Gay Gremlin Rambles

you didn’t even remember what you’d said to piss her off, it was probably some little remark, maybe you’d pushed too far teasing her, you know. but whatever it was, ambessa was taking it out on you now. her hips slammed into yours over and over, dragging rough noises out of your throat, your cheek pressed into the sheets. she had you folded in doggy, one massive hand wrapped around the back of your neck, keeping you exactly where she wanted.

“what’s wrong with you hm?” her voice was sharp, low, biting. “you think you get to mouth off and then come crawling into my bed like this? like some needy little whore?”

your body burned at every word. the sting of her hand against your ass still lingered, your skin hot, your hole aching from the way she’d pushed in too quick, too hard. and still — you wanted her. needed her. even like this.

you whined, hips rocking back against her, but it only earned you another cruel laugh in your ear.

“so desperate. can’t even take it without crying.” her hand left your neck only to slap the curve of your ass again, hard, before gripping it tight and forcing you still. she was fucking into you mercilessly, the bed creaking with every thrust, her words cutting sharper than her cock splitting you open.

it hurt. it was good. it was everything at once.

you reached back blindly, hand fumbling towards her, towards anything you could hold onto. you just wanted that comfort, that little grounding thing — her hand in yours, even if she was furious.

but the second your fingers brushed her wrist, ambessa slapped your hand away with a snarl.

“don’t you dare,” she snapped, voice thunderous. “what? trying to tap out? trying to tell me to stop now? after begging me for this?”

your eyes went wide, tears springing hot to the corners. “nghh n-no,” you choked, voice breaking. “wasn’t — wasn’t that!”

but she didn’t listen. not at first. she only doubled down, driving into you harder, her anger fueling the roughness. her hand pressed against your back, forcing your chest into the mattress. you felt so small under her, helpless, your throat tight with sobs you tried to swallow.

it wasn’t until she heard the way your voice cracked — how you weren’t whining anymore but.. for real for real crying — that ambessa faltered. her rhythm stuttered and slowed.

“…what did you just say?” her tone had lost some of its bite, though she tried to hold it steady.

you sniffled, turning your head against the sheets so she could hear you. “just wanted…just wanted to hold your hand.”

the silence that followed felt endless. her hips stilled inside you, and you swore you felt her whole body tense, go rigid.

“fuck,” she muttered under her breath, almost too soft for you to catch.

then her hand was on your waist, not gripping, not shoving you down, but gentle, smoothing up your side. she shifted, easing out of that bruising pace, leaning down until her chest pressed to your back. her breath was hot on your neck, but her voice had dropped lower, softer.

“you should’ve said,” she murmured. but her hand found yours anyway, threading her thick fingers through your trembling ones. her palm was hot, big enough to swallow yours completely, and the second you clung to her, she squeezed back.

“i thought you wanted me to stop, darling.”

“never,” you whispered, still hiccuping through your tears.

she made a sound, half growl half exhale, like the guilt was catching in her chest. she didn’t apologise — ambessa didn’t do apologies, but her touch shifted. her hips moved again, but slower now, each roll deep and steady, stretching you instead of punishing you. her free hand stroked your hip, her mouth brushing your shoulder.

“then take me like this,” she said, quiet, rough around the edges. “no more tears.”

and she fucked you through it, not with the same fury, but with care disguised as command. every time your grip on her hand tightened, she squeezed back. when your body quivered, she slowed, grounding you with the weight of her against your spine.

you came undone like that, still hand in hand with her, her melons pressed warm to your back. your tears wet the sheets, but they were mixed now with pain and relief, hurt and love all tangled up.

The words come out muffled because I’ve already buried my face deep in the cold fabric of her jacket. It’s still wet from the autumn rain that’s been falling all day. But I don’t care. I just nuzzle closer and suck in long, shaking breaths, dying to drown in her scent.

Her hand lands in my hair.

Warm. Grounding. So her I almost cry from relief.

“Missed me, huh? Yeah, that’s hard to miss, tbh.”

Her tone is low and teasing, still carrying the chuckle from before.

I can’t respond.

I’m still in the process of disappearing into her jacket.

So I just cling harder and give a little whimper to let her know I’m still alive. Even though I’m pretty sure she can feel it from the way my little gay heart is thundering in my ribcage—pounding like it’s trying to jump out of my body and fuse with hers instead.

Gods, why do I always get so needy around her?

Well—not just around her.

When she’s about to come home, too.

By now, Vi’s carrying me into the living room, humming something low in her throat. Not quite a melody, but close. Something content. Just to let me know she’s here, even when words can’t reach me anymore.

She doesn’t even bother putting me down to get out of her outdoor clothing.

She knows there’s no way I’d allow that.

Not in my current state.

Not when I’m like this.

All, “ohmygods I tried to be good and wait for you. And I did. But it took soooooooo long and now I need you. Please. Just take me and make the world stop hurting.”

“Here we go, Princess. You’re okay now. Just gimme one sec.”

Her voice is so warm, almost tender, as she carefully lowers me onto the couch. I end up right next to my discarded book.

“Don’t go. Please?!”

Fisting my fingers into the fabric of her jacket, I try to pull her closer again.

No good.

She just tilts my chin—fingers calloused and yet so soft—and forces me to meet her silvery gaze.

“You gonna keep clutching me like I’m your emotional support tree, or you gonna let me get out of these clothes so I can take care of you properly?”

Gods.

She could’ve just ripped my whole spine out and I would’ve said thank you.

I nod—tiny, frantic—then immediately feel the panic crawl back up my throat when she steps away. My fingers twitch against the empty air where her jacket had been. It's still clutched in my lap, heavy and damp and smelling like wind and skin and her, and I almost cry again just from that.

But then—

She turns around.

And starts undressing.

Slow. Careless. Unbothered.

I sit there, frozen, jacket clutched to my chest like it’s a holy relic and I’m about to be baptized.

She shrugs out of her shirt first—long sleeves pushed up, revealing those thick, freckled forearms I want to sink my teeth into—and then that tank top that clings to every line of her back, damp and peeling like a second skin.

She kicks off her boots without looking at me. One thud. Then the other. And the sound makes something snap low in my belly, because of course even her boots are hot. Big and scuffed and hers. Fuck.

She drags off her pants next. Not sexy. Not performative. Just Vi. Unhurried. Practical. Stripped down to black boxer briefs and the sharp flex of her thighs. Her back muscles shift as she leans to peel off her socks, spine a whole landscape I want to whimper against.

I feel like I'm dying.

Actually dying.

“Mommy...” The word breaks out in a tremble. Soft. Choked. I bite it down before the second syllable dares to come out, cheeks burning like I've been caught stealing from the gods.

She looks over her shoulder.

Smirks.

And it’s not mean. Not teasing. It’s fond. Like she heard it. Took it. Kept it.

“Yeah, Princess,” she murmurs as she turns. “I know.”

I can’t even breathe.

She comes back in two strides, already crouching to scoop me up again—blanket and jacket and all—and sinks onto the couch like I weigh nothing. Like I’m just part of her. Something she’s meant to hold.

I climb onto her like in a fever. Wrap my arms around her neck and press my face into the side of it, gasping at the heat of her skin. The salt. The clean-just-got-home scent clinging to her hair. And her arms—fuck—her arms cage around me, one slung behind my back, the other curling beneath my thighs, hand gripping me like I’m something breakable she still plans to wreck.

“You smell so fucking good,” I whisper, breath hitching as my thighs flex around her waist. “You smell like you.”

Vi huffs a soft laugh against my temple, nosing into my hair. “That’s ‘cause I am me, sweetheart.”

“Shut up,” I mutter, too hot and too wrecked to be polite. “I’m spiraling. Let me spiral.”

“Go ahead,” she says, voice low and thick. Her thumb brushes along my thigh. “Spiral away, baby. I got you.”

I shudder.

Because it’s not just what she says. It’s how she says it. Like it’s a given. Like I belong here. Pressed against her chest, bare skin to bare skin now, all flushed and panting and stupid with want. And I can’t stop rocking into her just a little—just to feel the tension in her thighs, the muscle under my ass, the power she’s holding back.

“I need you,” I whisper.

“I know,” she says, so soft it hurts.

And then—her hand tilts my chin again, just like before. Not to tease. To look.

Her eyes drink me in like I’m the only thing she wants to devour.

I can’t speak. Can barely think.

“My girl,” she says, voice like smoke, and something in my chest breaks open. “You gonna be good for me?"

All I can do is nod, and then she kisses me.

Not some soft welcome-home peck. No.

She devours me. Like I’ve been driving her mad too. Like maybe I’m not the only one who can’t sleep unless she’s pressed against me. Like maybe she’s been needing this just as long.

Her tongue is slow and claiming, hand braced under my jaw as she holds me there, as if the kiss itself is an anchor. My fingers dig into her back like I could crawl into her if I tried hard enough.

I whimper into her mouth.

Vi swallows the sound and murmurs, low, “Yeah, there she is.”

That there she is wrecks me.

Because I am.

I’m right here.

And I didn’t know how bad I needed her to find me again until she did.

Her hand drags down my spine and I melt into her, pliant, breathless, already buzzing with the weight of her presence before she even lays me out properly.

She adjusts me slow, tilts me forward onto the couch. A careful tug of the waistband, a quiet hum against my shoulder blade, and then I feel it:

The press of the strap against my ass. Warm. Broad. Real in a way that short-circuits every last thought in my skull.

"You want this?” she asks, voice like a low engine.

“yeah,” I gasp. “Please. Just—please.”

Vi chuckles. That deep, smug good girl sound that punches heat down my spine.

I shudder forward on my hands, already panting as she moves behind me—

lets her thighs press firm against mine, wide and steady—

and then, finally, she rolls her hips forward and pushes in.

My breath leaves in a single broken sound.

Not from pain. Not even just from the stretch.

From the sheer, fucking relief.

She sinks in slow, grounding one hand on my hip while the other glides up my back. I feel her settle over me, weight heavy and perfect. Her front warm against my spine, her breath hot against my ear.

“Still with me, Princess?”

I nod, biting back a sob.

“Yeah. Just… f-fuck. Yeah.”

“Good.”

A kiss pressed to the back of my neck, rough lips gone gentle for one fleeting second.

Then her palm curls softly around my throat.

Not choking. Just there. Holding.

And the weight of it—Vi’s hand at my neck, strap inside me, voice in my ear—undoes something I didn’t know I was still clinging to.

Her hips roll again.

Deep.

Measured.

Ruining.

And her voice goes low, almost reverent:

“You can let go now.”

A sob slips out of me before I can stop it. My whole body tenses—then melts.

“You made it,” she murmurs, hand still at my throat, breath brushing my cheek.

“I’m here. Just relax and be good for me, Sweetheart.”

I do.

I let go.

And for the first time in days, I feel safe.

It builds fast.

Too fast.

Every thrust is steady—calculated—designed to keep me right here, caught in the quiet violence of her care. Her cock stretches me just enough to make my brain fuzz out and stay there. The hand at my throat anchors me, thumb brushing over my jaw while she fucks me like I’m the center of her whole damn universe.

And I believe her.

Gods, I believe her.

Vi breathes against my skin, not even words now—just heat and low grunts, like she’s trying to hold back and failing. Like even she can’t handle how good I feel.

My knees start to tremble. Arms give way.

But she’s already slouched over me, pressed to my back like she knew I’d fold, one forearm bracing just under my chest while her other hand—

her other hand stays right there, soft at my throat, like a promise.

“Still good for me, Princess?”

I nod—choke—whimper.

I can’t do anything else.

“Good girl,” she growls. “Fuck, you take me so well. Always so tight for me, aren’t you? So needy. So sweet.”

I sob.

I don’t mean to. It just happens.

And not because it hurts.

Because it doesn’t.

It’s the opposite of pain. It’s—

It’s everything I’ve been holding in,

every quiet ache, every moment I missed her,

every hour I curled up with nothing but a hoodie and a heartbeat in my ears pretending it was her.

And now she’s here.

Fucking me like I’m hers.

Calling me Princess like I’m precious.

Calling me good girl like it’s gospel.

And I can’t not cry.

My whole body gives way, gasping, shaking, melting against the couch while she rocks into me deeper, slower, meaner now—

like she knows I need this to crack me open fully.

“I’ve got you,” she murmurs, hand tightening just enough to make me moan. “Let it out, Sweetheart. You’re safe now.”

And I do.

I sob harder, shoving my hips back like I’m begging for more, like I could fuse with her if I just clench around her hard enough.

The tears keep coming—hot, messy, so full of relief it makes me dizzy.

She slows down even more. Makes every roll of her hips stretch out forever. Lets me feel it. Every inch, every drag, every word that falls from her mouth like prayer.

“You’re perfect like this,” she says, voice wrecked now, jaw against my shoulder. “So fucked open and full of me. Cry for me, Princess. Let it all go.”

I do.

I cry and moan and fall apart completely.

Right there, split open and so full of her I think I’ll never be empty again.

And when I come, it’s not from pressure or friction.

It’s from the way she says my name.

Low. Ragged. Like she’s about to come with me.

“Mine.”

That one word breaks me.

And I shatter like it’s what I’ve been waiting for.

Whole body trembling, voice breaking, forehead pressed to the couch as I come so hard I scream, crying through it like a blessing.

Vi stays inside me the whole time.

Just slouched against my back, cock still buried deep, hand still around my throat like it’s the only way to keep me tethered to this moment.

And it works.

Because I don’t float away.

I don’t break apart.

I just exist—wrecked, blissed out, safe—

—with her.

She doesn’t pull out.

Doesn’t even move, really.

Just stays slouched over me, breath warm on my neck, cock still seated deep inside like she means to live there now. One hand keeps cradling my throat with the softest pressure—barely anything. Just a thumb under my jawline like she’s still holding the moment together.

I twitch a little.

Whimper.

Clench around her without meaning to.

She groans—low, feral, possessive.

Like her whole body’s caught between pride and hunger.

“Still crying, huh?”

She presses a kiss just behind my ear. “Fuckin’ perfect. That’s what you are.”

Another thrust—slow, deep, just to remind me she can.

The kind that makes me hiccup on a sob and nod like a dumb little puppy.

“That’s it, Princess. Ride the high. Cry it out. Feel how good you are like this.”

And gods, I do.

I feel glorious.

Messy and used and glowing and small and safe and so fucking seen I could die like this and call it a win.

“I love how your body takes me,” she keeps going, hips barely moving now. “So strong. So pretty. And it’s mine.”

I can’t respond.

There’s too much light in my chest.

Too much ache under my ribs, like I’m being rewritten into something soft and sacred by her words alone.

She finally stills, nose pressed into the crook of my neck. And when she finally does move, it’s to pull out slowly—easing out with this obscene wet drag that leaves me wrecked, hips twitching and hole fluttering open around nothing.

I almost cry again from the loss.

But she’s already catching me.

Hands under my thighs, body folding around mine.

Just scooping me up into this messy, sleepy, half-naked tangle of limbs and blankets and her.

We collapse sideways onto the couch, and she pulls the fleece throw over both of us like it means something.

Spoiler: it does.

Her hand drifts down my back, firm and slow.

Her other stays curled at my chest, just under my ribs.

Holding me like she’s sure this is where I go.

“You did so good for me,” she whispers.

Soft now. Voice worn out and warm.

I nod against her collarbone, snotty and glowing and so fucking done.

My whole body limp, tucked up under her chin like she’s my gravity.

Her breath evens out slowly.

So does mine.

And for the first time all week,

I feel quiet.

Held.