#Willie Mitchell | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

holy-puckslibrary · 4 months

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━ ��𝐈𝐕𝐄 𝐃𝐄𝐌𝐎𝐍𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍

˗ˏˋ main masterlist ˎˊ˗

pairing(s) — camboy!MITCH MARNER x camgirl!reader word count — 3k

note — uh so yeah <3

recommended viewing — heathers (1988) and VHS (2012) recommended reading — 𝐂𝐀𝐌𝐄𝐎 and 𝐃𝐄𝐓𝐄𝐂𝐓𝐈𝐕𝐄 𝐌𝐀𝐓𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐖𝐒

bingo squares and additional content warnings under the cut.

bingo squares — home movie, exhibitionism, group sex, risky location, and (pseudo) group sex additional content warnings — cameos...bc cameo lol, public sex (a literal audience), unprotected boinking + creampie, some reach-around finger-bang action, unprotected coitus + cum play bc mitchy is nasty, praise kink influencer!mitch — "content, baby, content!" (name that vlogger lol), brief past phone sex (kinda? idk you'll see), discussion of sex work and the selling of items

MITCH MARNER IS BEYOND ANTSY.

He wants to leave, and has since you arrived. You wouldn't be hard-pressed to assume enduring the company of his teammates was physically painful with how he's been behaving.

You have an inkling as to why, and you know your hands aren't exactly clean in that respect, but it's his lack of time management that should bear the brunt of his ire, not you.

You left more than enough time for him to get his dick wet.

Brooding like a hormonal teenager, he haunts the far corner of the room, glaring at you over the rim of a glass you know he hasn't touched all night. Morgan's in his ear, but anyone can tell he isn't listening just by looking at his pinched expression and hard, detached gaze; Mitch's been too busy glowering to allow even a little fun to bypass his sour mood.

Which is precisely why you're ignoring him. Instead, finding conversation in Matt, who's in town for the weekend.

The more Mitch pouts, the more you tease—he should know that by now.

You're halfway to the kitchen for a refill when your boyfriend finally corners you. One second you're walking down a deserted hallway, and the next you're trapped between the wall and Mitch's heaving chest.

His eyes have gone a deep shade of navy, and that's all you need to see to know you've fucked up.

If there's one thing Mitch hates, it's being denied attention. Namely, yours.

"I'd say it's time to call it a night, wouldn't you?" he growls lowly into your mouth.

You’re more marionette than person at this moment, bobbing your head along with his every whim, wholly transfixed and with no real thoughts of your own. It's dizzying how much power he can exert without doing much at all. He could get you to agree to anything.

Never in your life has submission felt this innate or this safe.

And it isn’t often Mitch gets like this. Usually, only after he’s been away for a while or you haven’t had much alone time; tonight both are at play.

Hunger rolls off of him in giddy waves. Breakers that don’t spill or curl; the energy piles up until it has nothing left to do besides compress together. Albeit, far too late to be elegant or uniform. The tempestuous emotion hurtles rapidly to your shore, slamming into you without care or warning. Hypnotic is a word he suits best in this state.

Someone fakes a cough a few paces away. Your heads snap in the direction you came, only to find three figures idling in the entryway.

Mitch grinds his teeth. "Can we help you?"

"No need to cut the evening short, Mitchell," Auston teases through a shit-eating grin, undeterred by his friend's burgeoning tantrum. Mitch doesn't answer, so Auston presses on, "What? My guest bedroom not good for a movie star such as yourself?"

"What, you three what some kind of live demonstration? Fancy yourselves an in-studio audience?" Mitch snorts too quickly and the realization hits just as fast. "You can't be serious."

Had he taken a moment to think about anything besides his raging hard-on, he might've noticed the way your thighs squeezed together at the thought of putting on a show. Or, heard the little whimper you couldn't catch before it got loose.

It's an idea you have been toying with lately, having been a mutual fantasy for some time now, and this is as good an opportunity as any.

Better than most, actually, if you take into account the added risk that comes with bringing your romantic relationship out of the shadows. With more eyes on you as you than ever, Mitch isn't the only one who needs to proceed with caution anymore.

These are people you know and trust, and who are already privy to your unconventional side hustle.

Willy shrugs. "It's not like it'd be the first time we were there while you two were going at it."

Physically, it would be but virtually? Denial would be an outright lie.

Your boyfriend is to blame for that bit of ammunition.

"Jesus, fuck, Mitch! Are you playing with your eyes closed or something? Because it sure as fuck looks like it."

"It's not my fucking fault, alright? Can't fuckin' concentrate with all her whining and shit," he spat back into the mic.

The intensity of his defense made him thrust his hips, accidentially jostling you in his lap, which just made you whimper louder.

He didn't spare you a second glance.

The lewd squeak was poorly muffled by his neck and, as much as Mitch loved to bitch about how distracting your sounds were, this was exactly why he wanted to be buried balls-deep while he played with the guys.

But that wasn't the half of why he insisted you stay put.

Mitch may be territorial as hell, but he'll never pass up an opportunity to have his ego stroked or to flaunt what luxuries he has at his disposal.

These virtual escapades are like open season for that shit.

Every compliment was more his than yours. Praise for your obedience was truly kudos for his firm hand. Each envy-laced remark, whether it be laden with degradation or brimming with flattery, went straight to his head and to his cock. And, best of all, they had him to thank for the small taste of a heaven they could only dream of.

Win or lose, every game resulted in a night that rendered you speechless and incredibly sore—he loves attention that much.

"Fine," he relents, more aroused now after his trip down memory lane. "You can look, but you can't touch. And don't even think about sweet talking her or bullying me into it. Got it?"

“What’dya say, baby? Should we give the people what they came up here to see?”

Sheepishly, you nod. A pitiful whine matches the pout you wear, impatient as ever.

His reply tickles your ear. The low chuckle is surprisingly airy for a sound burdened by the weight of his smugness.

Ever since he got his hands on your heart, your boyfriend's been inclined to... pomposity. Mitch needs the world to know it's his palm you reside in. He wants the credit he's owed for the spectacular state of disarray you become whenever he's present.

Occasionally, the ego of it all drives you up the wall. But, it's difficult to knock someone down a peg when they've earned every right to be on their high horse.

Not that you're complaining; he's hot when he's cocky.

At the foot of the bed, Mitch frames your body with his thighs. Yours are parted narrowly, only enough for a hand and some wiggle room, but your crowd of three isn't starved for visual stimulation in the slightest.

What you'd put on not two hours prior now sits on the dresser opposite you neatly folded.

Mitch rubs a few fingers over the budding mess between your thighs and, even though the touch remains central to the source, the last garment standing diffuses a delicious tingling sensation. It's minimal, and to an infuriating degree—enough to kindle the fire in your belly without ever risking a premature finale.

Your knees knock together in frustration, but they won't stay that way for long.

Mitch wrenches his hand out from between your thighs, completely ignoring the way you whimper at the loss. He pulls your legs apart with both hands and hooks each one over his knees, leaving your feet dangling outside his.

“You keep them spread, yeah?"

Again, you nod.

Now is not the time to push his buttons.

Mo runs a hand over his flushed face. “Fuckin’ hell,” he laments.

The damp patch, now verging on translucent, stands in stark contrast to the bright, creamy cotton. A pretty, little satin bow sits demurely above the drop of sweetness no one but Mitch will ever taste again.

Mitch is just as eager as you are. You can feel it on your skin; in the erratic rhythm of his heartbeat; in the effort behind his breathing. But, most obviously, in the bulge burrowing into the small of your back. Which is why, when his deft hand slips beneath the thin waistband to curl into your heat, it comes as no surprise.

He doesn't linger, much to everyone's disappointment.

Mitch is quick to dispel the new gloom blanketing the room, though, holding the evidence of your enthusiasm up to the light as if raising the Cup.

A thick combination of horror and delight burns shallowly under your skin as he slowly separates them, revealing the full extent of your arousal as it hangs proudly between the chuffed digits.

“Showin’ off for my friends?” he chides, though it's clear he couldn’t be happier about the sticky display.

You mewl in response to the light mockery.

And now it's just as evident how badly the three men standing against the wall want to alleviate the growing pressure below their belts.

However, they won't because they can't.

Mitch wants to be able to see their hands—both of them, at all times.

"They're being so good for you, aren't they? So quiet and polite; got 'em their best behavior for you, baby."

The stage whisper makes Auston scoff and Willy groan. Mo seems to have gone mute.

Ignoring them, your chin dips. Mitch huffs his amusement.

"But have they behaved well enough to earn a treat?" —and before you give him yet another nod, he specifies how he'd like you to respond: "Words, baby. Let them hear that pretty voice."

You comply in a series of choppy whimpers, "Y-Yessir... s'good... They've been s-so good—more than enough."

You plead on their behalf as much as your own.

Mitch moans into your ear, unhinged and primal, and immediately rucks down the ruined material—one half of a matching set—until they hang off one ankle.

It's taking every ounce of self-control to not flip you over and take you face down ass up; Mitch is enjoying this demonstration of power that much.

The blood pumping in your ears drowns out whatever reaction Mitch's teammates had to seeing you bare and on display, but simply knowing they're there, watching with undivided attention, sets your skin ablaze.

"I always have to stretch her out before we can do anything fun. Doesn't matter how long or how often I've been fucking her—or which hole. Without fail, my girl tightens right back up like she's brand fuckin' new."

At a gingerly pace, your boyfriend tugs back the soft, subtle hood covering that tender, oh-so-sensitive spot. He lifts the curtain, unveiling the bundle of nerves like the work of art that it is, watching as it pulses for attention. His free hand frames your weeping folds before spreading them open. Though, this early on there's not much to see. And it would be hard to if there were, considering what a mess you've made already. The finishing touch comes from Mitch's hips, which nudge yours in a silent demand for an upward tilt that yields an unobstructed view of both needy, flexing holes for the audience.

"—and I never get sick of breaking her in all over again."

At their wide eyes and slack jaws, Mitch preens. He's delighting in this torture, never having had something they didn't that was worth coveting. Still, regardless of how high Mitch gets off the attention, his generosity has its limits.

The hand petting your clit abandons its post in favor of venturing further south. Mitch absorbs the full-body jolt his mild prodding elicits while continuing to circle the pretty pucker, though never breaching the taut band.

"This little one—it doesn't come for free, and it doesn't go for cheap, either. I can tell you that much right now, boys."

For a bit, mitch plays with you to his heart's content. Still withholding what you want most, but somehow managing to keep you more than satisfied.

But, eventually, your boyfriend begins taking requests from the live audience the way he's done in the past cam shows he has participated in.

"Show us how many that needy cunt can take at once." (Morgan)

—Tonight, three. But the real answer is all of them—thumb included.

"You're doing all the work. Make her fuck herself on them." (William)

—You do a decent job...until your legs give out under the demands of exertion with little to no leverage. Mitch resumes control seconds before your lower extremities begin tingling, a precursor to the eventual numbness that will undoubtedly render you useless.

"Oh, c'mon. I know she can take it harder and faster. Don't hold back, Mitchy." (Auston)

— You can; you do.

...and when you can no longer resist succumbing to the unbearable tightness just below your navel, ruthlessly coupled with his thumb swiping over your swollen clit, you convulse violently in Mitch's steely grip. Your limbs thrash with all their might just to make the most of what little autonomy they've been allotted. A heavy downpour of tears stream down your cheeks, collecting beads of perspiration as they go.

“Goddamn, your tears are even prettier in person," Auston remarks, awestruck.

Willy softly mumbles something to the effect of deeming you an angel and Mitch snorts, knowing that couldn't be further from the truth; you were putting on a show in more ways than one.

“A fuckin’ star—that’s what she is," he's quick to correct.

You're still entrenched in the aftershocks of your first Mitch-induced climax in over a week when he abruptly removes his fingers in favor of spreading you open for your adoring fans.

On the surface, pulling your outer lips apart with his thumbs a second time seems purely for the benefit of a spectator. However, in further exposing such sensitive, delicate skin to the elemets, Mitch is doing you a brilliant favor. The wetness clinging to you like a second skin chills considerably.

At a certain point, you can't discern which shivers belong to these escalations and which stem from the peak you're still reeling from.

Your boyfriend peers over your shoulder, slightly envious of his friends' vantage point, to watch your puffy opening constrict around nothing.

He smirks with his lips pressed to your neck. "Even after all that, this greedy hole still isn't satisfied. You guys done nothing to earn more, but she's too damn inviting to resist."

You're three orgasms deep and verging on incoherent when Mitch finally lowers your limp form over his hard cock, and he finds immense satisfaction in how easily you come apart for him once again. Before he even bottomed out.

A few sharp thrusts with his hand around your throat, his arm firm in the valley between your breasts, and your body milks him like it's after his very soul.

But unfortunately for your poor, overstimulated pussy, he is far from finished with you...

"Y'did so good for me, always so fuckin' good, aren't you? Now stay still for me, baby, just for a second."

You nod and do as you're told, mostly because you can't do much to the contrary even if you wanted to. An overwhelming mix of too sensitive and almost numb has incapacitated you. You're too strung out for that, too far gone even for words. Everything is fuzzy; your mind, senses, and vision.

Physically, you aren't faring much better. Without Mitch propping you up, you fall back onto the sheets with a faint sigh. You're vaguely aware of what's happening and why, but aren't in a state to be much help.

Lucky for you both, Mitch loves to play creative director.

Your boyfriend gently configures your body the way he needs it in order to get the best stills and a few clips to GIF. Mitch bends your knees, placing each foot flat a few inches from your ass, mindful of keeping your knees wide. Enough so that your folds are forced apart naturally just the way he likes, but without causing you any unnecessary discomfort.

Soon, you're splayed open again—Mitch and his camera join the sea of spectators—your swollen cunt on full display as the evidence of your tryst dribbles out onto the duvet.

"Uh, what... What're you doing?" Willy asks, perplexed.

At least, you think it's the winger. You can't be certain, ot with your head still somewhere amongst the stars.

"What does it look like?" he huffs in response, clearly annoyed by the interruption to his artistic process.

There's more murmuring across the room. From what you can gather, you surmise they're taken aback by how casually this aspect of the job is unfolding, how easily Mitch slips between roles; from run-of-the-mill boyfriend to seasoned dominant, to professional content creator, and back again.

It's something you yourself have thought about on more than one occasion, but never at length.

"Alright, that should do it," Mitch says mostly to himself before leaning down to address you, one hand cradling your jaw while the other brushes away a stale tear. "Now's the hard part."

You can almost feel the triple dose of concern radiating from the far corner. You'd chuckle to yourself if it wouldn't make you look crazier than you already do.

Your boyfriend isn't wrong; this next part is the hard part.

It's funny how your perception of something can change dramatically depending on the context in which it happens. For example, right now, Mitch is sliding ruined fabric up from your ankle for the express purpose of soaking up everything that's fast escaping; you're too spent to keep it squeezed in.

When he does this just because he can, the overt display of dominance makes you borderline feral. But when the intent is to create a product for profit, it's far from enjoyable.

Hence the whine of discontent presently bouncing off of the walls of Auston Matthews' guest bedroom.

Mitch is quick to soothe you, "I know, I know, but we gotta get 'em ready to ship out tomorrow, baby."

He knows you'll stop complaining once it starts to dry. Once the chill is no longer so harsh or foreign on your sensitive skin. After it tightens, Mitch knows what you'll beg for. His greedy girl always wants more. Especially when she's freshly marked and unable to think of anything but him.

"What? No party favor?" Auston asks, the words bleeding sarcasm.

From between your still-quivering thighs, you catch Mitch rolling his eyes. "I'm sorry, did you tip my pretty girl nearly five grand last week?"

Auston balks, head wagging.

Mitch gloats.

"That's what I thought. No cash, no panties."

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