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virgonessatbest · 19 days ago

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Imagine:

I decided to give y’all this short and nasty! The other idea I want to explore and drop separately for ya’ll! Here’s something smutty and delicious 😋

The cicadas outside whispered against the heat-soaked night, their song soft through the open window. The moon hung low and wide like a watching eye, bathing the little bedroom in silver. Curtains swayed. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked, and an old train groaned over a distant track.

But in here, the world had stilled.

Smoke needed her pussy. Preferably from behind and until he was satisfied. Even after he cums he can’t stop. He just loves the deepness. The way her pussy flutters around him.

She was on all fours at the edge of the bed, her spine dipped low, hips tilted up, all that brown skin glowing like bronze beneath moonlight. Her breath came slow and steady, little sighs pressed into the pillow as if she knew what was coming. Smoke stood behind her, bare and hungry, one hand splayed on the small of her back, the other stroking down the curve of her ass, watching how her skin trembled under his touch.

“Look at you,” he murmured, voice husky with reverence and want, “You always know what I need before I do.”

She looked back at him, eyes heavy with love and lust, her mouth parted like she might whisper something. But she didn’t. She just watched him. Trusted him.

Smoke stepped forward, his body flush against hers, the thick head of him nudging between her slick folds. He teased her first, gliding slow against her entrance, letting her feel the weight of what was about to happen.

“Please, daddy.” she whispered. It was the softest thing, but it lit something wild in him.

“Where you want me?”

“Deep, daddy…”

“You wanna feel it in you gut, baby girl?”

“Please…”

“Beg while I slid in this wet pussy.”

“Pleasssseeee—”

He pushed in. Slow, deliberate, letting her feel every inch. She gasped, her spine arching, head dropping forward, pressed hair styled in pin curls falling around her shoulders like a veil.

“Goddamn, you always feel like this?” he grunted, sinking deeper, gripping her hip like he might come undone from just the feel of her wrapped around him. “Tight…warm…made for me.”

She whimpered, pushing back against him as he began to move. His thrusts were deep and languid at first, savoring every moment. His hand slid from her back to her hip, then between her thighs, finding her center and rubbing gentle circles on her clit that made her cry out.

“You like it like this?” he asked, voice rasping against the back of her neck, “Me behind you, watching you take all this dick?”

She could only moan.

He bent low, chest to her back now, lips brushing the shell of her ear, “You’re mine when I’m like this,” he whispered, “Ain’t nobody ever gon’ love you like this. Ain’t nobody ever gon’ see you like I do.”

He kept his rhythm steady, deep strokes that dragged slow and hit something so perfect inside her she felt her legs tremble. His breath grew heavy against her neck, his hands tightening possessively. When her body began to quake, he reached around to cup her breast, squeezing it, whispering filth and love all in the same breath.

“You gonna cum for me, baby?” he groaned, “Give it to me. Let me feel that pretty pussy clutch on me.”

She cried out, her whole body bowing as the waves of pleasure washed through her. Her thighs trembled, her mouth open in a silent scream. Smoke gritted his teeth, trying to hold on, but the way she clenched around him all wet and pulsing sent him over the edge. He slammed in deep one last time, burying himself with a groan like it broke something loose in him.

For a long moment, there was only breath. Her body limp under his, his chest rising and falling against her back.

Then he kissed her spine, soft. Once. Twice.

“You good?” he whispered.

She nodded sleepily, still glowing.

He helped her turn over, pulled her into his arms, held her close.

And under the weight of the night and the slow spin of the fan overhead, Smoke whispered into her hair, “Ain’t no place I’d rather be than right here. Buried in you.”

_____________

She knew the way his hands moved. Real slow, certain, patient. He touched her like softly, like a man who had done wrong in the world but came home to her to be forgiven.

Her knees pressed into the mattress, the sheets cool beneath her thighs, but her body burned. She felt him behind her, all heat, all hunger, all heart. When his fingers slid along the curve of her ass and dipped between her folds, she moaned. Not from surprise. From relief. From recognition. He always knew where to touch.

He teased her first. Just the tip, thick and heavy, running through the slickness he drew from her so easily. Her hips shifted back, greedy now, her body aching for more.

“Please,” she whispered, not out of weakness, but need. Out of how safe she felt in the giving.

And then he entered her. Deep. Slow. Like he wanted her to feel every inch of what belonged to her.

Her lips parted around a gasp because he filled her in ways that made her question her name, her bones, her very soul. Every time, it felt like the first time. A little stretch, a little burn, and then that sweet slide that made her toes curl and her heart pound.

“You feel like heaven,” he grunted behind her. His voice was thick, his chest brushing her back now, his hand sliding around to toy with the tip of her breast. She moaned.

Arched.

His words soaked into her skin, branding her.

You’re mine…Ain’t nobody ever gon’ love you like this.

And she believed it. Because it wasn’t just how he moved inside her, it was how he looked at her. Like she was the answer to something he’d been trying to solve since birth. When her orgasm came, it wasn’t just pleasure, it was complete surrender. Her body pulsed around him, and she cried out his name, her voice raw with truth. He followed, groaning her name into her skin, flooding her with everything he had.

And when it was over, when he helped her turn over and tucked her into his arms, whispering sweet nothings and nuzzling her hair, she knew one thing for certain.

It wasn’t the stroke that wrecked her.

It was the way he saw her.

____________

After Smoke blew her back out real good, She stood by the stove, stirring tea with honey, her silk robe barely tied. Smoke watched her from the doorway, one shoulder against the frame, silent. The curls of her hair were messy, a little frizzed from the steam. Her brown skin glistened under the low light of the lamp.

He thought he was done. He really did. But looking at her, looking all good and freshly fucked the way she is, he couldn’t help himself.

“I know you watching me,” she said softly without turning, “You just gon’ stand there and stare like that?”

Smoke didn’t deny it. He stepped forward, slow, “Can’t help it. I’m memorizin’.”

She finally turned, her eyes catching his. They were soft. Sure.

“Mmm. Sound like you tryna say somethin’ sweet so I let you in my bed again.”

“Bed ain’t where I wanna be,” Smoke paused, “Least not right away.”

“Oh really? Then where you wanna be?”

“Then come do something about it.”

sets the cigarette down in the ashtray, voice dropping)

“Right behind you, baby.”

She urns, watching him closely now.

“You talk a big game.”

Smoke stepped closer, lips at her ear, “I play bigger.”

voice soft, she says, “Come show me, then.”

He’s silent. She can feel him looking. Then the mattress dips behind her. His hands grip her hips like he owns every curve.

And he did.

He took the mug from her hands, set it aside. Pulled her close, pressed her against the counter, and kissed her. Nice and slow at first, then deeper. He picked her up without a word, carried her to the bedroom, and laid her across the sheets like something precious.

She doesn’t say anything—just climbs onto the bed, slow, face forward, that robe rising up over her thighs as she lowers to her hands and knees. And when she arched her back, something inside him snapped.

Something primal.

“You already wet, ain’t you?”

“Mmmhmm…”

Smoke thumbed over her folds, groaning.

“Damn. Drippin’ for me.”

She spoke breathy, “I been thinkin’ about you all day.”

“Yeah? Thinkin’ what?”

“You been away too long, daddy. You know how this pussy get when you ain’t here to feed her and drink from her. Thinkin’ how good daddy feels inside me. How full I get. How deep daddy go.”

Smoke groaned, “Say it again.”

She moans as he glides the head of his dick against her entrance.

“You hear that shit? Fuck…”

“I’m so wet…”

“Leaking, baby…”

“Get in your pussy…”

His hands gripped her hips with, fingers spreading across that beautiful brown skin. He was already throbbing, slick with her heat, the scent of her flooding his senses. Smoke entered her slow. Deep. Until their bodies were flush and her breath shuddered out of her. His voice cracked a little as he pushes in slow.

“Fuck, yes—just like that. Take it… take all this dick, girl.”

She cries out, grabbing the sheets. He rocks into her, deep and steady. Her body slaps back against his, the sound slick and sinful.

“Fuck… you so thick. I can’t—”

“Yes, you can. You always take me. You was made for this dick.”

She choked on a gasp.

“Deeper…”

“You greedy tonight, huh?” Smoke grunts as he drives in deeper, “Talkin’ all sweet and soft just to get me to fuck the soul outta you.”

She smiling through the moans, “It’s workin’, ain’t it?”

Smoke laughed low, dark, “Smart mouth.”

He leans forward, one hand sliding between her legs, rubbing slow.

Smoke:

“Feel that? That lil’ spot right there?”

“Y-yes! Baby—right there—”

“That’s mine pussy.”

“It’s yours… all of me is.”

Smoke growled against her neck, “You gon’ come for me?”

“I’m close—keep goin’, please—”

“I got you, baby. You know I do.”

She came undone. Smoke continued pumping her from behind. Filling that slick heat with his thick dick.

“Damn,” he breathed, “You take me like you need it.”

“You love fucking me like this…”

She moaned something soft and sweet, pressing back against him, that little body clenching around him like it didn’t want to let go. He moved slow at first. Long strokes. His eyes glued to the way her ass bounced, the way her back curved like poetry.

“You know what this pussy do to me?” he groaned, “You know what it is to me?”

She reached back blindly, her fingers brushing his thigh. “It’s yours.”

His eyes rolled. He gripped her harder and gave her what she asked for. His pace deepened, his voice turned gravelly with desire.

He bent forward, lips on her ear, “I ever tell you how fuckin’ beautiful you are like this? Bent over, taking all of me?”

She cried out when he reached around to stroke her clit, his fingers slick, skilled, relentless.

She came in a wave of sound and shaking, her body squeezing him tight. He groaned loud, almost pained, and spilled into her with a final thrust that rattled the headboard.

She collapsed onto the bed, breathless, glowing. He followed, pulling her onto her side, chest to her back, wrapping her in warmth.

“You alright, baby?” he murmured.

She hummed a yes, barely conscious, smile playing on her lips.

He kissed the back of her neck. “You wore me out.”

She giggled.

“Gon’ have me out here weak. Begging,” he whispered. “You don’t even know what you do to me.”

She turned in his arms, their legs tangled now. Her fingers traced his jaw, “I do.”

He kissed her then. Slow. Sweet.

And outside, the cicadas still sang. But inside this little room, nothing moved except two hearts beating in rhythm.

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virgonessatbest · 27 days ago

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Relationship HCs

Still unsure of how I wanna write the Sinners characters so forgive me if these are a bit choppy, I'm working on it!

Warnings: Mentions of blood, death, and very slight arson, brief mention of sexual talk(Stack), mentions of crime, brief mention of a gun(Smoke), mention of stalking(Remmick obvi), manipulation(Remmick), control(Remmick), kinda gaslighting(Also Remmick, damn this guy's a catch), AFAB reader in mind though it's mostly gender neutral, I think that's it

Characters: Smoke, Stack, and Remmick

Elijah "Smoke" Moore

His life has been full of corruption, backdoor deals, and distrust in the system. That's just how it is for men like him. Smoke reads people like newspapers, and you earn his trust slowly. If you're "not from around here," he watches you like a hawk at first.

On the other hand, Smoke doesn’t "date"—he courts. Expect slow-burn tension built through lingering glances, quiet walks through town at dusk, and handwritten notes left tucked in a book. It’s old-fashioned in the most soul-stirring way.

He doesn’t open up quickly. Early on, he watches you more than he speaks to you—measuring your words, your reactions, your soul. But once Smoke trusts you, his emotional depth is staggering. He doesn’t say "I love you" often, but when he does, it lands like scripture.

He isn’t the type to grandstand. He protects you with subtleties—walking on the side closest to traffic, checking the locks twice, noticing when your mood shifts even if you don’t say a word. He’s like a steady hand on your lower back guiding you through a crowd. And he'd kill for you without a second thought. But you’d never know—his threats are silent. Just a hard stare, a slow stand, a calm "We done here?"

Smoke doesn’t announce his anger. He doesn’t rant, or threaten. He watches. Measures. Files it away. If someone hurts you—really hurts you—he doesn’t need to raise his voice. He’ll simply make sure that person’s luck runs out. Even if that's simply pulling out his pistol.

Smoke likes smalls rituals. Consistency. Getting up at the same time, making the bed, making coffee, sitting down to eat. He’ll invite you to share those rituals, not to control you, but because sharing sacred things is how he shows love.

You'll never have to guess what he wants. Despite not being a talker, Smoke isn’t a game player. But you will need to read between silences. In return, you get loyalty and devotion that feels elemental.

He's not PDA-heavy, but behind closed doors? Smoke’s hands say everything his mouth doesn’t. He holds you like he’s grounding himself. It's deliberate, reverent. Like he's memorizing every part of you.

Elias "Stack" Moore

Stack falls fast and hard—if he's into you, everyone knows. He’ll drag you into a whirlwind of chaotic plans, late-night drives, half-baked schemes, and sweet nothings mumbled against your neck at 3AM.

If anyone so much as looks at you wrong, he’s ready to throw down. You're his, and though he’d never cage you, he makes damn sure you feel claimed—in the best, most delicious way.

He can sweet-talk you into anything—an argument, a kiss, a stupid adventure. But beneath the charisma is someone who feels everything too much, all the time. You’ll be the calm in his storm, but Stack needs someone who isn’t afraid to stand up to him, too.

He’s the kind of guy who says "I love you" mid-fight, throws his jacket over a puddle for you, and would absolutely get you anything you ask for, even if it's mentioned in passing.

A stolen locket. A nice coat he bought for you. A flower plucked from the cemetery fence. He shows love like a fox bringing gifts to your doorstep—part concerning, part suspicious, but still all sweet.

Physical affection is constant with Stack. Arms slung over your shoulders, kisses on your temple mid-sentence, rough hands tangled in your hair. Stack loves hard, and he needs to feel close to you to function.

He uses every possible term of endearment for you—"doll," "sugar," "honeybee," "sweetheart," "babygirl," "pretty thing." He’ll call you "trouble" with a grin and whisper sexual things under his breath in front of others just to see you blush.

You spend most nights at the Juke joint together. He thrives in low-lights with the blues playing and whiskey flowing. He’ll take your hand and twirl you through a crowd like you’re the only person alive. He might get into a fight. He'll likely win. He’ll definitely make it look like it was for you—even if it wasn’t.

Stack takes things personally. You cry? He’s already on his way to break somebody’s jaw. He doesn’t think first. He reacts. Wildly, passionately. His love is loud, so his vengeance is louder.

Stack's temper is a match waiting for a strike. But with you? He softens. Even during the fights you may have, he'll barely raise his voice, if at all.

He is feral about making sure you’re taken care of. He grew up knowing pain and hunger, and you’ll never feel it if he can help it. Even if it means going back to a life of crime.

Remmick

At first, he waits. Watches. Learns what you like, what you dislike before you ever know his name. Then, Remmick woos like a gentleman—pulls out your chair, quotes poetry, knows exactly when to laugh, when to lean in, when to say your name like it means everything. But it’s never just romance—it’s strategy. Your reactions are data. Your affection is leverage. At least, that's how it started.

Everyone else is expendable, usable. But you? You’re different. Once you’re his, he doesn’t let go. He might test you, manipulate you, but it always comes with that unsettling devotion. You’re not part of his plan. You are the plan.

He'll act like some upper class man in most scenarios, folks trust easier that way. But when it comes down to it, he fights like someone who grew up on the wrong side of the tracks. Because truthfully, he did. That duality is part of his draw—and his danger.

With enough motivation, he can find anyone. And if they hurt you or insult you, you won’t hear a word about it after the fact. You’ll just see a headline the next day about a new missing person. And his only comment? "I warned 'em."

Whether you have money or not means nothing to Remmick, he doesn't want that. He wants your loyalty. Not the easy kind. The kind forged through shared secrets and dangerous truths. If he has your trust and you have his, he’ll kill the whole town for you. Burn the world for you.

He's possessive, but not always openly. You won’t always see it. But you’ll feel it when someone else touches your hand too long. That cold silence. The next day, the person is gone. "They had debts," "Shame, really."

Remmick doesn’t control in obvious ways—he guides. He convinces. Suddenly you’re wearing what he likes, avoiding who he hates, echoing things he’s said. But he frames it like care. And maybe to some extent, he believes that's what it is.

He doesn’t believe in second chances. Betrayal is met with ruin. But if you wrong him—hurt him, lie to him—he can’t let go. Not really. He might punish, withdraw, twist the knife—but he won’t walk away. You’ve been branded into his soul, and he hates that as much as he craves it.

Someone talks bad about you? They’re scared shitless later that night. Touches you without permission? Their business burns down. Hurts you? They vanish. He doesn’t just get even—he erases.

He trusts almost no one. Most people he keeps close are pawns and usually not even people. But you? You’re the one person he doesn’t use, even if he manipulates the world around you. He’d kill for you. He’d die for you. And though he'd never let it happen, he expects the same devotion.

You’ll never get the full story (At least not while you're human). Not until it’s too late. You’ll know pieces: his banjo, the letter in a foreign language he hides, the night he came home covered in blood with calm eyes. You’re not sure if he’s trying to protect you—or protect himself from what you might think.

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