Smarty

Hit and run, baby, i'll hit it and run

Author's warning : This has dark, graphic smut. It also has somnophelia themes, and It definitely falls into the dubious-consent category, so please don't read if that bothers you, even a little bit! I love you all, and i want you stay safe in ur own head-space lovies <3

***

It's always the same with Vance. He comes to you in the darkness when he knows you should be asleep, comes late at night with a knock on the window and a shove upwards at the sill. You don't lock your windows, it's on the second floor after all, but that doesn't stop Vance.

It's hot and muggy. He swipes the sweat from his forehead, curls slick with perspiration, and clambers in. He's loud and clumsy, ungainly even in the bright sunlight. He shoots a glance at the door but the light doesn't flick, and in the silent house, the only breathing that escapes is yours. Little soft sighs, no snores.

Vance looks at the door and kicks the foot of the bed to see if someone startles, but no sound. you're a deep sleeper. Your parents aren't. He'd crept in before and had to hide under the bed as your dad came, scratching his head, suspicious, wondering what made the things go bump in the night.

Vance; Vance was the thing that went bump in the night.

They must be out again, aren't home tonight. Vance is glad to know this. He doesn't like to be quiet. He doesn't like having to smother the whines with the palm of his hand, doesn't like to crush out the pleas with tongue and teeth. He likes to hear the words hitch in your throat, likes to feel the way you come undone around him. He likes to watch you with the light on, likes to spread you apart with his thighs and spit on his fingers.

"Baby." Vance breathes the word aloud and brushes his thumb across your cheek. "y/n, you awake yet?"

you sprawl across the bed, brows knitted together, too tired to startle. Vance pulls back the covers, see's the sheen of sweat across your skin, and grasps an ankle in his hand, tugs you down the bed with it. You mumble incoherently, press a slack hand against the pillows but fail to stiffen up, still too tired to shove him aside.

Vance likes you like this; likes how easy he can pull you around. He likes you pliant, pushable. He likes you to see the things he does to you. He likes you better when you come undone with his name on your lips and your fingers in his hair.

It's sauna-hot and the white wife-beater Vance likes to wear is sticking to his skin. He stops at the edge of the bed, grasps the hem of the vest, and rolls it upwards, dragging the cotton up and off of his body, tosses it to the floor once he's done. Vance drags a hand along your body, feeling clammy flesh, the flare of breast and hip. You're wearing one of his t-shirts, black with the name of his favorite metal band emblazoned along the front, and he feels himself harden at the thought.

He leans down closer to your face, a hand moving strands of your hair away and behind your ear. You shift slightly. He hooks a finger through his jeans, pulls them down, cock stiff and leaking. You stretch out, languid, legs bent a little. Vance pushes up your t-shirt, feels the softness of your skin, and palms your breast with coarse hands.

Impatient, never one for waiting very long, Vance dips his hand to the inside of your thighs and spreads you apart. He touches you through the thin black panties, slides the fabric aside and drags his thumb across your cunt. Clean-shaven, just the way he likes it.

"Too fuckin' dry." He says, the disappointment snapping hard inside him. "Don't fuckin' know I'm here yet, do ya?"

Vance brings his fingers to his mouth, kneels on the bed, spits on the third and fourth finger. He leans forward, cages you in with his arm above your head, feels the length of his dick harden as he watches you bridle against him, lashes fanned shut. Still asleep, still too tired to realise that your boyfriend has snuck into your bedroom in the black of night and plans to fuck you with his fingers.

"Such a good girl for me, ain't ya?" Vance nips at your neck and places a kiss to the contour of collarbone. "Never complaining, always there when i want ya."

Vance rubs at your clit, sucks a dark mark onto the flesh of your throat. You swing your arm up in the air as if to swat him away, and Vance grabs your wrist, brings it back down to the mattress, brushes against you with his bulge. His big calloused hand gropes at the flesh of your thigh as he slid a spit-slickened finger into your cunt. The second finger brought a sting of pain that made you press your body into the mattress, away from his prying hands.

"None of that, sweetheart." He mutters, twisting his fingers inside you cruelly. "Gonna stretch you out real good."

you breathe heavy, eyes half-open, blinking bleary-eyed into the black twilight. "huh? wha-"

"It's me, baby." Vance says, licking a stripe along the underside of your throat. "It's me; it's Vance."

you grasp his wrist to stop him from penetrating you further. "Vance? W-what . . ."

"I missed ya, baby. I missed that fuckin' pussy." Vance kisses you, mean and rough, all teeth and tongue. He tastes like cheap vodka and cigarettes, and it doesn't matter that he's just turned eighteen, he's too young to be so mean. He's mean and he knows it; he gets off on it.

"Vance, my parents-"

"Gone, baby." He breathes, unzips his jeans. "They're gone."

"vance, i-"

He silences you with a kiss. He's so fuckin' hard it hurts. You're caged and uncomfortable, cunt slick with spit and stretched with his thick fingers. The ridges of his metal rings bump against your cunt when he thrusts them inside, twisting cruelly. He fucks your pussy with his hand and leaves no space for complaint. He runs his tongue along his lower lip and tugs your panties to the side. He pulls his dick out of his boxers and slides the tip of his dick against your mound.

Vance doesn't use a condom, ever. He's stupid. He doesn't care what happens if your blood doesn't come, he just knows a guy who can sort it out.

Vance smiles, real sleazy, and brushes your hair behind your ear. He'd be sweet if he weren't such an asshole. He'd be nicer if he didn't slide inside you with one thrust of his hips. If he didn't slide his arms under your back and lift you up, limp like a broken doll, limp like a dead girl. He's nasty and mean to roll you forwards, rock you on his dick like a slut.

He pushes all the way inside. "That's my girl." He praises, yanking your head back, bites your kiss-tainted lips and lets you gasp. "My girl, always gonna be my girl."

He growls as a small noise escapes your mouth. you thread your fingers through his hair, pull hard at the thick blonde curls, and arch your back to meet the rhythm of his thrusts. you whine his name, legs spread so wide it hurts.

The words are practically a snarl. "Always so fuckin' tight, can't get enough of this pussy."

your hips arch off the mattress. Vance forces them down with a bruising grip, blue eyes narrowing, lower lip caught between his teeth.

"Nasty little slut." He spits, grabbing your jaw between his thumb and forefinger. "Clenching around my dick like a fuckin' vice."

Vance's mood swings are enough to give you whiplash. Sex with him is volatile and unexpected. Last week, he had spread your pussy apart with his thumb and spat in the hole, smiled as your cunt had clenched around nothing. The week before, he'd made you ride him with your wrists bound behind your back.

Vance squeezes your tits through the thin t-shirt, pinches your nipples, pulls them harshly. you whine at the contact and press your hand against his shoulder to create some distance. A fierce, almost angry expression creases his pretty features, and he grits his teeth together. "Dirty bitch." His voice sends a wave of arousal pooling in the pit of your stomach. "So fuckin' needy. can't help it, can ya?"

you come undone with his name on your lips, arms wrapped around his neck, chest rising and falling, heart thumping. you come undone, split apart with his dick, his spit slick between your thighs. Vance chokes back a moan, his hips bucking as he bottoms out. you pepper his face with kisses, shoving the sweat-slick hair from his face, as he collapses on top of you, biting his lip hard enough to bleed.