Rotten girl

Your hands are drawn immediately to touch his stomach “Wait!” You cry after he tries to lower his shirt down, to prevent you rubbing the cute pudge of fat storage. He is always so concerned about being undesirable to you, even after years of reminding him that you find him extremely desirable. You trail after him around the cottage as he removes his dusty, sweaty shirt. “Where are you going?”

“Let me wash up first” the floor creaks as he walks over to the wash basin.

You watch Dunk as he leans over to splash water on his face, hands, forearms, underarms. Leaning against the wooden bedpost, you contemplate the broad expanse of his back and impossibly wide shoulders.

“Wanted to be nice smellin’ for you.” He explains sheepishly, as you hand him a small cloth to dry his face.

—

You had wanted to go into town to buy beeswax candles. Candles were something you needed - something practical. But you couldn’t help shopping at all the other vendors stalls, right?

You browsed the wares, when suddenly an older man darted in front of your path. He wore an overloaded belt of herbs and tinctures. “Dear girl. You have beared no children correct?”

You could only manage a surprised grunt at the man’s brazenness.

“I have just the thing for you! Fertility herbs. Only one brew is needed for you to be with child” he held out a vial of dried flowers. “If you need something to pique your husband’s interest, I have some very effective pollen. It would be at a discount for a beautiful lady such as yourself.”

You studied the vial in his weathered fingers, stained green from ages of handling plants. Before you would even hold out your hand to the man’s offering, Dunk was blocking your body with his own- becoming the barrier between you and the man. “The lady has no interest. You’d be wise to leave her be” He snarls. Dunk’s hand wraps around your waist, leading you away from the vendors so quickly your head spun.

—

You were in riding atop Dunk. You wanted to go like this forever, looking down at your handsome husband falling apart. Your knees wobbled a little as you raised yourself up the never ending length of his cock, then let your body slide down to the base. It was a nice, slow pace that you were in no rush to end. You gave a wiggle of your hips to grind against his coarse hair. “Gods above” he wheezes. “Little lady ‘m not going to last.”

“But I want to continue!” You lean forward, still sheathed with him, and prop yourself up in elbows, face in your hands, looking down at him. “You make me feel so good, and I love you so much and-“

“You must stop” he runs a hand though strawberry blonde hair in exasperation. “I cannot last” he shakes his head, hand covering his eyes so he cannot see you atop him, since he is teetering so close to the edge of release.

“Well you may finish, but then we can keep going, yes? It doesn’t have to stop after you release. Men and women can have multiple.” You remind him.

Because BB has seen plenty of want. Want is common. Want is just hunger. But what he heard through that wall (the slow moments, the ones where Bobby's hands weren't rushing, where you were just holding each other in the dark of a closed furniture store, foreheads together, breathing in sync, moaning into each other's mouths) that was something else.

That was two incomplete things trying to become one complete thing, and for a creature who's been singular and untouched for his entire ancient existence, that was the most fascinating phenomenon he'd ever encountered.

Not the sex.

The merging.

Every gasp that said I trust you with this. Every caress that said I know exactly where you need me. The way your bodies seemed to already know a language he didn't have a mouth to speak.

He wanted that.

Not the act itself. Not yet, not at first. He wanted to be the reason someone made those sounds. He wanted to be held like that. Wanted to know what it felt like to have someone pull him closer instead of pulling away, to have someone say his name (whatever his name would become) with that same open-door warmth.

So when he finally builds his body (Bobby's body, better, perfected) he's not starting from zero. He's been studying. He knows what Bobby did. He knows what worked, what made you arch, what made you laugh, what made you go quiet in the good way. He's an apex predator and you're a subject he's devoted himself to with the same focus he'd give to hunting.

But here's the thing: he's never felt it.

He knows the steps. In theory. He doesn't know the sensation. The first time you touch him (really touch him, skin to skin, your hand on his chest, his brand-new nerve endings firing for the first time) it's going to hit him like a freight train.

Every point of contact lighting up a body he built specifically to be touched by you. He designed these hands to hold you. He designed this mouth to kiss you, and kiss you, and kiss you. He built every nerve ending in this skin as an instrument tuned to your specific frequency, and he's never once been played.

Is he going to be good at it?

He's going to be devastating at it.

He watched Bobby fumble, watched Bobby get lazy, watched Bobby take shortcuts because Bobby knew you'd forgive him for it.

BB doesn't have that luxury. BB knows he's a copy, an imitation, a face borrowed from a man who didn't deserve it, and he knows you're going to be comparing every single second of it. So he's going to be meticulous. Thorough. He's going to take what Bobby did right and do it slower. Do it better. Do it sweeter and meaner and with that all consuming want he has for you.

And the things Bobby wasted? The way Bobby would roll over after, already half-asleep, already somewhere else in his head? The way Bobby would let the distance creep back in before your skin was even cool?

BB's not going to waste a single second of it. He's going to be the Bobby in the beginning, the one who loved you, but better in every way.

He's going to stay. He's going to keep touching you. He's going to learn what it means to feel another person's heartbeat slow down against his chest and he's going to become addicted to it.

He's someone who wanted this (wanted you, specifically, only you) for a long time. Who's built himself from the ground up to be the version of Bobby that never looks away, never checks out, never lets the silence curdle into something cold.

He's been alone for an eternity. He watched Bobby have everything he wanted and let it rot.

He's not Bobby.

doggy on couch ("lazy susan")

one of tt!aerion's favorite positions is you sprawled out on the couch, on your stomach and pounding into you from behind, his hands tangling in your hair, yanking your head back as he grunts with each thrust or his hands gripping your hips hard enough to leave marks.

the worn fabric of the couch creaks under you both, the smell of his cheap cologne and your pretty perfume mixing with the heat of your skin. his cock presses against your entrance, teasing, before he pushes inside stretching you open. he groans when you take him, you're always so so so tight for him!! he won't last long with your walls fluttering like that.

he’ll let out a string of low, guttural curses that get muffled by your gasps. he likes that he can see the way you take every inch, the way you stretch around him, desperate to accommodate him completely. he’ll grip your hips harder, nails digging into your skin, and lean over you, trapping you against the worn cushions.

"look at me, c'mon look at me-" he’ll command, his voice rough and demanding as he picks up the speed, pounding into you with a ferocity that leaves you seeing stars. the sound of skin slapping against skin is loud in the small, cramped space of the living room, echoing off the peeling paint and the bare walls.

face to face

aerion's absolute favorite position is anything with eye contact. on the armchair, on his bed, the front seat of the truck, on the boat…and pull you onto his lap. you straddle him, facing him, and he wraps his arms tight around your waist, his hands wandering up your back to hold you close.

he loves this angle. it lets him look deep into your eyes while he works you open. his grip on your hips is firm, anchoring you so he can lift and thrust up into you with steady, deliberate strokes, grinding against your sensitive walls.

the sight of your pretty face when he hits that sweet spot sends a spark through him. he likes watching you fall apart for him, seeing the pleasure wash over your features, your lips parting, eyes fluttering. cooing a sweet, “i know…i know, baby.”

he’ll tilt his head down to kiss you, messy and hungry, swallowing your moans against his mouth. he LOVES to kiss you, wet smooches against your cheek, jaw and neck- just anywhere he can get to, he’s kissing. his fingers trace patterns on your lower back, feeling the tremors running through you as he rocks his hips against yours. he wants to memorize every expression you make, every sound you breathe out when he fills you up completely, marking you not just with his touch, but with his gaze.

pole position (thigh master)

he'll sprawl out on the bed, one knee bent, and you'll climb over him, straddling his thigh while he lies on his back. his leg goes between yours, pressing up against your clit with every movement.

he loves that you have to grind against him to get it right, that you have to work to find the rhythm. he'll guide your hips, showing you exactly where to sit, how to angle your body so his thigh is grinding against you just right.

his hands will rest on your hips, holding you in place as he lifts his leg up to grind against you more firmly. it's intimate in a different way—slower, more deliberate. he likes watching you squirm on top of him, likes knowing he's controlling the pace without even touching your pussy.

as you start to get comfortable with the rhythm, he'll grab your hips and pull you down so he can slide his cock inside you from this angle. the combination of his thigh grinding against your clit and his cock stretching you open is too much to handle.