"Don't go setting fires when there's nothing to burn."
A sick turn of events sees Isla Telford thrown in at the deep end, battling to govern the sudden pressures of all that her father's club decidedly bestow upon her.
˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥
Tig Trager x Fem!OC...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Warning: almost smut
And come morning, Tig's stomach was in knots.
It was a full-throated affliction. Like he had been struck with a machete, beaten and bludgeoned, left for dead in one of Charming's many arid backstreets as the perpetrator got away.
Only, the convoluted scenario that festered away inside of his brain was but a convoluted scenario. Something that he had spent hours curating, dwelling on while Isla had remained sound asleep and fastened to the left side of his chest, blissfully unaware of the way that her profession had rocked his entire fucking world.
He felt the walls of sanity collapse around him, the more he thought about what she had said. Like he was completely unable to uphold even a mask of lucidity, or something remotely reminiscent of calm.
And all he wanted to do was extrapolate his innermost thoughts to Isla, though he was certain she hadn't managed to cling to a single memory from the night before.
Partially because, had she recognized the weight of what she once blurted, she would have blushed her way through the morning and cringed all the way to the Clubhouse.
But she didn't do that. Any of that. And today, like most others, started with Isla in a very compromising position, and Tig's tongue anywhere but his own mouth.
"Don't be scared, baby. Ride it."
"But..." Isla shifted so that her legs were either side of Tig as she straddled him, feeling his cock hard beneath her. "But won't it hurt? Wouldn't you just rather regular sex—"
"Angel, listen to me." Calloused palms slid over her thighs, soothing gentle, concentric circles into the supple tan flesh that he couldn't seem to get enough of.
She was, objectively, perfect in every way.
"Isla." He said, watching her silently mull it over.
She let out a soft breath and nodded with a warm, completely comfortable smile. "I am. I'm listening."
Tig waited for a few moments, until her eyes had finally found his and her visible anguish had subsided, before making his next move.
"It's not gonna hurt me, alright?" He guaranteed, slowly veering himself down the bed until he was able to rest his head on the pillow that was once untouched. "If it hurt, I wouldn't have even suggested it."
"How do you know it's not gonna hurt? It's, like, my whole weight."
"I've done this before." Isla's eyebrow raised as he spoke, waiting for him to further build on his response. "Babe, seriously. Just sit on my face, and ride my tongue."
"Sit?"
He nodded.
"Like—like sit on your face? Don't you mean hover—"
