying you as he turns you around to face him. His breaths are uneven, ghosting against your lips as his piercing gaze roams over your face. He takes in every detail—the flush of your cheeks, the way your chest rises and falls with each ragged breath, and your eyes filled with pleasure.
His thumb brushes along your jawline, the roughness of his touch grounding you further as a grin tugs at the corners of his lips.
“You’re even jealous of your own reflection,” he teases, his voice still rough from exertion.
You laugh, the sound soft and breathless as your hand rests gently against his jaw, your thumb brushing over his skin.
“I can’t help it,” you murmur, your voice filled with honesty. “You’re so special to me, Austin. Sometimes, it scares me.”
His grin softens into something warmer, more vulnerable, as his hands slide up to cup your face. “And you’re special to me,” he says, his voice quieter now, the rasp fading into sincerity. “More than you’ll ever know. No one else could ever make me feel the way you do.”
You lean into him, your cheek resting against his chest as his strong arms wrap around you, holding you close. The steady rhythm of his heartbeat soothes you as you let his words sink in, grounding you in the connection that only the two of you share. In his embrace, everything else melts away, leaving only the undeniable bond between you.
⚔️ End 🎬
🔗 Master List
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devilsandwings · 2 days ago
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Quiet Scenes- A Paul mescal fic
Synopsis: This will be an ongoing story. About Paul Mescal and a singer/actress with Sabrina Carpenters discography. That’s all I’ll reveal for now, read to find out. Love yall 💕
1k words ~ CW: none
This indicates a flashback ✨
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March 12, 2023
I’m sitting at the Academy Awards, sipping on my champagne and gossiping with my best friend, Florence Pugh. She’s presenting an award with Andrew Garfield later tonight, you’re her guest. “…so anyway after all of that they ended up getting back together.” Florence finished her story about one of her friends.
“Wow yea that is ridiculous why would she take him back after that.” I responded in bewilderment of her story. She just shrugs her shoulders and the lights dim. Jimmy Kimmel comes back out onto the stage.
~
The night has been going great, you and Florence are having an amazing time. She killed it presenting, the host is funny, you’re running into friends and icons. You’re having a wonderful time at the Oscars. The announcers voice booms over the audience, “Please welcome academy award winners Jessica Chastain and Halle berry”
The two women walk onto the stage in their beautiful gowns. They smile at the assuring crowd as they walk to the microphone. “When an actor or actress first approaches a role we use every tool at our disposal to help us create the world of the character” Jessica says, reading the teleprompter. They continue about how actors create their characters.
“Here are the nominees for best performance from an actor in a leading role” Halle says
“Austin Butler, Elvis.” The announcer exclaims. The screen above the stage changes to a camera of Austin at his seat, he smiles and looks at his costar. The crowd erupts with applause. The announcer continues to read off names and the crowd cheers.
“Would now be a bad time to tell you I’ve never seen Elvis?” Florence whispers to you
I turn my head and gasp at her, “YOU WHAT” I whisper yell at her, but it doesn’t really matter nobody else can hear us over the cheering for Colin Farrell. “Ma’am you have to see it, I’m showing it to you next time you come over, I own it.” She laughs at my demand and nods her head, she cheers for Brendan Fraser.
I turn my head back to the screen as the announcer says, “Paul Mescal, Aftersun.” My brain screeched to a hault at the mention of his name. Then he was on the screen, wearing a white suit. He looked good, really good. “Bill Nighy…” the announcer continues. Just like that he was gone again. Florence cheered and smiled at me with an exaggerated smile, yay see you worked with him and his next role got an Oscar nomination, she’s probably saying in her head.
She doesn’t know what happened, I didn’t tell her. How could I have told her? She loved Mike, she would have been so mad at me. I’ve never seen her mad before, upset and frustrated sure, but mad? No, and I do not want to see it.
“Do you mind if I sit with ya? My trailers a Sauna.” Paul asks, sticking his head into my trailer. “Well we’re in Australia, so it’s hot in my trailer too but sure.” I retorted. “You’re probably just looking to escape your own mess.” He closes the trailer door and puts his hand over his chest, “You wound me, I thought we were friends.” He “stumbles” down onto a chair. I roll my eyes at him and throw a pretzel out of my bowl at him, “friends don’t steal from each other.” “Don’t bake delicious biscuits and expect me not to eat some” he says to you smiling, looking at you with those blue eyes. You look back into them, you could look into them forever. Your eyes meet, and the moment hangs there, magical, electric. Then breaking the spell he clears his throat and looks away from me.
The announcer finished the names and all the nominees are shown on the screen but you can’t help but look at Paul. “And the Oscar goes to,..” Jessica begins, “The Whale”. You audibly groan and Flo gives you a strange look and laughs.
“God I know you worked with him but I didn’t know you wanted him to win that much.” She chuckled as she claps. “Did you even see his movie?”
“Of course I did” I reply, “it was amazing. He was very good.” I drastically lowered my volume halfway through because Brendan began his speech. His face, you can’t get it out of your mind. It was only a slight falter when The Whale was called but it was noticeable.
~
You’re standing at the bar of the Vanity Fair Oscars Afterparty, waiting for Florence to come back. You grab your drink off the bar and turn around to look at the crowd, you scan the room hoping to find a familiar face when you see Paul. Standing halfway across the room laughing with a couple people. Then as if sensing her gaze, he looks up. Their eyes meet.
He excuses himself from the group and walks over to you. There’s a beat of silence as you take each other in. He looks a little rougher, more grown, but his eyes are just as sharp. His blue eyes that I wanted to swim in.
“You look…” he breaks the silence, “incredible”.
“Thank you” she blushes, “you don’t look too bad yourself. White looks good on you.”
He chuckles at her compliment, “thanks.”
There’s an awkward silence. He takes a sip of his drink. “Congratulations on your nomination” I say to him, holding up my drink, “I was hoping you’d win. I saw your movie it was amazing Paul.”
“Thank you. That really means a lot, coming from you.” He says, “It’s good to see you. Really good”
I take a sip of my champagne, studying him. I’m about to say something to him when Pedro Pascal walks over to us.
“Paul hey, could I talk to you for a minute?” Pedro asks, then he turns to me “I’m so sorry could I steal him for just a moment?”
I laugh, “Go right ahead.” I pause for a moment and look at Paul, “It was nice talking to you, I’ll see you later.”
Paul nods, “See you later” His gaze lingers on you until Pedro grabs his shoulder and they turn away. You sit alone at the bar, finishing your drink.
Authors note: Hey this is my first time writing in like a long time so be nice. Lmk what yall think & if you want a part 2. Also feel free to request anything! ~rose
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superior-pancake · 2 years ago
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me and @salsas-wares shit our pants when we were watching this is study hall.
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#They really did it
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anewdaywilldawn · 1 year ago
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Y’ALL THE GIVEN SEQUEL MOVIE DROPPED
And, I’ve translated it 😃 👇👇👇
Take it with a grain of salt since I don’t have that much experience translating from jap
But it should at least allow you to get the gist of what’s happening :’)
Rb if you can, I want this to reach as many Given fan as it can!
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vincentsleftear · 6 months ago
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hi just watched the Arcane season two trailer. When Ambessa says “your council is dead”…like that’s a joke right? She’s joking. Right?
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heartsofminds · 6 months ago
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rewatching the bear without an ice pack headband and loopy off vicodin after wisdom tooth removal surgery and i’m obsessed? loved it before but this rewatch just further confirmed my love for men who emulate kicked puppies that i want to cuddle like newborns! don’t be surprised if a carmy blurb makes its way onto this blog at some point.
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ssreeder · 10 months ago
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how are we feeling about the new netflix adaptation of avatar??!!!!!!!!!!!! the zuko casting eats and swolzai is so cool to see actually translated well (although we will see how they treat the characters in this)
HEYYYYYYOOOOO!
The only thing I’m really looking forward to from the live action is being able to gossip about it with my mutuals. I don’t really have any other opinion, I mean… it looks cool! (Sokkas hair & zukos scar bother me but ehhhh what can I do?) But I’m an animation junky, I love my anime and my cartoons (bobs burgers beloved) so I don't particularly care for the “real people actors” taking over my cartoons but I’m totally chill about it honestly.
I will ABSOLUTELY be watching it and probably will form a more solid opinion after I actually watch the show.
#Omg I had to message a friend and ask who sowlozai was hahaha#I was like ummmm I don’t know this person#& they had to hold my hand and walk my old ass through it#But yeah! I guess I’m just not the kind of person who jumps to criticism#I mean don’t get me wrong I love a good gossip sesh#Don’t tempt me with a good time haha#I see a lot of effort being put into it so I want to give everyone who worked really hard to bring this show to life a chance#I can’t just tear apart all their hard work from a few photos and a couple trailers#I know it won’t be close to the original but it might be good#I heard the one piece live action was good#Idk I’m watching one piece currently so I haven’t seen the live action but ahhh luffy is so awesome haha#Again this show could be a dumpster fire but can it be worse than the first live action movie….? I think not#*points at friend who actually likes the live action movie* HAHAHA I KNOW WHAT YOU ARE#poor dads still waiting for book two hahaha#Sorry sorry I love you don’t be mad <3#Ok well COME SCREAM AT ME WHEN YOU WATCH IT AND ILL YELL BACK!!!!!!!#& yeah they had no business making ozai look that offical… damn it live action CUT IT OUT#& im sorry but iroh is the most iroh looking iroh i could have imagined and i giggle every time i see him#But i will take jabs that Netflix threw all that money at the show and still always sunny did a burn scar on cricket 10000x better than zuk#Left eye paint job (i know it’s mean but i doubt anyone would have stopped watching if they would had added a little more realism to that…)#(They didn’t have to shave his brow but put some of that effect glue shit on it and plaster that sucker down#ONE EYE BROW ZUKO!!!!!!!!!!!! )#& sokkas jet black hair with his front poof is just …. Damn it I think it’s actually stupidly canon for them to fuck up sokkas character#THIS MUCH - but again… maybe he’ll pull it off idk I JUST DONT KNOW#The girls are perfect & fuck it when azula picked up a bow#The first thing I thought was that fucking Annie song#“Anything you can do I can do better I can do anything better than you”#Zuko works tirelessly to master his weapon#Azula picks up a bow and laughs ‘silly zuzu weapons as child’s play’ *proceeds to hit a bullseye with no effort*#BECAUSE WHY THE FUCK NOT
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gaylittleguys · 8 months ago
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I’m sooooo becoming a physical media guy when I move out
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sunshinechay · 1 year ago
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Me and all of the other girlies (gn) who were just getting into ya when Twilight came out are all going to lose our minds when My Golden Blood comes out huh?
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j-esbian · 7 months ago
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man i have been trying so hard not to panic but last night i was talking with my mom and she was like “yeah hopefully in a year from now, we’ll have moved back to live near family” and like. i knew that was their eventual goal but i didn’t realize it would be that soon. and i was trying to be happy for them but i hate that all i can think about now is “oh god where am i going to live” like i was Already stressing about this anyway but now it’s got a hard time limit
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munson-blurbs · 5 months ago
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Summary: A missing key and a terrible storm leaves you and Eddie stranded in the back of his van. What ever shall you do to pass the time?
WC: 1.6k
Warnings: smut (18+ only, minors DNI), unprotected p in v, friends-to-lovers, kinda sub!Eddie but he's mostly just a simp.
A/N: This will be my last 1k+ fic for a while, as I'll be focusing on writing blurbs for Corroded Coffin Fest throughout July. Why not go out with a (literal) bang?
--
“What do you mean, you forgot your key?”
Your eyes widen as Eddie flicks through the keyring. He shakes his head in frustration, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. 
“I was switching keychains…I thought I put them all back…” He huffs out an irritated laugh. “Must’ve left the house key on the table.”
A warm breeze siphons through the humidity, gray clouds rolling in. August in Hawkins is unbearable as it is, and the sticky heat before a storm is downright brutal. 
Eddie jiggles the doorknob once more, to no avail. “Jesus H. Christ.” He rakes a hand through his curls, frizzy and knotted from the hot weather. “Back to your place?”
Before you can agree, lightning flashes and is swiftly accompanied by booming thunder. Your heart leaps into your throat and you jump. 
“Scared the shit outta me, too.” Eddie laughs nervously. A fat raindrop falls from the sky and plops on his nose, rolling off of the side. Another lands on his cheek, then one lands on yours, until rain pours in a steady sheet. 
Eddie grabs your hand, tugging you off of the trailer’s front steps and pulling you back to his van. He flings open the back doors, always kept unlocked unless he’s hauling concert equipment. 
“Get in,” he orders, and you follow his instructions without a second though. Rainwater pools in the grass, dirt turning into mud beneath your sneakered feet. His hands grip your waist, steadying you as you climb up. “We’ll wait in here until the rain dies down.”
You ignore the lingering flames that his touch leaves behind and the way he’s now sitting right next to you. “It’s like a monsoon out there.”
“Yeah.”
The two of you sit in silence for a few moments, listening to the storm raging outside. Raindrops sound like drum beats against the van’s exterior, a song you’ve heard many times before. 
A chill sweeps over you, reminding you of the wet cotton of your t-shirt clinging to your torso. Your miniskirt hasn't fared much better, the light-washed denim now dark. 
“Do you have a blanket back here?”
Eddie shakes his head. “That’s, like, the one thing I don’t have.” He gestures to the cluttered space. 
You offer a half-smile. “S’okay.” Your palms glide up and down your goosebump-covered arms. 
He notices this, frowning. “Here,” he says. “My hands are bigger than yours.” He clumsily positions himself behind you, knees knocking against your sides. His grasp is strong but gentle, hands warming you up from the outside in. 
“Thanks.” He’s close—so close—yet it feels like he’s never been farther away. Without thinking, you scoot back until your ass brushes against his fly. 
“Sh-Shit.” Eddie inhales sharply. “That’s, um, dangerous territory.”
You raise your brows, though he can’t see them. “And rubbing my arms isn’t?”
Eddie peers around, chin resting on your shoulder. He looks up and says, “it doesn’t turn you on though.”
“Says who?”
He breathes out a laugh, stopping immediately when he realizes that you’re not joking. His voice is barely above a whisper when he asks, “This…this turns you on?” 
You nod, suddenly shy at the admission. 
“How about this?” Eddie’s lips press against the back of your neck. One calloused hand reaches for the collar of your shirt, tugging it down to expose your shoulder. He kisses that, too, his teeth grazing your sensitive skin. 
“Mhm.”
“Fuck.” His other hand snakes around your throat, holding it firmly but being careful not to squeeze. “We shouldn’t do this. S’gonna ruin our friendship.”
Gently, you turn to face him, legs straddling his waist. “I’m fine with ruining it if you are.” The words are murmured, muffled by the proximity of your lips and his. 
Eddie swallows, Adam's apple bobbing with trepidation. “Just want you. Fuck, I want you so bad.”
He grabs your ass and pulls you closer until you can feel his erection straining against his jeans. You roll your hips, eliciting a moan from him. 
“You—I gotta—” He unbuckles his belt, tossing it amongst the van’s clutter. “I’m so hard it hurts.”
You reach for his pants button, but he shakes his head. “I’ll bust if you touch me,” he sheepishly explains. 
He takes off his own pants, which is much more of a chore than usual because of the rain-soaked fabric. He doesn’t bother to remove his Hellfire shirt, but you hardly notice. His tented boxers hold your focus, and despite his warning, you strip them away. You need to see what’s beneath them. 
The sight before you is nothing less than glorious. 
His cock is hard, curved slightly left, the pinkish-purple tip already leaking pre-cum. Your thumb traces the vein that runs along the shaft, and he shivers at your touch. When he looks at you with wide, wet eyes, you nearly melt on the spot.
“Is…Is this what you want?” Eddie’s voice is so soft you can barely hear it above the pouring rain. “Because…I want this so bad. So fucking bad.” Pleading, desperate, bordering on pathetic. Everything he showed outwardly, you felt on the inside.
You lean in, capturing his lips and pouring all of your desire into one searing kiss. “Don’t just want it. Need it. Need you,” you reassure him, feeling his length twitch against you. Taking it in your hand, you move your panties out of the way and rub the head against your clit. Every nudge sends a wave of pleasure crashing through your body. “Mmmph, please, please.”
Eddie wraps his hand around yours, guiding his cock into you. “There you go,” he whispers, hissing as you sink down. He fills you completely, bringing a pinch of pain as you adjust to him. “You okay?”
“Mhm. M-More than okay.” You grip his shoulders, curling your fingers into the shirt’s cotton fabric.  Moving your hips, you work him deeper until he’s bottomed out, sheathed within you down to the curls at his base. 
Everything is Eddie, and it feels so good. 
“Can’t believe I’m inside you.” He tries to kiss you, the action hindered by a small laugh. “I’m actually—we’re actually doing this. Fuck, you feel so good!” The last sentence is a growl, raw and primal. 
You hold on to him, knees scraping against the van’s worn carpet as your movements find their rhythm. There’s no more time for self-control. Only Eddie, his hips bucking to meet your core. 
“Might…might not last long,” he admits, swiping at a bead of sweat dripping down his temple. “You’re even better than my fantasies. Never knew you’d feel this f-fucking warm. Tight. Like you’re m-made for me.”
“Maybe I am.” You swoop down to suck on his neck. “Maybe I am made for you, and I’ve been waiting for you to realize it.”
Eddie groans, throwing his head back and exposing more of his neck, which you dutifully continue marking. His thoughts are clouded by lust; neither of you speak for a while, the only noises are moans and the van squeaking on its axles. 
“It’s always you.”
Your eyes meet his. “What?”
“In my fantasies. It’s always you. Every time I jerk off, I imagine your hands, your mouth, your perfect pussy—”
“Eddie.” His name is barely a breath. You clench around him just as he kisses you, and his teeth sink into your lower lip. It’s not hard enough to draw blood, but it produces a twinge of pain that has you skyrocketing towards climax. “Yes, yes, yes!”
He grabs your hips harshly, keeping you flush against him. The denim waistband of your skirt digs into your skin but you don’t care. Nothing matters, only Eddie, Eddie, Eddie…
“I’m coming. Fuck, I’m coming.” He thrusts upwards in short, punctuated strokes, heaving as he spills into you. 
The two of you stay like that for a few moments, catching your breath and processing what just happened. You confessed that Eddie’s touch turned you on, you rode him in the back of his van, and then he confessed that he thinks about you when he touches himself. 
Oh, and he gave you an earth-shattering orgasm. 
As if reading your mind, Eddie says softly, “you came…right? Because if you didn’t, I can—”
“Yeah.” You can’t help but giggle, silencing him with a kiss. “I definitely came.”
His chest sags with relief. “Good. Me, too. I mean, obviously. It’s right…” He withdraws, cock softening, his cum trickling down your thigh. “Holy fucking shit.” 
There’s no masking his grin, visible through the t-shirt’s thin fabric as he pulls it over his head. With a careful touch, he wipes away his mess. 
“I think I owe you a new shirt.”
“Nah.” He shakes his head, tossing the shirt aside. “I have a million of these. Not the first time one’s been, uh, stained.”
Eddie’s cheeks turn crimson at his admission. He averts his gaze from you, bringing his attention to the foggy window. The condensation squeaks under his forefinger as he draws a smiley face through it. 
“What do you wanna do till my uncle gets home?”
You, you think, but the last thing you need is for Wayne to find the van a-rockin’. “Maybe I could hear more about those fantasies of yours? And I could tell you some of mine?”
Eddie looks back at you, his spent cock still managing a small twitch. “Mmm.” His lips find your throat, sending vibrations through you when he speaks. One hand snakes between your bodies, his middle finger landing on your clit. He makes small, deliberate circles as he murmurs.
“Ladies first.”
--
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2tarbell · 4 months ago
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COWBOY TAKE ME AWAY
you ask your boyfriend to take a look at your engine…
(drabble. © 2tarbell 2024)
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rafe was close to losing his damn mind. how was this thing even still running?
he’s not a mechanic, in fact he finds it all too fuckin’ annoying. but when you looked up at him with those sparkly eyes, asking him to fix your little car, he couldn’t bring himself to turn you down.
so there he was, backwards cap on and sweating through his shirt. he’s already smoked two cigarettes trying to even start to fix the damn thing. the mess that was awaiting him under the hood made him shoot you a look, but you simply furrowed your brows and sighed in that sugary sweet voice ‘jus’ dont know what’s wrong with it’.
he was a sucker, maybe. pussy whipped, for sure.
more than an hour had passed and hardly any progress was made on the deteriorating engine. he was starting to get pissed off, your ‘the chicks’ cd having played three times through, the screen door allowing it to be heard from the player in the living room.
rafe looks over at you again, taking in the way you sat on the steps of the trailer, pen in hand as you mumble to yourself about the crossword puzzle between humming along to the music. barefoot and sitting nice and comfy on the wooden plank. oh, the luxury.
you looked so pretty, and he almost dropped whatever tool he was using when he noticed you weren’t wearing a bra. he cleared his throat, focusing all attention on the shitty state of your motor.
“baby — what in the hell did you even do to this thing?”
your head snaps up at that, pouting and tiptoeing over to him, paper abandoned on the steps. you ignored his protests of heading inside to put on some shoes, stepping over rocks and weeds. rafe shakes his head and leans on his arms as he stares down the engine, praying to whatever will listen to magically tell him what the problem was.
he sighs when your arm snakes around his waist and turns to press a kiss to the top of your head that rests on his arm. your touch was a brief reprieve from the hot sun and difficult task.
“s’that bad?” you mumble, voice meek.
god, he would do anything to make that sad little tone vanish. but he can’t lie to you, not about this. no matter how much he knows you adore this car.
he hums, giving the engine a once over before looking over at you, “well, it— it ain’t great… gonna have to probably replace most of it if y’wanna keep it.”
the whine you let out makes an amused grin form on his lips. you both know you couldn’t afford to replace even half of it.
“well— can’t y’just— just—“
“ohhh, when did you become a mechanic, sugar?”
he whistles lowly at your glare, wrapping his arm firmly around your neck and pulling you in. the sensation of being pressed against his chest, his bicep pressing into your cheek makes a lick of heat shoot up your spine.
“don’t get an attitude w’me, a’ight?” he drawls into your hair, leaving that familiar heat to settle in your tummy. you knew better but whined incoherently, a babble of ‘but— but— daddy—‘. it might cost you some of his softness, but it was just so satisfying to hear him get just a little meaner.
“no, stop poutin’— dad’s doin’ this f’you on his off day, show some gratitude. there is nothin’ else i can do ‘bout the fuckin’ thing, ‘kay?”
he wished there was more to do for the vehicle, but it was about time. hell, you’ve had that thing longer than he could remember. you never were good at admitting he was right, though.
he sighs and shifts to wrap his arms tight around your waist, lifting you slightly on your toes. your hands immediately find his chest and you lean your forward against him, pouting still as his lips meet your temple. you stare at the car, feeling betrayed by something you considered your baby.
all things must come to end, or whatever the hell the saying is. you honestly found that to be complete bullshit as rafe runs a hand over your hip, fingers lightly caressing the skin between the fabric and your jean shorts. his touch was almost soothing.
“poor sweet girl…” his lips press against your ear, a teasing whisper, “what’m i gonna do with you, hmm?”
you huff, maybe a bit dramatically, and turn your head to gaze up at him. rafe chuckles softly at your expression, if anyone else did such a thing, it might’ve felt patronizing. but not him, not your rafe.
you can’t resist a little grin, hiding your face in his chest. he always made you fold too quickly. he coos and it makes you feel fuzzy all over. with a finger under your chin, he lifts your head up to press a sweet kiss to your lips. his are a little chapped and his scruff is starting to tickle your face but you don’t care, needing the comfort of your big, strong man desperately in this moment. his large palms trail down your body to settle and squeeze at your ass.
rafe smiles against your mouth, that tilt of his lips making your own rise. soon enough, you’re giggling and unable to kiss him back. he doesn’t care and presses closer, swallowing those precious little sounds.
he lifts you, hands throwing you up and over his shoulder. he smirks at your squeal and closes the hood with one arm, the other holding you snuggly on his shoulder.
“rafe cameron, you put me down!”
“nuh — uh. think it’s time you thank me, yeah?”
with a smack to the swell of your ass, he walks up the three steps to your shared trailer, already planning on taking you to shower with him. the screen door shuts with a slam and your laughter echoes into the dusty streets of your little neighborhood.
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cjlouwho · 4 months ago
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So unrelated but I will be forever indebted to amanda tapping for crying in her trailer after a day of filming stargate sg-1 and telling the producers/showrunner etc. that she was gonna have to quit because the male writers were writing her character so terribly. my queen had to tell them that strong women don’t say things like “just because my reproductive organs are on the inside instead of the outside doesn’t mean I can’t handle whatever you can handle” and they actually listened to her and changed the scripts and then years later made fun of their own bad writing by putting that line into an au episode meant only to show how stupid it sounded. she truly changed the world and we are blessed for it.
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gutsby · 28 days ago
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Easy to Please
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Pairing: Sleazy Landlord!Joel x Reader
Summary: Months pass, and you can’t make rent—again. You find another way to pay your sleazy landlord. Again.
Warnings: 18+. Unprotected p-in-v. Oral (m!receiving). Dubcon à la power imbalance / sex for money. Infidelity. Pervy!Joel. Talks of abuse. Omitting one tag to avoid spoiling the ending—please read at your own risk.
Note: This fic was loosely inspired by my three favorite songs about female adultery—‘Thinkin’ Bout Cheatin’ by Mae Estes, ‘Lyin’ Eyes’ by The Eagles, and ‘Cheatin’ Songs’ by Midland. No, I don’t support infidelity. Yes, it makes for fun fiction.
Word count: 3.1k
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You hate the face he makes when he cums.
You hate the way he tastes when he’s done.
You hate the grit and the heft of the man, every lone hair that sprouts silver from his chest, and the way he pats the open space beside him in bed after you roll away.
‘Never seen a girl so goddamn allergic to cuddling!’
What makes his observation worse is that you know you’re hating it more and more with every passing day.
Today you have seven Benjamins, two Grants, and a Jackson tucked into your purse. You walk with a sluggish gait, knowing you’re $310 short of making this month’s rent and last. But you go on anyway. It’s not like Joel can’t see you from where he’s seated on the porch.
The pleasantries you exchange are short. By now, you have only to breeze past him in his lawn chair and say, ‘I can’t stay long,’ and he knows the rest. He grabs his six-pack, then his Pall Malls, and asks after you all the same.
“How’s the wrist?” he says.
You sprained it over the weekend. You aren’t sure how he heard. At any rate, you ignore the question and set your bag down on the counter before going to the fridge. You deflect with a question of your own—what the hell happened to the lemonade? He had a full jug last week.
“Got thirsty,” Joel answers, shrugging.
You’re always thirsty, you tell him, and you eye the case of Heineken that he’s placed by your purse. You don’t need to see his face to feel the smile starting to form.
“Don’t I know it,” he says. Insinuating.
You’d hit him over the head if you’d been able to reach. He’s still smiling when your shoulder checks his—closer to his elbow, from the feel of it—and when you leave the kitchen, he leaves too. He trails behind you with an ease that says this is the sixth time this has happened since August, and you’re hardly a week out from Halloween.
It’s not just rent you need to pay; it’s other things. Transmission in your truck’s gone to shit. Phone’s been on the fritz since you dropped it in the tub. Talking heads on TV say the country’s on track to get hit with another recession, and from the way your boss has been slashing your hours in half, you think they may be right. The crack in your bathroom window was tiny last week. Today it’s gone, because your husband put his fist through the thing on Sunday. You patched the hole with duct tape.
Joel’s covering the cost for the pane to be replaced, but that’s because he has to. He’s your landlord—proud owner of the Delta Commons trailer park since ‘97—and that’s what landlords do. Everything else is yours to pay.
You’re a part-time student, part-time waitress, and a full-time caretaker for your ailing spouse, or so you call him. Joel knows Stetson’s not sick, just perennially unemployed and drunk. You pay for most things, and it’s rarely enough to cover your rent. Stetson doesn’t care.
And that’s where Joel comes in.
No pun intended, but in his mind, there’s really no nicer way to say it: you fuck his brains out to make up for the shortfall in rent. You blow him before work to make sure your husband and you will have enough to eat that week. You bite the warm, freckled skin between his shoulder and his neck while you ride him, because you know that gesture will get you a little extra cash when you leave. You smile after swallowing him, and Joel knows that it tastes like shit. You’ve gotten good at faking it lately.
What he hopes isn’t totally fabricated is the way you call him big. Strong. Handsome. So stupidly well-endowed that you have to wince for the first few seconds when you sit on it, and go slow when he takes you from behind
“O-ow!” you whine presently.
His dick isn’t even in you yet. You just stubbed your toe on the edge of his dresser on your way to the bathroom.
“You alright?”
“Fuck me!”
I will, he thinks.
“Want me to get an ice—”
“Let go-OW! FUCK!”
Joel barely even touched your wrist and you were flinching away with a brand new pain. You rub it, almost defensively, then pin him with an icy glare. Nice going.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbles.
Now he’ll be lucky if he can swing a half-hearted handy from the one that isn’t hurt. That’s how mad you look.
You turn your body away, and for a second, Joel assumes that his fate has been sealed: you’ll bumble over to the rug by his bed, toss a pillow on the floor, and assume what he already knows to be your least favorite position. You’ll kneel, and talk of migraines and your long, grueling day and in the end find an excuse not to use your mouth. That’ll be okay. But with the debts you owe him now, it also won’t be enough, and Joel will have to ask you back again. He hates sounding needy, but baby, deal’s a deal.
Luckily you don’t give him the chance to use that line. Much to his surprise, you get on the bed. You lie down. You seem to take a little more care settling in this time, but you take off your clothes. It’s a lime green tank top and some ratty jean skirt, but it’s enough to tempt him.
And not just tempt, but oblige him to accept, unblinking. He crawls over the bed to get to you, and he finds that his spit’s filling his mouth a little quicker. His hands are starting to shake as they slide over the duvet, and the tree trunks he once called his legs are runny, like eggs.
He has to remind himself, bluntly, of your last name, the shiny ring on your hand, your husband’s name, your—
“Age—what’d you say your age was again?” Joel asks.
You look confused for a second, but you tell him.
“Twenty-one.”
Way too fucking young to have gotten hitched three years ago. But then he remembers this is Leakey, Texas, and your family hasn’t strayed more than ten miles from the center of town in four generations. You told him that.
“I thought you said twenty,” Joel says, a little uneasy.
“I did. Up until this past Sunday I was.”
“Oh.”
A beat.
“Happy birthday.”
You blink.
“You gonna take your pants off or what?”
And he does. Maybe embarrassed at first, but then the jeans come off, and his boxers go next, and without so much as a word or a breath, his worries are sliding away like water off his back. Like his clothes now peeling off.
Like your smile growing thin at the sight of him half-stripped on the bed in front of you. Joel doesn’t flatter himself to think he’s even half as handsome as he was in his youth, but he knows he has his draws. What endears him to you today is, unfortunately, his wallet. But that doesn’t mean you can’t be convinced to like him more.
More than Stetson, he thinks without humor.
Dumb son of a bitch can’t tell his ass from his elbow and yet he’s won himself you, living it up these last three y—
“Oh.”
He sounds like an owl now. His clothes are off, and you’re rubbing him, pumping him gently in your hand, which you were so kind to make wet with your saliva. It even sounds better than his, the way it squelches with every flick. Joel can only say so much in strangled breaths.
He tries anyway:
“Feel like a dream, sweet pea.”
Sweet pea.
Your pace quickens. Joel swears he can see the corners of your lips twitch, but then he thinks you’re just wincing. You move down to the floor beside the bed. Kneel almost politely while you nestle yourself between his parted legs
Your mouth is warm. It’s always warm. Joel wouldn’t expect a girl’s tongue to greet his dick like ice, but yours is always heated to a thousand degrees, it feels like. He enjoys the sting. Your lips envelop his big, leaking tip, and he swears he can stay like this forever—in you.
On you, too. He’s got his palm resting flat on your head, and he doesn’t mean to, but he pushes. He bunches your hair in a fist and drags your face to make you swallow.
Mean old man, you must be saying in your head when he stuffs your mouth full. Makes your eyes prick with tears.
Sweet girl. My sweet pea, he thinks, affectionately, and continues to rub your scalp. He holds your teary gaze.
And then you’re moving up. Down. Coating his length with shiny spit and tiny whimpers as your lips move gently back and forth, again and again. Joel’s grip tightens in your hair, and he begs for more. More.
“More,” he orders, jaw clenched, “Fit a little more’a me.”
From where you’re kneeling below, you look put off.
Then you pull off, and you wipe your wet chin.
“Chokin’ me,” you grumble, “‘S’too big.”
Normally, Joel loves to hear that.
Now, however, he’s sliding his touch to your chin and tilting your head up to him. Thumbing at the spit dribbling out on either side of your mouth and subsequently coaxing your lips further apart.
He slides back in, and you don’t fight it. You like it. Holding his gaze in a soft, docile look while your lips stretch deliciously around his shaft, you must love it. Every inch and every twinge of pleasure from the brush of his cock going in and out must be your favorite thing.
Joel hopes it is, anyway. He holds your face now, and your throat convulses involuntarily. You’re so pretty.
“Such a good, sweet girl, ain’t ya?” he presses, watching the coarse grey hairs at the base of him tickle your face.
You respond well to praise. You preen under those words, and try to nod. But his cock is so deep down your throat you end up choking again. Joel watches all of it smiling.
Petting your head and not pushing again. Grinning.
“Love my cock nice and stuffed in that pretty throat?”
You blink instead of nodding, but it’s more than enough.
“Love me deep?”
And the head of him sinks somewhere he’s never been. Your eyes are like two wide pools, and your lips leak everywhere—your chin, your cheeks, your neck.
Joel’s smearing it all with his palm and smiling so wide that he thinks he might pull a muscle. He pants heavily.
“Just what you’re made for. Just what you need.”
You look like you might agree. He keeps going.
“My fuckin’ mouth. My pretty, pretty mouth.”
He holds your face. He thinks he might cum.
“Ain’t a damn thing Stetson can do for this mouth, huh?”
And then he doesn’t. Joel barely blinks, and you’re already bucking your head out of his hold, mouth skittering away while the spit spills out. You’re practically drenched down to the chest when your face rears back. Your eyes are alight and no longer smiling when you grit:
“Don’t.”
Joel should’ve known better.
He’s hit a raw nerve, and now he really wishes he hadn’t.
It doesn’t stop there—but it doesn’t get better, either. Things progress in much the same way as they always have but with none of the need, or the warmth, of before. You climb back up and straddle him quick. Not meeting his eye, you just sit down, and slide down, and don’t wince at all. You don’t tell him that he’s big, and he doesn’t get the chance to even groan at the first influx of pleasure before you’re riding him. Bouncing and grinding your hips against his with all the passion of someone perusing the newspaper. You don’t whimper or moan.
Of course, Joel enjoys the feeling. He also wants someone to punch him in the throat for what he’s done.
“Hey, hon—” he starts, voice strained, “Hon, I’m sorr—”
“Shut up,” you snap.
Your movements hardly falter, and now your hand is seizing the headboard. You’re clenching him tight inside your wet, drooling cunt, and it’s obvious you’re trying to make him cum as quickly as possible. You swallow hard.
Joel isn’t sure what to do. On the one hand, his body is being flooded with pleasure, and on the other, he fears you may never do this with him again. Quickly fixing on the latter, he cups your face in one hand. It’s still wet.
His fingers smear the spit, and somehow you look even prettier. You keep grinding your body in desperate little fits above him, and really, you feel fucking amazing, but Joel is too focused on other thoughts. He squeezes you.
“Baby—” he tries again, but you shush him just as fast.
Your hips are moving viciously now. No matter how sore your legs might have been from a long day toiling away—just a couple hours before your shift at your next job, if Joel’s remembering correctly—you’re working him well. Doing him in. Fucking his brains out, but you aren’t his.
His fingers smear the spit even more. Never will be his.
“Sweet pea—”
“Don’t fucking call me that!”
Now he can’t deny that his climax is close. But this isn’t how he wanted it to end—with you so incensed you can hardly look him in the eye. His hand rubs more, helpless.
And just when he’s seconds away from painting your insides white, losing it all to the pleasure, he sees it.
His wet, sticky touch has uncovered a residue.
Joel pulls his fingers away in a blink, and simultaneously, your eyes are fluttering closed. You’re focused now on climax; because of that, you don’t see what he sees.
What he’s stunned to find on his fingers: makeup.
Lots and lots of thick, heavy makeup on your cheeks. Concealer, he thinks he’s heard it called once or twice.
No matter the name, he quickly comes to see what it’s for. Just as you’re hitting your peak, squeezing the headboard behind him, and coming undone with a shockwave trembling all through your body, Joel pales.
The makeup that you applied so heavy tonight hides bruises. Black and blue and awful hues of greenish-purple too, your whole face, he sees, is engulfed.
He doesn’t speak. He won’t ask.
He won’t cum tonight, either.
He’ll finish something else.
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You leave Joel’s trailer angry. You don’t say goodbye. The screen door screams shut behind you when you leave, and silently, you wonder why he didn’t cum. For once, you wish he had—and hadn’t said half of what he did.
Six hours pass like molasses, and by the end of it all—the close of your second shift—Stetson’s name still echoes in your head. The way Joel said it. It hums along the walls of your skull while you walk, and as you draw closer to home, you remember that strange and infuriating tone.
Then you remember your own less than two months ago:
Don’t talk to my husband. Don’t talk about my husband.
They were two simple rules, and Joel broke them both.
He must’ve defied the first when paying a visit to make repairs that week, and that’s when Stetson mentioned your hand: how you ‘slipped’ in the bath. Tripped and conveniently sprained your wrist the same night he almost tore your arm out of the socket for looking at a waiter a tad too long at dinner. You’d bet any sum of money Joel didn’t get to hear that part from Stetson when he came over to see about the window, though.
No, your twenty-first came and went without so much as a word about your wrist. Your arm. Your face—used to getting caked with concealer every third week or so.
You wince as you open the door. You walk slowly.
At first, you’re met with silence, and you sigh with relief. Then you hear it, and shortly drop your purse to the floor.
You all but fall down yourself at the sight: your husband doubled over across from you, in the kitchen. His head in his hands. You don’t need to see the face to know that it’s bleeding. Profusely. You tread ever slower into the room, thinking somehow, some way he’s going to blame this on you. And when he straightens a little and shows off the full, gruesome extent of his injuries, you blanch to think that it might be. His body’s been beaten to a pulp.
Your pulse hammers in your head so loud you can’t hear him groan. You see him, but you don’t really believe it.
And when Stetson reaches for you, you stagger back.
Your hands skim the counter, but your brain barely registers it. Your husband’s calling to you now, ‘Quit standin’ there lookin’ stupid, do somethin’, huh?!’ He’s screaming, and you’re not hearing it. Barely feeling like a sentient person at all but just a doll stumbling backward on two wooden legs. As you walk, your palm stays stuck to the laminate underneath it, and suddenly, you feel it.
An envelope.
In this state, you aren’t sure why you grab it, but you do.
You take the lone white paper, and you turn to leave. Your hands shake as you hold the thing, and your legs are hardly any better, but they carry you, miraculously, from the kitchen to the threshold of the back door. Then out. Stetson’s not just yelling but bellowing, loud, every last obscenity known to man as he holds his bloodied side and limps in his perilous, pathetic way. Fortunately, you’re gone just in time to miss the bottle he hurls.
Outside, you walk. And walk. And in the still of the night you’re obliged to find your way through a miscellany of trailers and trucks and old, creaking vans by moonlight, and the throbbing in your head begins to slow. You don’t rush to get far, and you don’t have your keys even if you wanted to drive off. You keep walking. Watching nothing.
When your eyes drift to the envelope in your hand, you barely see that either. You’re just blinking as you look, and breathing as you wait for the sight to make sense.
Inside, you find seven Benjamins, two Grants, and a Jackson staring back. Next to them are a few dozen others—enough to cover August, September, October, and several months before that, if you had to guess.
You hope you’ll get the opportunity to thank Joel, and maybe tell him that you don’t really hate him, someday.
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aphelionwrotes11 · 5 months ago
Text
MDNI 18+ (light dubcon) unedited
Part 3 : Trucker!simon
CW: smut, cunnilingus/fingering, fluff, a little bit of hurt/comfort
1.6k words
Trucker!simon finally takes his bird home
It takes only a month before you’re quitting your job at the shitty truck stop and talking your landlord out of your lease. Simon does all of the heavy lifting when it comes to the moving. Attaches a trailer to the back of his semi cab and uses that to haul your belongings to his private home in the outskirts of the city.
He tells you this is his actual house, the one he’s taken you to before was just the rental he kept to stay in when he was in the city. Just more convenient, closer to the loading dock for the company he works for. It shocks you that he can afford to rent and own a property at the same time, and he does it just because it’s convenient.
It’s a real nice property, large and lush. The long gravel driveway is lined with pines and brush, at the end is a two story home with a large unfenced yard full of green grass and clover. You can’t help the way you gape at the house, So beautiful, and obviously paid for by the money he made in the military and his fat check from long rides in his truck.
He walks you around the entire property as soon as you get there, showing you around inside and out. The house is even more beautiful inside than out, with gorgeous stained glass windows, wooden beams, spiraling stairs, and a kitchen lined with green tile with flower accents. The decor itself is all rather plain, practically a blank canvas, but it just gives you more to work with. There’s a couch where there’s supposed to be one, a coffee table, plates and silverware for two, but not much else.
When you question him on why there’s practically no furniture at all, he just says he’s never needed much. You imagine so, just one man living in a big house. He doesn’t mention that he bought this property not too long after he saw you for the first time, known since the beginning he would have you one way or another.
“Ther’s space in th’back for a garden. Can put whatever ya want in it.” He tells you, and smiles as you grin excitedly, saying that’s great because you’ve always wanted to start up a garden. (He knows, came home and built up some plant beds and bought gardening supplies after you told him that on the first date.)
He spends the next few hours helping you unpack all of your things, which isn’t much. Didn’t exactly have a lot of space for anything other than necessities in your dingy apartment. He takes extra care placing your folded clothes into your shared dresser. Lining your panties beside his boxers. Chuckles as you wave him off, telling him you can do it yourself with a blush on your cheeks. Walks away with a pair of black lace panties tucked in his back pocket, he’s gonna put those in his truck for the next ride out.
The first few weeks are like a dream, the two of you spending nearly every moment together. You weren’t expecting it to feel this easy. You weren’t expecting yourself to wanna be around him so much. You used to call yourself an introvert, preferred your personal time and space over all else. But now you find yourself crawling across the couch to nestle yourself into his arms late at night, or opting to read your books on the bench in the garage as he works on his truck.
The first time he leaves for work isn’t as bad as you thought it would be, he was gone for only 14 hours. Left in the early morning when it was still dark and came home just in time for dinner.
The second time wasn’t so easy, his ride was a full 25 hours away, and you found yourself nervous the entire time he was gone. He told you before hand that he would occasionally have to go on overnight rides, sometimes he’d have to go on rides that would take a week. But he assured you that those were few and far between. Unfortunately he had told you that before holiday season.
And now, as the next week goes by and you find yourself only seeing your boyfriend a few hours a day, your irritation only grows with each passing 24 hours. When he comes back to his lovely bird being sharp and cold, he knows that something has gotta change.
“Whots th’matter, bird? Talk to me.” He says, a tinge of desperation in his voice, only to be met with your frown as you turned back to your book.
When he first picked up this job after retiring from the military, he didn’t mind the ever changing schedule or long rides. Figured it was for the best, something to keep him busy until he’s too old to work anymore. That was until he met you. Suddenly the long rides felt like eternity until he could return to that greasy truck stop to see you again.
And now that he has you all for himself, the long rides and changing hours make him dread waking up in the morning just to leave your beautiful sleeping form all alone. On the third day of your cold shoulder, the next time he goes into work he has a talk with his boss. He’s promised a strict schedule and reduced hours as soon as the holiday season is finished, with all of the other truckers already knee deep in work, it just wasn’t an option to implement his new schedule so soon.
He makes plans to use a couple weeks of his unused PTO by the next month so that he can make up for the lost time.
When he comes home after a particularly rough shift, his skin feels tight and muscles tense, all he can hope for is to pull you into his arms and nestle his face into your neck. But as it’s been for the past few days, you’re cold once he comes home. He can’t help the irritation that builds in his gut as you ignore him when he asks how your day was.
“Alright bird, that’s it.” He says, rising from his seat that the table and getting to you in record time.
You gasp as he lifts you up and lays you on the kitchen island. Ignores your protests as he lifts up your nightgown and pulls down your panties to reveal an already glistening pussy.
“Been so good for you bird, workin’ so hard, gettin’ that shit done just to come home to you all pissy..” he growls, letting out a low groan as he presses a thumb to your swollen clit.
“Whot you so mad at me for? Think you can’t talk to me?” He asks, pressing his index finger into your pussy as you squirm.
“Would rather you yell at me than this shit- fuck-“ he says lowly, bringing his nose down to your lips and sniffing..like a dog. Chuckles as you whine at him.
“Don’t worry birdie, I’ll make you feel better.”
With that, he starts thrusting his fingers into your throbbing cunt as he licks your clit with his thick tongue.
It’s not long before he’s thrusting into you at a godforsaken pace, the only sounds being your moans and mewls, his low groans, and the lewd sound of your wet pussy being finger fucked and sucked on by his drooling mouth.
“Love you bird, y’know I do-“ he mumbles into your pussy, pressing a kiss to your clit.
You feel that familiar coil of pleasure tighten in your core, your toes are curling, your nerves are hot. You choke out a warning, telling him you are so, so close. He doesn’t relent, just carries on.
The orgasm is blinding, your eyes rolling back into your head as you clamp your thighs around his head. He moans into your pussy as you cum, slurping up your juices and rubbing his nose against your clit.
Pushes you to the point of near overstimulation, stops once you start crying that it’s too much. When he pulls away, a string of his spit and your juices is connected to his mouth. His pupils are blown wide and he looks out of it. He’s panting, fingers digging into the fat of your thighs as he presses kisses into the tender skin.
He presses his cheek into your tummy and glances up at you, “feeling better?” He asks with a smirk.
After he’s finished with you (which is when the sun has long since set) and you are snuggled in his warm arms on your shared bed is when he tells you about his conversation with his boss.
“M’sorry. Been neglecting ya, haven’t I birdie? Won’t do it again.” He tells you. But you shush him with your own apologies, telling him you should’ve just talked to him, shouldn’t have ignored him and so on.
“Don’t ever feel ‘fraid of talkin’ to me, bird. I’ll always listen.” He says into your hair.
That night, after a long week of coldness and anger, the two of you lay sound asleep in each others warm embrace, totally peaceful.
Note: hey guys!!! Hope you enjoyed this one!! Had to add in a little bit of sweetness for you all 🩷🩷 as usual this one is unedited so please forgive any mistakes or lack of cohesiveness, I’m planning on coming back and editing a bunch of stuff eventually. But for now I’m just kinda throwing random things out for fun 😆 anyways, next thing I’ll be bringing out will most probably be stalker!simon, that or trucker!john price. Love you all, xoxo 😘
Simon Riley master list
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