Sinner †

You're tipsy enough to admit you like the attention when a man much older than you swaggers over from across the bar and starts mansplaining the rules of pool. It helps that he's handsome, his button-up shirt opened low, a thick gold medallion hanging over his chest, his jaw nice and square and strong.

“Like this?” you say airily, leaning over the pool table just slightly, planting your non-dominant hand on the baize. The man chuckles beside you, but his eyes rove over your body with an intensity that makes you blush.

“You're gonna wanna lean all the way over it, sweetheart. Real low. So you can aim.” He says it through a cocksure grin, nodding at the edge of the pool table. You stifle a laugh at the blatant flirt, then readjust your footing.

“Right. Like this?” You bend over the pool table, reaching one arm out in front of you with the end of the cue stick above your thumb. Your dominant hand rears back, holding it loosely. You grin freely, out of sight, when the man comes closer to you.

“Getting there,” he says, encouraging. His hand touches your elbow, raising it higher so your cue is at a better angle. Then he leans over you slightly, his body warm behind yours as he touches your dominant hand next. “Hold this a little tighter for me. There we go.”

You adjust your grip, tightening your hand on the cue, then shift your weight so you're leaning comfortably on the pool table. It's hard against your hips, but your new friend's touch distracts you from that, drowns out the music of the bar, the chatter of the other patrons surrounding you. All you can focus on is him.

“Now, this arm,” he says, slowly sliding a large hand down your non-dominant arm in front of you, “this arm doesn't move. Only thing you gotta worry about is keeping it steady.”

“Keep it steady. Got it,” you say, your eyes flickering to the side. His hand almost completely covers your own, the warm weight of it sending electricity through your arm. He has to lean over you slightly to reach, not quite on top of you, but close enough that the warmth from his chest crawls up your spine, slow and intense, like lava flowing upwards over your body. You lower your chest slightly, arching your back, and your breath hitches when your ass lightly touches the front of his pants. “And then I just hit the white ball?”

“Right. Remember now, you're sinking the stripes,” he says, voice low. He draws his hand back, gliding up to your elbow as his other one floats to your hip. He smells expensive, his cologne spicy and woody, his clothes marked with the smoky scent of cigars. You take a slow breath in, savoring it, and when you breathe out, your hips shift back to meet his. He's warm, or maybe it's the booze, or maybe it's the intoxicating feeling that rushes into you when you feel him press closer. “Got it?”

“Got it,” you repeat. But your voice is hazy and unfocused as the man squeezes your hip, almost pulls you further into him. He's half-hard, that has to be what you’re feeling, and it hits you suddenly that you're basically grinding on a stranger in a dimly-lit bar. You tilt your head, addressing him as his large hand creeps up beneath your shirt, teasing the skin beneath. “Hey. What's your name, anyway?”

“Stan,” he says, a smile in his voice. You hum. Then you shoot. The cue ball hits a striped ball straight-on, right in line with another one near the edge of a side pocket. Both of them sink, the cue ball bouncing gently against the rail. Stan's hand freezes. Behind you, he rises to his full height. You push off the pool table enough to turn around, your knees knocking against his, and you laugh at the stunned expression on his face as he stares at the pocket.

“Hey,” you say, drawing his attention to you. You grin at him, holding your cue stick loosely in one hand as you bring the other to his front. Your fingertips dip over the fabric of his shirt, touching the exposed skin of his hairy chest. The medallion glimmers in the bar's low light, and your gaze flickers to Stan's chain, his lips, his deep brown eyes. You slide your hand up, tugging gently at his chain. “You wanna get out of here?”

Stan blinks at you, and for a second he looks like a dumb, handsome idiot, a flush on his face, his hands floating in the air near your hips. But then he chuckles. He hooks a finger in one of your belt loops and tugs your hips to his. This time, you know for sure: he's half-hard, and he's shameless about it.

“You tell me,” Stan says, a sharpness to his charismatic grin. Heat flutters in your stomach.

sfw:

big on chivalry! says he was raised “right” and he’s a “gentleman” etc. holds open doors for you and offers his arm instead of holding hands. also really big on flowers or other gifts

pointedly uses the word “date” instead of just inviting you out: “great! it’s a date!” vs “let’s go out tonight” (yes he thinks there’s a difference)

can’t keep his hands off you! always needs to be touching your waist, your back, your wrist, or at least standing close enough to know you’re right next to him

cheesy flirt!! loves the yawn and stretch to put his arm over you. constantly uses his bank of pick-up lines on you: “did it hurt?... when you fell from heaven?” and “you got a map? cuz i just got lost in your eyes!” probably studied a book of them in high school

that being said stan gets so easily flustered it’s hilarious HAHAHA the second you flirt back or even give him a smile and a Look up and down he’s sweating

never admits that he gets flustered because he’s used to the idea of being a Big Macho Man. but he knows you know that he knows how easily you can make him melt

enjoys you playing with his face like feeling up his jaw and cheeks and nose and mouth. it makes him feel pretty!

loves holding you in his lap… will refuse to admit his legs are numb in favor of hugging you around your waist and nuzzling the back of your head

loves loves loves teasing you! like grabbing things out of your hands and holding them high up, grabbing your waist and holding you hostage when you try to stand or leave the room, constantly asking “what’s in it for me?” whenever you ask him to cut it out or do something simple like pass your phone. but stan will never ever say no to a kiss

nsfw:

obvious in all my fics but stan cannot shut up. he loves to talk during sex and loves to make you talk back: begging for him, asking “politely” for him to touch you, telling him how good you feel

MAJOR praise kink. huge. the reason he’s so chatty during sex is to make sure you want the things he wants. he craves the validation that he makes you feel good. LOVES to hear you moan and make noise for him

BIG SERVICE GUY!!! loves going down on you. literally moans into you because he loves the taste and how good it feels for you. probably came in his pants once or twice just from palming himself during it

loves to overstimulate you. always reminds you to literally shove his head away if it’s too much because he gets so lost in how loud you get

he’s kind of gross lol he’ll wipe his sex hands all up on his clothes or sheets and not bother washing his hands unless you tell him to

BIG kisser. lots of tongue. he doesn’t have much experience kissing so he’s really sloppy with it especially during sex when he’s trying to kiss you and fuck you at the same time

tits guy! doesn’t even matter whether you have tits or not. he loves them and loves nipples in his mouth especially when you arch your chest up to him

loves coming inside

he’s so gross! if he doesn’t come in you he’ll come ON you and smear it into your skin. the messier the better

aftercare is so important to him after meeting you… he doesn’t have much experience with it himself but he adores you and can’t help himself from snuggling up even if you’re complaining about how gross the sheets are

inspo from Must See: Mystery Shack by guilty_pleasures_abound but he definitely gets generous after a good fuck. will run out to get you water or snacks or just some wipes to get you cleaned up!!

He still couldn’t quite grasp how in seven layers of Hell she had managed to manipulate the algorithm with her simple videos. All she did was try the newest foods around the Pentagram and review random merchandise in a phenomenon called “unboxing.” 

His gaze inevitably wandered to the deep trench of cleavage she prominently displayed. He scoffed. He’d seen better. After all, his partner controlled the porn industry in Hell.  

Yet, that didn’t stop him from pausing her video sometimes, openly staring at her chest for a few seconds… or minutes…or maybe he may have saved a couple (several) screenshots of her video and her photos from her Sinstagram account. Perhaps he might have even saved some of her more salacious-looking photos on his internal hard drive for private viewing. 

All for research, of course.  

“Now, I know there’s this series – the longest-running series in all of Hell…” she trailed off, her plump, pretty lips curling into a mischievous smirk.  

Vox straightened in his chair, feeling the first flutter of excitement in his chest. Could it be? Was she going to mention his most prized project, “Yeah, I Fucked Your Sister, So What?!” for free?  

Excitement surged within him, a giddy thrill that this lame, greenhorn, no-name nobody was about to mention his series to her 2.5 million (and growing) viewers.  

“Guys, guys, guys,” she laughed, raising her perfectly manicured hands in the air as if in surrender. “I watched the first season and wow–” 

Vox pressed his thighs together, waiting with bated breath for what he hoped would be a glowing review. Perhaps he should contact her, reach out, sponsor her like all the tiny, insignificant, worthless, businesses were doing.  

“I gotta tell you,” She shrugged, raised her immaculate trimmed brow, and with a hearty guffaw, said, “it’s pretty mid.” 

Disbelief washed over him as he stared at the screen. Instinctively, Vox paused the video, staring at the freeze-frame image of her with a large smile dancing across her lips.  

Mid? Mid? What the fuck did mid even mean? 

Scrutinizing the word in his mind, he thought maybe she had given his series an average score. Average. He could work with average. But judging from the comments filled with those annoying crying laughing emojis and agreement that it was bad, he realized it was another piece of slang from this decade that he somehow missed.  

Power surged through his head as his mind dove into the database, and he opened his trusty Urban Hell Dictionary. 

The definition of Mid was… 

Below average. 

Not good. 

Mediocre.  

Boring.  

“WHHHHAT?” He roared, his voice glitching in between the long-drawn-out word. Springing up from his chair, he picked up his mug before hurling it against the polished floor. It shattered into a cascade of jagged pieces, their sharp lines reminiscent of crooked, mocking smiles. The hot coffee splashed onto the hem of his pants, its sudden heat mirroring the fury rising within him.  

Memories surged through him, back to when he was alive, back when they cancelled him for not being innovative enough, for not being entertaining enough, for being… 

Being…. 

Boring.  

His eyes twitched, electricity crackled and jolted up in arcs across the surface of his head before fizzling out at the points of the antennas from his hat.  

He should kill her. Get Val to make her disappear or force her into working at his porn studio. How dare she call the fruits of his labour…b-bo-… He seethed, unable to even say the damn, blasted word.  

Vox thought of a thousand ways to torment her, relishing the idea of making her cry with her below-average, not good, mediocre, BORING looking face. Anger surged, boiled, in his veins, and he did what he knew was the best course of action when faced with this unprecedented insult.  

After all, with VoxTek, he had an image to keep of being on the side of the lowly Sinners. He chuckled, forced, but chuckled, nonetheless. It would smear his good image to go after some small, nobody of a Sinner. After all, he was an Overlord and the CEO of the largest corporation in all the five fucking points of the Pentagram.  

She was going to get so cancelled.  

That he would make sure of.  

Humming a random, jaunty little tune, you shut off the ring light and closed your laptop. Stretching your back, you sighed in satisfaction as your bones gave a gratifying crack. You giggled at some comments from your review of the popular series, “Yeah, I Fucked Your Sister, So What?!”  

There were passionate defences claiming the series was a work of art, which was far-reaching at best. It was mildly entertaining enough to watch while you painted your nails. Seriously, the show looked like it was produced for the audience in the 1950s.  

You were the first influencer to give a poor rating to the TV series, and being first meant more controversy, more views, and more money from sponsorships as you rose to the trending list once again.  

Damn, gaming the system was the best. Truly, Hell was way behind its time compared to what people did for views back when you were alive.  

Following your routine, you washed away the makeup, changed from your tight-fitting clothes into a loose T-shirt and sweatpants, and laid on your king-sized bed that was far too big for one person. Staring up at the ceiling, you were surrounded by the void of your loneliness.  

You should…go out and fuck someone.  

Preferably, someone related to the entertainment industry. All that juicy gossip about your newest fling always raked in views and clicks.  

But the idea fizzled and died as you thought about having to play the submissive role, feeding their giant egos to compensate for their shit-sized cocks. You considered visiting the BDSM club, but influential people were rarely found out in the open in those shops. There was probably a private club that you weren’t invited to…yet.  

Vain.

Empty.

Nothing.  

It didn’t change much, did it? Whether you were alive or damned.  

Everything about your life was the same.  

Sitting up, you grabbed your phone and started to scroll through Voxazon, frivolously spending thousands of Hell bucks on useless crap.  

Retail therapy.  

The tried-and-true method to stave off depression and apathy.  

You were ready for that dopamine hit as you read through the reviews of the latest dildo models, your lips pulling into a sly smirk at all the new features of VoxTek’s newest sex toy.  

A chime resounded from your phone – a notification from your personal email. Your brows raised as the sender was from [email protected] 

Confused, you opened the email, wincing at the possibility of infecting your device with a virus. But that thought quickly vanished as you read the email’s content.  

Subject: (no subject)  Dear Bitch,   Retract that fucking review about “Yeah, I Fucked Your Sister, So What?!” from your video today, or you will regret it.   Furthermore, you have a “mid” face, and so are your boobs. Your boobs are super fucking mid. You probably get MORE views if you actually covered your boobs because that’s how MID they are.   And all your videos are MID. Especially the one you posted on July 7, 20XX, where you reviewed the Hellover drink. The one where you wore that shitty neon green tank top, which, by the way, is also fucking MID.   Anyway, this is my FIRST and LAST warning.   Fuck you.   P.S. Seriously. Fuck you.

Your eyes slowly blinked, once, twice, before a hearty, genuine laugh erupted from you. Oh my God. Did this prick actually hack your account to get your personal email to send such a shitty, lame-ass message? 

Breaths coming out in short, uneven huffs, you rolled over on your bed from side to side, clutching your stomach. Tears formed in the corners of your eyes from laughing so hard. You hadn’t laughed this genuinely since you fell to Hell.  

As your eyes traced over the words of their message, you laughed out loud again. It looked like you had a butt-hurt superfan.  

Humming, you rolled over onto your stomach and kicked your feet idly as you stared at the message. “Thanks for the laugh, virgin prick,” you whispered, planting a loud smooch on your cellphone screen. “Annnnd, delete!” Your index finger daintily tapped the trash can icon.  

Now, back to the task at hand. You debated between getting the glittery pink dildo or the two prong dildo. Tilting your head, you decided you deserved a treat, so you ordered both. 

As you were purchasing more random crap, your eyes glazed over, your mind fervently thinking of what to say for your next season review for that TV series. Just then, an annoying ad popped up – of course, from VoxTek – promoting their shitty Cobra vibrator. Seriously, you tried it, and it did nothing for you.  

An idea rapidly formed, growing until you jumped out of bed and ran to your laptop. No one had truly (and honestly) reviewed some of VoxTek’s terrible sex toys yet. In fact, you noticed that every single review for their sex toy line had glowing five-star ratings.  

Now, some of their toys were outstanding, making you come so hard until you were sobbing, soaking your underwear from your release. But that was one out of every five toys you purchased. Like all massive corporations, VoxTek was clearly buying reviews, giving themselves perfect scores.  

Perhaps it was time to change that. 

Your review of the series and the anonymous hate message were soon quickly forgotten. This was your chance to shake things up, to give the unfiltered, raw truth that your viewers craved.  

With a determined glint in your eyes, you started drafting your next video script. This was going to be huge, bigger than Jerry’s dick from last week, that was for sure.  

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