#Filthy

[uhuhmaries]

PART 2 (A.A.) — Control Freaks

Summary: Diving into the filthy mess. Literally just pure FILTH.

Warnings: explicit sexual content, oral (f & m receiving), 69 position, dom!Harry with light sub undertones, praise & teasing, public-ish sex (curtains open), unprotected sex (don’t do this irl pls), age gap (reader is mid-20s, Harry is early 30s), power play, mutual obsession, emotional tension, one-night stand vibes that evolve, slight possessiveness & rough edges, minor alcohol references

Series: Almost Acquaintances

⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹

You…. Gave in.

The door to the black SUV slams shut behind you before you can say a word. Harry’s hand is still loosely wrapped around your wrist, but now it’s just the two of you in the quiet hum of leather seats, the party music muffled into the distance.

You shoot him a faux-scandalized glare. “So this is what getting kidnapped by a pop-star feels like?”

He leans back in the driver’s seat, one hand on the wheel, the other rubbing his jaw with the slowest, smug grin. “You seemed like you wanted rescuing,” he murmurs. “Thought I’d offer a ride. Somewhere quieter.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Quieter, or dirtier?”

His laugh is low, scratchy. “Depends on you, bunny.”

The ride to his house is slow—he makes sure of it. Every red light feels intentional. You sit with your legs crossed, acting like a good girl, but he can feel your gaze tracing the tattoo peeking from under his sleeve, the way you slightly shift every time he rests his hand near the gearshift.

“I can feel you staring,” he says, eyes still on the road.

You blink innocently. “Just wondering how many girls you’ve kidnapped this week.”

He chuckles, glancing at you sideways. “None with that fake innocence as badly as you.”

You smile sweetly, “Good. I like to stand out.”

When you arrive, his hand grazes your lower back as he leads you inside… a mansion, of course, dimly lit, clean, and way too quiet. He offers you water. You decline.

“You can stay, y’know,” he says, voice suddenly softer. “You don’t have to go.”

You hum, letting your back turn to him. “Oh? Generous of you offering me just to stay the night after kidnapping me from a party.”

And then, as if it’s the most casual thing in the world, you hook your fingers under the zipper of your bodysuit and slowly, deliberately drag it down. The soft sound of the zipper feels loud in the silence. His breath catches before you even make it halfway.

You pause, glancing over your shoulder.

“Are you staring, Styles?”

There’s a beat of silence. Then the sound of his footsteps—fast, firm. His hands grip your hips and spin you around before your bodysuit’s fully undone, but he doesn’t push it back up.

Instead, he leans in, eyes blazing. “You think you’re clever?”

You smirk. “I know I am.”

⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹

His mouth crashes into yours before you can say another word. Hot, desperate, bruising. He walks you backward, tongue claiming yours with no hesitation, until your back hits the edge of the kitchen island. He pulls away just enough to speak, voice low and wrecked.

“Keep teasing me like that, and I’ll ruin you right here.”

Your hands tug at his costume, hinting him to take it off. “Isn’t that the point?”

He growls under his breath, easily stripping himself from his costume. Leaving him only in his shorts, then he lifts you easily–setting you on the cold countertop. His hands roam fast, possessive, and greedy–but he slows down when he gets between your thighs. His fingers drag up your lace-covered core like he has all the time in the world, even though his eyes look ready to snap.

“You play innocent, but your body’s screaming for it.”

You tilt your head. “Then give it to me.”

And he does.

He pulls your panties aside and sinks two fingers inside you—slow, deep, just to hear how you gasp. His thumb circles your clit in rhythm, while his other hand wraps gently around your throat, his grip firm but never cruel. You feel him twitching hard against your thigh, straining in his pants, but he doesn’t rush.

“You like letting me take control,” he says in a growl. “But you want to see how far you can push me first, don’t you?”

You meet his eyes and catch it—a flicker of something softer. Controlled, yes, but waiting. Waiting for you to take just a little more.

“You like when I take the lead,” you whisper, wrapping your legs around his waist, “but I bet if I told you to get on your knees right now, you’d do it and beg me to pull your hair.”

His eyes darken.

For a moment, he doesn’t speak. But his jaw tightens. His fingers curl deeper inside you. And his voice drops to a whisper.

“…You’d be surprised.”

His stare lingers on you for a moment too long—like he’s trying to decide whether to throw you over his shoulder or drop to his knees and worship. But instead, he grabs your chin gently between his fingers, tilting your face to his.

“You don’t want to start a game you can’t finish,” he murmurs, lips brushing yours but never fully giving in.

You smile, breathless but composed. “Who said I ever quit?”

And that’s it. That’s the moment he breaks.

He hauls you off the countertop and drags you into the living room like he’s on a mission—his grip tight around your wrist, guiding you to the plush velvet couch with his steps controlled. The curtains are open. The city lights pour in through the giant windows, neon streaks dancing across the walls. You know damn well anyone in the buildings across could see you both. That’s what makes your pulse race harder.

The bodysuit hangs halfway off you, undone and inviting, and Harry doesn’t give you a moment to adjust. His lips trail down your jaw, then your neck, then lower.

You glance over his shoulder at the view and smirk. “You’re not even going to close the blinds?”

He doesn’t even look up. “Why would I?” he murmurs against your chest, voice thick with desire. “Let them watch.”

His mouth wraps around your nipple, tongue swirling before he sucks, slow and deliberate. His fingers slip between your thighs again, making you arch into him with a gasp you barely manage to muffle. Your hips roll against his palm like they’re aching for more, and they are.

“Still acting like you didn’t come here just for this,” he whispers.

“And you’re still pretending you don’t want to be told what to do,” you murmur back, threading your fingers through his hair and giving it a little pull.

He stills for a second (barely) then growls low in his throat and hooks your thighs over his shoulders.

“Careful, Y/N,” he says, the nickname now soaked in lust. “Say one more thing like that and I’ll have you screaming with the windows wide open.”

You giggle, breathless, but it cuts off when his tongue drags up your center—slow, teasing, thorough. He eats you like he has something to prove: that he’s still in control, even if your moans are the ones echoing off the windows. His tongue flicks and circles, then flattens, then plunges until your back arches and your hands claw at the couch cushions.

You look down, and for a split second… there it is.

The way his eyes flutter closed when your hand grips his curls tighter. The way he groans into you when you press your heel into his shoulder.

He’s still in charge. But part of him likes being taken there: led, dragged, used.

You file that away for later.

“Harry,” you pant, your voice cracking, your legs trembling, “You’re gonna make me—”

He doesn’t stop. In fact, he speeds up. And when you finally fall apart on his tongue, he groans like he’s the one unraveling.

He stands, mouth glistening, eyes dark and blown wide. You barely get a chance to recover before he pulls you up and spins you around, pressing your chest to the back of the couch. The city lights blaze in front of you, a full view of the world while your knees dig into velvet and your hands brace the edge.

You feel him behind you, thick and ready, rubbing against your folds. He pauses, breath hot against your ear.

“You gonna fake innocence now, sweetheart?” he murmurs.

You throw a look over your shoulder. “What do you think?”

With a low, strained curse, Harry guides the tip in slow, deliberate. It pulls a soft whimper from your throat, your body betraying you as your hips roll back, eager and greedy, swallowing him whole in one obscene, perfect motion.

He stills, breath catching as he watches. “Fuck,” he mutters, voice wrecked. “That was the filthiest thing I’ve ever seen.”

The stretch steals the breath from your lungs, your eyes fluttering shut, jaw slack as your body struggles to adjust around him but he doesn’t give you time.

He pulls back just enough to slam forward again, setting a brutal pace from the start—each thrust sharp, punishing, deliberate. The couch creaks under the force of it, a helpless witness to the way he’s completely unraveling you.

Your palms slap the cushion.

Your body jolts with every thrust.

And the windows stay wide open.

He wraps your hair around his fist and pulls just enough to arch your back. “You feel so fuckin’ good. You gonna take it all for me?”

“Y-Yes,” you manage, barely. “Harder.”

He groans, deeper this time. “Fuck—gonna give you everything, baby. But you’ve gotta beg nicely.”

You turn your head, voice raw, flushed, grinning through it:

“Please, Harry. I need you to break me. Use me. However you want.”

That does it.

He fucks you like punishment, yet he’s the one panting your name like a prayer.

Your body’s trembling against the back of the couch, every breath coming out in shaky gasps as he slams into you over and over again. The slap of skin, the sharp whine of the velvet cushions underneath you, the obscene sound of your arousal filling the room—it’s all too much and still somehow not enough.

Harry’s grip on your hips definitely will be leaving marks now. His breath is ragged, jaw clenched as he fucks you harder, deeper, chasing the edge with everything he’s got.

“Fuck, bunny…” he growls through gritted teeth. “You’re taking me so well—so fuckin’ tight—so filthy, letting me do this where anyone could see.”

You whimper his name, collapsing forward as his hand finds your clit again—rough, fast, relentless. Your second orgasm crashes into you like a wave breaking through glass. Your whole body clenches around him, and you hear him snarl behind you.

“Jesus—fucking—Christ—”

His thrusts stutter. You feel him pulse deep inside you, spilling himself with a strangled groan that sounds like he’s unraveling right at the seams. His body folds over yours for a moment, forehead pressed to the back of your shoulder, his breath hot and uneven.

Neither of you move for a second. Then he pulls out slowly, with a soft hiss between his teeth. You feel the warmth of him dripping down your inner thigh.

And then he drops to his knees.

You blink, turning slightly to look back– but he’s already spreading your legs, gentle now, parting you like something sacred.

“Let me clean you up,” he mutters, voice low and hoarse, eyes not even meeting yours at first. He’s focused like he’s desperate to make it right.

You watch, breath still caught in your throat, as his tongue slides up your thigh, slow and purposeful. Then higher—tasting himself and you, licking up every trace he left inside you like he’s starving for it. His hands hold your hips steady while he works, making soft, filthy sounds against your overstimulated skin.

You should feel powerful. And you do.

But the way he moans into it—the way his tongue lingers, reverent and possessive—makes you realize something else:

He likes being on his knees for you. Or honestly, most likely just for anyone.

Not just because he has to.

Because he wants to.

His tongue is still working between your thighs, savoring the mess he made—lapping it up like it’s the only thing he’s ever wanted to taste.

You stare down at him, chest heaving, flushed and unsteady, and something about the sight of him—on his knees, hands gripping your thighs like he’s anchoring himself, pupils wide and wild, sparks a heat low in your belly that doesn’t go away with release.

It grows.

“You look pretty good down there,” you murmur, voice rough and sticky with desire. You run a hand through his curls, gently, like a reward. He lets out a soft, breathless laugh against you, but he doesn’t stop. His tongue stays locked on your soaked center, devoted and unrelenting, like your approval only fuels him.

You tug lightly. “But I’m not done with you.”

Harry leans back on his heels, blinking up at you, dazed. “Oh?”

You nod once toward the wide couch, and your voice drops to a tone you didn’t know you were capable of:

“Lie down, Styles.”

He obeys immediately. Eager, curious, and cocky but there’s a flicker of something else in his expression now. Something pliant.

He stretches out along the velvet, chest rising and falling fast, lips wet, eyes never leaving yours. He even props one arm behind his head like he’s trying to act casual, but the way he shifts beneath you betrays him—already hard again, already needy.

You straddle him slowly, your thighs on either side of his waist at first. He thinks you’re going to ride him. You lean in like you are. His mouth parts.

But then…. You lift up, scoot forward, and settle yourself directly over his face.

Harry’s breath catches, sharp and surprised but then he groans, deep and low, hands flying to your hips. You feel the grip, tight, almost possessive, but he doesn’t guide— he waits.

And you smile. “You gonna let me use your face, sweetheart?”

The whimper that leaves his throat could be classified as dangerous. His eyes flutter shut as his tongue flicks out, barely grazing your folds. You grind down in response—slow and slick and deliberate.

And he fucking moans.

You take your time. Ride his face like you’re savoring every second, every stutter of his breath, every twist of his tongue. His nose nudges your clit, and you rock forward with a gasp. His hands tighten, but he’s still letting you lead.

“Mmm—look at you,” you pant, glancing down. “Getting off on this already?”

He nods—fucking nods—his mouth still working, relentless.

His tongue moves like he’s mapping every inch of you—messy, greedy, obsessed. You ride it with your head thrown back, hands in your hair, moaning shamelessly into the open room. You don’t care about the view anymore.

“Fuck—Harry!” You gasp, grinding harder now, the pressure just right, the rhythm frantic. “I’m—gonna—oh—”

He sucks your clit at just the right second and that’s it. Your vision whites out. Your thighs tremble around his face, and you lose yourself—loud, raw, aching.

You twitch and roll your hips through the aftershocks, still straddling his mouth, his tongue giving soft, slow licks like he’s milking every last wave out of you. Like he’s addicted.

When you finally lift off him, your legs nearly give out.

Harry’s wrecked beneath you—lips swollen, chin wet, eyes heavy and so fucking gone.

“Jesus Christ,” he whispers hoarsely, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand but not breaking eye contact. “You’re gonna be the end of me.”

You crawl down his body, press a soft kiss to his jaw, then his lips. He kisses your mouth slowly, messy, claiming—and you kiss him back like you want to ruin him. His hands roam your body with a mix of reverence and urgency, cupping your ass, pulling you flush against his already-hard-again length. He’s insatiable. And so are you.

You slide down his body with intention, every movement deliberate. Settling on your side, this time your face– especially your lips hover near the thick, pulsing length aching for attention just as he shifts beneath you, hooking your thigh and guiding you back toward his mouth, tongue finding your heat like he’s starved for it.

You both exhale– shaky, desperate.

Your head rests just beneath his hips. His tongue parts your folds with a slow, deliberate stroke, and your breath catches as heat floods through you. Your hand wraps around his shaft, teasing the head with the flat of your tongue, savoring the twitch he gives in response.

He groans into you, the sound muffled but dark, and the vibration sends a jolt through your spine.

This isn’t gentle—it’s ravenous. You both take and give in tandem, your bodies locked in a rhythm of gasps, moans, and messy devotion. His grip tightens on your thigh, trying to keep control. But from the way he’s trembling under your mouth, he’s already losing it.

Your cheek rests just below his waist. His cock grazes your lips, heavy and warm, while his mouth finds your heat again—tongue sliding between your folds with practiced ease.

Your thighs already tremble, anticipation tightening every nerve as he moans softly against you, lost in the taste of you. The heat is immediate. All consuming.

He licks you right at the core—flat, slow drags of his tongue that make your toes curl. You moan against the head of his cock, and he shudders, hips twitching forward involuntarily.

“You’re unreal,” he mutters into your cunt. “Taste like heaven. Sound like sin.”

You take him into your mouth—slowly at first, savoring the weight and heat of him on your tongue—and he groans, bucking forward slightly before catching himself.

It’s a game of control now.

He sucks your clit and you moan around his cock. You swirl your tongue around the tip, and he practically whimpers against you. He’s relentless. You’re merciless. It’s mutual destruction.

His fingers dig into your thigh as his tongue works deeper, wetter, more desperate, and your hips buck uncontrollably.

You pull him deeper into your throat in retaliation—and that’s what finally does it. You feel him twitch in your mouth. He pulls off your cunt with a sharp gasp, panting into your skin.

“Fuck—don’t stop—fuck, bunny—”

You hum around him, moaning just to make it worse, and he loses it—spilling into your throat with a strangled cry, one hand gripping your hip while the other fists the couch cushion.

You swallow all of it.

Moments later, he comes down from it still panting, but his tongue never leaves you.

You arch back into him, crying out when his fingers replace his mouth just long enough to draw out your final orgasm of the night. You shake through it, legs kicking, breath broken and high.

He kisses your thigh softly, one last time. You both collapse—sweaty, panting, wrecked.

There’s a long silence between you. You feel his arms wrap around you from behind, pulling you into his chest.

Stillness.

“I wasn’t supposed to like that that much,” he finally whispers, voice raspy against your neck.

You turn your head to look at him.

“Did you?”

He nods once, serious. “I did.”

You could laugh, but you don’t. You just let the silence fall again, warm and strange. You don’t know what this is yet. Or what it’ll mean when morning comes.

But tonight, it means everything.

⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹

📝 Author’s Note:

I’m dyinggggggggggg. Feeling feral at 10am. I kinda didn’t read it after revising each paragraph so IM SORRY IF ITS KINDA SHIT. Next chapters will be a little more angsty I feel like to calm us all down 😭🙂‍↕️👁️

@thenovarose

[3bibing]

Nicely formed cunt.

[handsfullqueen]

I would let you sit on my face as long as you need before i throw you on bed and pound you hard just how you deserve.

Unreal beauty.

Sure I love to sit on faces lol specially if you have a big nose that would be a plus

[itsprincessprettytoes]

it's so cute having a pretty boy who loves to be both praised and degraded. if i say he's such a good boy his eyes light up saying "really?!" and when i call him a dirty little slut they roll back into his head while he moans. adorable.

[potchi-fics]

note; let me fucking cook, dont like dont read

tw; amab vi, blowjob

      vi loves head. she loves getting head. she loves giving head more. but when you’re giving her a sloppy, messy, and absolutely filthy head? sign her up.

your gurgles would be resounding in your room, you would be all up on her fucking dick—knees bruising, spit dripping down your mouth, eyes tearing up. oh, you love it.

“baby, you need to brea–oh, fuck,” breathing ain’t shit when you’ve got her cock deep in your throat. “fuck, fuck, fuckk.”

      vi’s all putty on your couch, her very own eyes rolling to the back of her head every time you take her to the base, then you do this trick where you swallow and moan and massage her sensitive dick with your throat. 

may janna give her strength because you are one filthy woman. 

seeing you on your knees between her manspreading legs, mouth sucking her in like a black hole? woof. vi’s hips would thrust upwards to chase your warm mouth when you tease her by slowly pulling back, leaving the reddened tip in.

“c’mon, baby, ‘m so close, so so close,” she whines out, looking like a puppy with the way her eyebrows furrow in need. she tries to gently push your head down, “please, please, please.”

you completely pull away, nuzzling your cheek to her twitching dick, “aren’t you a desperate baby?”

      due to your edging, and her sensitivity, vi slumps back on the couch, staring at the ceiling. that changes because her dick is engulfed in heat again.

her hand snapping down to your head, you accept her roughness; letting her push your head down, your hands find themselves on top of her thighs.

“gonna cum, gonna–you’re gonna take it, yeah?” her breathing labors as hot white blinding heat envelops her figure, “mouth so good.”

      not long after, you feel her warm cum inside your mouth, forcing itself down your throat. you’re gurgling again because vi’s dick is reading the back of your throat.

you swallow with each spurt of her gushing dick.

she’s in heaven.

[simplyholl]

Filthy

Summary: After a long mission, Bucky needs you.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Avenger F. Reader

Warnings: Smut. Minors DNI. 18+ ONLY.

See my Masterlist Here

"Would it be too crazy if we slept together?" Your sweet voice replayed over and over in his mind. He hadn't flat out refused your offer, but he hadn't said yes either. Now as he laid under the rubble of the bomb Hydra had detonated, it was all he could think of.

You were friends, one of the only people besides Steve to make him feel welcome on the Avengers. The others were wary of him, and he didn’t blame them. He had done unforgivable things as The Winter Soldier. Now he was fighting for the right cause. He couldn't help the reoccurring nightmares of the horrors he encountered in his past. He didn't want to get too comfortable in his new life, the one Steve helped him obtain because he was scared The Winter Soldier was still lurking around in his brain somewhere.

That's why he never dated. Sam would tease him, telling him he could have anybody he wanted, but he settled for his hand every night. Bucky couldn't afford to get too close to anyone. Especially someone who was weaker than him like the opposite sex. He was scared he would lose control while being intimate and hurt or even kill his partners. So he never let anyone get too close, until you.

You came bouncing into his life unexpectedly. You were brought on the team shortly after him. He would never forget your first day. Steve introduced you to everyone at the morning meeting. You were all smiles, your bubbly personality instantly drawing him in. The others were making comparisons between the two of you immediately. You were so happy, so upbeat all the time and Steve was the only one who could get Bucky to crack his cold exterior and actually smile.

Despite your differences, you got along great. Which was a bonus since Tony liked to pair you together for missions. You worked well together, complimenting each other in ways you had never thought of. Who knew almost dying together every week can cause you to form close bonds? You were spending all your free time together. You introduced him to your favorite films, some of them were awful, but he would never tell you that. You would stay up late together watching old reruns of 90's sitcoms for comfort after long missions. Bucky would go shopping with you, holding every bag you had and never complaining.

The team thought something was going on between you. Why else would the cold super soldier follow you around like a lost puppy? They put Steve up to asking about it, but Bucky denied anything but friendship. There had never been anything happen in the whole year you knew each other. You never sat too close or crossed any boundaries, never thought about it until a month ago.

One of the longest, most dangerous missions you had ever been on finally came to a close. There had been too many casualties and you were upset. Even the comfort of your warm pajamas and favorite movie didn't ease your mind. Bucky thought you needed to be alone, so he told you goodnight and headed for his room. You called after him pleading him to stay with you. You couldn't be alone, not after that.

He hesitated, he never stayed the night with anyone because of his nightmares. Tony even gave him a pass when a mission required room sharing. He was the only one who didn't have to pair up. He was afraid he might hurt you or scare you during his sleep. He tried to tell you, but you couldn't be swayed. He found himself under your fluffy pink comforter on heart shaped pillows, surrounded by a mountain of stuffed animals but he felt oddly at home.

You tried to cuddle up to him, but he scooted away. He didn't want you too close to him while he was asleep just in case he had a nightmare. But you didn't care. You told him if he attacked you in his sleep, you would blast his dick off. That made him a little less worried. "How do Tony and Clint do it?" You asked as you wrapped your arms around him, trying to snuggle the grumpy super soldier. "Do what?" He relaxed a little under your touch. "The whole normal family thing. They have a wife, kids, the works, and they are the only ones. The rest of us can't keep a relationship for more than a month, and some only do one night stands. It's hard being a hero when you have to give up stuff like that."

Bucky considers your words carefully. "Is that something you want?" You throw your leg over him, trying to get comfortable. "Eventually, I want to settle down. I'm thinking at least ten years from now, not any time soon. It's just hard to tell who is asking you out for the right reasons or because you're famous. I can't tell you how many phones I've destroyed after dates because they were trying to live stream the whole thing. Is that why you don't date?"

Bucky tenses, explaining how his past as The Winter Soldier scared him away from anything like that. "So you haven't been having sex because you're scared you will hurt someone?" He nods and you giggle. Bucky looks at you like you've grown a second head. "I'm sorry Bucky, that's ridiculous. Your arm must be so tired! Oh my God! Do you use the metal one?" His silence makes you laugh harder. "Bucky there are super powered women you could have been sleeping with this whole time. People who could at least put up a fair fight if something like that happened, but you're okay now right? I thought the code words didn't work anymore." You rub his back soothingly.

You gasp as an idea hits you. "Would it be too crazy if we slept together?" It was like word vomit. You didn't mean to say it out loud, but you couldn't take it back now. Bucky is so still that you think he's fallen asleep. Thankful he didn't hear your unhinged suggestion, you lay your head down to go to sleep.

"You mean that?" Bucky asks after a few minutes of silence pass. "If it wouldn't hurt our friendship then, why not? I trust you. And I could hold my own if things went sideways. Plus, I'm a lot hotter than your hand, you have to admit that." The quip earned a chuckle from him. "Can I think about it?" He asks, his seriousness taking over. "Of course." You snuggle back into him, sleep finding you more quickly than you would've liked. That was a little over a month ago, neither of you brought it up afterward. You figured he didn't want to hurt your feelings, so you let it go.

Steve grabbed Bucky’s hand helping him to his feet. "I thought we lost you back there." He says leading him to the quinjet. On the ride home, Bucky thought about his life, how unhappy he had been lately. He thought of you and how he kept you at arm's length to protect you from himself. You were always so open to him, always letting him know what was on your mind. When you suggested the two of you sleep together, he was shocked. Of course, he wanted to but he couldn't. You were too sweet, he was jaded. He would end up hurting you somehow, he was sure of it. But you weren't scared of him, you trusted him.

Bucky thought of all the times he laid alone at night, masterbating when he could have went home with someone instead. He always turned them down, he couldn't risk it. He lived too dangerously. He could lose his life any moment saving the planet from the next alien attack. Wasn't it time he started living for himself? He had his mind made up when the quinjet landed. Steve told him to go get the cuts on his face and arm examined but he ignored him.

He almost ran to the elevator, not bothering to wait for Steve to get on before pressing the button to shut the doors. When it finally stopped on his floor, he walked by his room, stopping three doors down right outside of yours. He should have cared that it was three in the morning, that he would be waking you up, but he didn't. He tapped on the door loud enough to wake you.

He regretted coming straight here as he waited for you, he should have went to his room to shower first. His leather jacket was dirty and torn. There was a small gash on his arm that had finally stopped bleeding. His face was filthy and according to Steve, he had a cut there too. He probably looked terrifying. He thought about leaving to clean up, but then he heard the pitter patter of your feet as you approached the door.

You pull it open slightly at first, to see who is outside, opening it wider when you see him. He steps inside as you shut it back, locking it behind him. Bucky looks around the dark room noticing the glow from your tv. Your hair is messy, you must have been sleeping fitfully. His gaze drops to your body, you're wearing a black t-shirt that stops at your hips and black lace panties.

"Are you okay?" You ask taking in his disheveled appearance. You turn to get something to clean his wounds, his vibranium hand catches your wrist. "Bucky? What hap-" He picks you up with one arm, holding you close to his body as his lips crash into yours. He walks you to the edge of your bed, tumbling on top of you as your back hits your fluffy pink comforter.

"Do you still want this?" He asks, his voice rougher than he intended. You can't think clearly, not with him on top of you, caging you in like this. His blue eyes search your face as he waits for an answer. Your panties grow wetter with each second that passes. Your nipples are peaked under your shirt, desperate to be touched as you press your chest to his dirty leather jacket. "Yes" You somehow manage to whisper your confirmation.

His mouth is on yours again, rough and demanding, almost desperate. You cup his face with your hands, "Slow down, I'm not going anywhere." You assure him, breaking the kiss. He groans, hating the loss of contact. "Can't" He rasps, his face nuzzling against your neck. He nips and kisses the sensitive skin there, his tongue licking from your shoulder to your jaw.

His flesh hand travels to your chest, rubbing his thumb over your clothed nipple. He keeps kissing his way back down your throat until he reaches the collar of your shirt. His metal arm grabs the top, slipping underneath to get a good grip on it. He rips it down the center with little effort.

You gasp as the cold air hits your now exposed chest. But you're not cold for long, Bucky's lips capture a nipple between his lips tugging and sucking like his life depends on it while his flesh hand toys with the other one. You're not sure what has gotten into him, you never expected it to be like this, like he needs you.

He kisses a trail down your stomach to your panties. They aren't exactly see through, but they don't hide anything either. His vibranium fingers dig into your hip as he lowers his face, his pink tongue licking up the center of your soaked panties. You whimper underneath him, your fingers sliding in his hair, pulling at the short strands.

He grunts as he licks you through the lacy material. You try to close your legs around his head, hoping to bring yourself more relief. Bucky's steel grip on your hip tightens as he brings his flesh hand to your thigh, pulling it off him. He opens you wide, continuing his desperate assault on you. "I need more, please." You whine, needing to actually feel him against you.

He thankfully takes mercy on you, removing his hands to grab both sides of your panties. "Lift your hips for me." You do as your told, and he slides the unwanted garment off of you. He drags you to the edge of the bed, lowering himself on his knees in front of you. He parts your thighs, metal hand returning to its rightful place on your hip. You place your leg over his shoulder, taking a deep breath as the anticipation makes your skin prickle.

His hot breath on your soaked core makes you tremble. You feel him smirk against you. "I havent even touched you yet and you're shakin' like a leaf." A dark chuckle escapes him and he dives in. His tongue flat against you as he gathers your slick, bringing it to your clit and swirling it around. He moans, loving the way you taste. He wraps his lips around your most sensitve part, drawing you in, causing your hips to buck upward.

His grip on your hip tightens, a bruise beginning to form under his thumb. "Be a good girl for me. Stay still." His voice is soft, gentle, a complete contrast to his actions. He alternates between sucking you roughly and licking you slowly. You squirm underneath him, you're so close. He suddenly stops, removing his face from you.

His flesh hand rubbing your stomach, before laying his arm on you forcefully to keep you from moving. "I said stay still." He growls, his tongue swiping your clit before he sucks it between his lips once more. It takes every ounce of concentration you have to not writhe against him. You've never seen him like this so needy, almost feral. He's like a wild animal slurping you down like you're the first thing he's eaten in weeks. You don't dare to disturb him. So you lie as still as you can, letting him have you.

He needs this. He needs you. He flicks his tongue expertly over your clit, sendng you spiralling. He holds you down as he takes all he wants from you. He's not satisfied until you come three times. Your legs are wobbly, you couldn't get up if you had to. Tears stream down your face from how intense it was. He finally stands, unbuttoning his pants, sliding them down just enough to free himself.

He adjusts himself between your legs, filling you up. You gasp, grabbing onto his grimy leather jacket for support. You wonder why he didn't bother with getting undressed, but you don't mind. You love how dirty he is. How the filth on his jacket rubbing against your bare chest is the sexiest thing in the world right now. How you can see the cut on his arm, dried blood on his sleeve. You don't know if it's his or some Hydra asshole's, and you don't know which is hotter.

His hair is disheveled. His face is scraped, dirt from the mission caked on him, remnants of your arousal still on his mouth. He fills you completely over and over, holding you as close as he can. His pants rub the back of your thighs as he pounds into you. You caress his face, "Can I be on top?" You ask quietly, afraid you'll offend him some way in his feral state. He flips you so his back is on your mattress. Normally you would be upset that your sheets were getting dirty, but you didn't mind at all. You place your legs on either side of him, sliding down his length. Your ass hits the fabric of his jeans as you take all of him.

You look behind you noticing how big he looks on your bed. His leather boots covered in mud, hanging off the edge. A gush of arousal floods his lap, his hands hold your thighs, pulling you closer. You begin to lift yourself up and down on him, your legs still shaky from your earlier orgasms. Bucky notices you won't be able to keep it up for long, so he clutches your hips, taking over. He thrusts underneath you, your hands land on his shoulders needing to steady yourself. You love that it's giving the illusion that you're in control, your body on top of his, but he's calling all the shots, moving your body like he owns it.

You've never felt so full. It's as if Bucky can read your mind, his flesh hand pressing on the bulge he's making in your stomach. He works you harder now, his vibranium thumb coming between you to swirl your clit. Your vision goes blurry, stars bursting behind your eyelids. You come with a loud cry of his name. He follows shortly after, spilling inside you. He holds you close, as you listen to his breathing slow down as he drifts off to sleep while still inside you.

Tags in the comments! ❤️

[autism-princess]

Secrets In The Night

College!AU (Abby Anderson x Camgirl/Roommate Fem!Reader) 18+

SYNOPSIS: Abby has an unhealthy obsession with watching your videos without your knowledge. She might be slightly in love with you too... but it all comes to a climax (pun intended) when she sees your most recent upload...

WARNINGS: Masturbation, strap-on use (ellie!giving), perversion, onlyfans referenced, exhibitionism, camera fetish, overstimulation, this one is just filthy...

A/N: Once upon a time, I posted this on my old account... We will see if you guys remember who I am.

Hands scrambled for something to hold onto. An iron grip was against the bed sheet underneath the glistening body that rippled with muscle and was shuddering in pleasure. Soft, desperate moans fell from her lips and she chased after that high she’s felt so, so many times before from this sinful little act of hers. Icy blue eyes brimmed with tears, and blonde wavy hair was a mess on the pillow laying next to her lit laptop screen. 

She wanted to scream; she wanted to cry out and beg for something, anything, other than these feelings that just wouldn’t go away. She felt like some pervert, staring down at that LED screen and biting her lip raw as her fingers worked inside of her, stretching her out and making her give a shuddery little moan of excitement. 

“So fucking pretty…” Her voice was choked and rough, an indicator she had been doing this for almost 2 hours now. She had already cum multiple times but she just couldn’t stop! It felt too good, and you looked too fucking gorgeous in this. 

She’s never been a person to subscribe to these things… Not one for OnlyFans, or Patreon, or anything of the sort before. She watched porn for free like the totally normal human being she was. So why the fuck did she pay for this; pay for you? 

The answer was simple… you slept twenty feet away from her in your own twin-sized bed. In the photos on your account, she could see her posters on the walls, and in those videos you made, she heard the sound of the TV playing from the other room where she was residing on a sofa and completely oblivious to what you were doing inside of your shared bedroom. 

You had told her that the camera equipment was for a project… It was for some extra credit assignment from your photography professor and your parents lent you the money for the high quality camera. Was that even true? Did they lend you the money at all or did you pay in full? You must have; your parents never approved of your photography class and would certainly never entertain the idea of getting you the 4K camcorder. 

That was the first red flag. If it was photography class, why did you need a video camera? On many occasions, She would come home to the bedroom door, or the bathroom door locked tight and she was so frustrated that she ended up using the toilet down the hall, or simply leaving again to go somewhere and kill time. She didn't know what you did behind those doors… but she did now. 

So many pictures, so many videos, so many things that she didn't know happened only a few feet away from her! One video was even titled "Watch me cum in my roommate's car!" And she could hear her own fucking voice in the recording! You had snuck a remote control vibrator inside of yourself and she was simply holding a conversation with you while you squirmed and wiggled in your seat. 

It was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen… your eyes rolling back in your head while you tugged on the fabric of your skirt and gave a few series of whimpers that Abby simply ignored. How did she not notice it happening when it did? 

It was never intentional for her to find out about it. She saw your 1099 Form on the countertop with your name on it and her curiosity was so overwhelming. Why did you have a 1099 form? As far as she knew, you worked your job at the college café, and she's been helping you with your taxes. Why didn't you tell her about it? 

And then she saw the amount. $528,100.98?!?

What in the fuck did you do to make over five hundred thousand dollars last year alone?! Something wasn't adding up for her, and she was beyond concerned. What did you do to get this money? 

She looked up the address of the location and found that it was tied to the headquarters for the OnlyFans website. And everything just spiraled out of control. 

It was purely research at first. Hell, she didn't even expect to actually find your account. It wasn't exactly difficult, though. It was almost the same name as your Instagram, which did not mention the OnlyFans account. Makes sense, your family follows that account and the last thing you would want is for them to find your online video porn. 

It was $10 to subscribe to your account. She paid for it, not really considering the consequences of her actions… she had thought you were attractive before. Every once in a while she would catch herself staring at your ass, or when you'd wear those short pleated skirts. You wore thigh-high socks once and she was convinced that you were trying to get a rise out of her… 

And then she saw this side of you. The wild, aggressive side that no one knew about. You were so nice, sweet, and gentle. You wore soft colors and always cleaned your shoes when it rained. You baked muffins, and you would giggle whenever she told a horrendous dad joke that was too precious to not adore. You were her innocent little roommate… 

In the days after, she had watched you do the most sinful things. Your toy collection was intense. One of your dildos was shaped like a horse dick, and you could take it all the way down to the hilt. All 13 inches fit inside of your cunt, and she had to cover her mouth after she heard your wetness slick across the surface and how you shamelessly cried out when she wasn't home. 

All of your videos and pictures were solo. You did it all by yourself and made it well known that you were single by choice to her and to all of your friends. 

Things had spiraled out of control, alright? Every night, the blonde would sneak off to the bathroom or hide in the laundry room as you slept peacefully and finger fuck the everloving shit out of herself while watching you either ride something, or simply touching yourself. In public, in her car, on the couch you two shared together, in the shower, anywhere you could imagine… It's where she found herself now. 

You were staying with a friend tonight, and that meant she got to cum until she couldn't breathe. Those pretty noises that you made, how your thighs trembled as you held that vibrator against your clit, your eyed rolling back in your head as you grabbed at something on your mattress… oh fuck, you were holding onto her hoodie. You were burying your face into the fabric of her hoodie as you came on your bedsheets. 

"Fuck… fuck! Nnnnnnn…" She saw stars go off behind her eyes as she ground down against her fingers, fucking down onto her hand and riding out that blissfully intense orgasm that almost made her heart stop. Her eyes filled with tears with how hard her orgasm rocked her, and she forced herself to remove her fingers from her cunt, angrily wiping them on her thigh and stuffing her face into the pillow. The sounds from your video continued to play and she angrily closed the window and then slammed the laptop shut.

She hated herself for this. It had gone from a simple look, to a complete and utter obsession. Her pillow was covered in a t-shirt… your t-shirt. She inhaled your scent, reveling in the sweetness of your body mist and remembering how it hugged you like a second skin… Sweet fuck, she loved looking at your body.

She had seen you looking in the mirror and hating what you see so many times before. She watched you drive yourself crazy, fussing over potential dates and whoever was lucky enough to take you out that night. You wanted to look perfect, and you had stated so many times how you were “too big” to look perfect in anything you wore. 

How could she be supportive without giving away how fucking hot you really were? You were so beautifully soft and squishy, and she wanted nothing more than to hold you all night long and feel your softness against her muscular body. She wanted it so bad. You always complained about how cold you were… she gave you the hoodie to keep you warm in this shitty shared apartment. 

And you hid your face in it as you climaxed all over your bed sheets. No wonder you washed them so often… 

So lost in her train of agonizing thought, she almost jumped off the bed when she heard her phone buzzing on the table, charger attached at the port. With a shaky hand, she reached out and grabbed the phone, almost choking on her breath. 

It was you.

Don’t miss me too much tonight Abby! I’ll see you in class tomorrow, okay? Don’t forget my Peace Tea!

Abby groaned, hiding in her sheets for a second and rubbing away her tears with the fabric on her pillowcase. She heard it in your voice and her cheeks turned pink with embarrassment. It was always so hard to talk to you right after she fucked herself stupid to your porn videos.

Don’t YOU forget to actually bring back my charger. Not a fan of charging my phone with the same cord I use to charge my controllers.

She slowly shut off her screen and crawled off the bed, her limbs still slightly shaking as she waddled into the bathroom to sort herself out. It took all of four minutes before she was flopping back down onto the bed, the blonde hair around her face slightly damp and her three fingers on her left hand were wrinkled and pruny… She had them inside of her cunt for at least an hour and a half. 

Very easily, Abby drifted off to sleep with her nose pushed into the t-shirt wrapped around her pillow. So sweet and so cute… Abby remembered seeing the fabric of the shirt pushing into the pudge on your belly and it had her body tingle again. 

“Want you,” Abby huffed at nothing. “Want you so bad…”

Absently scrolling through her phone on Instagram, Abby didn’t notice you running up behind her, almost pushing her out of the seat she was in by the courtyard fountain. Your hands grabbed at her shoulders and she jerked forward before turning her head up and looking to see your face. For a brief moment, Abby remembered how you looked when you went full ahegao for a photo and her cheeks warmed up. It was easy to blame the cold weather though.

“Yay, It’s my favorite person ever!” You cooed sweetly, sitting on the seat next to her and removing something from your bag. Before she could ask what it was, you placed her cord on the table and grinned. “I didn’t forgeeeet…”

“I didn’t either,” Abby placed a large orange can on the surface, seeing the label that read PEACE TEA, MANGO GREEN. You immediately cracked it open and took a very big drink from the can, moaning obscenely loud at the taste on your tongue. The blonde was immediately reminded of the many videos she saw last night. And once again, what were you wearing? That fucking hoodie… 

Abby bit her lip and looked away for a second, but immediately tore her eyes back to you and stared at what she could see of your neck… the collar pulled down and Abby inhaled, hard. A large purple welt was inside of your skin, blistering that complexion and making her see red. Was that a fucking HICKEY?

“W-What is–” Abby reached out, grabbing the collar of the hoodie and tugging it down in order to see the bruise that was dark, angry, and had obvious teeth marks. You reacted like she just tried to stab you, grabbing at her strong wrist and jerking back enough that your ass slipped on the table. “The fuck is that?” 

“Nothing!” You said, way too fast. “N-Nothing, I just uh… I burnt myself with my curling iron, that’s all.” 

Abby scoffed. “Yeah, I said that too in tenth grade.”

“Dude, I’m serious!” You said, gently shoving her at the arm. Abby rolled her eyes and took a long drink from the hot coffee cup sitting on the table in front of her. When she didn’t respond, you pushed her again, and she simply shrugged her shoulders, trying not to look bothered. “Abby–”

“S’not my business,” She said flippantly, putting on a stern face. Of course, her cup crumpling under her grasp told a different story. “Can fuck whoever you wanna, I don’t care.” 

When you got quiet, Abby realized her mistake but all too late. When she looked back up at you, she could see how your eyes glossed over and your bottom lip quivered. Why did she have to say it like that? God, she may as well have called you a slut! Her heartbeat raced all the way down to her toes as she went to apologize. “I didn’t mean–”

“I-I’ll uhm…” You stood from the seat, brushing your hands down over your thick thighs and readjusting the waist of your jeans. Abby gulped, trying not to stare at your soft figure. “I’ll s-see you in 3rd period, Abby.” 

And as fast as you were here, you were gone. Her palms felt sweaty, and not from the drink she was holding… All it took was one wrong flex of her muscles and her triple-shot irish-creme latte was splashing all over her hoodie and down onto her legs. Abby jumped from the table, nearly falling in the process as the liquid burned through her sleeve and she immediately yanked off the hoodie. 

“Goddammit,” Her words were harsh and angry as she slammed the hoodie onto the table, shaking out her forearm that was already turning red. That’s the last time she asks for them to make it extra hot. 

“Drink much, dipshit?” Abby tensed at that voice. Her muscles bristled with hostility and she looked down to see someone skidding to a halt in front of her, kicking up a skateboard on the concrete and into her knuckle taped hands. 

“Oh, fuck off, Williams,” Abby sneered at the auburn-haired girl. Ellie snorted, taking a step to her left and purposely standing as close to Abby’s backpack as she could. The one now covered in soy milk. 

“Little bunny sure scattered fast,” Ellie tucked a hand into her baggy jeans pocket, her oversized t-shirt wrinkling on the side as she pulled down the sleeve of her black undershirt. How in the fuck did she ever stay warm? Abby had only ever seen her scrawny ass wear a jean jacket or the shittiest hoodie ever. 

“What did you just call her?” Abby declared, her hostile side taking hold at defending you. Ellie smirked, stepping a little closer and showing off a very toothy grin. 

“She’s like a bunny,” Ellie said. “Skittish and wide-eyed. And the cutest damn thing anybody gets to see. Especially when she wears those thigh-high socks? My god, just want to suffocate in her legs–”

“Don’t objectify her,” Abby snapped, coming to your moral rescue. It felt so fucking hypocritical now. She spent 2 hours fucking herself to your videos and now she was telling Ellie fucking Williams to not talk about you like that. Her rage was very misplaced. She wasn’t mad at you, or even Ellie, but at herself. She really fucked up now. 

“Down, dog,” Ellie sat down on the table’s surface and laid her skateboard across her thighs, tapping her fingers against the checkered pattern deck covered in stickers. It was such a play at Abby’s ego to call her a dog. A rumor in freshman year spread like wildfire after an ex of Abby’s said she would growl when she fucked someone. Ellie never let her live it down. “Just saying your roommate’s hot.” 

“Don’t you have someone else’s day to piss on?” Abby yanked her hoodie off the table next to where Ellie was sitting, resisting the urge to smack her with the wet fabric. Ellie simply leaned back on the table, her hands touching the surface of the wood and grinning. 

“Aw, what’s wrong Abigail? Don’t miss me at all?”

“You were the worst random roommate I ever had,” Abby snapped, tying the jacket around her waist and cracking her knuckles. “I do not miss your midnight Dungeons and Dragons sessions with your fucking friends, nor do I miss the apartment reeking of marijuana.”

“Yeesh, don’t act your age now,” Ellie said. “Just call it weed.” 

Abby ran a hand down her face, realizing quickly that this conversation was not worth the headache she was earning. She lifted up her backpack, shook off as much of the liquid as she could and carried it around by the strap. Before she could walk away though, Abby glanced at the table and then back up at Ellie’s green eyes with a grin on her face.

“Might wanna cover your ass, Williams. Now you smell like the shit you hate so much.” 

The last thing Abby saw was Ellie jumping off the table and looking at her ass to see coffee stains smearing on her jeans and her thighs. “Fuuuuck!”

When 3rd period rolled around, Abby didn’t see you. Her nerves felt like they were on fire whenever someone would open the classroom door. She looked up, hoping she would see you, and then her expression would drop with defeat. 

She had to apologize… Abby had to say she was sorry for what she said to you. But how could she if you had skipped the class? 

Abby ended up texting you, fearing the worst. 

Hey, you ok? Not like you to be late to class.

It took so much self control not to watch the screen and wait for your response. Her fingers twitched, tapping on the surface of her desk as she tried to focus on the lecture but just couldn’t bring herself to focus. Her phone buzzed and she opened the message, lightning fast.

Didn’t feel too hot. Went home early. Sorry.

It was short and concise… you were still very much upset. Abby turned off her screen and put her chin on her folded up hands, absently listening to what the professor was saying but not retaining any information given. And then her phone buzzed again. 

Very slowly, she looked down and saw it wasn’t a text, but an alert from… OnlyFans?

Abby was scared to open it. She knew it was you, but it still made her nervous. Cautiously, she turned the brightness all the way down even though she sat in the back row and made sure her volume was all the way down before opening up the app to see the alert. What did you post this time? 

Her stomach dropped and she felt like she could throw up. The title alone was enough to make her feel sick. 

Fucked by hot skater girl!! 

The thumbnail was enough for her to start screaming… It was you, and who was that on top of you? Ellie fucking Williams. 

Abby doesn't have a clue as to why she watched this video. It was making her blood simmer with rage, unyielding jealousy burning a hole in her chest that just couldn’t be extinguished. You lied to her; you fucking lied to her and you had fucked Ellie Williams! AND RECORDED IT!!

It felt like watching a car accident. Knowing that the outcome was pure carnage, but too enthralled to look away from her phone screen as she hid in her car at the back of the parking lot. She felt like some horny teenage boy, sleuthing away from everyone and everything just to watch porn when she should be in class. Fuck fourth period! Abby had to see this!

The video started out tame enough. Abby recognized those stupid LED lights that lined Ellie’s bedroom walls, the brightness up and the hue set to a deep pink, your favorite color. Her fingers curled into the fabric of her shirt as she panted inside her freezing pickup truck. She could see her breath as it fogged up her windows from the inside, watching the video with painful intent. 

Ellie was kissing you, and you were reaching up to remove the glasses from her face in order to stop the frames from digging into your faces. For a brief moment, Ellie chuckled and then she shoved you down into the mattress of her twin-bed. Ellie was slipping her hands under your hoodie– fuck, it was Abby’s hoodie too. It probably still smelled like her. Every once in a while, you would ask her to spray that pine scented cologne onto the hoodie so it would smell like her… you told Abby that her scent was calming. It made you feel safe. 

Ellie’s long, dextrous fingers slipped under your shirt, her black-painted short nails raking over your soft tummy and squeezing at your thighs. The noise you made was making Abby blush from her ears down to her cheeks. 

The process of the video was borderline hypnotic. It was a mess of wet lips, Ellie’s rough calloused hands on your soft skin, your back arching and your hips rising off the bed as Ellie pulled down your panties with her fucking teeth. Abby tugged at the front of her shirt, right over her viciously beating heart. 

It should have been her. Abby should have been the one doing these things to you. Abby wanted to be the one that took those clothes off you and made you whimper for her, and for her alone. She was so fucking covetous of you. She wanted you to scream her name and to squirm on top of her as she forced you to sit on her face and ride her tongue to beautiful completion. 

Ellie knew exactly what she was doing. She moved with fluidity and skill as her head dipped down between your legs and she immediately dived head first into your cunt, drooling all over you and making you grab at the fabric behind your head– that fucking hoodie again! 

You sounded so breathy and beautiful. Ellie growled against you, drooling and slurping as she paused in her movements and zoned in on your clit, making you whine and whimper with pleasure that Abby was dying to see for herself in person. 

Abby slammed her fist into the steering wheel, grabbing at the leather with her iron-like grip. The dampness was growing in her boxers and Abby carefully pressed into the seam of her jeans, grinding down against herself. Ellie slipped her fingers inside of you, and the noise you made was beyond perfect. 

“God,” Abby gasped as she pushed herself into the seat. “Wanna fuck you…”

Ellie sped up, her hands moving at high speed inside of you and the sound of her fingers working inside of your cunt was enough for Abby to unzip her jeans and slowly push her hands inside of her boxers. She couldn’t stop herself, even if she wanted to. 

The second her fingers touched at her clit, Abby was throwing her head back against the car seat, gasping and grinding up against her calloused fingertips. The video kept playing, and the sound of Ellie fucking you without so much as a restraint behind her motions. Abby knew the sounds you were making. Ellie was mere seconds from making you cum.

“Come on, bunny… that’s it, you gonna cum? Gonna cum for me?” 

You cried out, pushing both hands into her hair and giving a soft tug to those auburn locks as she dived back down and gave a soft kiss to your clit. Abby wanted to feel your hands in her hair. Abby wanted to feel you grabbing her blonde hair and yanking on it as she ate you out. 

“Fuck… Fuck, please daddy! Pleaaaase, l-let me cum– I-- ohmygooood..!”

It was so fucking fast. Ellie wrapped an arm around your hips and shoved you down into the bed. Abby could see the way her fingers indented into your soft flesh and she was practically drooling. She wanted to mark your hips with bruises from holding you down and fucking you senseless. 

Her jealousy rose to a new level as she saw Ellie bring you to climax. You sounded so fucking gorgeous when you came, and Abby was so fucking pissed that her old roommate got a front-row seat to seeing her new roommate cumming. Her right hand fisted in her hair as she worked at her pussy with her left one, lifting her knees up onto the dashboard and swiftly shoving two fingers inside of herself. The video was almost an hour long, and Ellie made you cum in ten fucking minutes, flat. 

Abby pumped her digits desperately inside of her cunt, watching Ellie unzip her jeans and saw that the girl was wearing a fucking 8 inch strap. She bossed you around, grabbing at your hair and dragging you to the camera’s view and pushing you down onto your hands and knees.

“Come on bunny,” Ellie sighed with that dreamy look on her face. “Suck on daddy’s cock like a good girl.”

Abby huffed, watching your pretty lips wrap around that strap and take it halfway in your mouth, drooling and slurping on the silicone and looking up at Ellie with wide, sparkly eyes. Abby wanted you to look at her in that way…

“Fuck, baby… Just like that, yeah? Want me to fuck you?” 

Abby was hanging on Ellie’s every word, basking in her own pleasure as she pushed a third finger inside of her cunt and clenched on the digits stretching her. Fuck, she was so fucking sick for this. 

Lost in the pleasure, Abby looked back down at the video when she heard you scream. Ellie had you on all fours and her strong, veiny hands grabbed at your plump, soft rear as she slammed her hips forward and shoved that black, sparkly cock inside of your pussy with one swift motion. You went silent for a second, head back and arms trembling before you started to gasp and exhale, hard. 

It was like you had never felt something like this before in your fucking life. Abby paused her finger’s movements, waiting for Ellie to start fucking you… And oh boy, did she fuck you. 

Her hands gripped at your hip bones, slamming that toy dick into your weeping pussy like it was what she was made to do. One hand was on your hip and the other slid up your back, grabbing a fistful of your hair and letting your sounds echo into the room. Ellie’s roommate must have been pissed. 

Abby knew it was fucking depraved… She knew that it was twisted and an obsession, but she couldn’t stop. She was addicted to this– addicted to you. Her wrist was screaming for her to stop but Abby refused to let up. 

She watched the entire video, and came three times inside of her car.

Abby didn’t know what to expect when she returned  home, but seeing you nowhere in sight was not it. She frowned, searching the entire apartment for any sign of your presence… All the lights were off. You didn’t turn on your aroma diffuser, and the window was still shut… You always do the same thing when you come back home. You fill the diffuser with peppermint oil, turn on the lamp next to the sofa, and open the window a crack to let the fresh air in.

Even when the temperature was bitingly cold and you complained about it, you still wanted the window open a little. Abby teased you, but you didn’t care and proceeded to do it until she would close it at the end of the night. 

Her heart sank as she pushed her bedroom door open, dropping her backpack and cringing at the scent coming off it. If she didn’t wash it tonight, it would be unbearable by the morning. She slowly pulled out all of her school stuff, placing her laptop on the bed and carrying the bag to the laundry room. 

Abby got lost in her head again, fingers twitching a little as she scrubbed at the soy milk stain on the black mesh. Her hands gripped the strap and she inhaled hard… Her mind drifted to Ellie. How Ellie called you bunny this morning, and then how she said it in the fucking video…

“Ride daddy’s cock, bunny… Pretty fucking girl.” 

Hands flexed hard enough to tear the fabric in her hands and she slammed the backpack into the washer. Fuck it, she didn’t have to scrub it. Just soak the shit off. 

Abby drizzled the soap over the bag and slammed the lid shut, putting it on a delicate setting and letting it run. Fuck, even her shirt smelled like irish creme. Abby ripped the long-sleeved compression shirt off her body, adding it to the washer and walking away from the room. Her skin felt tight on her body, and she just wanted to curl up on the blankets on her bed and sleep until the sun came up again.

Her heart stopped for a second as she paused in the doorway, her hand grabbing the frame as she scowled. What if the reason you weren’t here… was to be with her? What if you were with Ellie right now? What if you were being railed by her all over again? Would you record this one too?

Abby felt dirty. She had to shower. 

As quickly as she could manage, Abby was stripping off her clothing and heading into the bathroom where she cranked up the water as hot as she could handle, jumping in and washing away the filth of today. 

When she closed her eyes, she thought of you. The way your eyes roll back in your head, the soft giggle in your voice when she tells you something funny, how your legs quivered when you climaxed, the way your head rested on her leg when you fell asleep watching a movie with her… Your soft breathing when Abby would stare at you and dream of how your lips would feel against her own.

Abby wanted to cry. She was no better than any of those other fucking creeps on that website. She was no better than some gross man watching you get fucked by Ellie fucking Williams, getting off to it and then feeling guilty about it afterward. 

Everything was a fucking mess. And for some goddamn reason, she just couldn’t fucking stop! 

Even after her shower, Abby was right back to square fucking one. Fingers moved against her cunt, focusing on her clit this time around and watching Ellie rail you all over again. You were sitting in her lap as she watched you bounce on her strap, holding you at the waist and digging her fingernails into that soft body of yours. 

It gave Abby a new reason to fucking hate her. She takes everything that she wants. Freshman year was spent in torture. Ellie would eat the stuff she labeled in the fridge, would never return her movies, used her Xbox… stole her girlfriend right out from under her. Yeah, Abby and Nora broke up, but Ellie swooped down immediately and Abby felt so fucking replaceable that it hurt. 

This was the one thing she didn’t want Ellie Williams to fucking have… and she got you. She got you in her bed, and Ellie left her fucking marks all over you. Bruises on your ass, hickies on your neck, claw marks on your back.

“F-fucking hate you,” Abby huffed into the pillow that your shirt was still wrapped around. She looked at her phone and seethed with rage. You kept calling her “daddy” and kept making those fucking noises that Abby loved so much that she felt stupid. “Little whore…” 

Abby had left the bedroom door cracked, convinced that if you came home at any moment, she would notice… but that has never, ever worked before. You were so damn sneaky that you made Abby scream on multiple occasions. 

You slowly opened the front door, placing your keys on the hook next to it and peeking inside. The apartment seemed quiet… that was good? Maybe Abby went to sleep or something. With a little breath through your nose, you closed the door as quietly as possible behind you, brushing off the snow on your outfit and in the midst of removing the hoodie from your body.

It was then that you heard it. Hands stopping halfway through taking off her sweatshirt at the entryway, you heard a soft moan come from the bedroom. Abby? Maybe she was sleep-talking again. 

You ignored it at first, but then it happened again, and it was followed up with words that felt so heavy and gravelly, you felt color rise to your cheeks. “Gonna f-fucking destroy you… fuck you, bunny…” Abby then breathed out your name… your fucking NAME!! You felt like you were gliding. 

Before you know it, you were standing in front of your shared bedroom door and you peeked inside of the room. Your eyes widened and you had to cover your mouth to hide the noise you made. Sweet fucking god, did you die and go to heaven?!

She was watching it… Abby was watching your video that you posted this afternoon… Abby was watching you get fucked by Ellie, and she was fucking touching herself while watching it! The sound of her fingers slipping all over her cunt before they plunged inside of her pussy had your eyes rolling back, the wetness growing between your legs and your fingers twitching on your face as you kept your hands over your mouth.

Ellie’s voice echoed in the room. “Come on, baby… bounce on daddy’s dick like the little slut you are!” It was demeaning and depraved, but hearing Ellie say those words to you last night, you almost felt your heart stop. That skater girl, fuck… Ellie was so hot, and she knew it. Her taped fingers adorned with silver rings, her grunge aesthetic, those black framed glasses, that undercut, and those freckles. 

The woman was a walking wet dream. Ellie was hot as fuck, and when you asked her about this, she was all to happy to oblige. She’d never done porn before, but Ellie would do anything you asked if you looked at her in that way that made her stutter. 

At some point in the night, you forgot the camera was even there… You were simply in the moment with her, pretending like this wasn’t a way for you to make money but your raw, carnal desire for the delinquent to fuck your brains out. 

And then, there was Abby… Abby saying you could fuck whoever you wanted and that she didn’t care. It left such a hollow feeling in your chest. She seemed so flippant, and so unconcerned. Abby didn’t care who you fucked… why did that bother you? 

Well, the answer was obvious now.

Your hands trembled as your fingers slowly slipped inside of your jeans, watching Abby with burning intent as she practically rode her fingers to your video. Ellie continued that hot talking, but the words Abby said was what made your cunt throb with pleasure. God, her hands were so fucking big and so strong; Her ass looked so good. And fuuuuck, those back muscles that glistened with sweat. 

Why did Abby have to be so fucking hot? And why did she have to flaunt it all the time? Seeing her fresh back from the gym was borderline torture. You wanted her to grab you, pin you down, and fucking destroy you, just like she said she wanted to. How depraved were you?!

“Come on… come on!” Abby huffed through clenched teeth, clearly nearing her orgasm as your loud cries of pleasure echoed in the room. You blushed, pressing your fingers against your clit overtop the cloth of your panties and slowly rubbed. You kept a hand over your mouth, drooling as Abby came closer and closer to completion… It would have been so fucking easy to watch her like this forever. She was so fucking gorgeous. 

Oh, but fate was a dirty whore. Your phone slipped out of the front pocket of your jeans and hit the floor. It was so loud in the quiet that you reacted to the noise like a gunshot, stumbling backward and feeling your face go pale. 

Abby’s movements came to a screeching halt, sitting up from the bed and looking over her shoulder while putting an arm around her chest to try and hide herself from whoever was behind her, like it was someone other than you. The video continued to play until Abby all but broke her phone’s power switch with how hard she squeezed it, throwing the device away like it was on fire. 

In your haste, you had pulled your hand free from your jeans, but the zipper was still down and the denim was squeezing against your lower hips. It was clearly obvious what you were doing, and if that wasn’t an indicator, the slick on your fingers was. 

You were frozen in place, body shaking as you looked at Abby’s eyes that refused to look away. She looked as if she could cry at any fucking second. You bit your lip and stepped forward, nerves on fire and hands twitching. Abby immediately backed up, her spine meeting the wall as she grabbed the blanket from her bed and pulled it close to her skin.

“N-no, no, fuck,” Abby immediately started rambling. “M’sorry. I’m sorry, I didn’t think you would… god, I’m so fucking sorry! I know, I know I’m fucked up and I shouldn’t have–”

“Abby,” You tried.

“I’m not… I’m not like this with other people, I don’t–”

“Abby.”

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me! I don’t know why its like this with you, I just–”

“Abby!” You slapped your hands against her face, squishing her cheeks and slightly crouching down. From here, Abby could see the many hickies that Ellie left on your neck from the night before. The rage began to return at seeing those marks, wishing that it was her that gave them to you. “Stop talking.” 

“No, no, I need to explain–”

“You really don’t, honey,” You said in the sweetest tone ever. Abby forgot her point for a second. “You have no idea… how fucking hot that was, do you?”

Abby didn’t say anything until you pinched her cheeks again. “I… I uhm…”

You chuckled, eyes closing for a moment as Abby stared at you. Those beautifully long lashes of yours and that soft blush that decorated your cheeks… She could smell the mixture of your body mist, and her cologne. Abby whined. You looked so gorgeous in her hoodie… 

“Honey,” You made her brain skip like a scratched record disk. Her heart sped up and she very cautiously reached out to grab you. Her huge hands hovered just above your hips and you pushed her damp honey blonde hair away from her icy-blue eyes. It just took one glance down at her lips and Abby was done for. 

“W-What about–” Abby choked, sitting back for a second to keep you at bay. “What about Ellie?”

You blushed a deep red, and Abby didn’t like that. But your answer was quick and concise. “Ellie isn’t you. She can never be you, Abby… Who do you think I imagine when I make those videos, huh? Why am I always wearing your hoodie in all of them…” 

Her icy blue eyes trailed down to your body under the hoodie, seeing how it was loose around you but still so fucking beautiful against your skin. Abby looked at you like she wanted to eat you alive and ruin you until you were sobbing.

“Abby,” You whined desperately. “I can’t take it anymore… please–”

“P-Please what?” She tried to sound dominant, but your presence was holding so much power over her that she ended up stuttering over her words. A blush decorated her cheeks as she felt you slide the pad of your thumb across her pouty bottom lip.

“Please. Kiss me.” 

And when she did, there was no going back. 

[who-will-buy]

prying eyes

don't you turn around, don't take me home; cause i pinky promise you i'm grown - part one

arthur morgan/reader

word count - 6.5k

18+, unprotected p-in-v, age difference, sweet 'n' spicy, high honor arthur

Untoward- untoward is exactly what you needed from Arthur. 19 and a virgin, how embarrassing of you. But it was hard to get laid with Dutch as your father, refusing most men to even look at you for too long.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You hated hunting. Spending nights in the woods in search of  doe, rabbits or the occasional goose or duck. Sweaty in the day and shivering cold in the night, itchy with dirt and grime, smelling like a pigsty. 

But your father gave you no choice in the matter, sending you along with Arthur rather than Charles, as the latter man was too busy street fighting in the nearby town.  As you saddled up onto Arthur’s horse, sitting on the beautiful mare, saddlebags all filled with tent supplies and furs for you overnight. Dutch, ever the protective father, clapped the huge man on his shoulder and spoke, thinking you couldn’t hear him, “Arthur, son. You gonna take good care of her?”

“Course, boss.” 

That deep, velvety voice permeated the air, your attentive ears opening towards the sound. Arthur… what a man. Somewhere a few inches above six feet tall, all muscle and thick limbs, thighs like cedar and arms like an iron girder. He wore that damned blue shirt, sleeves up to his elbows and a slutty amount of buttons undone at his chest. Suspenders over his shoulders, thick trousers fit for riding with a gun belt low on his hips, that damn hat he always wore. Hair just long enough to be in need of a trim, though his stubble was well maintained today.

“Now,” your father spoke, setting his other hand on Arthur’s shoulder, harrowing brown eyes staring at the enforcer, “You do anything untoward to my daughter and I’ll put you in the ground.”

Untoward- untoward is exactly what you needed from Arthur. 19 and a virgin, how embarrassing of you. But it was hard to get laid with Dutch as your father, refusing most men to even look at you for too long. 

And untoward it was, when you glanced around the corner of the trees to try and find Arthur again as the sun set, only to see him with his back to you, sat against a tree, his thick length held in fist as he quietly and quickly pleasured himself.

You had to do a double, then a triple take, then one more just to be sure. Is- is that real? Is this a hallucination? 50 feet away in the little clearing the makeshift tent sat, the fire dying slowly without someone stoking it. You and Arthur's sour luck was an absent tree, no meat or carcasses yet. The little makeshift tent had your bedroll in it, Arthur’s own across the clearing- another one of your father’s rules.

Though daddy’s rules don’t really apply out in the woods, you realize, as you watch Arthur stroke up and down his shaft, nothing but a few deep breaths escaping him as he squeezes tighter on the upstroke, thick legs parting to fondle and squeeze heavy, aching balls.

It was like a train wreck. You couldn’t look away. Only ever having seen glimpses of what lay between a man’s legs when you accidentally crossed around one of the men relieving himself- and then, you knew, it was soft. Small, unintimidating. Cute in a way.

This, what Arthur strokes so expertly, is anything but. It looks, in your humble opinion, more like a tree trunk than what Hosea gently explained to do during the ‘birds and bees’ talk you received at 10. Thick, a shade or two darker than his skin with a flushed, ruddy tip leaking translucent fluid that absorbs into his fist, you stare. Stare at the nest of dark curls that hide those heavy balls he fondles so gently, the exact, practiced twist of his wrist-

A bird caws.

Shuffling, Arthur glances back to see what bird caused the noise, a natural reaction. And where he expected to see a raven, maybe a magpie, he sees you, standing dumbly with thighs pressed together as that all too familiar heat boiled over in your abdomen.

Like a man possessed Arthur curses and tucks his still erect length back into his trousers, standing and hitching them up.

“Mother of Jesus-”

He can’t even curse at you before you turn tail and run back to the little camp, ducking under the pelt of the tent and covering yourself on the bedroll with a thin blanket, heart racing in your feet and throat at the same time.

Arthur’s gonna kill you, you’ve decided. You feel physically repulsed at your behavior- what was wrong with you? Staring at a man just trying to jerk off, standing like a doe eyed little idiot.

You tried to tell yourself it was just shock that made you stare, just utter surprise he would do such an act while in the woods. That it had nothing to do with the curiosity of what his dick looked like, just a natural wonder upon seeing such a thing, the innate desire to feel that thickness deep inside you, holding you steadfast and splitting you open-

“Sweetie?”

Sweetie. Such a stupid little nickname reserved for your daddy, Hosea, and Arthur. But you know who spoke it now, yes. Unmoving you lay under the blankets in a little ball, tucking your all too short legs further.

“Look, honey, I- I’m real sorry you saw that.”

You give no response, envisioning Arthur standing there, scratching his beard like he always does.

“I ain’t mad, if that’s what you’re worried ‘bout. Not mad one bit. Hell, you should be mad at me.”

“...”

“Look- sometimes, we men just… get the need. And-”

Arthur huffs, “Jesus, c’mere-”

He yanks the blanket off of you, making you squawk in surprise and bring your knees upwards. He sits on the ground, towering and hulking figure trying to look softer in a slouch of broad shoulders and big biceps.

“Honey, look at me.”

Slowly and miserably you meet his eyes, cheeks bright pink, feeling like an absolute pervert.

“I ain’t mad. You know that, yeah?”

You give a tiny, almost imperceptible nod. Arthur grumbles something, resting a hand near you- but not touching yet. The sight of his hand, so big and warm and calloused, so close to you, it makes that familiar heat surge through your abdomen, making you adjust your thighs slightly.

“You…” He begins slowly, “You ain’t gonna tell Du- your daddy about this, yeah?” It’s not a question, moreso a statement. Even so, you wouldn’t dream of snitching on him.

“Course not.” You murmur. Unknowing what possesses you, you glance over and look at him- handsome face, that cute little dimple on the tip of his nose, the still stiff bulge at the front of his trousers-

“Jesus, girl-” He barks a laugh. “You don’t got any shame, d’ya?”

Cheeks burning you take the humiliation in stride, glancing from his hidden erection to his face, then back down again.

“Just, I’ve never seen one, is all…”

You speak slowly with a thick, hesitant tongue, mouth feeling dry and swollen. The pink hue of your cheeks only grows and grows with every word and moment of Arthur in your gaze.

Arthur’s brow raises. “Never? How old are you, 18?”

“19.” You correct him, sitting up to look at him easier.

“19 and never… seen a man?” He laughs, shaking his head. In an attempt to recover your dignity you huff at him, “What? Were you giving it up at 14 or something?”

Another hearty laugh. “Something more like 16 or 17. I was running with Dutch at that point, had no privacy on the run. He caught me doing what you just saw me doing more than enough. Ended up hiring me a younger working girl and she gave me quite the night.”

Working girl. Not whore, prostitute, lady of the night. Just a polite working girl. The bare minimum, making your heart turn slightly. Arthur adds, “I think she was 18 or 19. Little bit older, awfully pretty. Had me passed out cold after.”

Despite the awkwardness of the entire situation, you crack a smile and a little laugh. Something about how kind his face seems provokes you to add softly, “Sometimes I just… feel like I’m behind.”

You expect sympathy or denial, the same ‘everyone moves at their own pace’ talk that Mary-Beth gave you, how Karen reminisced that her first time was less than pleasurable due to her chosen stud’s inability to understand angles and other stimulation. 

But no, Arthur hums, “I bet you do. 19 is awfully old.”

Huh?

You frown, tilting away from him slightly. Feeling the need to defend your honor you state, “It- it ain’t that old. Just-”

“It’s a bit older than normal, honey, nothing wrong with being a virgin.” Arthur cuts you off. “But you gotta be pent up and curious. Bet you ain’t ever kissed a fella, have you?”

He has a stupid little grin on his stupid handsome face. Cheeks pink and embarrassed you huff, “So what?”

“So…” Arthur scoots a little closer to you, “I know you’re curious. You wanna know what it’s like, huh? That’s why you were watchin’ me so close, honey?”

Is this real? It can’t be, you think. Yeah, you’re just hallucinating. But a warm, tender hand clamped on your thigh brings you back to reality, as does the smooth, velvety voice that rings, “I could show you.”

Mouth dry, eyes wide and stupid, you stare at him.

This huge, hulking, ridiculously handsome cowboy was propositioning you. It was so delicious, the idea to betray everything your daddy ever told you and him. To just…

Clumsily and a little nervous you lean forward and cup his face, pressing your lips to his. It lasts all of five seconds, n tongue or passion before you pull back, a proud little grin on your face as you cross ‘first kiss’ off of your mental bucket list.

That is, until Arthur rightfully laughs, hearty and deep in his chest. You frown.

“That’s it, sweetheart? All I’m getting, a little peck?”

You open your lips to respond but Arthur just sits down on your bedroll, huge hands wrapping around your waist and hoisting your small frame onto his lap, forcing you to straddle his thick thighs. 

“Lemme show you how grown-ups kiss, darlin’.”

Before you can even react, he brings his lips to yours, hands holding your face to keep you still. It starts slow before delving into something more passionate, his lips overlapping yours, tongue darting to trace across your lower lip. Teasing, gentle for adult standards. But as the kiss grows into a few minutes, it doesn’t feel too good to you. You feel suffocated, lips swollen and honestly a little gross.

So you turn your head, nudging away a bit. Arthur listens, albeit disappointed, asking, “What’s the matter, huh?”

Wiping the saliva from across your lips you mumble, “Don’t like it.”

“Speak up, darlin’. Can’t hear you when you’re mumbling.”

“I- I don’t like it.”

You feel your cheeks burning with the admission. Isn’t kissing supposed to feel good? It just feels like… slurping lily pads. But Arthur gives a little smile and nods, tilting your chin back to look at him.

“Perfectly fine, darlin’. You don’t like what you don’t like, yeah? Doesn’t matter if everyone else likes it. You know your daddy refuses to eat deer meat?”

Such an odd little tidbit, that your daddy hates venison- but you didn’t know it. 

“I didn’t know that.”

You’re still speaking softly, looking up at him. Arthur grins. “Your daddy doesn’t like deer, you don’t like kissing with tongue. Ain’t nothin’ wrong with that.”

A beat of silence, then he frowns and manhandles you once again, this time laying you down onto your bedroll, in a flimsy pink nightgown and plain cotton bloomers hidden underneath. Breathless and slightly propped up with the two pillows you own (two more than most of the gang), you stare up at him as he straddles you, gently placing his huge, warm hands on your shoulders, tickling the bare skin of your upper arms.

“Much better.”

Unable to respond, you just close your eyes as his lips begin to pepper kisses down your neck, moving tresses of hair away from your skin. Unlike the actual kissing, his kisses and little kitten licks across the sensitive column of your neck are downright heavenly. It doesn’t make sense to you, how kissing on somewhere as normal as your neck can make such a heat surge to your abdomen, make your thighs squeeze together. 

Suddenly, he nips you.

“Ow-”

He licks the spot he nipped, shushing, “Shh, honey. So dramatic…” He teases.

“‘M not dramatic.” You huff, tilting your head and nipping his jaw in return. “That’s what you get.”

Arthur only laughs softly, voice deeper than normal.

“You’re lucky your daddy would kill every man at camp if he saw you with hickies.” He speaks, then adds lower, “If I could, I’d cover that pretty little neck in bite marks. Makes you squirm all cute.”

Squirm-? You didn’t even notice you were squirming. 

The marking up of your neck continues for a while, until Arthur finally heeds the twitching of your thighs, how they press together in need. Big hands tug your nightgown up just to your belly, and he parts your legs with his knee. It makes you give an aborted little thrust of your hips, chasing any sort of stimulation to cure the ache between your legs. He laughs.

“Needu, huh? Patience is a virtue, darlin’.”

Arthur’s big, warm hands toy with the hem of your nightgown, bringing it closer towards the swell of your breasts. Looking in your eyes, he silently asks permission, and with your tongue thick and heavy, you nod, “Yeah- yeah. Go ‘head.”

It took an absurd amount of restraint to not beg him. Dutifully he helps you shimmy the nightgown off, tucking your hair back into place as he takes a moment to fold it before setting it aside- how polite.

Hungry eyes roam to your breasts, somewhat small and unimpressive compared to the likes of Karen or even Molly. But Arthur groans and cups them in his hands, making your breath hitch, eyes darting to his for approval that you are, in fact, pretty.

“God, perfect. Nothin’ less, darlin’, perfect tits.”

Those thick, calloused thumbs trace little circles across half hard nipples, pebbling up and stiffening as you let out a strangled little whimper. Another laugh.

“You like your pretty little tits played with, huh honey?”

Your hands brace over his bicep, tracing down to his thick wrists, arm hair tickling your palms. With a little exhale, you nod. You do like it.

“That’s it, good girl.”

The noise that leaves you in unholy, that little tidbit of praise so similar to how he addresses his mare, all while his hands still rub gentle circles against your stiff nipples- it’s too much. Shifting your hips you whine, “Arthur-”

“What, honey? What do you need, hm?”

You swallow your words, though countless ideas bounce around your skull. Eat me out. Finger me. Fuck me till I’m drooling and crying and tell me to take it. Nothing leaves your lips, and his hands leave your breasts.

“Huh, guess you’re done-”

Before he can even continue the gentle teasing you snatch his hand back, putting it back on your breast.

“Please.”

“Please what?”

God, he’s cruel. Cruel, mean, ruthless, and oh so irresistible. 

“Please, I-” Voice dying in your throat, you barely manage, “I wan’ more.”

That seems to be enough for Arthur, as he nudges your hips up and tugs at the waistband of your cotton bloomers, once more waiting for your little nod.

Tugging them down and off, Arthur gives them the same treatment as your nightgown. They get neatly folded and set aside before he takes a good look at you.

He moans.

“Lord, darlin’, if I ever did see a cunt pretty as this. Makin’ me feel like I died and went to heaven.”

He just stares a long moment and takes it in, your cunt. Framed with thick curls, glistening with need. On instinct you close your legs, breaths leaving your mouth soft and shallow.

With a little frown Arthur parts your legs again, settling down to lay between them, his breath creeping up to your inner thigh.

“Don’t hide from me, darlin’.” He adds with a little grin, “You’re gonna love this.”

Without allowing you to speak, his tongue laps up at your folds, making you jolt and try to snap your legs shut around his head- he easily holds them apart with those big, strong arms. Come to think of it, he’s still fully clothed.

All thoughts left your mind as two thick fingers prodded at your lips, his head raised from between your legs.

“Suck, darlin’, gimme something to work with.”

Obediently, you do, lavishing them in your saliva. Once satisfied he brings them out of your mouth with a ‘pop’ and rubs them up and down your folds, collecting your arousal and further lubricating his fingers.

It’s then that a wave of sudden fear overtakes you as memories of nights spent wincing and trying to pleasure yourself with your fingers come flooding back. Sure, you have rubbing your clit down to an industrialized process, but anything actually inside is foreign to you. Everytime you try it just hurts and feels like nothing pleasurable. It always made you feel like something was wrong with your anatomy, that you weren’t capable of pleasure.

Arthur lavishes your clit with little licks, sending shocks of pleasure down your spine. One thick finger prods at your entrance, circling, circling, not yet entering. You tense, bearing down.

“What’s that for, huh?”

He asks, the vibrations of his voice and breath making goosebumps erupt across you. Arthur raises his head, circling your clit with the pad of a thumb. You remember to answer, swallowing thickly, “I- ‘m fine.”

“You’re bearin’ down like you’re trying to squeeze my fingers off. Ain’t even got them in you yet, honey.”

You huff, trying to avoid the issue- but you eventually give in, murmuring, “Just… fingers’ve never felt good when I do it on me. Just hurts.”

Arthur hums. 

“You use vaseline? Spit?”

Shaking your head, he laughs.

“And you wonder why it hurts?”

Squirming, you respond, “Well- I get wet, so I thought that was enough…”

He shakes his head, pulling away suddenly and walking out. You stare dumbly, naked and spread on your bedroll, waiting for him. In record time he returns, a little tin of vaseline held in one big hand, which he unscrews and lathers two fingers in, resuming his place between your thighs. 

The material of your bedroll is soft and plush under your trembling thighs and he circles your entrance with a single slick finger, tonguing your clit as he slips it in. Flinching out of reflex triggers Arthur to raise his head, cooing, “Shh, shh. That doesn’t hurt now, honey. ‘S just a finger.”

It doesn’t hurt. But you think it should, it always hurts when it's just you. Arthur seems to pick up on that, continuing, “Gotta get out of that pretty head, sweetheart.”

He looks directly at you, finger gently massaging your walls, gentle and slick.

“Does it hurt?”

Swallowing thickly you answer, “No.”

The man smiles, caressing your cheek. “Good. Didn’t think it did. You’re awfully caught up in your head, huh?”

He gives you a playful tap to your forehead before trailing his big, warm hand to cup your breast again, making you squeeze his finger within you. Arthur laughs, deep and velvety.

“Easy, easy. Wait to squeeze like that till it’s my cock in ya, hm?”

God, his mouth is filthy. But you love it, God you do. Makes the pit of your belly all warm and fuzzy, head spinning and arms weakly holding at his biceps.

If only your daddy could see you now.

“Tryin’ another finger, honey. Tell me if it hurts, honest.”

The look on your face must’ve betrayed you somewhat because he soothes, hand rubbing up and down your side and thigh lovingly, “Don’t think it’s gonna hurt. If it does, we deal with it, but I think you’ll be fine.”

Inhaling deeply and breathing out softly, you nod. Even with his advice, you tense slightly, bracing for that stingy-stretchy-burning pain.

It doesn’t come.

What you feel is a little stretch, a momentary shock of discomfort as the second finger breaches you, then slips right in. Arthur chuckles. 

“Greedy little thing, huh? Swallowin’ my fingers up like that. And you were so convinced it was gonna hurt.”

You’re unable to respond as his thumb resumes to your clit, the two thick digits within you making a come-hither motion, trying to find that spot inside you.

And find it he does, as you keen and whine, gripping his bicep and the blankets of the bedroll. It feels dizzyingly good, the dual stimulation of the familiar thumb on your clit and foreign fingers within you.

“Arthur-”

You hear a little squelch as you unknowingly bear down, squeezing. Arthur chuckles, his two drenched fingers suddenly missing from you. 

“You squeezed ‘em right out, honey.”

“Didn’t-- mm, didn’t mean to.” You manage, and as he slips on in then the other he soothes, adjusting himself on his knees, “Easy, easy, darlin’. Know you wan’ me to fuck you, but I gotta make sure I don’t hurt you.”

He brings you right to the edge of orgasm, his fingers inside you and thumb rubbing tight circles on your clit. Whimpering and squirming, needy little noises erupting from lips wet with saliva. Arthur’s voice is soft and low as velvet, cooing, “That’s it, darlin’, cum for me. ‘S all good, I got ya, I got ya.”

With a strangled whimper your head lolls back, eyes firmly closed as waves of red hot pleasure rip through you, clit throbbing, squeezing on his fingers. Arthur’s ministrations don’t stop, stimulating you through your orgasm- the most powerful you’ve ever felt.

It’s not until you whine at him, rocking your hips away from the overstimulation that he stops. As your eyes open, sweat beading on your brow and lips parted, he sticks those messy fingers into his mouth, groaning.

“Tastes like honey, darlin’. Swear it does.”

You let out a weak laugh.

“It does not.”

Your words are a little slurred, tongue thick in your mouth. Arthur presses the fingers at your lips, encouraging you to taste yourself. Complying, you accept his fingers into your mouth, the slight tinge of vaseline a background to the slightly tangy, slightly salty taste of your arousal.

“Not honey. Maybe… tears.”

The man chuckles, standing up and moving his hands to his shirt- finally.

You sit up to watch the show as he unbuttons that blue shirt, suspenders hanging down at his knees. The shirt comes off and you’re treated to the sight of his bountiful chest, muscled and hairy with just a little pudge on his belly, a trail of hair leading from his navel to the hem of his trousers.

Arthur turns to look at you, a little grin on his face as he unbuttons his belt, his gun holsters long discarded. The belt sags, buttons of his trousers coming undone. He’s not wearing a union suit, you notice. Thank God.

Trousers removed he stands there in all his glory, clad in just cotton long johns. You stifle a little giggle at the underwear, coming all the way down around his feet like socks.

What’s less funny is the bulge straining at the front, which your eyes immediately draw towards. It looms downright painful, bigger at this angle. Arthur palms it, husking, “You see this, honey? What seein’ you come on my fingers does to me?”

You don’t have a response prepared- you just stare at him, waiting for his next actions. When you expect him to rip that flimsy cotton off, bury himself in you and fuck you with abandon, he kneels down next to you and tucks your messy hair back into place.

“You wanna do this all the way, sweetheart? You ain’t gonna break this old man’s heart if not.”

It’s so… sweet. Kindness you rarely see from the men around camp. Face softening, you overlap your hand with his as it cups your cheek and nod.

“Words, baby. Need to hear your voice tellin’ me.”

“I- I wanna.” You swallow thickly. “I want you to be my first.”

With that he removes his undergarments, dick springing out against the little layer of chub on his belly, hard and leaking, begging for attention. God, it looks mean. Thick and ruddy at the tip, it has to be seven.. No, eight inches. Eight. And thick as your wrist.

“It ain’t that scary, darlin’.” It’s like he could hear the cogs of your brain turning. You breathe, “It’s massive.”

He laughs, deep and hearty. 

“Ain’t massive, honey, but I appreciate the ego bein’ stroked. How big you think it is, huh?”

Your throat feels dry.

“Eight- eight and a half.”

He cracks up, tossing his head back, still not on top of you but rather besides you.

“Ain’t close to eight and a half, sweetie. Try barely seven.”

“What, you measure it?”

“If you had one you’d be measurin’ it too, sweetheart.”

Arthur’s playful banter with you serves to make your shoulders less tense, a smile return to your face. He speaks softly, entirely open to his suggestion being declined, “How about you… get familiar with it, huh? Make it less scary when you see how it looks smaller in your hand than it does now.”

God, you were waiting for him to suggest that. In record time to readjust yourself and wrap a hand around the base, coarse hairs tickling your skin.

“Mm, good girl, jus’ like that. Give it a stroke, hm?”

You follow his command, stroking up and down, following his gentle instructions to squeeze firmer, give a little twist on the upstroke, rub the underside of the head with your thumb. And just like that, it grows less and less scary. Still intimidating, but no longer fear inducing. He stops you, muttering something about not wanting to finish too fast.

It becomes so much more real as he places one of your pillows under your hips, parting your legs and guiding them to sit comfortably around his hips as the thick head of his length nudges at your entrance. He reguides it to rub against your clit and you gasp. Arthur takes the vaseline and coats himself liberally, until he’s slick as can be.

He doesn’t shove in you when he leans down over you, once more caressing your cheek. He just whispers, “You look so pretty, Absolutely beautiful.”

Eyes wide and a little nervous, you ask, a bit tetchy, “It’s- am I… do you think I’ll cry?”

Arthur’s face changes dramatically. He looks concerned.

“Cry?”

You nod, tracing your fingers on his bicep as a way to fidget.

“Yeah. Cry. Daddy said Hosea wasn’t allowed to teach me about losing my virginity, so daddy told me. He says it’ll hurt me really bad and I’ll bleed everywhere.”

Goddamn Dutch.

Arthur huffs, bringing both hands to cup your face and give your cheeks a little squeeze. He states, firm as stone, “You are not supposed to cry in pain. If you do, it means something is wrong, and we’re not doing anything.”

Before you can argue, Arthur squishes your cheeks again to make the words come out as a little ‘ghuh’. 

“Dutch- your daddy, he… He worries about you, honey. Worried you were gonna go and sleep with someone in the gang far too young. It’s not supposed to hurt, darlin’, and it’s not going to. ‘Least not bad. Might be a bit uncomfy, sure. The bleeding part is a bit true- you won’t bleed cause it hurts. Just cause you’re gonna be stretched more than you’re used to is all.”

It’s a lot to take in, initially- that your daddy lied to you about the pain of losing your virginity to deter you from doing it too early. Even as you trust Arthur with your life, with your innocence, it’s hard to disregard the firm teachings of your father. And Arthur can tell. 

“I’m not gonna hurt you. I’m going to go slow as you need. Trust me?”

He extends a pinky towards you, waiting for you to link it with your own. Such a sweet, childish gesture that makes the nerves melt from your mind.

Once the promise is sealed, Arthur positions himself, fat tip prodding at your entrance. One hand guiding himself and the other on your cheek, he coos, “Breathe in nice and deep.”

You follow his command.

“And out…”

As you exhale, he presses in. He immediately sees the grimace on your face and suddenly clamps his free hand over your eyes, blinding you from watching that intimidating length try to enter you.

“Don’t think it’s gonna hurt. Just feel what it feels like. Tell me, darlin’, tell me.”

Without seeing anything as he sinks the head within you, it forces you to just deal with the actual sensations and not the slight fear associated with the sight. You exhale, “Just- pressure. Stretch.”

“Pain?” His voice is velvet in your ears.

“No.”

“Good, good. Nice and slow, honey.”

Arthur keeps your eyes covered, peppering your neck with kisses as he withdraws a little, pushing forward a little. He instructs, “Push out a little, darlin’.” You do, and he sinks deeper.

“That-”

You make a garbled noise, unknowing that half his length is already situated snugly inside you with only a little pain blossoming from the stretch.

“Does it hurt?”

“Um- just… a little.” A truthful answer.

“Is it the kinda pain you can breathe through?”

You nod, whining slightly as you feel his hips rock ever so slightly, his breath hot against your neck.

“Bein’ so brave for me, baby. Know it’s awfully big for such a little thing like you.”

Another whimper, desperate noises leaving your lips as he moves further, slow and steady. Arthur kisses your neck, nipping and rubbing your breast and belly with the hand that was previously guiding his dick within you.

Just a few more moments pass until he’s more than halfway in, but not yet fully sheathed- but he can tell this is a good amount for you to take. His entire length would certainly be a bit too long for you.

Meanwhile, with your eyes covered, you imagine that it’s just the first two inches inside you, a mean five more waiting. But the hand suddenly lifts itself from your eyes and you see him, a stupid little grin on his handsome face.

“You did it.”

“Huh?”

Immediately looking to where he’s within you, your eyes widen upon seeing how much is in. The pain is nothing more than the feeling of a scrape or little cut, a bit of a nagging burn you can easily ignore behind the feeling of being so full.

“It’s- not all the way in.”

The voice that leaves your lips can’t be yours, all whiny and desperate. He chuckles.

“It’s not all gonna fit without hittin’ your cervix, honey. Trust me on that.”

You want to argue, not even remembering exactly what a cervix is, but you shut your mouth and trust him on that. So you just stare at him for a long moment, hands dumbly squeezing his biceps. He adjusts himself, grasping your hips and gently rocking, in and out, in and out.

“Arthur-”

The name leaves your lips all whiny and needy. He shushes you, tucking his head towards your neck and kissing that sensitive hollow.

“Shh, easy. Don’t squeeze me so hard, darlin’. Gonna make me slip right out.”

The last phrase leaves with a breathy chuckle from the man, but you only paw at his back, trying to pull him closer. Despite not enjoying it much earlier you feel the need to kiss him, so you clumsily pull his face to yours and press your lips together. Only a handful of times before your face tilts to the side, feeling the length of him stretch you, fill you so nicely, pressing right against that perfect spot inside you.

“Needin’ kisses now, huh?”

He teases, yet you can’t even find it in you to respond with anything besides incoherent little mumbles. Barely five minutes of him within you, and your brain has been replaced with a wad of cotton candy.

Apparently your noises grow from needy little whines to distressed sounding, as he stills and cups your face, asking softly, “Honey? If somethin’s wrong you gotta use your words. You need to stop?”

Shaking your head desperately you dig your heels into the meat of his ass, keeping him where he is.

“No- no, no, don’ stop-”

Arthur chuckles, rubbing little circles onto your flushed cheeks. You’re staring up at him, eyes wide and pupils blown, face all flushed and needy. You inhale deeply, regaining enough bearings to murmur, “Just… feels like I like it too much.”

You always heard tidbits of how sex is an act of pleasure for the man and a chore for the woman, but this felt like the opposite. Brain melting out of your ears, you realized that you couldn’t go without this. Not after getting such a delectable taste.

“You’re s’posed to enjoy it, darlin’. Supposed to love it. I can tell you are.”

Arthur leans forward, kissing your neck and nipping your ear just enough to get you to squirm.

“Can tell you love it. Love bein’ stretched full of my cock, don’t you?”

God, his mouth is filthy. It just makes that coil in your gut ever so tighter, makes you needier.

“Arthur, plea- mm, please, I need-”

“Ah, shh, shh. I know what ya need, honey, I know.”

One of his hands trails down to your clit, the first circle around it making you cry out and whimper. 

“That’s it, good girl. I feel you twtichin’, you close?”

“I dunno-”

Your tongue feels numb, mouth heavy and brain stupid, genuinely unknowing of if you’re close or not. Arthur lets out a little laugh, beginning to groan softly and breathe heavier. You try to speak, but the words leave less as actual words and more as little noises interrupted by whines and moans.

“Shh, shh. It’s okay, you’re takin’ me so good.”

His free hand trails to your belly, fingers splayed across the little curve of your lower tummy. He presses down slightly, making you let out a squeak.

“Feel me honey, all deep in you?”

A delirious nod. He feels you squeeze him when he praises you.

“Look’atchu, what a good girl. Takin’ my cock like a champ. So good, darlin’ so perfect.”

The praise makes you nearly squeal, reaching for him, just needing him close. Arthur responds by wrapping his free arm around you, holding you to his chest, still rubbing your clit. The angle change makes tears bud in your eyes, that spot inside you being perfect;y stimulated with every thrust.

“Easy, easy. I gotcha, no need t’ wriggle away.”

You didn’t even realize you were squirming until he squeezes you tighter, a little reminder to stay still. A murmured ‘I’m sorry’ leaves your lips as a little whimper.

“Shh, you’re okay. Stay still, honey, I know what you need.”

Arthur changes the pace of his thumb on your clit, experimenting- until you make an angry noise in the pit of your chest at the unsatisfying new rhythm, and he returns to his old tempo with a little ‘sorry’.

“Such a needy thing, huh? I feel you’re close. Doin’ so good, gonna cum on my cock like a good girl, yeah?

Arthur’s thrusts are growing faster, a little deeper as your body becomes far more accommodating. It’s dizzying, the perfect angle, the thumb on your clit- you barely  manage, “‘M gon’ cum- Arthur, Arthur, Arth-”

Everything goes blank for a moment. You register the pleasure, white hot nirvana circling through your veins, floating you onto a cloud. You hear him groan, sticky hot seen painting your belly and tits. It’s only when you manage to hear “Shh, shh, you’re okay, ‘s alright-” that you realize, in your visionless haze, you began to sob.

Pathetic noises leave your lips as Arthur disregards his post-orgasmic haze to tend to you. He cradles your face, cunt sore and aching with a pulsing heartbeat that feels so good.

“Honey, look at me.”

You open your eyes, bleary with tears, a dopey grin on your lips. Arthur huffs, exhausted.

“Had me worried I fucked you to heaven.”

“Heaven…”

You echo, voice soft and brain stupid. Now that he knows you’re alright, he lets you just lay and recollect yourself for a few minutes- your bearings slowly return and you try to sit up, only for Arthur to push you back down.

“Easy, not yet. Gotta clean you first.”

He takes your handkerchief and steps out of the tent for a moment, naked as the day he was born, using the water from his canteen to soak the rag. When he returns he softly speaks, “Gonna wipe away all that mess. The water’s not too cold.”

Your cunt is sore and you wince- he coos, “Shh, it’s alright. You’re gonna be sore for a bit, but judgin’ by how hard you came it was worth it, huh? Made out like a little bandit.”

You dopily grin in response. He cleans you diligently, gently. When you’re clean between your thighs he shows you the handkerchief, for the sake of truthfulness.

“See? Told ya you wouldn’t bleed much.”

There’s maybe a half dollar coin sized splotch of blood. Nothing more. You only sleepily hum in response.

Next to be cleaned is his spend on your chest, which as he wipes off, you begin to drift to sleep.

Weakly opening your eyes again greets you to the sight of Arthur putting his night clothes on, and he asks softly, “You warm enough to sleep naked?”

You nod, drowsily murmuring, “So long as you snuggle me.”

He laughs.

“Course.”

With your eyes closed he spoons you, caressing your hair and sides as you drift in and out of that post orgasmic sleep. In that daze you mumble, sounding proud, “I ain’t a virgin no more…”

A soft laugh.

“That you ain’t.”

His words are accompanied with a kiss to your head that lulls you to a deep slumber through the night.

~~~~~~

When you come back to camp the next afternoon, your daddy doesn’t notice how you hold yourself a little prouder atop Arthur’s horse, using the stirrups as a bit of leverage to keep your sore center off the rough saddle. Arthur helps you off, hoisting the two deer over to Pearson. You can just spot your father speaking to him, interrogating him on how it went, and like the liar he is, he assured Dutch that you were a great help while hunting (as if you didn’t spend the whole morning hunt in the tent sleeping.)

You lounge around camp, wondering if everyone can just tell you’re all grown up now. It’s not until nightfall that Arthur retires to his tent, winking at you on the way in, and keeping the flap open just a little bit as an invitation.

[warandpeas]

Filthy

This week’s comics is brought to you by our patrons over at Patreon! Thank you so much – you make this happen!

[timsutton]

opinions on boners? As a trans guy I need to know if I'm losing from an awesome experience or if it's just meh

wouldn't know

[tender-somethings]

"Isn’t there something you want to tell me, something filthy and lovely and true."

- Steve Almond, Which Brings Me to You.

[berryispunk]

Cream and Sugar, Baby

pairing: Kermit x f! waitress reader

tags: unspecified age gap, dual POV, diner romance and aesthetic, slow burn (kind of), grumpy x sunshine, mutual pining, no physical description of reader, Kermit has a filthy mouth, dirty thoughts, masturbation, dirty talk, unprotected PiV, strangely romantic

summary: You work the late shift at a rundown diner with coffee that tastes like regret and floor stains older than you. He’s a quiet regular with a name you still can’t take seriously and eyes that see way too much. You’re not supposed to want him. He’s not supposed to want you back. But some things simmer slow—and burn fast.

notes: Had this unhinged idea and wrote the whole damn thing in one feral sitting. Also, me? Writing someone other than Frankie?? Someone call a doctor, I might be running a fever.

word count: 8,4 k

read also on ao3

Tom’s Diner was the place where dreams went to suffocate slowly under the hum of flickering fluorescents and the stench of burnt coffee. More accurately, it was the last pit stop before hell—or wherever people go once they finally tap out. Unfortunately for you, it was also your workplace. For three years now, not that you were counting—because tallying the days would only make the whole thing feel more like a prison sentence.

You hadn’t meant to stay long. It was supposed to be temporary, a pit stop while you got your life back on track. You had dreams once—college, a degree in literature, maybe even writing for a living someday. But life didn’t give a damn about your carefully drawn plans. It threw punches instead—relentless, low, and sometimes straight to the gut. One of those sucker punches came in the form of Brad.

Brad, with his crisp suits, finance bro confidence, and that nauseating promise of “I’ll take care of you.” You were foolish enough to believe him. Quit your job. Talked about babies and engagement rings and cradles like it was all just around the corner. You even let yourself think maybe, maybe you were safe.

Turns out Brad liked the idea of commitment more than the reality of it. Or maybe his assistant just sucked—well, blew—him into believing she was a better option. Joke’s on her, really. Brad never lasted long. Five seconds in heaven, if that, and especially quick if you’d warmed him up with your mouth first. You sometimes grinned thinking about her—about how she probably thought she hit the jackpot, not realizing she’d signed up for a lifetime subscription to disappointment.

Brad was a grown-up mama’s boy with the emotional range of a teaspoon and a superiority complex the size of Texas. Honestly, him leaving you? A blessing. At the time it felt like getting flattened by a train in slow motion, but now? You saw it for what it was: a much-needed escape.

Still, he left you with the rent and no job. So you took the first thing you could find that paid fast—Tom’s Diner. The hours were ungodly, the tips mediocre, and the grease-stained uniform never quite stopped smelling like onions and despair. But the paycheck cleared, and that was all that mattered.

Over time, the diner became a kind of strange orbit. You didn’t have a social life anymore, just this odd constellation of coworkers who floated around the same gravitational hellhole. There was Marla, the older waitress who'd been there so long her name was carved into the break room table. She was kind in that no-nonsense way that only people who've seen too much can be. Smelled like menthols and lavender hand cream, her laugh hoarse from decades of smoke breaks and bad coffee. She always called you “kid,” even though you were probably only fifteen years younger.

Then there was Rick, the line cook with slicked-back hair and a temper that only grilled cheese could soothe. His only real culinary skill was making the perfect grilled cheese—golden, crispy, gooey in the center, and just enough butter to make your arteries cry. But damn, that sandwich could fix your day better than therapy ever could. He had a thing for conspiracy theories and wouldn’t shut up about the moon landing being fake, but he never burned your order, so you let it slide.

And, of course, Tom. The owner. A walking, talking cautionary tale about what happens when someone cares more about the cash register than the humans working behind it. Tom didn’t give a shit about food quality, customer service, or employee morale. He cared about two things: not getting shut down and not spending money. You once caught him spraying pesticide while the pantry door was open. Roaches skittered like it was rush hour in there, and he just waved a hand and told you not to tell anyone unless you wanted to be jobless.

But in a weird, twisted way, it was your place now. Your version of normal. Your dysfunctional, smoke-scented, roach-infested routine. And as depressing as that sounded, it was also oddly comforting. Because when life knocks you flat on your ass, sometimes all you can do is find a spot to land and figure out your next move—even if that spot smells like bacon grease and floor cleaner.

The regulars at Tom’s were their own cast of recurring tragedy, comedy, and everything in between. Most were locals who didn’t have anywhere better to be, or they did, but this place was easier somehow—less judgmental than home, cheaper than therapy, and just greasy enough to feel like comfort.

There was Old Joe, who always sat in the same booth by the window with a black coffee he never finished and a crossword puzzle he rarely got past the third clue. Rumor had it he was a widower, used to be a history teacher. Sometimes he mumbled facts to himself—dates, names, half-remembered battles—and Marla once said she thought he just liked being around voices again.

Then there was Candy, not her real name, but that’s what she told everyone to call her. She wore leopard print like it was a personality trait, her eyeliner sharp enough to kill. She claimed she used to be a showgirl in Vegas, but you had your doubts. Still, her stories were good enough to believe for five minutes, and that’s all anyone really needed in a place like this.

Most of the men, though? Less charming. The diner uniform—short skirt, tight blouse—was probably designed by someone who’d never worked a day of real service in their life. It clung and rode up and made you feel more exposed than you ever wanted to be on a Tuesday morning during the hash brown rush. You caught stares constantly, eyes following you like they had the right, and more than once, hands tried to test the boundary between appropriate and disgusting. The first time it happened—some sweaty man in a plaid shirt grazing your thigh as you passed by with a tray—you froze. Your heart punched against your ribs, nausea climbing your throat.

Then Marla stepped in. Swatted his hand with a rolled-up menu and said, loud enough for the entire diner to hear, “Touch her again and I’ll break every finger you got, you crusty son of a bitch.” And that was that. You learned quickly—how to step out of reach, how to hold a coffee pot like a weapon, how to laugh things off even when your skin crawled. It didn’t stop it from happening, not entirely. But it dulled the edge. You got used to it.

Still, not everyone was like that.

One of the newer regulars started showing up about four months ago, right at six p.m., like clockwork. He looked like he got lost in the '80s and decided to make it home. Wore shorts no matter the weather, ridiculously high socks with prints you still hadn’t figured out—pineapples? Dinosaurs? Both?—and sneakers that looked like they’d survived several apocalypses. His t-shirts were always faded beyond recognition, and, most memorably, he wore this beige thermal vest like it was the pinnacle of fashion, even though it did absolutely nothing for him.

But once you looked past the fashion crimes, something about him stuck.

He had warm brown eyes—kind, but tired. Not in a drained-by-life way, more like someone who'd seen a lot and wasn’t shocked by much anymore. His hands were big, the kind that looked like they could fix a car or hold a person without letting go. He wrapped them around his chipped diner mug like it was keeping him grounded. His shoulders were broad, arms strong beneath that hideous vest, and his face was framed by a full mustache and a bit of scruff, like he shaved just often enough not to be mistaken for a drifter.

The first time he spoke to you, really spoke to you, he cleared his throat awkwardly while you were refilling his coffee. “What’s the menu of the day?” he asked, voice low and a little gravelly.

You answered automatically, your server voice polished and quick. But then his eyes met yours—really met them—and the rest of the words died on your tongue. There was something in the way he looked at you, not like you were on display, not like he expected anything. Just… seeing you.

He gave you a quiet nod, one corner of his mouth twitching up into the faintest smile. It wasn’t much. But it knocked something loose in your chest, left you a little breathless. You turned on your heel so fast you nearly tripped over your own shoes, face flaming, heart tapping out a stupid rhythm in your ears.

After that, you paid more attention. Not because you wanted to—okay, maybe a little because you wanted to—but because something about him made you curious. Curious in a way you hadn’t let yourself be in a long time.

And he kept coming back. Same time. Same booth. Always alone. Always watching the world quietly from behind his coffee cup, like he was waiting for something. Or someone.

After a few weeks—and with Marla’s cigarette-scented breath always a little too close to your shoulder—you learned his name was Kermit.

You had to excuse yourself to the back and laugh into the crook of your elbow.

Kermit. Like the fucking muppet.

The irony wasn’t lost on you. He didn’t look like a Kermit. He looked like a Hank, or maybe a Jack—something solid and a little weathered. But Kermit? That was a curveball.

Still, once the name attached itself, you couldn’t imagine calling him anything else.

Every day, he showed up at the same time—6 p.m. sharp, like his internal clock was set to diner hours. And every day, something in you felt just a little bit lighter when you saw that ridiculous beige vest and the worn-out sneakers step through the door.

He never missed. Not once. Even if it rained. Even if the place was packed or dead quiet or the kitchen had just caught fire (which had happened once—grease trap, Marla blamed Rick, Rick blamed ghosts).

And at some point, you realized he watched you.

Not in the way most men did. Not the strip-you-down, up-and-down kind of watching. No, he watched like he noticed you. Like he saw how your smile tightened by hour six, or how your shoulders dropped when the dinner rush finally slowed. His gaze tracked you as you moved between tables, eyes soft but unreadable, like he was memorizing your patterns.

When it came time to pay, it was always you. He made sure of it. Sometimes with a quiet “Could I get her?” nod in your direction. Sometimes he didn’t even have to ask—Marla would just toss you the check with a smirk and a muttered, “Loverboy’s waiting.”

You rolled your eyes the first few times. But then it became a rhythm. A little ritual. Something stable in the mess of chipped plates, burnt coffee, and customers who acted like their eggs being over medium instead of over easy was a federal offense.

Kermit tipped well, always. Better than anyone else. Enough to make you feel guilty for noticing it, even though that wasn’t why you started watching him back.

Because somewhere between the first nod and the tenth refill, something shifted. You found yourself looking for him before the door even opened. Catching yourself adjusting your apron or fixing your hair in the reflection of the coffee machine before his usual time.

It wasn’t planned. It wasn’t even logical.

But every time those brown eyes found yours across the room, something inside you paused. Like for just a second, nothing else mattered but the way he held his mug—steady, deliberate—like it kept him grounded, and you almost wished he’d hold you that way instead.

Which was, frankly, ridiculous. You didn’t even know his last name. And he wore thermal vests in June.

But logic didn’t stand much of a chance against something slow-burning and magnetic. Not in Tom’s Diner. Not when Kermit kept showing up like he was meant to.

It was a lie.

The coffee was shit. Burnt and watery, with powdered creamer and sugar packets that stuck to your fingers. The food? Barely passable. Rick’s idea of seasoning was salt, more salt, and occasionally dropping the food on the greasy floor for flavor.

But he came anyway. Every damn day.

And it wasn’t the coffee. It was you.

You were young. Way too young for him. Mid-twenties, maybe. Radiant in a way that wasn’t showy—something quieter. Like sunlight on dust motes, not a spotlight. Your uniform was short and terrible, the kind of thing a creep like Tom thought passed for “quirky retro,” but you wore it like armor, chin up, back straight, always moving.

Kermit didn’t even know your name for the first couple weeks. Didn’t need to. He just watched—carefully, respectfully—learning you in fragments.

The way you leaned into the counter at the end of a long shift, shoulders sagging like someone who carried too much and kept doing it anyway. The way you had this tiny furrow between your brows when you took orders, like you didn’t trust people to get it right. The way your laugh—when it came—broke out like you hadn’t meant to let it free.

You weren’t just beautiful. You were real. And Kermit, who hadn’t let himself feel much of anything in years, started to look forward to those stolen glimpses like they were oxygen.

He stayed longer some nights. Not always, just when he couldn’t help himself. Sat with his hands wrapped around a chipped mug, pretending to read the paper or stare at the muted television, when really he was just watching you move around the place like gravity didn’t stand a chance.

And he never overstepped.

He knew better. He was too old, too tired, and too damn aware of how the world worked. He wasn’t stupid—he knew you were out of his league in every way that mattered. You deserved someone with energy, a clean past, a working truck that didn’t rattle like a death trap at red lights.

Still, some things crept in.

The way you flushed that one time when your eyes locked—he saw it. The way your voice softened when you greeted him, like he was something familiar and safe. Like maybe, maybe, he wasn’t imagining all of it.

Then came the night it rained.

It poured, actually. Fat, angry drops hammering the windows like fists. Marla, at least that’s what her name tag said, had already called it and headed out with a plastic bag over her hair. The diner had mostly cleared, but he stayed, hands loose around his mug, watching you mop up a spill near the counter.

“You got a ride?” he asked, low, careful.

You looked up, a little startled, brow furrowing the way it always did when you thought too much. “Nah. I’ll walk. It’s not far.”

He hesitated. Then: “Let me take you. I don’t mind.”

Your eyes searched his, and he held still—didn’t move, didn’t let himself hope too hard. And then, after a long beat, you nodded.

“Okay. Just this once.”

The drive was short. Silent. Sweet torture.

His truck—older than you, definitely—smelled like dust and oil and the faint ghost of pine-scented air freshener from two owners ago. The windshield wipers groaned in protest, squeaking out a slow rhythm as they dragged across the glass. You sat beside him, close enough that he could feel your warmth, hear the faint brush of your fingers against your damp jacket.

You said “thank you” when he pulled up in front of your place.

Just that. Soft, gentle, heartbreaking.

He watched you step out and jog to the entrance under the downpour, hair already clinging to your cheeks, and for a second, you turned back and gave him a little wave. Then the door closed behind you, and he was alone again.

That night— He touched himself for the first time in years to something that wasn’t just porn. It was to the image of you. To your soft smile. To the sound of your voice wrapped around those two simple words. To the warmth you’d left behind in the passenger seat.

And when he came, quietly, into the calloused grip of his own hand, it wasn’t dirty or desperate.

It felt like aching. Like longing. Like a hunger that had nothing to do with lust and everything to do with needing something to matter again.

After the night he drove you home, something shifted.

You were sweeter than usual. Not in some forced way—Kermit would’ve noticed that. It was in the way you lingered a little longer at his table. The way your fingers brushed his knuckles when you passed him the check, like you didn’t mean to, but didn’t exactly pull away either. The way your smile seemed… softer now. A little slower to bloom, like you were letting him see a piece of it you didn’t show everyone else.

And he couldn’t resist it. Not even if he wanted to.

He told himself he’d keep the distance. That it was a line he wouldn’t cross. He was older, rough around the edges, with a truck that sounded like a dying animal and a spine that cracked every time he got out of it. You were still full of spark, trying to make rent and claw your way back to some version of the life you wanted. The diner wasn’t your final stop—it was a stepping stone. He could feel it in your bones.

But damn if you didn’t make it impossible not to fall.

That next week, you stopped by with his coffee like you always did, and he said something dry about the weather—just to fill the space, not expecting anything. You leaned on the counter and rolled your eyes with a little grin.

“It’s June and I had to wring out my bra before my shift. Tell me that’s not grounds for emotional trauma.”

Kermit snorted. Snorted. Like some awkward teenager.

Your eyes lit up like you’d won something. “Did you just—was that an actual sound? Jesus, I think I’ve cracked the code.”

He grinned, helpless to stop it, and shook his head. “Careful. You’ll ruin my reputation.”

“Oh yeah?” you teased, leaning in just slightly. “What is your reputation, exactly?”

“Grumpy old guy who tips well and doesn’t talk much.”

“Hmm.” You tapped a finger against your chin, pretending to think. “Add surprisingly nice driver with a mysterious past and we might have a Hallmark movie.”

That made him laugh again, a real one this time. Low and warm and unfamiliar in his chest.

You left to take another order, and Kermit watched you go, a tight pull settling low in his stomach. The kind that felt dangerous in the best way. The kind that made him realize he wasn’t just falling for you—

He already had.

And it was fast. And it was reckless. And it made no goddamn sense.

But it was real. Realer than anything had felt in years.

He started memorizing the way you moved, the way you smelled like cinnamon and cheap coffee and rain-soaked pavement. The way your voice dropped when you were tired. The way you tucked your hair behind your ear when you were focused. The way you smiled without knowing you were doing it.

He should’ve been scared. Hell, he was scared.

But he also felt alive again.

And for a man like Kermit, that was worth everything.

You noticed the shift almost immediately.

The way Kermit’s eyes held onto you a little longer. The way he smiled more—barely there, but enough for you to feel it warm between your ribs like something precious. Something secret.

He didn’t say much more than usual. Still reserved. Still guarded. But there was something about him now—something almost like softness underneath the scruff and sarcasm. A warmth that simmered low and steady, and you found yourself leaning closer to it like a moth to a flame.

You tried not to read into it too much. Told yourself you were just imagining it. That he was polite, that’s all. Generous with tips. Quiet. Unassuming.

But then you'd catch him looking when you weren’t supposed to notice.

You’d turn away from another table, and there he was—his eyes already on you, his hand wrapped around the coffee mug like it was anchoring him to the moment. You’d brush past him and feel the air shift. Like his gaze was a tether you’d suddenly walked into.

And god, your mind went places. Stupid, reckless, filthy places you had no business wandering off to.

You thought about those hands of his—broad, strong, with rough fingers and dirt beneath his nails that never seemed to fully go away no matter how clean he looked. You imagined how they’d feel on your skin. If they’d be gentle or greedy. If he’d press you into the wall of his truck with the same firm steadiness he used to hold his mug. You imagined his mouth—how it might taste like coffee and rain and cigarettes, how it would move slow at first, like he hadn’t kissed anyone in years and didn’t want to fuck it up.

Some nights, you’d be on autopilot during your shift, smiling at customers while your head drifted into daydreams that curled hot between your thighs. Kermit, leaning over you in the back alley, one hand braced against the brick wall behind your head, the other beneath your skirt. Kermit, pulling over his truck because he couldn’t wait. Kermit, mouth low against your neck, saying your name like a secret too big to keep.

You never let it show, not really.

Maybe you lingered at his table a little longer than necessary. Maybe your fingers brushed his a few too many times. Maybe you smiled differently when he was around. But that was it. Because he was still distant. Kind, yes. Attentive, even. But guarded like a man who’d built walls too tall to even remember what was on the other side.

You didn’t know what held him back—age, history, maybe just the fact that you were a little too alive for someone who looked like they’d already been through hell and didn’t trust heaven.

So you played it safe. Kept the fantasies tucked behind your eyes, replayed in the quiet dark of your apartment when you were alone. Imagined what it would be like if he wanted you back. If he ever looked at you and saw more than just a diner girl who brought him coffee and called him Kermit, like the fucking muppet.

But you felt something in him. Some pull that matched yours.

And god, you hoped you weren’t wrong.

The place was dead.

Dead in that eerie, almost sacred way it sometimes got after ten, when the air turned still and the fluorescents buzzed low above your head like they were holding secrets. No customers, no clatter, not even the hiss of the fryer. Just Marla muttering to herself while scrubbing at that goddamn stain near booth four—like she was trying to erase years of sins baked into the tile—and Rick humming something off-key in the kitchen, probably stoned, probably still convinced his grilled cheese deserved a Michelin star.

And Kermit, always Kermit.

Staring out the window like the street had something worth looking at. Like his mind was somewhere far, far away.

You hadn’t meant to take the shot—just a quick nip of cheap whiskey behind the counter—but your fingers had trembled when you poured it, and you knocked it back like it was medicine. Liquid courage. Fire in your throat. A flush of clarity.

Your heart beat fast but steady as you stepped toward him. Toward the booth he always claimed like it had his name carved into the vinyl.

You didn’t ask permission.

You just slid into the seat across from him and watched the way his body jolted, the slow turn of his head, the way his brows climbed in surprise. He looked at you like maybe he’d conjured you with a thought and now didn’t know what to do with the result.

“Am I imagining this?” you asked, voice low, clear, sharp.

His lips parted, but no sound came for a second. Just breath. Then—

“What?”

You tilted your head, your gaze steady. “This. Whatever this is between us. You look at me like I’m not real. Like you’re waiting for me to disappear.”

He stared at you, jaw working, words caught behind teeth.

Then, finally, he breathed out, voice rough and laced with that honest ache you weren’t ready for.

“This shouldn’t be happening.” A shake of his head. “You’re—you’re too young. And I’m too fucked up.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but he kept going.

“I’ve got years I don’t talk about. Mistakes I don’t let people get close enough to find. And this,” he gestured between you with a vague, helpless hand, “you shouldn’t waste whatever this is on someone like me.”

You leaned in.

“I’m not wasting anything.”

“You don’t know me.”

“I want to.”

He ran a hand over his face, like he could scrub away the pull between you, but it only made him look more human. Tired, worn, beautiful in that bruised way.

“I’ve got ghosts. And regrets. And a body that creaks when I stand too fast. You deserve someone with a future, not just a past.”

You didn’t flinch.

Instead, you pushed away from your seat, rounded the table slowly, your breath shallow, pulse loud. His eyes followed every move like he couldn’t believe you were real.

When you reached him, you hesitated—just a beat—before sliding into his lap, sideways. His body stiffened beneath you, the muscles in his thighs going taut. His hand hovered, then landed gently at your waist. Not pulling you in, not pushing you away. Just there.

You were so close now you could count the lines by his mouth, the gray strands in his mustache, the way his pupils darkened as they settled on your lips.

The air buzzed. Thick and electric.

You placed your hand against his chest—steady, solid, thudding with restrained thunder—and looked straight into him.

“Tell me you don’t want this,” you whispered. “Don’t wanna feel this, and I’ll leave.”

Silence.

“But if there’s even a small part that feels the same,” your voice cracked with truth, “don’t push me away.”

His grip on your waist tightened—just slightly. His breath caught.

You were warm.

That was the first thing Kermit registered—the heat of you sinking into his lap like it was always meant to happen. The weight of you wasn't heavy, it was grounding. Real. Too real.

And it lit something up in him so bright it bordered on painful.

His hand hovered at your waist like it was holding a live wire, barely resting there, fingers twitching against the curve of you. You smelled like soap and coffee and something softer he’d never be able to name without sounding stupid. Your hair brushed his jaw as you leaned in closer, breath mingling with his, and every instinct in his body screamed to move—grab you, hold you, kiss you until neither of you remembered why it was wrong.

Because god, it was wrong. Wasn’t it?

But you were looking at him like he was the miracle.

And Kermit, poor stupid Kermit, felt like a man cracking open down the middle after years of holding himself together with spit and duct tape.

When you said “don’t push me away,” it split something in him. He didn’t breathe. Didn’t blink.

He felt everything—your thigh pressed along his, your fingers against his chest, the exact way your weight settled like a secret between his hips. His body reacted before his mind could catch up—heat flooding low and fast, shame hot on its heels. He swallowed hard, forcing his muscles to stay still, to behave, to respect you even as his blood betrayed him in every possible way.

Because this wasn’t porn. This wasn’t a fantasy with the volume down and the lights off.

This was you.

And he’d never touched himself to anything real until you stepped out of his truck that night, flashing him that small, earth-shattering smile and whispering thank you like it meant more than just a ride home.

His hand curled tighter around your waist now, gently, just to keep you from slipping away too soon. He wanted—fuck, he wanted everything. But he couldn’t move. Couldn’t trust himself if he did.

Then—

“Hey! Need a hand back here or I’m burning the fuckin’ toast again!” Rick’s voice cracked through the moment like a thunderclap.

You startled just slightly, blinking like the spell had been broken. Kermit didn’t dare breathe, barely dared to look at you as you slipped off his lap with a grace that made him ache.

You didn’t say anything right away.

Instead, you reached for a napkin from the dispenser and pulled a pen from the tiny chest pocket of your waitress uniform. Kermit watched, half in awe, half in full-blown panic, as you scribbled something fast and slid it across the table toward him.

Your number.

He stared at it, then up at you.

You just smiled—soft, knowing—and turned on your heel like nothing seismic had just happened.

Kermit sat there frozen, napkin under his hand like it might burn through his skin. He was terrified and the happiest he’d been in years.

Kermit never thought he’d retire his old flip phone—not for a boss, not for a daughter who begged him to get "with the times," not even after the third time he accidentally dunked it in his coffee. But for you? Shit. You made him do a lot of things he never planned to.

So there he was, in the dim light of his trailer, squinting at a glowing screen way too bright for his tired eyes, typing with thick, calloused fingers that moved like he was defusing a bomb. It took him ten minutes to send a single message, autocorrect fighting him like a damn rodeo bull, but when he saw your name light up with a reply, it was worth every frustrating second. 

You texted like you talked—fast, clever, a little wicked—and God help him, it undid him. The emojis confused the hell out of him, the peach made him break a sweat, and your teasing had his mustache twitching and his cock straining before he could even find the “send” button. You were even more dangerous over text, throwing out lines like “i’m counting on it being hard” and “show me what those big hands could type if you weren’t holding back,” and he’d be lying if he said he didn’t sit there staring at your words for a long, hungry moment. 

You made him feel like a man again—young, wanted, alive in a way that terrified him—but he wasn’t backing down. Not from this. Not from you. So he tightened his jaw, rolled his shoulders back, and typed like hell, knowing he was way out of his depth—and wanting you anyway.

You’d asked him once, over lukewarm coffee and a shared cigarette break behind the diner, about the scar on his ribs. He told you it wasn’t a scar—it was a brand. From a ship that lit up the woods behind his trailer , left him dazed in a cornfield three hours later with radio static in his teeth. You’d laughed, but not cruelly—like you wanted to believe him. And ever since, it became a running thing between you two. Jokes about tin foil hats, the aliens that "took him and ran" instead of marrying him, and that time you asked if they probed his heart too.

Tonight, you sent the message while lying in bed, half-wrapped in a blanket, still flushed from thinking about the way his eyes lingered on you all shift.

12:17 AM — You

you up or dreaming of alien abductions again 👽

12:21 AM — Kermit

wide awake. no green men tonight. just thinking of a waitress who won’t leave my damn head.

12:22 AM — You

she sounds hot.she got legs for days and a smart mouth?

12:26 AM — Kermit

and eyes like she knows too much. dangerous combo.

12:28 AM — You

only if you’re scared of being seen (which you totally are, btw)

12:33 AM — Kermit

i’ve been shot at. chased by wild boars. abducted by something i still can’t explain. but yeah, you scare the shit outta me.

12:35 AM — You

good. i scare easy too. like when your hand brushed my thigh last night and i felt it for an hour after

12:39 AM — Kermit

jesus. you’re not playin fair.

12:40 AM — You

never said i would. you ever think about kissing me?

12:44 AM — Kermit

every night since you sat in my lap. every goddamn night

12:45 AM — You

what are you thinking about right now?

12:48 AM — Kermit

your voice. your legs in that damn uniform. the sound you’d make if i pressed you up against the side of my truck and told you what i want

12:51 AM — You

i’m not wearing much. you’d hate it. it’s sinful

12:53 AM — Kermit

send help (i lied. i’d fall to my knees for a single goddamn glimpse)

12:55 AM — You

one day you might earn it, old man.

12:57 AM — Kermit

one day i’ll show you what slow, hungry patience feels like. not a damn thing rushed.

12:58 AM — You

i might not last that long.

1:01 AM — Kermit

then we’re both in trouble.

You noticed it the second he walked in.

He looked nervous?

Not like jittery or uneasy, but something softer. Something quieter, like he'd ironed the creases out of his shirt with his hands and smoothed his hair a little more than usual in the cracked rearview of his truck. There was no thermal vest today, which was tragic in its own way—but he wore one of those old flannel shirts that fit just right across his shoulders and clung to his forearms every time he moved. You were trying to be normal, just like you had the night before when he lit your phone up with slow, hot honesty that left you squirming under your covers.

But now, with him standing in front of your booth, his coffee going cold on the counter behind him and his hands tucked awkwardly into the pockets of his jeans, it was near impossible.

“Hey,” he said, gruff as ever, but there was a hitch to it—like maybe he’d practiced it in the truck and forgot halfway through.

“Hey yourself.” You smiled. Too wide, maybe. You couldn’t help it.

He scratched at his jaw, looking away for a second, before shifting his weight like the floor suddenly got too hot under his shoes. “So… I was thinkin’. Been comin’ here a while. Drinkin’ way too much bad coffee just to see you in that goddamn uniform…”

You tilted your head. “Kermit…”

“What if—just what if—I bought you coffee that wasn’t sludge for once?” he finished, voice a touch too fast and way too hopeful for the man who usually looked like nothing in the world could rattle him. “Or dinner. Or somethin’. Somethin’ that ain’t here, and not just ‘cause I wanna look at your legs without Marla breathin’ down my neck.”

Your heart did a stupid, warm little stutter.

You leaned forward on the counter, propping your chin in your palm as you smiled at him like you’d waited weeks for this—which, honestly, you had.

“Are you asking me on a date, Kermit?”

He shrugged, then nodded, then cleared his throat. “I am, yeah. If that’s alright.”

You pretended to think about it, just for the drama of it all. But then you pushed the sugar jar toward him with two fingers, soft and slow, and murmured, “Took you long enough, old man.”

And the way his face lit up, subtle but unmistakable, like someone let the sun leak in through all his tired cracks, yes, this was your undoing. 

You took a rare day off—the kind you usually reserved for illness or breakdowns, not… dates. But this wasn’t just any date. It was him. So you took extra care getting ready, slipping into something soft and cute that didn’t smell like fryer grease and linoleum floor cleaner. Something that made you feel a little bit more like you, the version that existed before Tom’s Diner and soul-sucking routines.

Kermit showed up right on time. Of course he did. And when you opened your door and saw him standing there—jeans pressed, thermal vest swapped for a collared shirt that made your mouth go dry—with flowers of all things, you nearly folded. No man had ever brought you flowers before. Not Brad, not anyone. And it wasn’t even a flashy bouquet. Just a simple mix of sunflowers and wild daisies, probably picked with care and a little uncertainty. That detail alone? Melted you.

Dinner was at a small, surprisingly charming bistro tucked away from the main street. Nothing fancy, just good food and soft lighting. Kermit pulled out your chair, looked a little stiff doing it like it had been a while, and you adored him for trying. Over shared fries and whatever pasta special he insisted you had to try, he started opening up.

“I was in the army,” he said quietly, not like he was ashamed, but like it was a detail he didn’t offer up unless it mattered. “Long time ago now.”

You didn’t interrupt. You just listened.

“Married once. Didn’t work out. We were kids, really.” A shrug, then a smile, “Got a daughter though. She’s twenty-five. Smart. Got her mom’s fire.”

You blinked. That was close to your age.

He must’ve seen the flicker across your face because he leaned back and added quickly, “I get it if that weirds you out.”

“It doesn’t,” you said without pause. “You light up when you talk about her. That’s never a bad thing.”

And from there everything softened. The wine, the conversation, the invisible weight he’d been carrying. Laughter slipped out easy. At one point you made a joke about how you were never going back to Tom’s after this and he smiled in that crooked, rare way that made your stomach flip.

It didn’t matter—not the age gap, not the lines time carved into his face or the fact that you came from completely different lives. Chemistry didn’t ask for permission. It just was.

When he drove you home, he walked you to your door and you caught the nervous edge in him again—shoulders a bit tense, thumb dragging over the skin of his palm like he wasn’t sure how to move forward.

So you did it for him.

You leaned up and kissed him like you’d been wanting to for weeks, maybe even months. Like a dam bursting. Kermit groaned low in his throat, a sound you felt all the way down your spine. He braced one hand against the door beside your head, the other curling around your waist like he couldn’t believe this was real—like if he didn’t hold on, you’d disappear.

“You got no idea the shit I wanna do to you,” he rasped into your ear, voice rough and reverent all at once.

Next thing you knew, your door creaked open behind you, and you were inside—his hands never leaving your body.

It wasn’t clumsy, but it wasn’t graceful either—the kind of rush that happened when too many weeks of wanting finally snapped the thread. You stumbled with him, tangled together, breathless laughter and desperate hands guiding you toward the nearest surface—which, of course, was the couch. Definitely not your bed. Kermit slumped down, legs spread wide like he belonged there, and when he patted his thigh with a half-smirk, half-dare, you didn’t hesitate. You climbed into his lap like you’d been born for it, settling against him, your knees bracketing his hips, his big hands already claiming their place on your waist.

You fit there too well. Like a puzzle piece he didn’t know he’d been missing.

His mouth found yours again and fuck—it was electric. Better than you’d dared to fantasize. Every kiss was deep and aching, a collision of want and restraint, and when his lips trailed down your neck, lingered at your collarbone, you tilted your head to give him more. His fingers worked at your clothes with a reverent urgency, peeling away fabric like each layer was a secret he’d waited too long to learn. And for every inch of skin revealed, he left a kiss—open, warm, needy.

But his mouth, god.

The filth that fell from his lips, murmured against your skin like confession, had your thighs clenching around him before you even realized.

“So fuckin’ soft,” he groaned against your chest, voice gravel and honey. “Been losin’ my mind thinkin’ about how you’d sound underneath me.”

Your breath hitched.

“Wanted to taste you since the damn diner. Every time you handed me a check, I thought about you on your knees instead.”

He kissed lower, dragging his tongue down between your breasts, hands spreading across your back as he held you tighter, like he still couldn’t believe this was happening.

“You look like sin sittin’ in my lap, you know that?”

You moaned before you could stop yourself, your hips shifting instinctively against the hard length of him beneath his jeans, and he hissed through his teeth.

“Shit, baby—keep movin’ like that and I’m gonna come before I even get you outta these clothes.”

You laughed, breathless, and leaned down to bite his bottom lip in return.

“Guess you better hurry, then.”

He didn’t need to be told twice.

With a low, breathy curse, Kermit laid you back, his rough palms guiding you down as though he was afraid you’d vanish. He hovered over you for a moment, his eyes drinking you in—wide, dark, starving—before he tugged off his clothes in a rush. You tried to help, your hands fumbling with buttons and denim, but he was faster, more frantic, and all you could really do was watch and ache.

When he finally bared himself, it took your breath away—not just because of the body, solid and scarred and strong, but the way he looked at you. Like worship. Like you were the answer to a prayer he’d long forgotten he made.

You laid there, splayed and already trembling, and his gaze narrowed, heat flickering in it before he dipped low again. His mouth claimed your breasts first—kissing, licking, sucking until your nipples were aching and slick, his teeth grazing just enough to make your hips jerk. He left bites lower too, down your ribs, across the soft curve of your belly—marks you knew would bloom into bruises by morning, and you didn’t care. You wanted them. Wanted him, feral and raw.

There was nothing shy about the way he touched you. Nothing half-hearted. Kermit was all need, all groaning devotion. When his thick fingers found your pussy, already dripping for him, he grinned—a wicked, pleased thing—and swiped them through your folds slow, almost lazy.

"You’re soaked for me, baby,” he murmured, voice thick with awe and something more guttural. “All that mouth and you’re still this fuckin’ sweet.”

You gasped as he circled your clit, teasing, then lower—one thick finger pushing inside, curling with cruel precision. He didn’t look away. Not once.

“Look at me,” he said, quiet but firm, like an order, and when your eyes fluttered open to meet his, it nearly undid you. “Wanna see what your face does when I make you fall apart.”

Another finger joined the first, his palm grinding against your clit, and you cried out, bucking into his hand shamelessly.

“That’s it,” he growled. “Ride my fingers, baby. Show me how bad you wanted this.”

And god help you—you did.

Your first climax hit like a freight train—hard, fast, and so overwhelming it stole the air from your lungs. You trembled under him, thighs tightening around his hips as he coaxed you through it, not stopping for even a second. Kermit watched you fall apart, his fingers working you with relentless precision, and the raw awe in his voice when he murmured, “That’s it, baby, fuck—look at you,” made the aftershocks roll even harder. You’d never felt more wanted in your life. Not just desired—craved.

When the wave finally began to settle, you blinked up at him, dazed and glowing and undone. He bent to kiss your neck, the press of his lips suddenly so soft, so tender, it made your eyes sting. Then he kissed your mouth—harder, more desperate—like he couldn’t get enough.

He pulled back only slightly, voice gravel-rough and breath shaky. “You on anything?” he asked, thumb brushing your cheek. “'Cause I wanna feel all of you. Every inch. Every fuckin’ heartbeat.”

You nodded, almost breathless, and that was all he needed.

He sat back on his knees, fist wrapping around the thick length of his cock—god, he was big, his hand not even able to cover the whole of it—and stroked once, twice, slow and steady, just to ease the tension. The sight alone made your mouth water. He was so hard, so flushed and beautiful in a way that felt almost unfair—chest heaving, veins in his arms taut, sweat sliding down the lines of his body.

Then he leaned forward and pressed in—the angry red tip nudging at your slick entrance, and you mewled, the anticipation almost too much to bear.

“Jesus,” he rasped, forehead brushing yours. “You’re so fuckin’ tight.”

And then—one thrust. A slow, devastating slide as he sank into you inch by thick, relentless inch. The stretch made you cry out, nails digging into his back, the burn delicious and blinding.

He stilled once fully sheathed, letting you breathe, chest rising and falling against yours. His voice was nothing but a breath in your ear: “You okay?”

You nodded, still pulsing around him, and he began to move—rolling his hips in a deep, measured grind that sent a spark of pleasure straight to your spine. But the moment he sensed you were ready, when your moans shifted from whimpers to want, he didn’t hold back. Not anymore.

He fucked into you, brutally slow at first, then faster, rougher, pounding you into the couch cushions with obscene rhythm. Each thrust pushed you higher, dragged cries from your throat and made the heat build all over again.

“Feel so fuckin’ good,” he groaned. “Takin’ me so well, baby—so goddamn perfect.”

Your second orgasm crested with dizzying speed, the angle and pace too much, too perfect—and when it broke, your whole body arched, shuddering beneath him as you clenched around his cock, stars bursting behind your eyelids.

Kermit’s breath hitched, pace faltering just enough for you to feel the shift. His hands gripped your waist, grounding him, and then his whole body locked—deep groan dragging from his chest as he came, hot and thick and deep inside you. His head dropped to your shoulder, body trembling with release as he spilled into you, breath ragged, hips grinding slow, needy aftershocks.

You’d never seen anything like it—how beautiful he was in that moment. Lips parted, brow furrowed, eyes clenched shut like he was overwhelmed by pleasure itself.

You lay tangled on the couch, half-draped over Kermit’s broad chest, both of you still catching your breath. His hand—those big, rough, calloused hands that had touched you with the kind of reverence that broke something in you—rested warm against the bare curve of your spine. The room smelled like sweat and sex and something sweeter, something like comfort, and you closed your eyes, heart still stuttering in your chest.

Kermit was quiet, as always. But his fingers traced slow, lazy lines on your skin, the softest thing about the man who normally grunted more than he spoke. You didn’t need him to say anything. That touch said enough.

“You okay?” he murmured after a long stretch of silence, his voice wrecked and deep in a way that made you ache all over again.

“I can’t feel my legs,” you mumbled into his chest, too blissed out to move.

Kermit let out a low chuckle, one of those rare ones that rumbled from deep in his chest and warmed the room more than any furnace ever could. “That a complaint or a compliment?”

“Oh, it’s a complaint,” you teased, smirking. “Marla’s gonna see me limping around and ask if I slipped a disc. I am not emotionally prepared for that conversation.”

His hand stilled for a moment on your back, then resumed, slower now. “You want me to pick you up after your shift tomorrow?” he asked quietly, not looking at you—like if he didn’t, it wouldn’t be as terrifying to offer.

You blinked. Sat up just enough to look down at him, surprised.

“You mean in your haunted pickup with three seatbelts and the Check Engine light that’s been on since the Bush administration?”

Kermit grinned, crooked and real. “She purrs if you treat her right.”

“So do I,” you muttered, and he actually blushed. Just a little. Enough to make your heart twist in your chest.

The next day, your legs did, in fact, ache in ways that made you wince with every step. Marla raised her eyebrows, asked no questions—but her knowing smirk said she didn’t need to.

And that night, when your shift ended and the sky was painted in dark velvet, headlights cut across the lot. You stepped out, already reaching for your jacket, and there he was—Kermit, leaning against that rustbucket truck, arms crossed, looking like he had all the time in the world.

Not at the window anymore. Not watching from the booth like he used to, guarded and distant.

Now he was waiting.

For you.

thanks for reading 💌

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[potchi-fics]

note; look at her in the first pic omfgggggg the puppy eyes????????? i am ovulatinggg ive got a thing for asian baddies whose color palette is blue

tw; strap, overstimulation, yall fuck in a hotel, public sex

      she’s got you covering your mouth to conceal your whimpers and moans threatening to spill, eyes flickering because mizu’s silicone strap that is buried deep within you is hitting that one spot.

you don’t even know where she got it but here you are—on your back, legs up to your chest thanks to mizu holding down your legs, your dripping cunt free to use for her.

“you better keep quiet, or else they’ll hear you,” your vacant hand flies up to grip her blue kimono, “you don’t want that, do you?”

      you don’t. but she is making it very hard for you. the slaps of her hips are low, but they can be heard if one listens very carefully.

you honestly don’t know how many orgasms you’ve already had; three? four? there’s really no point in counting when the base of mizu’s strap is coated with your cum, rings forming around it. or, your slickness covering your entire cunt, i’m pretty sure her pants are covered too because you can feel its wetness when her thighs meet with yours.

she’s got a thing for fucking you numb while wearing her clothes. and for fucking you while in a hotel; the rush of it all. the thrill of it all. the risk of it all. the thought that someone can catch you two? mhmm.

your fingers curl firmly on her clothes when she particularly gives you a harsh thrust to bring you back to earth, your pussy fluttering around her strap, “focus on me.”

      you know she’s on the edge too. she barely shows it but you know. her breaths are shallow, eyes dilated, and her fingers are gripping your thighs so tight that she’ll be leaving marks and bruises.

“how can i focus on y-you–oh jesus,” you feel yourself gush around her strap. 

      the sting of her going in and out of you makes you see stars in your vision, your legs aching with how long she’s been at it.

she grunts with every thrust, putting all of her weight into fucking you senseless, “focus. on. me.” 

      your orgasm comes unexpectedly, blindsiding you; blinding you. your cum coats her dick more, coming out whiter and whiter each time she pulls back.

you’re sure your soul left your body because you don’t even register your hand coming up to mizu’s face, trying to push her away, eyes watering since she’s making you cum to the point where you feel like you’re floating.

your head hurts, your throat is sore, your body is aching, you feel dizzy, you feel everything—you feel her. 

“no, no,” her pace never wavers, her own clit stimulated from the strap rubbing it, “one more.”

“but that’s what you said hours a-ago, mizu.”

[remmyj-ohnloops]

this is how i want my face to look when i leave my ‘hang out’ with the marauders

[handsfullqueen]

Ethnicity?

Mixed goodie

Comment guys I enjoy reading your filthy ideas