#and i’m humping the air in a way so that i rub up against the seam of my boxers | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

jordiemeow · 27 days ago

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howdy! i’m not sure if you’re taking requests or not so feel free to ignore this if not:)

but if you areeeee i was wondering if you’d write something for joaquin torres x roommate!reader where after his injury in cabnw, he’s super horny but it hurts his arm to jerk off:( so ofc reader notices how moody he is from being so pent up and he begs them to help him when confronted??

no big deal if not! love your writing:3

roommate's helping hand ✩ j.t

notes: zoo wee mama of courseee. i love this... so hot. + thank u angel <33 mwah

warnings: 18+ smut, handjob, pent up and horny, mentions of humping etc, sub!joaquín / dom!reader, no anatomy mentioned so gender neutral!reader

wc: 2.8k

—

Joaquín Torres is in agony. Not in that casual, exaggerated way people toss the word around. This is actual, bone-deep, soul-crushing fucking torture.

The ceiling fan spins lazily above him, stirring the humid air in his room just enough to make him sweat more. His sheets stick to his back, damp and wrinkled from his constant tossing. Every breath feels heavier than the last, heat coiling low in his gut, and his good hand—his only functional hand—lies clenched in a tight fist on his bare stomach. He’s hard again. Of course he is. Like clockwork. Same time every night, same pulsing, unbearable ache, same half-assed attempt to get himself off that ends in a sharp curse and a sore fucking arm.

He swallows hard, dragging his palm slowly across his chest, wincing when the heel of it grazes the edge of the bandage on his shoulder. The pain that flares is sharp, electric, cutting straight through his ribs. Not enough to stop him—he's too horny to give up like that. Just enough to make him grit his teeth and hiss out a breath that trembles with frustration.

His jaw clenches, a frustrated groan spilling past his lips. "Come on."

He’s tried everything. Warmed lube, different positions, a pillow between his thighs like some horny high schooler. He’s rubbed against the mattress until his hips ached. Even tried old porn from his saved folder. Videos that used to get him off in under five minutes back when he was running missions and too wound up from adrenaline to sleep. Hell, this morning he leaned over the edge of the tub in the shower, one arm braced against the tiles, showerhead angled just right, steam curling off his skin. He was panting, desperate, leaking, nearly sobbing with how badly he wanted it.

But it never fucking works. He’s too tense. Too slow. Can’t get the rhythm right. His shoulder screams every time he twists too far or jerks too fast. He ends up sweaty, sore, and even more frustrated than when he started. And now it's you. Always you.

He sees you every time he closes his eyes. You, in those little sleep shorts that barely cover your ass, padding around the apartment like you don’t know what you're doing to him. The way your hand wraps around a glass of water at night. And in his head, you're touching him instead. Fingertips wrapped around his cock, teasing the head while he groans into your shoulder. Watching him. Enjoying watching him come undone.

It’s sick. Twisted. You're his roommate, for fuck’s sake. You probably think he’s just tired. Just cranky from being laid up, his body healing slower than he wants. You probably don’t realise he's one sleepless night away from crawling down the hall and begging you to touch him. On his knees. Forehead pressed to your doorframe. God, he’s hard just thinking about it.

He lets out a strangled, guttural sound, rolling onto his side, hips grinding against the mattress out of pure instinct. It doesn’t help. Just teases him. His cock is leaking, slick pooling on his stomach, his abs tensing with every twitch. He strokes once— a slow drag of his fist, tight grip—but it’s not enough. It’s never enough.

He has to bite back a moan. Get it the fuck together, Torres.

All he can think about is how your voice would sound, low and amused, just a cruel little taunt:

"Is this what you’ve been hiding, Torres? Can’t even jerk off like a big boy?"

He would fucking die if you said that to him. He’d cum untouched.

He squeezes his cock harder with his good arm, thumb brushing the tip. A moan slips out before he can think to stop it. It's loud. Too loud. Joaquin freezes, breath stuck in his throat.

Fuckfuckfuck. Did you hear that?

Did you already hear the others this week?

Maybe... maybe you'd come in. See him like this, all writhing and desperate. Take pity on him and climb into bed to help him out. Or maybe you'd laugh. Tell him to shut up and go to sleep like a normal person. He'll survive a few weeks of not being able to jerk off, right?

No. No, he can’t. His balls ache. His head is foggy. He’s so turned on he’s sweating. He’d do anything for your hand wrapped around him. Anything to cum. Anything to stop feeling this fucking full all the time. He strokes again, slower this time, trying to imagine it's your hand, your mouth, your voice whispering filth in his ear. And then—

Pain. Blinding, white-hot, lancing through his shoulder. He chokes on a gasp and rolls onto his back, eyes squeezed shut, his breath coming in short, panicked bursts.

Yeah. No orgasm tonight.

Just sweat, agony and a whole lot of built up tension.

—

It takes until around week two for you to notice.

It's subtle enough at first, the kind of shift that would be easy to ignore if you didn’t know Joaquin as well as you do. He’s usually warm, bright, quick with a joke even when he’s in pain. But now, that energy’s dimmed. Not groggy like when the meds first kicked in, but dull. When you ask if he wants help changing his sling, his response is clipped, borderline irritated. A tight little "I’ve got it." No eye contact. Just stiff shoulders and a clenched jaw. You let it go. Everyone gets moody when they’re healing, right?

But then it keeps happening.

At dinner, he barely picks at his food, eyes glued to his phone and disinterested in conversation. You try to tease him about his sad little portion of rice. He doesn’t even crack a smile. Just shrugs and mutters something under his breath that you can't even pick up. When he finally gets up, he mumbles a flat "goodnight," and closes his bedroom door a little too hard behind him.

Something’s off. More than just pain meds or boredom.

You let it slide for a while. But by the end of that second week, when you're curled up in bed with a book and a fan to combat the sticky heat, you hear it.

It's soft. Barely there. A noise. Like a grunt. Pained, but not quite injured pain. Frustrated.

You freeze, waiting. A few seconds pass.

Then another sound. This one is sharp, short. Half a growl. Half a groan. Your eyes go wide and—

Oh. It clicks. He's trying. And it's not working.

Everything seems to fall into place at once: the moodiness, the tightness in his posture, the way he's always shifting in his seat like he's constantly uncomfortable. Of course. He can't jerk off. Not properly. Not without messing up his injuries any further or risking a tear in his stitches. And with how wound-up he probably is after being grounded for weeks, too sore to move, too proud to ask for help...

Yeah. No wonder he's spiralling. Poor guy’s been stuck in his room every night with nothing but a needy body and a hand he can’t use.

You think about it more than you should after that. The image is too easy to summon. Joaquín in his bed, sweaty and flushed, grinding into the mattress like it’ll give him relief, biting down groans so you don’t hear them. And failing, clearly.

The next evening, he’s on the sofa, laptop open in front of him, pretending to be absorbed in something on-screen. But his eyes flick toward the door too often. His jaw clenches tight. His good hand is resting on his thigh, curled into a fist like he’s holding himself together with sheer willpower. You sit beside him, watching plaintively with your your legs curled under yourself, angled just slightly toward him. His shoulder stiffens, but he doesn’t look away from the screen.

"Hey," you prompt gently after a while. "You good?"

He exhales through his nose. "Yeah." What a fucking liar.

You narrow your eyes. "You’ve been acting like Sam told you he wants his suit back."

That gets a soft, reluctant laugh, the tiniest upward pull of his lips... but it fades fast. His fingers tap against the keyboard for a second, then he shuts the laptop and stares at the flat top of it. He chews the inside of his cheek. Doesn’t meet your gaze.

"...It’s stupid," he mutters, in that Joaquín way of his that means he really wants to tell you but he's too embarrassed to do so without a little push.

"Then say it anyway," you offer, feigning patience instead of rolling your eyes. "Maybe it’s not."

He hesitates, shoulders tense, the silence thick between you. Then, barely louder than a breath: "I’m so fucking horny I want to die."

You blink, pulse skipping. That was more upfront than you were expecting. He immediately buries his face in one hand like he regrets saying anything at all. Or even leaving his room until this crisis is over at all. "I can’t do anything. My arms are both fucked, and I’m going insane. I’m climbing the walls. I—fuck—I didn’t think it would get this bad."

You stay quiet, processing slowly, because your brain is doing something extremely unhelpful—flashing images you really shouldn’t be entertaining about your roommate. The flush on his neck, the way his hips lift off the couch slightly like he can’t even sit still anymore. That low, wrecked sound you heard through the wall last night when he couldn't find relief.

Your thighs press together instinctively. Shit. You're both fucked up.

"Why didn’t you just tell me?" You probe, keeping your voice as even as you can manage. You're far from calm inside.

He lifts his head, eyes tired and glassy. He looks so pathetic you almost pity him. "Because what the fuck was I supposed to say? 'Hey, roomie, can you give me a hand because I’m one more bad night away from humping a couch cushion like a hormonal teenager?'" He doesn't mention that he's already tried that and failed.

You snort. Can’t help it. He watches you with a look that’s full of tension and shame and raw, unfiltered want. "I’m not trying to be gross. I’m just—I haven’t stopped thinking about you. I didn’t mean to, I swear. But then I imagined you walking in, catching me, and... I couldn’t stop."

You feel your breath catch. And then, softly, you prompt, "... So ask."

His brows furrow. "What?"

You lean in without breaking eye contact. Your voice drops. "Ask me. If you want help that bad."

His lips part, stunned silent. For the first time in days, he looks at you—really looks. The sarcasm is gone. No jokes. No charm. Just wide eyes and something close to disbelief.

"…Please," he whispers after a moment, like the word’s been waiting to fall out of him. Maybe it has. His voice is raw, desperate, cracking around the pleas that spill out of his cracked lips. "Please. I need you so bad. I can’t—I just need something. Just need to feel you."

There's no need to waste time after that. You straddle his thighs slowly, deliberately, palms braced on his chest as you settle into his lap. He’s warm and trembling under you, his breath already stuttering. He's far from the confident man that usually roams the apartment in low-hanging sweatpants and grins at you with sparkling eyes over breakfast.

Your hands slide down, fingers hooking into the waistband of his sweats. He lifts his hips for you without needing to be told—obedient, eager, almost desperate. You tug them down just enough, fabric catching for a second on his thighs before freeing him. No boxers, apparently. The friction had been too much for him.

His cock springs up against his stomach—flushed dark red, leaking, already twitching with need. You didn't exactly expect him to be small (you've seen his imprint) but it's a different thing entirely to see it in front of you. You hum low in your throat, eyes dragging over him as the veins bulge under your heated gaze.

"You’re this worked up over nothing?"

"That's the problem."

Your fingers curl around him, and his reaction is instant. He jerks beneath you with a choked moan, hips twitching like he’s trying not to thrust. Your grip is firm but unhurried, dragging your hand up slow, from the thick base all the way to the slick head, then back down again.

"Fuck—" Joaquín gasps, head falling back against the cushions.

You click your tongue, feigning sympathy. "Pathetic," you murmur. "You couldn’t even ask like a big boy. You had to sulk in your room and hump your sheets like a virgin for two weeks."

That hits something sharp. His hips jump again, and you slap a hand to his thigh—not particularly hard, but enough to make him freeze.

"Stay still," you order.

"Okay," he gasps, eyelashes fluttering under your unexpected firmness. "Yes—fuck, I’m sorry."

His voice is wrecked already, all raw and hoarse like it’s been clawed out of him. You stroke him again, a little faster now, adding a twist of your wrist at the top, thumb pressing into the tender spot just under the head. Precum spills over your hand, and he twitches again, biting his lip so hard it’s gone bloodless.

You lean over him, letting your breath ghost across his heated cheek. "How long’s it been, Torres?"

“Like, two weeks," he groans. "Maybe more. I—I don’t even fucking know anymore. Counting makes it worse."

Your smile is slow and sweet and god it goes straight to his dick. "Poor thing. All backed up and nowhere to put it, huh?"

His abs twitch when you taunt him, hands gripping the sofa like he’s holding on for dear life. You press your lips to the shell of his ear as you stroke him, voice low and sultry. "You gonna cum for me, or am I gonna have to edge you all night? Bet you'd like that. Bet you've been getting off on how pent up you are."

He gives a strangled sound, somewhere between a moan and a whimper. His thighs are shaking under you, whole body taut and thrumming as your firm hand pushes him closer and closer towards his climax.

"Please," he pants. "Don’t stop. Don’t stop, hnnghhh, I’m—shit—I’m so close, ah—"

You speed up, stroking his length fast and slick, your fist gliding wetly from base to tip, then down again in a relentless rhythm that has him seeing stars. Your other hand braces on his hip to keep him grounded, even as he bucks into your fist, chasing his release. His body arches, spine bowing, neck exposed and glistening with sweat. When his mouth falls open, no real sound comes out. Just gasps, high and sharp, like his lungs can’t keep up with the onslaught of pleasure.

"Come for me," you whisper, right against his lips. Just roommates his fucking ass. "Be a good boy and make a mess, Joaquín."

That’s all it takes. He absolutely fucking breaks.

"Ohmygod, I'm— ohhnghh—"

His whole body locks up as he spills hot over your fist, groaning your name like it’s the only word he remembers. His abs contract hard, cock pulsing again and again as thick stripes of white paint his stomach, your fingers, the waistband of his grey sweats. You stroke him through it, gentler now, milking every last spurt while he trembles and shakes under your hands.

When it becomes too much for his spent cock to handle, he whines out a broken, breathless sound, and bats at your wrist weakly. "Too much," he gasps, voice shattered. "Fuck. Fuck, that was—”

“Yeah,” you murmur, wiping your hand on the edge of his waistband to clean the sticky mess. As tempted as you are to bring your fingers up to your mouth, that feels like too much of a boundary to cross. "I know."

You lean back to take him in in all his exhausted glory. He’s wrecked—flushed, sweaty, breathing like he just ran ten miles. His curls are damp against his forehead, lips red from biting down, eyes glassy and barely able to focus on you like he's still on morphine and not just because he's had the greatest orgasm of his life from just a measly handjob.

You run your fingers through his sweat-mussed curls, slow and soothing, letting him come down from it. "You okay?"

He nods (barely). "'M perfect," he mumbles. "Might be dead. Don’t care."

A huff of amusement escapes you. There's the Joaquín you know. And then he sighs, tilting his head back and shutting his eyes as some form of coherency comes back over him. A few pants later and he's sighing out a:

"You’re in so much trouble when I can use my hands again."

One can only dream.

—

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#joaquin torres #joaquin torres smut #joaquin torres x reader #joaquin torres x you #joaquin torres fic #danny ramirez #marvel #marvel smut #roommate!joaquin #jo writes ⋆˚࿔#jo asks ⋆˚࿔

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valentine-cafe · 7 months ago

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1 caramel cheesecake pls! [bottom male reader]

filthy rich spoiled reader who gets himself taught a lesson by alessio in his room while also being scared about getting caught by anyone at the estate. (alessio does NOT give a fuck)

if its too specific you can ignore this ask <3

˖⁺. “ fuck yourself, rich boy ! ” :

﹙ top outlaw male x bttm richboy male ﹚.𖹭 ݁

. . . verse 9819 alessio x male reader !! 🍓 : ﹙ outlaw ˖ serial killer ˖ illusionist character ﹚

you grew up in the comfort parts of society. high class in comparison to the rest. but what happens when you start finding yourself messing with the leader of a rebel group? well, your bratty nature lands you in a bit of a predicament. bent over in your bedroom while the outlaw himself rails you dumb.

﹙ cws ﹚: explicit content ˖ risky sex ˖ rough sex ˖ penetrative sex ˖ degradation ˖ handjob ˖ prone bone ˖ marathon sex ˖ brat taming ˖ multiple orgasms ˖ cum-eating | wc : 1.8k

﹙ receipts ﹚: the way I gasped when I saw this request GID I had so much fun writing it !

꒰ other treats : guidelines ˖ m.list ˖ characters ˖ our lore ꒱

“Talk to me, tesoro. Thought that’s all you’re good for?”

Your tie mocks the strain of your wrists, wrapped tight in a bound to your arching spine. The painful curve induced by an even tighter hand locked in your hair. Tugging every time you hang your head to let your tears of overwhelm hit the floor.

You’ll be clad in long sleeves and turtlenecks for the rest of the week with the bruises, hickies and plethora of bites all over your skin. None of that compared to the constant, hammering feel of his hips. Snapping into the backs of your thighs. Once, twice, thrice.

What is air? A luxury at this point. None of your riches could compare. Not when his swollen tip slams into that devastating bundle of nerves. Your lower lip falls from your teeth. Much like your erect dick bouncing aimlessly with every jerk of a thrust.

“Oh, but - I suppose I’m wrong, right?” Damn that deep croon to your ear. And the tickle of his dark curls on your cheekbone while you’re at it. But how could any of him crawl to the pits with the heaven that he sends you to?

Bent over in your own room. Feet between his shoes. Held like you weigh a feather as he chases bruises on your soft thighs. The claps of wet skin bounce off the walls. Merged with moans. Whines. Strangled gasps.

“You’re also good at taking cock.”

Punctuated with a harsh spank to your ass. Emerald eyes catch the ripple across your skin. He mimics it further by slamming all the way. Grinding. Humping. Any shallow slam to rub on your weak spot and huff struggled breathe from drooling lips.

But that’s not all from the wave of heated breath. A quivered: “Sh-Shut - shut uuppp -” carries in your pants. Tongue once confidently in spits of insult and disrespect now slobbers saliva all over your pristine floor. “Y-You’re a nuisance. An eyesore - a - f-fuchk-!”

Your dick twitches in the large hand squeezed around the base. His fingers are just as skilled as his hips. Cruel pumps and jerks that squirt your cum to the floor with a strangled noise bobbed from your Adam’s apple. All Alessio can do is flash a grin you catch a glimpse of in the mirror at your side. Before both palms snatch your waist and shove you back on his cock that he tames great pleasure in fucking into you faster. Harder. So that the slapping of skin rings through your ears like a sinful, broken record.

“P-Please - please o-oh god - fuckfuckfuck -”

What more can you do but arch? The lift of your spine shoves your ass into his pelvis. He takes it as an invitation to hold you firm against it since you clearly offered. Slam up into you until his balls greet your supple flesh with taps and smacks.

“P-People. . . ‘re gonna hear. Y-You jer- ah!” Another squeeze round your dick for your big mouth. Have you learnt nothing? Not that this is much of a learning experience if you can barely think.

The only thought running through your mind is the stretch of his big cock. The kiss of his veins on all your sweet spots. Their thrum. Your nerves on clear overdrive when he digs a calloused thumb into your tip and strokes until you’re teary.

You’ll squirt his palm all over again if he continues. No that he cares with the rough bucks that he fucks against your quivering hips. The deep chuckle from his throat would have have itched your palms to smack him. Alas, all you could do was wish to cling at his shoulders. Scrape down his back as he pounded you so full.

The creaking of floorboards constantly snapped your fucked-out mind from the depths of overstimulation. Were servants stepping closer. Or worse - your family?

You’d have no time to care when Alessio would withdraw to the tip then slam forward and hit your sweetspot dead on. Brimming tears to your eyes and a groan from the depths of his throat. Those emerald hues flicker to the ring of cream round his cock and he grins through sweat-drenched tresses. “What, they’ll hear? Hear you gettin’ pounded by an outlaw?”

He snaps his hips forward at that. With a power that jerks your poor body. The gasp fleeing your lips melts into a whimper when his fingers choose cruelty to your hair again. Twisting you to face the mirror as his free hand drops to your hip. A smack. A squeeze. Before he’s fucking you back into him like a ragdoll. Shoes planted firmly to the floor as he effortlessly uses your body like a sleeve.

“See what a whore you are? Cummin’ all over your fuckin’ floor and messing up this ‘expensive fabric’?”

His teeth tear into the collar of your shirt. If it weren’t for your tongue hanging out you’d cuss at him. Alas you are too preoccupied with being his little cumdump as he pumps you full once more.

You’d think he’d slow down after his second time spraying your gummy walls white. If anything it rejuvenates his punishing thrusts and turns your thighs to putty as he hammers at a sinful rhythm. Squeezing cum from the both of you and running it down your wobbly legs.

Alessio’s laugh is almost as callous as his hand that snaps around your jaw. “Look at yourself baby. First time taking cock like this? Yeah? Spoilt lil’ rich boy doesn’t know shit ‘bout the real world.”

Softness encases your front. The first in several minutes of being his tight toy. It fades with his heavy weight crushing you into the mattress after the outlaw shoved you into your sheets. Knees knocking yours apart to make way for the barrage of his mercilessly thrusts.

“A-Ah - ah-ah-ah!” Your eyes cross at the centre. He shoves your head to the linen. Another spank. Another grab at your poor, jiggling ass. He spreads you open for his imagination to picture it. Picture his veiny cock splitting you into two. Your tight rim struggling and crying around every inch. Not to mention his cum fucking out of you with every rabid hump.

“Tha’s it, yeah pretty boy. Yeah take it. Fucking whore.” His grunts drip with mockery that pours to your neck with his rough kisses. Your dick grinds and rubs into the linen. Great. Another mess to worry about later. When you come down from the high. Stuffed full of his cum and unable to stop the tremble of your thighs. “Imagine it. ‘magine them coming in - hah - seeing this - seeing you -”

The only thing to stop Alessio’s malicious laugh is the clench of your walls. He smacks your ass again in reprimand. A grunt soon follows. “Now that your ass ‘s nice ‘n full. . . apologise.” Another slam to your sweetspot.

And still, despite your eyes rolling back. Ass getting pounded for all your worth. Who knows how many concerned servants covering their ears through the halls — you wheeze.

“F-Fuck - angh - f-fuck you - fuck you, a-and - and every - god - ‘m n-not sorry-”

Your dick gets a break from the rough rubs of linen when the warm of his fingers encase it after a hand squeezes past your front flushed to the mattress. His thumb goes back to what it does best. Swirling around your tip. Squeezing the slit.

But this time he samples your sticky slick. Savors the feel of it between his fingers. Before he’s shoving your sweetness into your mouth. The pads of his index and middle press on your tongue, just as he’s pressing into the spot that makes you gurgle a sob.

“You taste that, you fuckin’ brat?” The hiss to your ear follows a thrust of his fingers. He hits the back of your throat with no care for how much you slobber all over his hand. “That’s you. Cumming like a fucking whore for me. Now lest you don’t wanna be dumped off in your foyer all creamed up and shaky. Apologise.”

The harsh ram of his cock at an angle tells you he’s not above humiliating you. After all, what’s it to him if a spoilt rich boy gets humiliated by his servants?

You’re the one constantly seeking him out. You’re the one who engages the flirts and mockeries flung across the bar of the Contraire. You’re the one who sneaks out every other day to suck off a serial killer when your parents aren’t looking.

Once he’s done finger-fucking your mouth, he withdraws with a trail of drool attached to his nail beds. Long digits grip your jaw and force your head up. So that he can hear your pretty, pitiful gasps as he shallowly pounds you sore.

“I-I - ‘m - s-sorry -”

“What was that?”

A squeeze to your throat. You gurgle on your spit and limp your head in his hold. Submit to the endless ramming of his hips into yours. Your tummy twisting and insides flaring as you cum a fourth - fifth - sixth time. “I’m - iii’mm so- s’rry - sorry-! Alessio-!”

He’s creaming you again. Stuffing you full and squirting some out to your rippling thighs and bedsheets. If only to chase after another release with the way he starts ploughing you into the sheets. His chuckle hoarse and rough like his teeth clamping on your ear.

“There we go. Finally acting like a good - mnn - fucking slut. Proud of you baby.”

Get ready to be flipped and pounded into the mattress with strong arms hooking your knees. Folding you in half. Making you his pretty boy toy to take his cock. A rich boy so full of cum from an outlaw. A man you should disgust.

One you can’t stop squeezing round the cock of.

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buckyalpine · 9 months ago

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i feel like bucky definitely gives off like horny teenage vibes but times that by ten. like maybe y/n and bucky finally get together after the whole “will they won’t situation” and the minute bucky sleeps with y/n i feel like since he’s been so touched starved for like 70+ years that he’s like the most insatiable, kinkiest man y/n has ever been with , he’s touchy, he’s needy (in the best way possible) and all of the avengers are like “i’m glad you’re happy bro but put your dick away and get your hands out of your pants” and then he’s like “no”

18+ All the incoming smut. I need a cold shower wtf, this is so hot, is this even allowed? The answer is YES. yes it is. Bucky gives 10000% horny teenage energy and with that serum in his veins?

The will they won't they situation drives Bucky insane because it's gone on for long enough. He's been pining after you, too shy to actually spit it out, taking what he can get in those feeling moments you share. Lingering touches during training. Longing stares across the room. Late night talks where you're both too close to be just friends but you're not quite anything more either.

Bucky airs on the side of caution when it comes to you until he sees another man trying to get your attention from where he's seated at the bar. He's spent enough nights alone with his hand between his legs, tugging and pawing at his cock for some type of relief, surges of jealousy absolutely crush those feelings of shyness he had. By the end of the night, he has you naked in bed and he's ready to take you apart every which way but you're just too fucking pretty and he realizes he needs to be touched more than ever.

Bucky is the neediest baby on the planet, he's greedy, trying to touch every bit of you all at once. He doesn't have time to feel shame, to try and act like this is something he does on the regular. Honestly, he doesn't care that he's practically humping you like a little puppy, his hips rocking against your bare cunt, cock perfectly slotted between your folds.

"It's so fuckin' hard, angel" He moans against your neck, one hand squeezing your waist, the other reaching up you to tug your nipples. "My cock is so fuckin' hard cause of you"

He hasn't felt anything this soft in years and he's putty in your hands. He feels so sensitive all over, letting you push him onto his back so you can kneel between his thighs, your mouth so dangerously close to where he needed you so bad.

"Wait-wai-oh God, fuckkk meee" Bucky's head is thrown back with the deepest groan when you take his flushed tip into your mouth, dribbles of precum wetting your already silky tongue. He nearly shoots when you pull off with a pop and dip down to play with his sac, your warm mouth so much different from his hand.

"Oh my god my balls are so fuckin' heavy, yeah just like that baby, never had em' sucked before, fuck I- m'cumming!" His back arches and he has to careful not to clamp his legs shut as he starts to cum without warning. His hips thrust up against the air and his hands rush down to hold onto your head as he practically rubs his balls against you.

"Let's empty your cock, baby" You coo when his orgasm starts to slow, your hand coming up to wrap around his now semi hard cock. Your slow strokes cause spurts to dribble out and he starts to get harder against your palm.

"Shit, m'getting hard again baby, put it in your pussy, c'mon please angel, wanna feel it, it's been so long" Bucky's always considered himself a dominant man but that was until it came to you. He was definitely going to redeem himself but not tonight. Tonight he was just a needy slut for you and he was going to own every bit of it.

He spreads apart his thighs more for you to see how big and hard he is, not like you didn't know. He's pouting with those flushed cheeks, pupils blown, pawing at your body to get on top.

"Can I suck your boobs, wanna suck em' so bad, fuck-c'mere, put your nipples in my mouth angel, feed me those perfect breasts with my cock in you"

"Ready Jamie?-

"Yeah, yeah please, m'ready I promise, I'll be good, my balls are full again, feel them, please, wanna empty my cock" You hush his needy whines, reaching behind and cupping his sack with a smirk on your face.

"S'full again baby?"

"So full" He nods, his jaw falling slack when you start to sink down on him, chest heaving, how the fuck was he already ready to blow, there was no way-

"FUCKKKK" He cried out, shoving his hips up so he was stuffed all the way, pulling you down and rolling over, giving you sloppy thrusts while cum spilled from his sensitive head.

"Don't even think I came this fast the first time I touched myself" Bucky mumbles against your neck, practically purring while basking in the best post orgasm haze he's ever felt. He loves the smell of raw sex filling the room, your combined arousal the best thing on the planet. He's not ashamed from cumming multiple times, hardly lasting, making such a sticky mess on the bed.

He's too busy getting in all his needy cuddles while you baby him like he deserves, kissing his forehead and rubbing his back, cooing at the way he hugs you extra tight.

But it doesn't stop there.

Bucky is insatiable and after finally getting a taste, he's not going to stop now.

"For fucks sake Barnes" Sam shakes his head seeing Bucky make out with you while your perched on the kitchen island, the sight sort of wholesome except he can see the way the soldier is slotted between your thighs. Your legs wrap around him and Bucky's hips are rutting against your core, shamelessly trying to hump you, barely muffled groans slipping past his lips. If rubbing his dick on you was all he could get, then he'd fuckin' take it without a question.

It wouldn't be the first time.

You'd been caught more than once in the middle of missions. Bucky knew he was down bad when he was injured once and forced to just keep surveillance over a mission you were leading. He was watching everything on a large screen, lasting all of 5 minutes watching you in combat unless he couldn't handle the ache between his legs anymore. At first he hid what he was doing pretty well.

Then you sliced someone's neck and-

"Oh fuck me!"

"You better be shot, stabbed or missing an eyeball" Sam hissed through the coms while Tony's cackled crackled through, everyone's frequency synced to keep in contact.

"Sounds like he's the one whose about to shoot-

"FUCK BOTH OF YOU"

"MMPH" Bucky didn't bother responding, continuing to jerk his cock off while watching his gorgeous girlfriend.

"I know you're happy with y/n, and I'm happy for you both, trust me, but for the love of God can you please get your hand out of your pants?!"

The muffled groan that follows has Sam contemplating letting his wings fall off mid flight. Steve nearly gets stabbed with how distracted he is.

"Does Barnes every put his dick away?" Clint snorts hearing the muffled sounds of the bed hitting the wall from Bucky's room and seeing as you're nowhere to be found, it's clear what's happening.

"No. No he does not"

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lostrologyy · 13 days ago

Text

top of the class. himbo!james potter x reader

james survived a disastrous week of studying, and he can't think of a better way of celebrating than getting his hands on your tits*. ⋆1.1k words

— part 1

cw: smut. porn without plot. surprisingly no kissing. dry humping. a lot, and i mean A LOT of tit sucking (no description of size or anything:)). no piv. bit of degradation and praise. clothes stay on. fem!reader. not proofread!

a/n: me🤝comparing james to a dog and calling him a good boy

you don’t even get a warning.

just the sound of pounding feet running up the stairs, the door flying open and james—sweaty, flushed, and grinning like a maniac—bursting into your apartment.

“I DID IT!” he shouts, dropping his bag near the door and sprinting through the place, looking for you. “I FUCKING PASSED!”

he finds you lying on the couch, relaxing after a similar and successful week of studying.

you barely have time to gasp before he's got you lifted, arms around your waist, face buried in your neck, spinning you in the air in circles like the world’s most excited golden retriever.

“I knew you could do it! I’m so proud, jamie!” you giggle, peppering kisses all over his face.

you both laugh breathlessly, your arms holding onto his shoulders as he stops spinning and settles you on the couch, sitting on top of him.

“they truly are my lucky charms.” he says, burying his face on your chest, his voice muffled by your shirt. he presses a kiss in your cleavage like it’s sacred. “do you know what that means?”

“that you owe them your diploma?”

“I owe them my life.”

you laugh again, your arms wrapping around his head to try to press him closer to you, though you don’t think that’s possible.

his hands leave your ass, where they were squeezing, and start playing with the hem of your shirt, slipping underneath to touch your bare skin.

you already know what he’s gonna ask for, yet you wait for him to mumble the words, a bit shy and flustered.

“can I?” he asks, voice lower now. “please? let me say thank you properly.”

you can’t say no.

you nod.

he tugs your shirt up with near-religious focus. his mouth follows a second later, kissing and licking every inch of skin available, lips brushing over your sternum, tongue warm and slow and grateful. he groans when his hands come up to cup your tits, still covered by your bra—deep, needy, relieved.

“missed them so much.” he murmurs. “missed you. missed this. god, you have no idea how many times I thought about this during my finals.”

you laugh—but it dies quick when he yanks your bra down, not even bothering to take it off properly, taking a nipple into his mouth.

it’s soft at first, warm licks, gentle sucks. but it escalated quickly, because he’s starving.

hands squeezing, mouth working you like he can’t get enough, moaning against your skin like this is better than sex.

one of his hands returns to your ass, kneading your flesh slowly, and you moan when his hips suddenly move, rocking you against him.

he does it again and again, squeezing and tugging you closer with each roll of his hips, like he’s trying to fuse your bodies together.

“fuck, fuck,” he gasps, burying his face deeper in your chest, mouthing at your tits like they’re the only thing keeping him alive. “you’re so soft. so fucking perfect. can’t believe these are mine.”

he switches to your other nipple, sucking hungrily—messy, wet, moaning around it like it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted. You arch into him, and he groans louder, rutting up against you like a dog in heat.

“this—” grind “is better—” suck “than graduating.”

you drag your nails up the back of his neck. whining as you feel your panties get wetter with every thrust of his body against yours. his cock feels hard and tense underneath his jeans, and the rough material rubs on your clit every time you press down onto him, creating such delicious friction your thighs tremble a bit.

“you’re such a little slut for my tits.” you ramble, your mouth barely forming the words.

“yes,” he says, completely shameless. “yes, I am. fucking love ‘em. love you.”

you’re not even really fucking yet—the thin material covering your folds clinging to the growing wet patch at the front of his pants from where he’s been humping up into you like a needy idiot. but the way he’s whining? moaning every time your chest presses against his mouth?

you can feel how close he is.

you pull back a little, and he chases you—mouth open, tongue out, hands trying to drag you forward again.

“no— wait, baby, please—lemme finish—don’t take ‘em away—”

“jamie,” you gasp, watching him fall apart beneath you. “are you gonna come just from sucking my tits?”

he nods, mouth still full of your nipple, whining into your chest like he’s ashamed. or maybe proud. maybe both.

“love them,” he babbles between kisses. “so soft—fuck—you’re bouncing on me like that and I can’t even think—”

you rock harder, dragging your clit over the thick line of his cock beneath the fabric, and he shudders under you, face hot and flushed against your tits.

his mouth is sloppy, all tongue and spit, teeth dragging over your nipple as his hands dig into your waist, forcing you to grind harder, faster, until your thighs are trembling and you’re whimpering his name like a prayer.

“jamie—oh my god—” you gasp, clutching his shoulders, nails digging in. “I’m so close, I’m gonna—don’t stop, don’t stop!”

he sobs into your tits. Sobs.

“I can feel you, fuck, I can feel how wet you are. so hot, so soft, baby, I’m not gonna make it—I’m gonna come, I’m gonna come—”

you feel his hips buck up hard once, twice, three times, and then he’s gasping, whining, coming in his sweatpants like a ruined little thing, face buried in your chest, breath warm and uneven and wrecked.

you come seconds later, soaking through your panties with a broken cry, still rocking over him, grinding out the last tremors of pleasure with his lips still wrapped around the hard peaks on your chest.

his fingers bruise your hips. his whole body trembles. his face stays pressed to you the whole time, like he can’t let go, even as he’s gasping for air, even as his mind blanks out completely.

you pet his hair, smiling down at him like you’re proud.

“good boy,” you murmur. “that’s it. that’s what you wanted, huh?”

he nods weakly, face still buried in your tits, breath hot and uneven. “fucking love you,” he mumbles. “best reward ever. can we do it again?”

you laugh. “You literally just came.”

“I can rally,” he says, eyes fluttering open, cheeks flushed, lashes wet. “they deserve more.”

you grin, already shifting in his lap.

“yeah?” you whisper, guiding his mouth back where it belongs. “then start over.”

#*. ⋆ velvet's writing #james potter x reader #marauders era #james potter x fem!reader #james potter x you #james potter x y/n #james potter fic #himbo!james potter #himbo!james potter x reader #james potter smut #james potter drabble #james potter fanfiction #marauders fanfiction

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xxyuta · 5 months ago

Text

nct dream begging

✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩

warnings: begging obvi! teasing, masturbation, somnophilia tendencies, dry humping, eating reader out

authors note: ive been feeling submissive behavior lingering in the air lately…but anyways! whipped this up rq bc i can’t sleep (°▽°) thank u for reading as always!! ∩^ω^∩

✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩

MARK is exhausted from his long day–he couldn't possibly take anything else to annoy him even more. that is until you swiftly push up against him as hes eating fruit in the kitchen. but you didn't mean to…right? “was that on purpose?” he says fed up, knowing what games you're playing with him. it’s been like this all day. quick grazes on his skin, on his neck, hell you even wore a short skirt and “accidentally” moaned when you stubbed your toe. “no” you say acting clueless. he eyes you as you walk out the kitchen. by this time, hes over it and just wants you to touch him. so he follows you into your bedroom talkin’ something bout “please y/n”, and god his voice is so whiny. he falls to his knees, “i've been a good boy all day. and im so hard- just look!” he whines, hands hastily tugging down his sweatpants to reveal his hard cock, tip red and veins prominent. hes just sitting there, lip between his teeth, eyes puppy eyed begging for you to just touch him already. “please-” he begins, moving closer to you who's sitting at the edge of the bed. you decide to play with him one last time, hand coming to his bare cock, rubbing it as you watch him fall apart. “fuck y/n!” he yelps from the sudden movement. “what were you saying?” you say head tilting. “please touch me, y/n. i've been a really good boy so please, i'm begging you.” his eyes are glossy and teary, hands now traveling to the inside of your thighs. i guess you can give in now.

RENJUN rests on the outdoor lounge chair, soaking in the sun and heat on a sweet summer day. you lean against the door frame to the patio, watching him intensely noticing the way he's just in shorts, his hand over his face, hair messy and ruffled and lips glossy as his tongue glides over them. you bring him a glass of water, “thirsty?”. he lazily scooches up on the chair, nodding his head as hes too tired to say anything. he eyes you as he notices what you're wearing; a pink bikini with a sheer skirt cover up. “mm-” he whines, but you're not exactly sure at what. that is until he starts grazing your arms, your legs, your shoulders, your hips. his eyes dart between your body and your eyes, hoping you get what he means. “what is it?” you ask, already knowing what he wants. his arms attempt to pull you on top of him, but he's just too tired, too tired and horny. he whines as you giggle at his intentions. “you’re so cute my junie” you tease him, holding his face in your hand. his eyes look close to closed as he pants from both the heat and the fact he's in heat. “please-” he whines, shifting his hips closer towards you, hoping you notice the way he's so hard right now. and oh you do. his shorts tighten around his hard dick, you can see the way it twitches whenever you move your hands against him and his face. he pants and whines more before saying, “i'm begging you”. you smile softly at him as you nod and he slides his pants off with low effort, exposing his stiff cock to you.

JENO wakes in the middle of the night, moving quietly to the kitchen to help quench his thirst. when he comes back, he towers over your sleeping body, imagining a fantasy he wants to fulfill. you’re been rather harsh with him all day. feeling spontaneous, he climbs over your sleeping body, straddling your hips as his hands lay on either side of your head. he takes in your sleeping figure, beginning to grind against your body. he stops at first, debating wether he should continue. but he advances, trying his best to hold in his pretty little moans as he bites his lower lip. his eyes shut, feeling so turned on, that is until you wake up. you grab his arms taking him by surprise. “i’m sorry! i’m sorry!” he pleads whilst panicked. you smile at his intentions, pulling his hips closer to you, signaling that he can keep going. he feels guilty at first, eyebrows furrowed as he looks at you with an apologetic expression. you soothe his arms before guiding his hips to continue, gradually moving them faster. he lets out heavy breaths, jaw agape at the sensation. “it’s okay, keep going my honey”, you reassure him cradling his face as he whimpers. his hands replant besides you before he gets more control on hips, grinding them harder and faster on you. you notice the way his eyes water, at the way he whines instead of moans. “what’s wrong?”, you ask pouting. “pleasee”, he whines, breathes becoming unsteady. whispering into his ear, “what do you want? tell me?”, he admits, “you…want to feel you…” you says moving more impatiently against you now. you tease him further, “hmm…maybe!”. he sniffles now, back arching a little when he says “please, i’m begging”. you just can’t resist him now can you?

HAECHAN games with the dreamies late at night. it’s been hours since he’s payed you a little more than 5 minutes of attention to you. you huff, “haechan, can you get off now?” you ask. he lets out a “mm”, turning towards you then quickly returning back to his game. “your right, continue, just ignore i’m here” you roll your eyes laying in his bed mindlessly, getting even bored of your phone. earlier in the morning, you had gone shopping, so feeling like a tease, you prompt that you’re going to show him what you bought. he nods and lets out another, “mm”. you put on your new dress; it was off white, silky with lace and a bow in the back, not to mention it did wonders to your figure, accentuating your curves. you stand before him, waiting for him to look. he rapidly takes a peek at you and looks back at his screen, but his eyebrows furrow as he takes a double take. “wow…” he says mouth agape. “do you like it?” you ask with big eyes, hoping that he’d ditch his game now. and he does exactly that. “so pretty…” he mutters as he romantically takes your hand and kisses it. “hm, it’s a shame though…” you say eyes staring at the ground as you shrug your shoulders. what could possibly be a shame when you look like a goddess beforth him? “what? what is it?” he says softly, continuing to kiss your hands and up your arm. “i wanted you to fuck me in it…”, and he can’t belive what just came out your mouth. he’s silent, jaw hung, wanting to say something but you’re quicker. “but you’re just too busy, playing for hours when you could’ve been fucking me instead…” you say, eyes wandering around his room. you retreat back to his bed, sitting at the edge. he’s silent when he moves from his chair to the floor, crawling towards you. you can’t believe it, now he wants to give you attention. as he kneels in front of you, he lets out apologies. but you only laugh. “i’m sorry…i’m begging you, please forgive me?” he says and he looks like he’s on the verge of tears.

JAEMIN told u he was horny, straight up. but being the tease you are, you insist on helping him later while retreating back to the bathroom to take a shower. he huffs, but he won’t accept defeat. so he waits a little for you to bask in the shower, running the hot water through your hair as he slips in quietly. you open your eyes to the sight of him closing the shower door. “jaemin!” you exclaim, slightly surprised that he snuck in so quietly. him on the other hand stands under the water with you, hands gripping your waist as he impatiently kisses at your neck. you push him away, “can i finish?” you ask assertively. he complies as he sits on the showers ledge, the cool tiles beneath him. he bites his lip as he watches you, the soap and water glistening on your body. nope, he can’t wait, so he begins moving his hand around his hard cock, letting his head fall back against the wall. he breaths heavily as he watches you, turned on at the sight of you bathing yourself. he tucks his bottom lip, biting it as he feels himself already close to his climax. as you finish up, he wastes no time to move his other hand to your waist turning you to face him. you smile at his desperation as he plants kisses all over your wet body, his hand still pleasuring himself. you push him off you, bending down a little to firmly say, “pathetic”. he slows his movements, “but-“ he refutes as he eyes your body again. “do whatever to me…i’m begging” he says with big eyes that look up at you. whatever hm?

CHENLE has been between your thighs for some unmeasured time now, lapping and eating you out to the gods. you’re not sure how you get here, but you remember him telling you that he’s better at everything than you are. “pleasuring you, i’m better at that” he says cockily. taking another sip of your drink, he tell him “that i’ll give you, but i’m better at making you beg!” you say proudly. he scoffs, “well you’ve done that like, what 4 times? who’s counting!”. “so? betters better than occurrence…” you trail. fast forward, he’s got you laid in bed, pleasuring you in motivation to mark his words. “fuck lele-“ you moan, hands coming to pull at his hair. you’re overstimulated and he’s latched on so hard you can’t get him off you. as you feel you’re nth orgasm about to hit you, you finally pull him off you, boldly slapping his cheek, “you don’t stop do you?”. his pussy drunk eyes meet yours, his mouth glistening from your juices. he whines at the slight sting, muttering shit like, “taste so good” and “such a sweet pussy for me” and you refuse to let down your initial claim. you notice the way his bulge is clearly evident in his pants. you cock your head, staring back into his eyes as you use your knee to rub against his hard on. his head falls, letting out a groan and exclaiming “fuck!”. “want it?”, you say tilting your head. he nods rapidly, eyes shutting at the sensation as he lets out pretty moans for you. “beg for it” you whisper with a smile. he opens his eyes, shaking his head no refusing to lose against you. so, you stop. “no no no” he pleads. you look at him intensely, his eyes looking down then back at your before saying, “i want it, so bad, let me have it please please. i’m- i’m begging you”. you smile at your achievement as you move to slide his pants down…

JISUNG and you cuddle in bed. he’s talking bout how much he missed you over the past couple days as he was just so busy. as you listen to him, you caress his face, his arms, his torso. he leans into your touch, whining that he’s overworked and so tired. “tired?” you ask. “mhm, so tired, danced all day so my body’s so sore…” and it’s clear that he wants some pleasure. so you give it him. you start just by massaging him, letting out the tension he has in his muscles. you pull his shirt of, rubbing his sides and shoulder harder as he lets out sighs. “so good” he trails as his eyes close. as you let your hands wander to his abs, you trace them as you now notice the way the bulge in his pants because more bigger and bigger. your eyes widen fixated on it, but then you remember something. you had called jisung throughout the day, checking in on him. but he never mentioned he was doing dance practice and that he went to a meeting and he chilled in the studio with the others. you stop your movements. “jisung…” you say now fixated on his face. one of his eyes open, “hm?” and wow he’s so oblivious. “you’re lying aren’t you?”. he’s silent but has the audacity to palm himself thinking you wouldn’t notice. he’s so hard it’s painful, his pants constraining him. “yknow, you didn’t have to lie about being sore, just tell me you want a massage with a happy ending next time”. “m’ sorry” he says quietly. moving his hands off his bulge, you let your hands wander back on his body now, touching everywhere but where he needs it most. he whines and shifts around, clearly annoyed. you plant kisses leading down from his neck to his bulge and stop abruptly. he just whines more now, “hurts so bad, please. touch me, i’m begging” and aw you can’t say no to that face!

#nct 127 smut #nct drabbles #nct dream smut #nct imagines #nct reactions #nct scenarios #nct smut #nctsmut #nct x reader #nct fanfic #nct smau #nct suggestive #kpop smut

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spikedfearn · 12 days ago

Text

I Like the Way You Kiss Me

Chapter II

James Cook x fem!reader

summary: You move into a grimy South London flat through a mutual friend—Effy says the place is cheap, the people are sound. She forgets to mention one of them is James Cook. Loud, cocky, shirtless more often than not—he's everything you can't stand. From the second you meet, it's all eye-rolls and insults, tension sharp enough to cut. But when a late-night fight turns into a rough hallway kiss, things spiral into something ugly, hot, and completely off-limits. You hate him. He loves getting under your skin. And neither of you can stop.

wc: 8.4k

a/n: dropped Chapter II immediately after the first because I got a flood of filthy little love notes in my ask box and—let’s be honest—I’m a whore for attention. Keep stroking my ego and I’ll keep dropping chapters like Cook drops boundaries. 😌💋 thank you once again to @iamyourwayout for the banners!!

warnings: enemies to lovers, smoking & drinking, party chaos, foul language, mutual degradation kink, unbearable sexual tension, hallway makeouts, casual slapping, emotionally constipated idiots, Cook being Cook™, messy hookups, jealousy-fueled tension, self-sabotage as foreplay, maladaptive coping mechanisms, internalized horniness, arousal denial, dry humping in a hallway, clothes-on grinding, heavy petting, tongue-fucking, spit-sharing, filthy mouth on both ends, "you like that, don’t you" energy, whispered threats as dirty talk, face-grabbing, desperation so loud it echoes, orgasm denial, fully clothed fingering, clit rubbing through panties, fingers in mouth, rutting like animals against a wall, overstimulation without even getting naked, power plays with zero follow-through, reader gets fingered in a hallway, Cook gets hard and pressed up against her, penetrative sex (P-in-V) against the wall, unprotected sex, frantic fucking, aggressive thrusting, rough sex, manhandling, possessive dirty talk, hair pulling, mutual begging without saying the words, one (1) moment of intimacy that’s immediately smothered in denial, and exactly zero emotional progress made by anyone involved

likes, comments, and reblogs are always appreciated, please enjoy!!

Fic Masterlist/Main Masterlist

Chapter II: Don't You Wanna Make Me Proud?

You wake up already angry.

Not at anything in particular—just the sheer fact of being awake. The ceiling above you is painted in watery morning light, pale grey bleeding through the broken slats of your blinds, and everything in your room feels too close. The air. The sheets. Your skin.

You’re sweating under the covers. Your hoodie is rucked halfway up your ribs, and your left sock has vanished completely, leaving one foot clammy against the mattress and the other overheating in wool.

There’s a throb behind your left eye. Not quite a headache—just pressure, dull and persistent, like your body is warning you that something isn’t right.

And it isn’t.

Because it’s not a hangover.

It’s him.

It’s still him.

You blink slowly, and it’s already there: memory sliding back into you like a hand around your throat.

Not gentle

Not soft.

Just there—immediate and sharp and hot.

The hallway.

The light flickering like it was holding its breath.

The music throbbing faintly behind the walls, distant and drowned like you were underwater.

His voice, low and ruined—“Say it.”

His hand on your waist.

His mouth on your mouth.

The sound he made when you kissed him back.

You press your palms to your face.

Hard.

But it’s no use.

You can still feel the sting of your slap against your fingers.

You can still feel his grin stretching under it like it was the best thing you’d ever done to him.

You groan aloud, rolling onto your stomach and burying your face into the pillow. Your skin is flushed. Your thighs are sticky with heat. You don’t need to check to know your pulse is fluttering wildly beneath your jaw like it’s trying to get out.

You can still taste him.

That mix of cigarette smoke and beer and salt and him.

That impossible, awful, magnetic thing that made your knees go loose and your spine arch and your mouth open like you were hungry for it—because maybe you were.

Maybe you still are.

You shove the blankets off you with too much force. They tangle around your ankles, knotting like they’re trying to hold you down.

You kick them free and sit up, breath shallow, chest heaving.

The room is spinning just slightly, not from drink but from adrenaline—from remembering. You scrub a hand down your face and stare at the floor. You feel raw. Abraded. Like your body doesn’t know what version of the night it’s allowed to believe.

Did he kiss you like he hated you? Or like he knew he never would again?

Did you kiss him back because you wanted to shut him up?

Or because you didn’t?

You dress like you’re suiting up for battle—hoodie, thick socks, leggings with the waistband pulled up too high. You don’t look in the mirror. You already know what you’ll see.

Shame. Confusion.

And something else. Something worse.

You brush your teeth too hard, gripping the edge of the sink like it might run. You scrub your tongue until your gums ache. You rinse with cold water that makes your eyes water.

But no matter how many times you spit and swish, you can’t get rid of the taste.

You swear it’s still on your lips.

In your mouth.

Between your legs.

The flat is quieter than it should be.

You step into the kitchen and it’s like walking into an echo. The floorboards creak under your socks. The fridge hums too loud. A light bulb flickers overhead, buzzing like a trapped insect.

The sink is full of crusted solo cups and soggy crisps and someone’s melted ice cubes. You can smell old beer and someone’s cologne and the faint tang of weed still lingering in the air.

The kitchen table is littered with evidence—bottle caps, a lighter, two unmatched shoes, a scarf that might be Effy’s or might belong to the girl Cook had his hands on.

Your eyes catch a red plastic cup on the edge of the counter. It’s smeared with gloss—your gloss. The same sticky shimmer you wore when you stormed down the hall last night and told yourself you weren’t going to look at him again.

Your stomach lurches.

You turn away too fast and open the fridge even though you’re not hungry. The cold air hits your face like a gentle tap. There’s nothing you want. Only half-drunk cider bottles, ketchup, and a carton of milk that expired two weeks ago.

You close the door.

You stand there for a minute, one hand braced on the counter, the other curled into the hem of your hoodie like it might keep you from unraveling.

You wait for him to appear.

Leaning against the doorframe. Shirtless. Smirking. Smoking. Asking you if you’re still mad or just wet.

He doesn’t come.

And somehow, that’s worse.

You stay in your room the rest of the day.

Effy drifts in and out of the flat like weather. You hear her boots in the hallway, her laugh through the walls, her voice low and amused in phone calls you don’t listen to.

She doesn’t knock. She doesn’t ask.

You’re both grateful and bitter.

At one point you scroll through Instagram for almost an hour and realize you haven’t absorbed a single image. Just bright colors and captions and filtered selfies while your brain keeps rewinding to his hands on your waist, the way his thigh slipped between yours and made you gasp like you’d been lit from the inside.

Your phone dies in your hand. You don’t plug it in.

You curl under the blankets and try to read.

You try to nap.

You try to think about anything else.

But your body won’t let you.

Every time you shift, you feel sore. Like your skin remembers what you’re trying to forget. Like your hips are still chasing that friction. Like your lips haven’t stopped tingling since the moment he bit down on your bottom one and moaned like he’d just found religion.

You hate him.

You do.

But you also think about what it would’ve felt like to drag him into your room instead of running.

You wonder if he’s thinking about it too.

You wonder if his mouth tastes like you now.

You wonder what it would feel like to let him finish what he started.

And that thought?

That thought is what finally makes you roll over and scream silently into your pillow until your throat aches.

It’s late.

Not party-late. Not Friday-night-late. Just that dragging, underwater sort of late where the air feels thick and reluctant and everything in the world is turned down to a murmur. Past 1 a.m., maybe 2. You don’t check.

The flat is dark. Quiet. Dead.

You’ve been tossing in bed for what feels like hours—shifting under the covers, peeling your hoodie off, putting it back on, kicking one leg out from the duvet, curling up tight like it’ll suffocate the thoughts away.

But they’re still there.

He’s still there.

Cook’s voice, replaying in your head like a looping audio track. The snap of it. The rasp. The dare in it.

“Say it.”

Your hands twist in the blanket.

You told yourself you wouldn’t think about him tonight. You swore it. But he’s in the seams of everything. The scratch in your throat. The soreness in your thighs. The ghost on your lips.

Eventually, you give up.

You throw the covers off, pad barefoot into the hallway in a threadbare tee and boxer shorts that don’t match. You’re cold, but you don’t go back for socks. You just need something—water, air, distance, maybe a fucking exorcism.

The kitchen is dark except for the glow from the streetlamp outside, spilling soft orange light through the cracked blinds. The air is cooler here, crisper, quieter. The fridge hums. You open it for the second time that day and still find nothing worth touching. Just that same half-finished cider and someone’s forgotten yogurt cup.

You pour a glass of water instead, the tap hissing loud in the silence. The sound makes your shoulders jump.

You take a long drink—long enough that it aches going down—and rest your hands on the counter to steady yourself. You press your forehead to the cabinet above and close your eyes.

You’re fine.

You’re not.

You can’t even stop smelling him—cigarettes and citrus shampoo and something darker, more animal. You swear it’s still clinging to your hoodie from the last time you got too close.

You let out a slow breath.

Then—

A sound.

The soft creak of floorboards behind you.

You freeze.

You already know it’s him.

Before he speaks. Before he moves. Before he bothers to announce himself.

You know it by the weight in the room. That shift in the air. That particular flavor of pressure, like someone lit a match behind you and it hasn’t touched skin yet, but it will.

And then—

“Didn’t peg you for a midnight snacker.”

His voice is low, rough, almost lazy. Like he just woke up. Or just lit a joint. Or maybe just stepped out of a dream where you were still under him.

You don’t turn around.

You keep your spine straight. You grip the edge of the sink until your knuckles ache.

You say nothing.

Behind you, you hear the soft rustle of fabric—hoodie sleeves pushed up, probably. Bare feet on the tile. A pause, like he’s waiting for you to acknowledge him.

You won’t.

You can’t.

You hear him open the fridge. Hear the soft clink of bottles shifting. The familiar hiss of a cap being twisted off.

He drinks.

Swallows.

Exhales.

You still don’t look.

Eventually, he leans back against the counter beside you. Not quite touching, but close enough to feel the heat of him. His elbow hovers inches from yours.

You stare straight ahead, into the dark reflection in the microwave door.

He speaks again, this time quieter.

“You been hidin’, sweetheart?”

That word hits like a slap.

You stiffen, finally turning your head—slow, deliberate, and with your full weight behind the glare.

“Don’t call me that.”

He smirks, sips his drink again, tongue poking out to catch the drip at the corner of his mouth.

“Would you prefer princess? Angel? Babe? There’s so many to choose from.”

You level your voice, dead flat. “Fuck off.”

But your chest is rising too fast. Your palms are damp. And you know he can see it.

He leans in just slightly, not close enough to touch, but close enough that you feel his breath when he speaks again.

“Didn’t seem to mind it the other night.”

The silence after that line is visceral.

You could cut it with a knife and it would bleed.

Your heart thuds against your ribs so hard it feels personal.

You step back.

But he steps forward.

Not a lot. Just enough.

Enough to make the space between you feel like a dare again.

You look up at him, jaw clenched, mouth pressed into a line so tight your teeth might crack. He looks down at you like he’s cataloguing your reactions. The twitch of your lips. The heat on your neck. The way your breath skips before you catch it.

“I said it didn’t mean anything,” you bite out.

“You didn’t say that.”

“I’m saying it now.”

Cook licks his lips. Smiles slow. That stupid smile that means he knows something you don’t want him to.

“Right,” he says. “Sure. That why you’ve been avoidin’ me like I fingered you in the pub loos?”

You shove him.

Not hard. But fast. Furious. Open-palmed against his chest.

He stumbles a half step back, then laughs—low and delighted and entirely unbothered.

“Touched a nerve,” he murmurs.

You’re breathing hard now.

He watches you like a man who’s figured out your pressure points and has every intention of using them.

“I was drunk,” you snap.

He cocks his head. “You didn’t kiss me like you were drunk. You kissed me like you wanted to fuck me.”

Your hand twitches. You don’t slap him this time, but God, you want to.

He grins.

You hate that your thighs clench again.

You hate that your skin still remembers how his felt.

You hate that your body is giving you away.

He’s watching it happen. In real time.

You shove past him without another word, glass still in hand, shoulders rigid, breath jagged. You feel him turn, tracking you with his eyes as you disappear down the hall.

You don’t look back.

But you feel him grin behind you.

And it burns.

The next time you see him, he’s shirtless.

Again.

Of course he is.

It’s late afternoon. The sky outside is grey and indifferent. The kind of weather that makes everything inside feel louder—every tap of the kitchen faucet, every creak in the hallway floorboards, every breath you take when you’re pretending not to listen for him.

You’ve been cooped up in your room too long. The air’s stale, and your phone's dead again. You drag yourself out with the intent of doing something mundane—laundry, tea, anything that feels normal.

You pad into the living room and stop cold.

He’s there.

Splayed out on the couch like he built it himself. One leg kicked up over the backrest, the other slouched halfway off the cushions. Remote in one hand. A cigarette tucked behind his ear. A smear of something red across his ribs—paint or sauce or blood, you don’t know, you don’t care, you’re not asking.

No shirt. Just low-slung grey joggers that barely cling to his hips, riding so low you can see the waistband of his boxers and the defined cut of muscle where his stomach narrows.

Your mouth goes dry.

You hate that.

He looks up lazily when he hears you.

“Aw, look who came out of hiding,” he drawls, voice like gravel soaked in honey. “Thought you died in there.”

You roll your eyes. “Disappointed?”

“Heartbroken.”

You move past him like he’s furniture. Something to be navigated around. He watches you with that half-lidded gaze, the one that makes you feel like he’s stripping you down just to see if you’ll flinch.

You make it to the kitchen. Fill the kettle. Try to ignore the way his eyes burn between your shoulder blades.

“Tea?” you ask without turning. Flat. Cold. Defensive.

“Nah,” he says, and you can hear the grin in it. “I’m good. You makin’ it to calm your nerves?”

You inhale through your nose. “You’re not that important.”

He snorts behind you. “Then why do I keep catchin’ you starin’?”

You spin around, arms crossed. “Because you’re always in the way.”

He stretches, slow and deliberate, arms up over his head, stomach muscles flexing with the movement.

“Maybe,” he says, voice low, “you like it when I’m in the way.”

Something in your chest twists. Sharp. Sudden.

You take your tea and go back toward the hallway, but before you can get through the door, he speaks again—quieter this time, closer to something dangerous.

“You keep runnin’ off, but you always come back.”

You pause, your back to him.

Your fingers tighten around the mug. The ceramic creaks faintly under your grip.

“I live here,” you mutter.

He laughs, low and dark. “Right. Forgot.”

You don’t respond.

You keep walking.

You don’t hear him follow.

But when you get to your room and close the door, you swear you can still feel him. Like smoke in your clothes. Like heat pressed between your legs. Like a splinter under your skin you can’t dig out.

That night, you don’t sleep.

You pace your room. Scroll. Toss. Turn.

Around 3 a.m., you go to the kitchen again.

And he’s already there.

He doesn’t speak when you walk in.

Just looks up from the cigarette he's rolling on the table—his knuckles ink-smudged, his forearms resting flat, his hair a messy halo of curls. He’s wearing a hoodie this time, the sleeves pushed up. No shirt underneath. Nothing zipped.

You don’t ask what he’s doing.

You don’t say anything.

You reach for the kettle again.

He watches the whole thing—silent, unreadable.

When you finally turn to face him, he’s leaning back in the chair, arms crossed now, cigarette dangling from his lip unlit.

“What do you want, Cook?”

He tilts his head.

The way he looks at you—slow and sharp and undressing—makes your stomach hollow out.

“You gonna slap me again if I say it?”

You feel the heat rise in your chest. Your neck. Your thighs.

You grip the counter behind you.

“I might.”

He stands.

Takes two slow steps toward you.

And stops.

“You keep doin’ that,” he says. “Actin’ like you don’t want it. Like I’m the one who started all this.”

“You did.”

He laughs once, low. “Nah. I just finished it.”

He steps in again. Closer. Right into your space.

He waits.

You breathe. Shallow and shaky.

And then—

You kiss him.

Harder than you mean to. Like punishment. Like confession.

His hands find your hips instantly, grip bruising, pulling you in. Your tea sloshes over the edge of the cup and spills on the floor, but neither of you notice.

You let him press you back against the fridge. Let him slide a thigh between your legs. Let him moan into your mouth like he can’t stand how good it feels.

This time, you don’t run.

This time, you pull him closer.

And tell yourself it’s just this once.

Even as your body says, liar.

The kitchen is still too warm. Still too small. Still thick with whatever just happened in the silence between you.

The slap of the fridge door echoes louder than it should when you shut it with more force than necessary. You’re facing away from him, breath shallow, fists curled loosely at your sides like you haven’t decided whether to swing or run. Behind you, you hear the faint creak of the floorboards as Cook shifts his weight, but he doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move closer.

You can feel him watching you though—like the heat of a cigarette cherry hovering just shy of your skin.

It’s unbearable.

You spin, glaring. “You’re such a fucking—”

But the words catch in your throat when you see his face.

Still flushed. Still glistening slightly with sweat. Eyes dark. Lids heavy. Jaw clenched like he’s biting back something worse than anything you could say.

There’s a moment—barely a breath—where neither of you move.

Then, slowly, Cook steps forward. Just one step. Then another. The distance between you shrinks, but he doesn’t reach for you. Not yet.

“You gonna slap me again?” he murmurs, voice low and hoarse like gravel scraped over asphalt.

You swallow. Hard.

“Maybe,” you say, quieter now. “If you touch me again without asking.”

His mouth curves up at one corner, but the look in his eyes isn’t teasing. It’s focused. Sharp.

“So askin’s all it takes?”

You don’t answer.

Because you don’t trust your voice. Because your body’s already betraying you—buzzing with adrenaline, knees weak from anger and something worse. Something want-shaped.

He keeps walking until the fridge presses cold against your back, and Cook’s close enough that you feel every exhale against your collarbone. He’s not touching you, but you can feel him like a shadow stitched to your skin.

He leans in. Not quite a kiss. Not quite nothing. “You gonna tell me to stop?”

Your breath hitches.

The silence between you is screaming.

“Do it,” you whisper.

His brow lifts, just a flicker of surprise. “Yeah?”

You nod once. Barely. “Or are you all mouth?”

That’s all it takes.

He surges forward, mouth on yours—rough, greedy, tongue parting your lips like he owns the right to taste every corner of you. You gasp, and he drinks it in like he’s starving. His hands don’t ask permission—they grip your waist, fingers splayed under your shirt, dragging you into him like he can’t stand the inches between you anymore.

Your back hits the fridge again with a soft thud. Cold metal and hot skin. You make a sound—somewhere between a moan and a curse—and he pulls back just enough to speak against your mouth.

“Knew you had a filthy little mouth on you,” he breathes. “Didn’t know I’d like it this much.”

“You don’t know shit,” you snap, breathless.

“Then teach me.”

He lifts you before you can think, arms solid under your thighs, and sets you down hard on the counter. Your legs spread automatically to make room, and he steps between them like he was made to fit there. The edge of the counter bites into your ass, but you don’t care. Not when his mouth is on your throat now, teeth scraping against skin, his hands sliding up under your shirt to grope without shame.

“Cook—”

“I know,” he says, muffled by the curve of your shoulder. “I know. Fuckin’ hell, you feel good.”

He pulls back, hands tugging your shirt over your head. You raise your arms without hesitation. He curses under his breath when he sees your bra, black and lacy like it was picked for sin. He palms your tits through the cups, rough and reverent all at once, and then dips his head to mouth at the edge where lace meets skin.

“Christ,” he mutters, hot breath fanning across your chest. “You always wear shit like this around the house?”

“Thought you didn’t notice,” you breathe.

He laughs into your skin. “I notice everything about you, princess.”

You’re not proud of the sound that slips from your throat when he sucks a bruise into the swell of your breast. It’s desperate. Wrecked. And it only makes him groan low, like he’s barely keeping himself in check.

You tilt your head back, eyes fluttering shut, fingers tangling in his hair. He’s already got you coming apart, and you’re not even halfway undressed yet.

But then your voice breaks through the haze.

“Effy.”

Cook stills.

Your eyes flick open. “Are you two…”

He pulls back. Face flushed. Hair wild. Breath uneven.

“What?” he asks, like the question came from another planet.

You search his face. “Are you and Effy…? I don’t wanna—fuck—I don’t wanna be stepping into something.”

He blinks. Then barks out a laugh. “You think I’d be doin’ this if me and Eff were a thing?”

You shrug, suddenly aware of how naked you feel. How vulnerable. “I don’t know. I’ve seen the way she looks at you.”

Cook runs a hand through his hair. His eyes settle on you again, this time without the usual smirk.

“She doesn’t want me like that,” he says, voice steadier than you expected. “Never has. I don’t want her like that either. She’s family, sort of. Fucked-up, but…not like this.”

His gaze drops pointedly to your mouth. Then to the way your thighs are still spread around his hips.

“This is different.”

You’re not sure what to say. But when he kisses you again—slow and filthy and possessive—you believe him.

And then his hands slide down, hooking into your waistband.

“Now shut up,” he mutters. “I’m busy.”

Cook’s fingers hook into the waistband of your joggers with no patience, no hesitation—just the confidence of a man who knows what he wants and has already decided he’s going to get it.

You suck in a breath as he starts to drag them down, slow and rough, grazing your hips with the backs of his knuckles. The fabric peels from your skin inch by inch, sticking slightly to your thighs where you’re already warm, already wet. He drops them somewhere behind him with a flick of his wrist, then crouches between your legs without warning, eyes level with your cunt now, barely covered by the soaked scrap of your underwear.

He grins, low and wolfish.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he mutters, voice thick. “You’re soaked. You were like this when you slapped me, weren’t you?”

Your face burns, but you don’t look away. You’re panting now, fingers gripping the counter edge like it might anchor you. The sight of him on his knees, eyes locked on the dark wet patch blooming through your panties, has your stomach twisting and your pulse pounding in places it shouldn’t.

He leans in, pressing a kiss right over your clothed clit, soft and mocking. You jolt, a choked sound clawing up your throat, but he just chuckles and does it again—open-mouthed this time, dragging his tongue up the center until your hips twitch forward involuntarily.

“I fuckin’ knew it,” he murmurs, nosing against you. “You get off on it. Bein’ mean to me. Getting all hot and bothered just to fight.”

“I do not—” you gasp, cut off as he licks you again, this time slower, flatter, harder.

He hooks one finger under the waistband of your panties and pulls them to the side, exposing you fully to the warm air and his hungering stare. His breath hits your folds, and you nearly lose it.

Cook groans like he’s just been served something decadent.

“Look at you,” he says, voice reverent. “Prettiest little pussy I’ve ever seen. All drippin’ for me and I’ve barely fuckin’ touched you.”

Then he does touch you. One slow, wet stroke of his tongue from bottom to top that makes your eyes roll back and your thighs clamp around his head. He moans at the pressure, gripping your hips to keep you still as he dives in again.

He eats you like it’s his last meal.

Sloppy. Greedy. Devoted.

His tongue circles your clit with maddening precision, alternating between flat swipes and quick flicks, and every time you start to come down, he finds a new angle, a new rhythm that has you keening. His stubble scrapes your inner thighs raw, but it only adds to the chaos of sensation—pleasure and pain and heat and friction all colliding until your head’s spinning.

You try to close your legs, try to squirm away from the overwhelming intensity, but he growls into you, gripping your thighs tighter and burying his face deeper.

“Stay still,” he says, voice wrecked. “Let me fucking ruin you.”

You want to tell him he already has.

You want to tell him you’ve never been eaten out like this—like it’s a privilege, like he’s got something to prove, like he’s been dreaming about it for weeks.

But all that comes out is a desperate, broken moan.

He presses two fingers inside you without warning—thick and rough and curling just right. You clench around him so hard it punches a groan out of him, and he starts fucking you with his fingers while his mouth never leaves your clit.

Your thighs tremble. Your back arches. Your hands fly to his hair and tug like you need something to ground you. He groans again, louder, like he likes being pulled.

“Cook—fuck—fuck, I’m gonna—”

He doesn’t let up. If anything, he goes harder. Faster. His fingers thrust into you like he’s trying to fill a need you didn’t know you had, and his mouth seals around your clit with sinful intent.

When you come, it’s not a sweet release—it’s a detonation.

Your entire body seizes, a strangled cry tearing from your throat, and you feel yourself gush around his fingers. Your vision whites out at the edges. Your legs are shaking. You’re gasping like you’ve run a marathon, and he’s still licking you through it, still working his fingers in slow, filthy thrusts like he’s milking every last drop of it out of you.

Finally, finally, he pulls back.

Your panties are still yanked to the side, your chest heaving, your skin glazed with sweat. Cook rises to his feet, mouth shiny with your slick, eyes blown wide with lust and something darker.

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, then leans down to murmur against your ear.

“You taste like fucking heaven.”

You slap his chest weakly. “You’re a menace.”

He grins. “Yeah. But I’m your menace now, yeah?”

You don’t answer.

But you don’t say no either.

The kiss doesn’t end so much as it splinters—pulls apart by sheer necessity, breathless and raw-edged. Your back’s still pressed to the hallway wall, his hips bracketed around yours, like he’s daring you to shove him off again. But you don’t. Not really. Not with your hands still bunched in the fabric of his shirt. Not with your breath coming in short, shaky bursts, your chest brushing his with every rise and fall.

Cook leans his forehead against yours. It should feel intimate. It doesn’t. It feels volatile, like standing too close to an open flame and pretending it won’t catch.

You hate how good he smells—like weed and skin and something sharp that lives in his sweat, in the salt just below his throat. You hate that you want to know what it tastes like.

“Tell me this isn’t a game to you,” you murmur. It’s a whisper, really—barely audible. “Tell me you’re not just trying to get under my skin for fun.”

His eyes flash open, blue and direct, slicing straight through you.

“A game?” he repeats, like it’s a joke. Then, slower: “You think I’d get hard for you just to prove a point?”

You bite the inside of your cheek. “Wouldn’t put it past you.”

He laughs—low, mean, but not cold. “Nah. You’ve got me pegged all wrong, sweetheart.” His fingers tighten on your hip, dragging you in, his voice dropping lower. “When I want to fuck someone, I don’t waste time playing.”

You should slap him again. Instead, you breathe in so sharp it hurts.

“I’m not sleeping with you.”

Cook shrugs. “Didn’t ask you to.”

But his knee is between your thighs again and your back is still arched and he’s looking at you like he could devour you through your clothes.

You break the silence before it kills you. “What about Effy?”

He stills. Just for a second—but it’s enough.

You press, because you have to. “I know something happened. Or maybe it’s still happening. I’m not interested in getting caught in that.”

Cook finally leans back, just enough to look you dead in the eye. His mouth twitches—not a smile. Something sharper. “You think I’m fuckin’ Effy?”

You fold your arms across your chest. “Am I wrong?”

“No,” he says plainly. “We fucked. Long time ago. It was...convenient. It’s nothin’ now.”

“Are you sure about that?”

He snorts. “She’s shagged half our mates. We don’t do jealous.”

That...shouldn’t make you feel relieved. It does. Sort of.

“Don’t worry, princess,” Cook adds, eyes dragging down your body with all the subtlety of a wrecking ball. “If I wanted her, I wouldn’t be out here ready to rip your knickers off with my fuckin’ teeth.”

You feel your face burn, thighs clenching involuntarily.

“I’m not sleeping with you,” you repeat, voice thinner now. It sounds like a lie, even to you.

“Good,” Cook says, voice dark and sticky with challenge. “I like a fight.”

He kisses you again—rougher this time. Hungrier. You don’t know who reaches first, but suddenly your hands are in his hair and his mouth is devouring yours, and there’s no more conversation, no more distance, no more pretending.

You are drowning.

And you’re not sure you want to be saved.

But then Cook grabs your face with both hands—palms rough and warm against your cheeks—and kisses you like he’s been waiting all fucking year for the chance. It’s not pretty. It’s not soft. It’s frantic, messy, open-mouthed with too much tongue and zero hesitation. He tastes like cigarettes and cider and something filthy that curls low in your belly.

Your back slams into the wall again, this time with intention, his hips slotting tight between your legs. You’re still wrapped in his hoodie from earlier, nothing underneath, and he figures it out real fucking fast—fingers sliding beneath the hem, gripping your bare thighs like he owns them. Like you gave them to him to keep.

You gasp into his mouth when his thigh presses hard between yours, just like before—but now there’s no one watching. Now you grind against it, chasing friction like it’s the only goddamn thing keeping you alive.

He groans, breath stuttering. “Jesus. You’re actually fuckin’ soaked, aren’t you?”

You want to hit him. You want to slap the smugness off his face, shove him away, spit something cruel and cutting—

But instead, you moan.

And it ruins you.

“Cook,” you breathe, low and humiliated.

He grins like the bastard he is, licking into your mouth before growling, “Say it again.”

You shake your head, cheeks flushed, thighs squeezing his.

“Say it,” he demands, one hand sliding up to palm your breast through the hoodie, thumb flicking your nipple until you’re shuddering against him. “Say my name while you rut on my fuckin’ leg like a bitch in heat.”

The filth of it nearly knocks the air from your lungs.

“Fuck you,” you hiss.

“You’re tryin’,” he mutters, lips ghosting over your jaw, “but I don’t think you’ve got the balls.”

Your hips snap against his thigh, heat pooling so deep it makes your knees buckle. His fingers tighten on your waist. His mouth drags down your neck, teeth grazing sensitive skin, biting hard enough to bruise. You gasp and whimper and grind harder.

“Pretty little thing,” he murmurs, voice full of low, mean praise. “All that attitude, all that mouth—fallin’ apart on me like a slag in the hallway.”

You whine, genuinely whine, like some desperate thing starved for attention. His thigh’s soaked now. So are you. You're ruined.

“Thought you said you weren’t gonna fuck me,” he taunts, lips brushing your ear. “Gotta say, babe, your cunt’s tellin’ a different story.”

You whimper, eyes screwed shut.

Cook pulls back to look at you. Just for a moment. Just to see it—the wreckage. Your kiss-swollen mouth, your flushed cheeks, the hoodie hiked around your waist. Your hips twitch involuntarily, chasing friction even as he pauses.

“Pathetic,” he mutters, but his voice is thick. Reverent, even. “I haven’t even gotten my cock out yet.”

And just like that, your fingers scramble for his belt.

Your hands move without thinking—clumsy, frantic, tugging at his belt like it’s the only thing standing between you and salvation. Cook huffs a laugh against your neck, one hand braced on the wall above your head, the other sliding up your inner thigh to toy with the hem of the hoodie you’re still wearing like a second skin.

“You that desperate, sweetheart?” he murmurs, voice soaked in smugness and lust. “Can’t even make it to a bed, can you?”

You don’t answer. You can’t. Your mouth is dry, your brain white-noise static. All you can do is fumble with his zipper until you finally, finally get it down, and then—

He’s already hard. Hot, heavy, thick in your palm, the kind of cock that makes your fingers stretch just to wrap around it.

“Fuck,” you breathe, and you feel him twitch in your grip.

Cook groans like you’ve punched the air from his lungs. “Jesus—go on, then.”

You pump him slow, tight, dragging your palm over the head just to hear him hiss through his teeth. Your other hand braces against his chest, feeling the heat of him through the thin fabric of his T-shirt, the way his heartbeat stutters.

“You like this?” you whisper, letting your thumb smear precum over the tip just to be cruel. “Getting off in a hallway like a fuckin’ pervert?”

He growls, teeth sinking into the curve of your shoulder. “Takes one to know one, babe. You’re the one makin’ a mess all over my thigh.”

You squeeze tighter. He gasps.

“Yeah,” he pants, hips jerking into your hand. “Fuck—keep doin’ that. Shit—knew you’d be good at this. Knew you’d be filthy under all that attitude.”

The rhythm between you builds—your hand stroking him faster, his mouth on your neck, sucking bruises like he wants to brand you. Your thighs are slick with arousal, clenching around nothing, your own need starting to drive you wild.

Cook slips a hand between your legs and grins when he feels just how wet you are.

“Christ,” he mutters. “You’re gonna soak my jeans.”

You moan, frustrated, desperate. “Then do something about it.”

His eyes flare, dark and wicked, and his mouth crashes into yours again—messy, open, tongue tangling with yours as he fists your hoodie in one hand and your hair in the other. He’s pumping into your fist now, fucking your hand with ragged, uneven thrusts, hips twitching like he’s losing control.

“Gonna cum,” he gasps into your mouth. “Gonna make such a fuckin’ mess on you—”

“Do it,” you whisper, biting his bottom lip.

And then he does.

It’s filthy. Hot. His whole body stiffens, and he groans low and mean into your mouth as he spills into your hand, thick and wet and warm. You stroke him through it, milking every last drop, lips still locked together in something too desperate to be called a kiss.

When he finally slumps against you, breathless, you smirk.

“Didn’t even last two minutes,” you tease, voice syrupy with victory.

Cook laughs, hoarse and fucked-out. “Yeah? Let’s see how long you last.”

He sinks to his knees.

The floor tiles bite into your skin, cold and cruel against the backs of your thighs, but you barely register it. Not with Cook kneeling between your legs like he’s about to pray—not to God, but to the mess he’s about to make of you.

You’re already trembling. Hoodie pushed up, panties peeled aside, legs parted over his shoulders as he kisses up the inside of your thigh with lazy, open-mouthed heat.

“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath. “Look at this—already dripping, all for me.”

You feel his breath, hot and teasing, ghost over your folds before he presses a kiss right where it aches.

“Cook—” you whimper, hips bucking.

“Say my name again,” he grins, licking a stripe through your center. “C’mon. Sound prettier when you’re beggin’.”

You grab his hair like it’ll anchor you. “Cook—please—”

That’s all it takes.

He dives in.

Tongue flat, wide, filthy. Licking you like he’s starving, groaning as he tastes you. He eats pussy the way he does everything—cocky, shameless, greedy. Hands gripping your thighs like he owns them, like you’d try to run when really you’re fucking melting.

He suckles at your clit, just to hear you gasp. Circles it with his tongue, slow and obscene. Slides two fingers into you without warning—crooks them perfectly.

You nearly scream.

“Jesus—fuck, please—”

He hums like he’s tasting honey. Like you’re feeding some primal hunger in him.

“God, you’re tight,” he growls against you, fingers fucking you slow. “Bet you’d squeeze the life out of my cock.”

You’re not sure if he’s teasing or fantasizing. Both, probably.

Your hips are rolling against his face now, chasing friction, chasing the high building like a fever. He lets you. Encourages it. Tilts his head and sucks hard.

You cry out, back arching, vision sparking.

He doesn’t stop.

“Cook—Cook—” It’s broken now, half a sob, half a prayer.

“Almost there, baby?” he says, breath warm against your slick cunt. “Go on. Cum for me. Wanna see how messy you get.”

You do.

It crashes over you like fire—sharp, fast, brutal. You cum with a cry that echoes down the hall, thighs clamping around his ears, hand fisting in his hair. He moans against you, licking you through it, fingers never stopping.

And when your body slumps, boneless and overstimulated, he finally pulls back. Face wet. Grinning.

“Better than the shower, yeah?”

You can’t speak.

He kisses your inner thigh, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and smirks like a bastard.

“Don’t worry,” he says, voice wrecked. “Round two’ll be in an actual bed.”

You barely make it to your feet before Cook’s got his hands on your waist, his mouth on your neck, fingers slipping under the hem of your hoodie like he owns the right to undress you now.

“Come on,” he mutters, dragging you down the hall like a man possessed. “My room.”

You don’t resist.

Can’t.

Your legs are jelly and your brain is soup and his fingers are still wet from wrecking you on the hallway floor. You stumble into his room, barely aware of where your feet land, and then he’s spinning you—pushing you gently toward the bed.

“Clothes off,” he says, voice low, commanding.

You just stand there for a second, dazed, like a puppet with cut strings. He raises an eyebrow and smirks.

“What, need help?” He steps closer. “’Cause I’ll fuckin’ love helpin’.”

You lift the hoodie over your head in one go, arms shaky but determined. He watches the fabric lift, revealing your bare skin inch by inch like it’s a fucking strip show made just for him.

“Fuck me,” he mutters, under his breath but not quiet. “Look at you.”

Your panties are still halfway down your thighs, wet and ruined. You push them the rest of the way off and stand there—naked, flushed, chest heaving—and Cook stares.

He shrugs his shirt off one shoulder, then the other, then tosses it somewhere behind him without looking. Then he unbuckles his belt with a low, metallic clink that makes your cunt clench.

“You sure?” he says suddenly, pausing. “’Cause once I start, I ain’t stoppin’ till you’re full of cum and beggin’ for more.”

Your breath catches. But you nod.

And that’s all it takes.

Cook’s lips crash into yours like it’s the only thing keeping him alive. His hands are rough, urgent, sliding over your skin like he’s trying to memorize every inch with his palms. He pushes you back until your knees hit the mattress—and then he’s crowding you down, crawling over you, tongue hot in your mouth, hips already rolling down against yours.

“Been thinkin’ about this,” he growls into your skin, lips dragging down your jaw to your throat. “Since the fuckin’ minute you walked in.”

You don’t answer. Can’t.

Because he bites.

Right where your neck curves into your shoulder, teeth grazing, then pressing down—not enough to leave a mark, not yet—but enough to make your back arch.

“Thought you hated me,” you whisper, voice shaking.

He grins against your skin. “Still do. Hate how much I want you. Hate how fuckin’ wet you get for me. Hate how you looked at me in that hallway like you’d let me fuck you right there if I told you to.”

You whimper. And that’s when he grabs your thighs and yanks you down the bed so your ass is on the edge and your legs fall open, spread for him like a goddamn feast.

“Ohhh, yeah,” he mutters, dragging his gaze down your body. “Look at that pretty fuckin’ cunt. So wet for me already, aren’t you?”

You nod. You’re fucking drenched.

He kneels between your legs and doesn’t even tease—not this time. His mouth is on you like a man starved, lips wrapping around your clit, tongue working slow at first, then hard, then filthy. He’s groaning into your pussy like it’s his favorite meal, and you’re moaning back, hands fisting in his hair, thighs trembling on either side of his head.

When you cum, it’s sudden and violent, hips stuttering against his mouth, head thrown back. He doesn’t stop until you’re squirming, until you’re whining too much with your thighs squeezing around his ears.

And still—still—he kisses the inside of your thigh like he’s trying to soothe you. Like this is romantic. Like this isn’t hate-sex born from weeks of biting tension and verbal warfare.

Then he stands, unzipping his jeans, eyes locked on yours the entire time.

“You’re gonna take it like a good girl,” he says, voice gone dark and low, “or I’m gonna fuck your mouth till you do.”

You reach for him before he finishes the sentence.

Your hand wraps around him—hot, heavy, already leaking against your palm—and his entire body reacts like you’ve shocked him, muscles twitching, a strangled sound caught in his throat.

“Fuckin’—” he breathes, watching you through half-lidded eyes like you’ve got him under some sort of spell. “You keep lookin’ at me like that, I’m gonna come before I even get inside you.”

You don’t stop. Can’t. His cock is thick and flushed, veins taut under your touch, and the way his hips jerk when you stroke him makes you feel drunk on power. You swipe your thumb over the head, slick with precum, and he groans—deep, guttural, wrecked.

“Gotta—fuck, hang on.” He fumbles for his jeans, pulling out a crumpled foil square and slapping it into your hand. “Put it on for me, yeah? Want those pretty fingers to do somethin’ useful.”

You tear it open with shaky hands and roll the condom down his length, slow and deliberate. His abs tense. He doesn’t look away for a second.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters. “You’re gonna ruin me.”

You almost laugh—almost—but then he’s pushing you back again, crawling over you like a storm, mouth dragging down your neck, your collarbone, your tits. He mouths at one breast while his hand squeezes the other, rough and greedy, tongue flicking over your nipple until your back arches up into him.

“You ready?” he asks, voice low, breath hot against your skin.

You nod.

“Use your words, sweetheart.”

Your voice is barely more than a whimper. “Yes. Please. Fuck me.”

That’s all it takes.

He lines himself up and pushes in—slow at first, dragging it out, making sure you feel every inch—and you swear you see stars. Your mouth falls open in a silent gasp, and he groans above you like he’s just been let inside Heaven.

“Shit, you’re tight,” he says, forehead pressed to yours. “So fuckin’ wet. You been like this every time we argued? All those nights yellin’ at me, stormin’ off, pretendin’ you hated me—was this pussy beggin’ for me the whole time?”

You try to respond but he rolls his hips and your words dissolve into a moan.

He sets a pace—deep, deliberate strokes that rock you up the mattress, his hands braced on either side of your head, eyes dark and full of filth. Every thrust makes your breath stutter, your fingers dig into his back, your thighs tighten around his hips.

“Say it,” he growls. “Tell me how bad you wanted it.”

“I—I hated you.”

He grins, hips snapping hard. “Still do, yeah?”

Another thrust. You cry out.

“No,” you admit, panting. “Fuck, no—I want you, Cook.”

His mouth finds yours again, this time less brutal, more desperate. Like something’s cracking. Like something’s shifting. But neither of you stop long enough to name it.

Not when he grabs your thigh and hooks it over his shoulder.

Not when you scream his name as you cum for the second time, clenching so hard he has to grit his teeth to hold back.

Not even when he spills into the condom with a groan that sounds almost like your name.

The room doesn’t settle so much as hang—steam rising off both your bodies like you’ve just come out of the fucking ocean, the air thick with the scent of sweat and sex and something worse. Something deeper.

You’re gasping under him, one arm thrown across your forehead, the other still hooked lazily around his neck. Your legs feel ruined, your thighs trembling, your cunt aching in that deeply-sated, shameless kind of way. Used. Filled. Split open and dragged back together by force.

And he hasn’t moved.

Cook’s still buried inside you, softening only slightly, forehead resting on your shoulder as he tries to catch his breath. His chest is heaving, skin burning, and his fingers are locked tight around your waist like if he lets go, you’ll vanish.

You feel him swallow. Hear the rasp in his voice when he finally mutters, “Jesus fuckin’ Christ.”

You want to laugh, but all you can manage is a hoarse, breathy, “Yeah.”

His lips drag along your collarbone. Then your neck. Then higher, to the hinge of your jaw.

“That wasn’t normal,” he murmurs, like he’s stating a medical fact. “That was…somethin’ else.”

Your throat tightens. “Don’t get all sentimental on me now.”

He lets out a low, wrecked chuckle against your skin. “Nah, wouldn’t dream of it.”

But he doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t crack another joke. Just lies there, forehead pressed to your cheek, breathing you in like he’s trying to memorize it.

Eventually, you clear your throat and shift, flinching when he finally, finally pulls out.

You feel it. The wet slide. The aftershock. The ache.

He tosses the condom with a practiced flick into the bin and flops down beside you, one arm over his eyes.

Silence stretches.

You stare up at the ceiling. Your heartbeat’s still slowing, your body still humming.

Then:

“…You and Effy,” you say. It’s quiet. Not accusing. But not casual, either. “Was it ever…?”

His arm twitches. “Nah.”

You glance over.

Cook’s still staring at the ceiling, but there’s something tense in his jaw. “We messed around a couple times. Long time ago. Didn’t mean nothin’.”

You nod.

“Does it bother you?” he asks suddenly, turning to face you.

You blink. “No. I just didn’t wanna…overstep.”

His eyes flick down your bare body, lingering at the bruises blooming on your neck, your inner thighs, the raw edge of your bitten lip.

“Bit late for that, don’t you think?”

You roll your eyes, but your stomach flips all the same.

He grins. “You’re cute when you try to pretend this didn’t just change everythin’.”

“Did it?”

“Dunno,” he says, reaching out to trace a finger along your jaw. “But I’ll let you know next time I try to fuck someone else and can’t stop thinkin’ about you.”

You scoff. “Christ.”

“You love it.”

You hate how right he is. How your heart jumps anyway. How, even after everything, you already want him again.

You shift, pulling the blanket up. He tucks it around your shoulders like muscle memory. Like instinct.

Neither of you say anything else.

Not yet.

Not until the next disaster hits.

And oh, it will.

But for now, you let it linger—your skin marked with his fingerprints, your throat sore from his name, your mouth still tasting him like a secret.

And him?

He looks at you like you’re the best bad decision he’s ever made.

And he’s made a lot.

#I want to fight him then fuck him then fight him again #they went from “fuck you” to /fuck you/ in .3 seconds #james Cook #james cook x reader #james cook x you #james cook smut #james cook skins #skins cook #cook skins #cook fic #jack o'connell

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loveanddeepdick · 10 months ago

Text

cw: medical malpractice, piv sex, interpret this as a roleplay if u want, creampie, oral sex, implied anal at the end, NASTY PERV GETO

doctor!geto who asks you, his cute little girlfriend to help him “practice” anatomy. you knew in the back of your mind that was straight bullshit but you let him have his way.

“kay, go straight ahead, doctor”, you laughed, thinking he was joking

he was not joking

doctor!geto knows you love his black surgical gloves.

“lay down, angel, the hospital’s making me practice some new procedures and you have the perfect body to test on”

he runs his hands over your clothed body, ‘ just checking for any abnormalities’, he always claims. he lingers over your thighs, you stomach, your pretty tits, and you swear you almost see a smirk when he ‘checks for lumps’ on your throat. he wraps his long, slender fingers and pushes down a little on your esophagus.

doctor!geto who politely asks you to undress, marveling at your naked body on your shared bed.

“baby, is this really necessa—“

“shh, who’s the doctor?”

he pressed his stethoscope onto your chest, smiling as he hears your heartbeat increasing as he gets closer to your tits, your nipples growing hard from hitting the cold air. you roll your eyes, opening your mouth to say something but before you could, the cold metal of the stethoscope rubs over your sensitive peak.

“oops.. sorry, angel”

“pervert.. you do this with all your patients?”

“nah, only my special one right here”, suguru responds, flicking your hardened nub, “‘think i gotta check a little further, hm?”

doctor!geto who has his lips wrapped around your left nipple, sucking and flicking like his life depended on it while his gloved hand tweaked the other.

“‘gotta make sure you don’t have cancer or some shit, angel”

“yeah- ah! right.. you just—fuck! you just wanna fuck me”

doctor!geto has you blushing, covering your face as he spread your legs slowly, biting his lip from smiling too hard as he slowly revealed your pussy as it dripped onto the bedsheets.

“so you are enjoying this”

“sh-shut up! you’re not even a gynecologist what are you looking there for..!”

he moves down the bed, bending over and spreading your pussy lips, delighted to see your little pink hole hidden underneath your lips, clenching and spurting out your slick. eyes trailing up a little, he eyes your clit, twitching from the neglect.

doctor!geto who’s eating you out, savoring your salty taste against his flat tongue, claiming it to check if your pussy is ‘healthy’. he looks up to your clenched eyebrows and eyes rolled back to the back of your head as he plunges his fingers into you.

“you wanna cum, don’t you, angel? you filthy slut, mocking me just minutes ago and now you’re switching up. you can’t even think straight and i’m only fucking you with these dirty gloves and my two fingers”

“pleaseee, sugu, make me cum!”

“sugu? i think you’re forgetting something”, he smirked, pulling out his fingers to give your clit a sharp smack

“please, doctor, please go back in my pussy, i need you”

“good fucking girl”

doctor!geto who has you spreading your legs for him, your hands covering your face from blushing so hard when you see him in full uniform.

“c’mon move those hands, pretty. need to see my patient if we’re gonna have a inspection, right?”

he spread your pussy lips again, smiling how wet you still were

“y’pussy’s fucking begging for it, baby. look how wet she is.. fuuuck yeah”

“please, doctor geto, put it in!”

doctor!geto who has you in a mating press, bullying his cock into you. at some point he’d stoped thrusting and moved onto just humping you shallow. his pink tip rubbing the right way in your g spot as his gloved thumb was rubbing circles onto your clit.

“f-fuck! best. fucking. patient.. ah, fuck, ever”

you couldn’t even respond to him. geto looked up at your face, grinning when he realized he fucked you stupid

doctor!geto who doesn’t even give you a minute to recover, giving hydrating you with water and flipping you back over again, slapping your ass and spreading it open.

“i think another hole of yours needs an inspection as well. don’t you think so too, angel?”

#jjk smut #jjk x reader #jjk x reader smut #geto suguru smut #geto suguru x reader #geto suguru x reader smut #geto smut #jjk geto #rina journal 📝

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ditzydoe444 · 7 months ago

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okay so it’s not a really good or specific idea or anything buuuuut… could you please please please do soft dom!jason x bunny!reader? i loved your other bunny!reader😔

btw feel free to ignore this if you don’t like it or anything, love ya🫶🏻

MDNI 18+

soft dom! jason x bunny! reader

jason todd smut

you were horny. so fucking horny. but you never initiated sex, ever. so all you could do was lay in bed with a pout until jason got home, and would hopefully catch the hint. jason had been working in the garage for hours during the past week, where you were left alone in the house with only your fingers shoved up your tight cunt, pretending it was jason’s. after moving in you threw out all of your sex toys, not because jason was against it, but because they came nowhere close to the pleasure jason would give you.

but you didn’t think about how short your fingers were, how they barely gave you anything, god you never regathered throwing out the toys more than now. whilst jason was at work you were sprawled out on the bed, your tiny fingers pumping in and out of cunt. the whines and moans that left your mouth were pathetic, to say the least, god you couldn’t even give yourself an orgasm. hence why you started to dry hump his pillow. there was something about smelling his musky scent that turned you on. the pillow did more than your fingers, you came hard.

the pink floral pillowcases that you insisted on getting was now stained and damp with your slick. the sight made you embarrassed. you were literally a bunny in heat. jason would never make fun of you for it, he would never do that. but there was something so embarrassing and tainting about seeing your cum on his pillow. immediately, with flush cheeks you threw the pillowcase away, putting on a fresh one.

your legs were still slightly sore from riding his pillow, and your post orgasm glow was visible, your cheeks with a small flush of pink, hair sticking to your forehead and your eyes teary from how badly you missed him. so when you heard the front door open, a sign that jason had returned your stomach dropped. you jumped back into bed pretending you were relaxing as usual, though when he walked in the bedroom he could sense something was off.

“hey bun,” he cooed softly sitting by the edge of the bed where you were. you smiled shyly, the nickname that would usually make you blush reminded you of how you were humping his pillow, like a literal bunny. “how are you feelin’?” he smiled, tracing the soft contours of your cheeks.

god you prayed that he didn’t see the flush of your skin, jason knew what you looked like when you came, and that was enough to make you panic. “j-just a little tired,” you smiled. that wasn’t exactly a lie. you were always slumped after an orgasm.

“what’s wrong bun? you are heating up,” he frowned as he placed his large hand on your forehead. you shook your head, slightly panicking. “n-nothing, the summer air is just making me a little hot.” though jason was smart enough to see through your lies. his large hands grabbed you by the waist, and easily placed you down on his lap, where you were straddling him.

“tell me the truth. you know i don’t judge,” he said softly, his hands rubbing small soft circles against your soft thighs. you couldn’t tell him the truth, it was embarrassing, what would he even think of you? you shook your head, “really, i’m fine jay.”

a small frown appeared on his face. “don’t lie.” gently, he bounced you ever so slightly, a way to get you out of your shell. “come on bun, tell me what’s in that pretty little mind of yours.” deep down he wouldn’t judge, but there was always the inkling of doubt that ran in your head.

“i just missed you, that’s all,” you mumbled shyly, snuggling deeper into his broad chest. he let out a low chuckle, “i missed you too bun.” gently he tried to push your face away from his chest, him wanting to see your face. “but something tells me, it was more than that,” he nudged softly. “let me see that pretty little face of yours, and look me in the eyes and tell me what’s wrong.”

he gently brushed the hair that was stuck to your forehead away, “you got this glow on your face bun, the kind of glow you only get when you come.” of course he caught on, he was the one responsible for giving you leg shaking orgasms. “i just really missed you,” you mumbled softly, refusing to look him at him in the eyes. “i missed your touch, i missed everything.”

he nods, his gaze never leaving yours, it was full of understanding and softness. “so you touched yourself?” he gently asked. you nodded, your hands clutching onto his shirt tightly. he let out a small chuckle, holding your fists in his hands, “want me to help with that?”

jason was always soft and gentle with you in bed, treating you like a princess, prioritising your pleasure first. “how are you feelin’ bun?” he mumbled softly, his lips gently nibbling your earlobe. he has you pinned down in a mating press, his large muscular frame on top of yours. you were in no place to talk, the pleasure was too much and your mind was going blank. the most you could do was a small pathetic nod.

“such a pretty little thing, you are doing so well.” jason gently kissed the tears that were on your cheeks, you always struggled to take him fully due to his size, hence why he would always give you small kisses and whisper words of encouragement. “taking me so well,” he groaned as your cunt gripped onto his cock.

“think you can handle it if i go a little harder?” he gently kissed your forehead. he knew your answer, and you knew it too. he was always so reassuring and gentle you would do whatever he asked. you nodded, “yeah jay,” you whined.

slowly he increased his pace, despite how deep he was going in you, his soft words of encouragement never stopped. “doin’ so well for me,” he grunted. “makin’ all those pretty sounds just for me.” he was balls deep inside you, your cunt was making the most lewd noises. “such a pretty little bun, all for me.” he praised softly.

you clung onto his neck, holding him tightly like he was going to disappear. “next time, if you need me just tell me ok? no need to hump the pillow.” you nodded, your grip tightening. jason saw how well you took him in, his cock disappearing between your swollen folds. “atta girl,” he groaned, kissing your neck.

“so pretty for me,” he mumbled leaving hot kisses on your neck. “j-jay, ‘m close,” you whined. gently, he squeezed your lower stomach, gently caressing just where he was buried in. “you can do it, i’ve got you.” he groaned at how tightly you were squeezing him. “come bun, just let it go.”

the moment he pressed on your lower stomach, you came. your moans echoing through the room. “there we go, that wasn’t so hard was it?” he grinned, kissing your forehead. you gave him a small smile, completely exhausted though you knew that you only received your first orgasm of the night, there was plenty more to give. “god, you’re so pretty so nicely fucked out for me, i have to give you some more.”

#ch: jason #jason todd #dc smut #jason todd smut #jason todd x fem!reader #jason todd x reader #jason todd x y/n #jason todd x you #red hood smut #red hood x reader

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ceilidho · 1 year ago

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take me home, country road

[ao3]

You have nothing on your person apart from a hastily packed suitcase and the dress you came into town wearing, on the run from trouble back home. Too bad John's missing a bride that matches your description. Or: the 1800s (mistaken) mail order bride au (chapter 14)

first chapter >> last chapter

It’s you for once crawling over him in the dead of night and stroking your hand down the side of his face.

Any other night, you would be able to brush off the urge to curl yourself around him and press your lips into the bristly corner of his jaw, but after a long day of waiting and worrying, and a week’s worth of pent up stress and guilt, you have no choice but to succumb to your urges. It’s burrowed so deep inside of you that it’s almost a base need now. You need to be as close to him as possible.

John coaxes you to bed once you finish bandaging his hands. It’s not meant presumptively; you can tell from the deep bags under his eyes that he needs sleep more than anything.

For a spell, you sleep with the comfort of your husband by your side. After a week of keeping to your side of the bed, body stiff to keep from turning over in your sleep and curling up into his—committed, in your ire, to punishing both him and yourself—you relish the opportunity to snuggle up under his arm.

The ache between your legs only becomes unmanageable somewhere around the middle of the night. You wake in a daze, sweating profusely, cheek pressed to a hard chest that rises and falls with his breaths. It takes a moment for the fog to clear, but once it does you realize that you’ve rolled on top of him, legs spread on either side of a thick thigh and your sex pressed tight to the muscle, your hips undulating.

Your lips part enough for your tongue to slip out and wet them. Another wave of need washes over you, making your breath come out ragged. Your vision is still spotty, sleep half-crusted into the folds of you, and with the room still ensconced in darkness, no amount of blinking ever clears it out.

The air around you feels hot and humid; your skin sticks to his when you lift your head up, your face damp with sweat. John’s hand is loose at your bottom, curved under a cheek to hold you to him. The other is nestled against the small of your back. Your shift is drawn up around your waist, likely riding up when you crawled over your husband in the middle of the night, but it means that only the thin fabric of your underwear is pressed against John’s thigh. Every roll of your hips rubs your clit in just the right way.

You pant against his chest when you roll your hips again. You’d be humiliated if he woke up to see you humping his leg like a puppy, but you can hardly control yourself. In the month since marrying him, you’ve grown accustomed to a certain amount of relief at your husband’s hands, and to suddenly lose that in one fell swoop has left you, for lack of a better word, frustrated.

“Hmm…darlin’…” John suddenly groans, hand gripping into the flesh of your backside and grinding your sex down against his leg.

You still at the sound of his voice, biting back your moan when he shifts his thigh and presses it up into you. He wakes gradually, blinking down at you when you peer up at him. The blood rushes under your cheeks, growing hot when he blinks at you again slowly, realization unfurling behind his eyes like a lotus flower blooming under moonlight.

“I’m sorry, I’m just…” you whisper, choking back a moan again when his hand slides down your bottom and in between your legs, fingers rubbing against the wet seam of your cunt.

John chuckles, the sound raspy with sleep. “Christ, honey, you’re wet…should’ve told me you needed a good fucking.”

“You n-needed to sleep,” you say, gasping into his chest when John strokes his fingers up and down between your thighs. The sensation is mildly dulled by the fabric covering your center, but his prodding fingers make you jolt anyway.

“Darlin’, If I’d known, I never would’ve let you go to bed wanting.”

He maneuvers you onto your side for long enough to let him draw your underwear down your legs before rolling over onto his back again and balancing you over his lap. With your knees on either side of his hips, your cunt is spread wide open for his gaze, the soft, dewy folds parting to expose your slick center.

Words are silken in your head and they slide from side to side as you watch John lift his hips and reach down to pull himself out. He moves with a practiced ease, but the flush high on his cheeks betrays his eagerness. You run your hands through the pelt on his chest as you stare at the glistening tip of his member poking out the top of his grip.

“We’ve never done this,” you remark, almost a casual observation. Despite your heart beating rabbit-quick, the words aren’t caught behind your tongue. Instead, John's presence acts like a balm, nervousness bleeding away to anticipation.

“First time for everything, isn’t there?”

“I suppose,” you murmur, eyes locked on the turgid length that he notches against your entrance, impaling you on it so slowly that it almost doesn’t register at first.

You feel the stretch when he bottoms out though. The last inch comes all at once, winding you. It is a frightening, soaring sensation; a blunt intrusion that takes you to another place. No pleasantries this time because you’re an old hat at this now, you suspect, but still you gasp when his girth stretches you beyond what you recalled.

“Fuck…there it is,” John grunts, transferring his hands to your waist. “Christ, tightened right up since we last made love, didn’t you, sweetheart?”

His words, while crass, hold true. You can feel every throbbing inch of him.

“It’s not like—” you pant, squeezing your eyes shut for a moment, sweat beading around your hairline. “I wasn’t about to, ah… fool around with anybody else.”

“‘Course you wouldn’t, darlin’,” he croons, stroking his hand up your side. “We just had a little spat, is all. I know you’re my good girl.”

His words make you clench up tight, drawing a rumbling groan out of him.

“N-no, I’m not a good…—I’m just…it just wouldn’t be right. We’re married. I’d—I’d never…” The words come out shaky, punched out because he takes that moment to help guide you up, nearly pulling out of you completely before bringing you back down.

“Knew you were my good girl soon as I saw you,” John muses, his voice low and husky, hands gripped tight at your waist. “Couldn’t wait to make you mine. Wasn’t even supposed to marry you right away—thought we’d get to know each other a bit, but then—”

“You—oh, unf—you dragged me to the courthouse.”

He smiles roguishly. “I couldn’t let you go after I saw you. Had to make you mine, darlin’.”

You ride him carefully at first, unsure of yourself.

It’s strenuous work taking his cock this way, doing all the heavy lifting yourself. You almost think you’d fight him if you weren’t lost in pleasure, eyes defocusing as you stare down at him. Each time you impale yourself on his length, your breath hitches out of you. A sharp oh, oh, oh; chasing something elusive that wants you after it.

When your thighs feel strained to the point of burning, you beg him to hurry up. Enough, you blubber, the word almost subsumed into a guttural moan. That makes him grit his teeth, a dark look coming over his face. You hiccup when he plants his feet against the bed and his hips buck up into you, the squelch of your own cunt making your fingers dig into his chest hair.

All you can do is take it, your hands planted on his chest and jaw dropping open on a moan that you can’t hold back.

Tears clumping your eyelashes together, a single drop landing in the middle of John’s chest when he forces you all the way down on his cock and holds you there, jiggling the pearl at the apex of your sex with his thumb until you almost struggle to pull away. He always has to fight you through an orgasm, the stubborn thing trapped behind your teeth, begging him to use you how he wants.

When it hits you though, it’s sharp and hot. It makes you reel backwards, your control slipping out of your grasp so suddenly that the sharp buck of his hips nearly knocks you clean off. He holds you down tight though, keeping you impaled on his shaft.

“There we go,” John rasps. “That wasn’t so hard, huh?”

After making you come, he rolls you over until your back is pressed against the bed and he hovers over you, nestled between your thighs. He drops down until his face is buried in your neck, a big arm wedging under your back and hooking over your shoulder, the other sliding under your low back and clutching your waist. When he thrusts into you, you realize with a start that he has you locked to his chest. You aren’t going anywhere.

“Christ, keep squirming like that,” John growls into your neck, sucking at the sweaty patch of skin between your neck and shoulder.

Each thrust knocks the air out of you. Where your skin isn’t slick with sweat, you itch. Overwhelmed by touch and taste. Teeth clacking when his hips speed up, driven into a frenzy by his own urge to come. And again, there’s nowhere for you to run, not with his arms wound tight around you, all of his strength concentrated on holding you to his chest. You don’t think anyone could pry him off you.

“I’m gonna—I’m gonna—” you gasp, feeling it brewing under your skin again. The feeling makes you panicky this time though. He’s made you come plenty of times, but never in such quick succession.

The pitch of your moans goes breathy and high, rising to nearly a caterwaul.

He licks into the shell of your ear. “Got a little tighter there, sweetheart. Gonna give me another?”

You can’t answer him. Only intelligible babbling, a high, reedy plea whistled through your teeth. Your hands rake down his back, scoring red lines into the skin, and clutching helplessly, trying to both pull him closer and push him away. It’s almost too much, too soon.

“Almost there, almost there,” he pants, the sweat on his brow dripping down onto your face. It nearly drips into your eye. You wish he’d pull back and kiss you, sooth the panicked staccato of your heart, but he’s lost in his own need, bucking into you like a beast. “C’mon, give me it, sweetheart. Be a good girl.”

You’re on the precipice of it, hanging on with clawed hands dug into the muscle of his back. In danger of tipping over, a gale at your back. The intensity frightens you though. You cling to him like digging your hands into the earth to root you in place.

John’s arms tighten around you as he nears his end. You feel compressed, choked, only a warm slippery thing for him to plant his seed in.

His breath is hot in your ear when he rasps, “Where the fuck are your manners, darlin’? I said, give me it.”

Then he arches into it, spine going stiff when he empties himself into your cunt. His arms squeeze all the air out of your lungs. You must come more than once, a record, because by the time he pulls out of you, you practically sink into the bed, sapped of energy. Not enough strength to even twitch a finger.

John collapses onto the bed beside you, tugging you into his chest. It feels so intimate, lying on your side with a leg draped over John’s hip. You shiver when the sweat begins to cool.

He drags a finger through your puffy, raw sex from the back, scooping up his essence with two fingers. You go cross-eyed when he pushes it back into you, hissing and pushing against his shoulders, trying to dislodge him from between your legs. John doesn’t budge; his eyes barely even flick down to meet yours as he pushes more of his spend back into your hole.

Your chest goes tight at that.

After, he sits you upright with your back to his chest and holds a glass of water up to your lips, making you drink until it dribbles down your chest. A big hand rests on your belly.

“Why do you like touching there?” you ask, taking another sip.

“This is where my babe will sit,” he says, and you choke on your water, coughing until your lungs are clear and your eyes water. “Soon, with any luck.”

“You sure know what you want,” you wheeze, eyes still watering from your coughing fit.

He presses a kiss into your hair. “That I do.”

Two days later, John wakes you up with the news that an incident on a farm a few towns over will take him from you for the next few days.

You frown into your oatmeal. “Why so long?”

He sits at the table across from you with his chair pushed out, scraping off the mud caked on his boots with a dry brush. He sucks his cheek when you ask that question.

“Bit unpleasant to bother you with the specifics, darlin’, but, uh…suffice it to say that it’s not something we can wrap up in just one day.”

“Did someone die?” you ask bluntly.

John looks over at you from the corner of his eye, unimpressed. “As a matter of fact, yes.”

“Was it violent?”

“Jesus Christ, woman, you don’t need to go poking your nose into all of that.”

You roll your eyes at that. If he knew even a fraction of the things you’ve seen, he wouldn’t be nearly so askance at the thought of upsetting your delicate constitution. “But it’ll keep you there for some time?”

He nods. “At least a couple days. Maybe more. There’s matters to be dealt with, arrests to be made…won’t be easy work.”

“Is Simon accompanying you?”

“Both him and Kyle. I’m leaving Soap behind to keep the peace.”

“So you’re expecting to come back to the town in complete disarray then?”

John laughs at that, a big bellowing sound that makes you flinch and then warms your belly with delight.

Summer is well on its way to being flush with itself now. Katydids in the bushes outside whistle and burr, a raspy, percussive sound. Long strands of high cirrus clouds stretch across the clear blue sky. Spiders weave thick webs into the corners of the windows on the outside of the house, thin, filamentous strands of silk woven over each other until it’s a dense, compact web. Even the sound of the bees buzzing through the air sets you at ease.

The sound of your husband’s laughter seems to carry all of that in it, all of the fat, flushed joy of summertime.

“I might need a list of what to take care of around the house while you’re gone. I’ve never…I’ve never managed a house on my own before,” you say into your oatmeal, taking another bite.

You don’t know why it embarrasses you to admit that. John may not know about your previous circumstances just yet—you’ve never divulged stories of your time working at the estate or the years you spent living with your aunt and uncle—but he must certainly have guessed by now that you didn’t own property back east.

“The boys and I aren’t heading out from here; gotta meet them in town to settle a couple of things first, but that wouldn’t take too long.” He takes a long sip of coffee before continuing. “Planned on asking Soap to check on you a couple times while I’m gone. He could help with the chores.”

Your irritation flares up at that. You put down your spoon sharply, the metal clanging against the porcelain bowl. “Do you still think I’m going to run away?”

He cocks an eyebrow at that, but doesn’t respond.

“So nothing’s changed then, even after I’ve already apologized. You still don’t trust me,” you sigh, your appetite suddenly gone. You push the bowl away from you, taking a sip of coffee instead.

John sighs. You glance down at his hands instead of looking up into his eyes. His hands are still lightly ink-stained from reading the paper. The ink imprints onto your hand when he pulls his chair in and reaches across the table to lace your fingers together.

“You might just see my concern for what it is, instead of fighting me at every turn,” he drawls.

“Suppose I should say thank you then. I really appreciate being kept under lock and key,” you deadpan.

“Oh, and I suppose you’ve done so much to prove that you’re the staying type?” he teases.

“I’m still here, aren’t I?”

“By my count, you’ve tried to run off twice. You sayin’ you won’t go for three?”

You stay mulishly silent, again going cold instead of deigning to have a conversation with the man. Your hand pulls from his grasp when you go to clean the table, taking the plates with you to the sink to wash. The brisk scrub and rinse betrays your mood, your shoulders tense with displeasure. You feel his gaze heavy on you from where he still sits at the table.

John catches you before you have a chance to skitter off, hooking an arm around your waist to reel you in.

“I never get off easy with you, do I?” he murmurs.

You harrumph, scrunching your nose when he nuzzles into the side of your head. Squawking when he plants a wet kiss there too.

John sees you off at the door with a kiss to your lips and then one to your forehead. His farewell kiss always seems to linger, as though he were reluctant for it to ever end. A disconcerting ache in your belly follows his departure. More than anything, you wish he’d turn back around and come home. Instead, you’re forced to bite your tongue and watch him leave because there are things more important than your desperate, cloying need for attention from a man that you once swore you’d run away from if given half a chance.

Now, as you stare at the shadow of him disappearing beyond the horizon, you can barely force your feet to take you back into the house.

The ache is a perturbing reminder of the seeds of trust and affection you’ve planted here. Now, they’ve begun to sprout, the buds opening up to tender, fragrant flowers. Those are the thoughts that occupy your mind when you go into the garden to harvest the lettuce heads and tomatoes. You think about all of this while staring down into the garden that John started so very long ago and now you tend. The earth here yields in abundance, but it requires a sure hand, and it rewards your joint efforts with a harvest that’ll last you through the winter if properly cultivated.

Part of you anticipates company, waiting for Kate or Soap to come down the path on horseback, but when hours pass and neither show up, you have to admit to yourself that perhaps John hasn’t left a guardian to watch over you this time. Your heart trips over itself at the thought.

Trust is a precious, easily spoiled gift. You know it is not given lightly, and you’ve not put in the effort to engender it in recent weeks. You wonder if John wrestled with the decision to leave you alone, weighing your hurt feelings against the assurance of keeping you at home and found the latter wanting for once.

You spend the better part of the morning gardening and cleaning. It muffles the longing. It’s entirely antithetical to the way you waited for John during the train robbery, but the different circumstances have you less on edge. The situation doesn’t seem as precarious. Never free of trouble, of course, but John hadn’t seemed too worried at breakfast, so you tell yourself that you shouldn’t worry either.

In fact, finding some way to occupy yourself proves the greater challenge. You hadn’t realized how much you’d grown to expect the company of others. The silence swells to a bubble that you itch to burst.

It takes a great deal of courage to talk yourself into riding Buttercup into town. You hold the reins so tight that your knuckles ache when you finally let go. Still, when the sun-bleached town comes into view and you no longer need to swat repeatedly at the horseflies pestering you, you celebrate the little victory.

You find Kate in the saloon enjoying a little brandy with lunch. Her eyes crinkle at the sight of you.

“Didn’t expect to see you here so soon,” she says when you take a seat across from her.

“I couldn’t clean the house for a third time,” you shrug.

It’s not an exaggeration. You spent the better part of the morning yesterday scrubbing the floors and sweeping the leaves and mud from the foyer, paying special attention to the caked mud on the sill, where John has a habit of wiping off his boots. You’ll have to remember to pick up a mat for the porch on the way back home.

“You just missed my company so?” Kate teases.

You roll your eyes. “Who else do I have to talk to?”

“Well, don’t flatter me too much.”

“Anyway—no one, well…no one understands me…quite the same.” You speak evasively because you’re still too much of a coward to just say it outright. Nevertheless, Kate understands, and nods with a gleam in her eye that says as much.

“Probably best to keep it that way.”

You don’t know why her words make your chest ache. For a beat, you keep silent, ordering a drink and a small meal for yourself from a passing waiter.

“I’ve considered…telling John,” you start, a hesitant thread in your voice begging to be unraveled.

Kate glances up at that. “Why would you do something like that?”

“I thought that maybe…well, maybe he might understand…if I explained the circumstances to him.”

Her hand stills over her glass, face screwed up like she’s tasted something particularly unpleasant. “Seems like a dangerous game to play—risking your freedom on a maybe. It’s better to keep private matters just that. Private.”

Worry makes you wring your hands under the table. “You think he’d turn me in if he knew?”

Kate shrugs. “John’s a good man. He’s a good sheriff too. It’s a risky gambit. I can’t imagine what the trade off would be—I happened to find out by chance, but if you have the option to let buried dogs lie, I would take it.”

“Isn’t it ‘let sleeping dogs lie’?”

Her smile is not cruel, but it cuts. “Not in this case, hun. ‘Fraid we both know that.”

“Oh,” you murmur.

Her lack of faith leaves you at a loss. It takes you so long to come to terms with it that by the time you open your mouth again, you’re halfway back to the shop, following her step for step. Dark clouds loom ominously off in the distance, just far enough away that you don’t expect for them to reach town for another hour or so, but the sight of them compounds the somber mood you’ve fallen into since Kate’s words.

You don’t bring up the subject again until the rain begins to fall outside, slate grey like a gauzy veil. From the window, you peer down the street towards where Buttercup stands under the roof of the sheriff’s office, shielded from the rain. You stare morosely at the dirt ground; the rain will make walking anywhere after a hassle.

Kate must notice the general air of malcontent hovering around you because she apologizes to you when the ensuing silence from the morning’s conversation becomes unbearable. “Now, I don’t want you to think I hold John in poor esteem, hun. He’s a good man; I have no reason to think he’d ever turn you in for putting down the man that tried to…well, the man that tried to do you harm. I just don’t want you to regret your decision if I’m wrong.”

You shrug, bad mood not in the least assuaged. “It’s fine. It was a foolish idea. Why invite trouble when I’ve escaped it thus far?”

She doesn’t seem reassured at that. If anything, her scowl deepens. Instead of addressing it, you offer to help clean the shop, sweeping the back room and dusting the shelves. There are items on the shelves that look like they haven’t been touched in years, and you wonder whether Kate holds onto things after they’ve outlived their usefulness out of habit or an unwillingness to part with them. Then you shake your head of the thought. It shouldn’t matter to you.

Around midafternoon, a few trappers come in to stock up on supplies and spend the better part of an hour talking to Kate. You flatten your lips together to keep from cursing them out for tracking in mud and rain with them, but they studiously avoid looking at you.

“Morning, Mrs. Price,” one of them says, still keeping their gaze politely trained on the floor.

You roll your eyes internally. Not surprising that news would spread eventually of John’s new wife.

The conversation is of little interest to you, but you eavesdrop anyway because the rain hasn’t relented yet and there’s little else to do. Most of their conversation goes over your head, but some parts stick out. They tell her about a mutual acquaintance waylaid by a mountain slide up north forcing them to take another route home, and another who’d recently perished of consumption. Kate seems particularly upset by that, the lines around her mouth more pronounced than ever when she offers her condolences.

They stay until the rain lets up and then say their goodbyes before heading out.

“G’day, Mrs. Price,” the same one says to you before departing.

You smile bemusedly at the door. “I don’t suppose I’ve met either of them before and don’t remember it?”

Kate shakes her head. “Unlikely. Alex and Frank spend most of their time up north hunting and fur trapping. One of them has a cousin in town, but they visit only seldomly. It’s been a year or so since I last saw either of them.”

“Then how’d they know who I am?”

“Well, I imagine they probably read about it.”

“Read about it?” you repeat confusedly.

“In the paper. The county sheriff got hitched—of course it’d be a story.”

That unnerves you. Somehow, you thought you might fold into history like you’d always been there, but a marriage announcement in a newspaper punctuates the present. Your only reassurance is that the story ran over a month ago and therefore of little interest to anyone these days, at least from what Kate tells you; overshadowed by subsequent issues and stories. Old news, she tells you.

“What’s new news then?”

She ponders that for a bit. “Aside from what Frank mentioned? Hm…Farmer Shepherd’s ewe had a lamb the other night.”

“Who’s that?”

“A farmer, I reckon.”

You deadpan. “Funny.”

She laughs at that, a husky, amber sound. “Shepherd’s got a farm in the next town over. Kyle and I always stop to buy mutton whenever we’re in town.”

“Oh, that’s right, you were just there recently. Do you visit that often?”

“From time to time,” she says, vague enough to pique your interest.

“Must be good mutton.”

She snorts. “He’s not as good a butcher as Simon, but he’s alright. It’s worth stopping by. I wouldn’t call it a reason to make the journey though.”

“Then why do you go?”

She smiles a bit wistfully. “I have…a friend in town. It’s worth the trek.”

“Oh. A… male friend?”

You say the word tentatively, gauging her reaction in case you’ve overstepped. Usually you wouldn’t be so inquisitive. In fact, you’ve made it a habit to know as little about the people you keep company with as possible. But Kate is different. This place is different. Time in this town moves at a slower pace, and it swells in the moments where it seems endless. It makes you talk slower, chew the fat. You spend so much time around these people that it almost feels like a lifetime has passed in their presence. You feel close enough these days that asking doesn’t feel as forbidden as it used to.

“No. Not a man.”

It could mean nothing at all, but her words have just enough inflection in them that you can't help but meet her gaze.

“A woman?” you ask, caught between embarrassment at having to ask and curiosity.

She nods, her smile strained.

“Oh,” you say dumbly.

You can’t really think of what else to say in response to that revelation, but leaving it like that also feels wrong. It’s nothing you haven’t heard whisperings of before. Boston marriages. Sentimental friends. Spinsters cohabitating in virtuous friendship. It’s perhaps only shocking to finally put a face to the rumors.

“Well, that’s nice,” you say after another awkward pause. Kate rolls her eyes and her nonchalance vexes you. “What? It is!”

“You don’t need to get all twisted up. It is what it is. There’s no need to go making a fuss about it.”

You frown at that. “I would never.” Then something dawns on you. “Have other people made a fuss before?”

“…A few,” she answers, looking troubled when old memories flicker behind her eyelids. “A long time ago, in another place, but when I…well, I trusted more. There’s no one that could make a fuss about it these days.”

“But surely Kyle knows? He accompanied you to town last time.”

“Kyle does not know.”

“Then why tell me?” you ask, dumbfounded.

She holds you in her gaze for a few moments at that question, then comes out from behind the counter where her notebook still lies open, a thin strip of fabric acting as a bookmark.

“You have your secrets and I have mine,” Kate says, leaning back against the counter and clasping her hands loosely in front of her. “The same reason I won’t tell John what you’re running from. The less people that know the things that could hurt you, the safer you are.”

“You think John would do what—run you out of town if he knew?” you ask, hardly able to convey your disbelief.

“The point is that neither of us know until the very moment when it matters most.”

“But that’s not John,” you stress.

“It’s the same John that you won’t trust with your secrets either.” And that strikes true. It dumbs you into silence, mouth opening uselessly for words that don’t come. The battering behind your lips like an inch of give, opening then to silence across the open plain.

You want desperately to say something that just won’t come. But how can you say anything at all these days? How does your voice not give out at the slightest quiver of emotion? You speak with a voice plump like fig skin, easy give, and violet bruised. It is always tender when you bite it through.

When Kate notices the way you struggle for words, she takes pity on you, her smile more sympathetic than you’ve ever seen it. “Enough about that though. What say we get you something to eat before you head home?”

When the path of least resistance beckons you forth, you run towards it.

Your troubled conscience persists however, speaking into your ear even as the first shaft of sunlight pierces through the slate clouds and illuminates the town in a soft glow. It troubles you so fiercely that all you can think about is retreating home and burying yourself under the warm quilt draped over your bed. It has you hastening to say your goodbyes, excusing yourself on the basis of taking Buttercup home.

Bidding Kate farewell, you step out of the shop to see that the rain has cleared. Everything after that dispels into the thinly perfumed air.

#ceil writing #cod mw2 #cod x reader #john price x reader #price x reader #price x you #price/reader #john price/reader #captain john price #captain john price x reader

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wyniepooh · 2 months ago

Text

Everybody knows I’m a good girl, officer

you’re distracted by Jake’s uniform— he’s distracted by you.

jake peralta x fem!reader. Dry humping w jake in his police uniform. Mdni; 18+

it’s rare when Jake gets to dress up in his full uniform, and it’s even rarer if he does, and is able to make it out the door in time.

to be fair, he really tried today. he had put on his cap and gloves, and was practically halfway out the door when you spotted him. the moment you see him with the all-black suit that was perfectly tailored to him, it’s not long before you’re right by his side with your arms wrapped around his neck. your faces are connected nose-to-nose as he jokingly states, with a wide grin, “the city needs me, baby.”

you smile too, a genuine one, and you can only respond to his ridiculous, yet familiar comment by planting a gentle kiss on his lips. It’s delicate, soft, and even innocent in some ways. A simple kiss goodbye. But all flies out the window when you slip a knee between his legs, pressing down as you breathe against his mouth,

“I need you more.”

you know he can’t say no to you— he never does. In a way, this has become a routine for the two of you. you ask, he denies, but in the end, he’ll always give into you. so he kisses you back, harder, quicker, large hands wrapping around the small of your back as your knee digs deeper into the crotch of his pants.

He pulls back when you begin to rub up and down, letting out a gentle hiss as he closes his eyes. His brows furrow for just a second, and then he laughs, a shaky scoff that vibrates within his chest.

“really don’t have time today, baby. gotta go to-“

“I’ll make it quick,” you pant in his face, looking up at him through your lashes. You place a quick peck on his reddened cheek, then his nose, and say, “don’t have to do any work, jakey, let me.”

He shuts up quick, though it was obvious, to you both, that he never planned on protesting against it much anyways. You unwrap your arms around his shoulders, turning around as you bend over at the waist. You wiggle back, just until your bare panties are met with a hardness through his dress pants. He curses under his breath, and it’s then that he knows he could never let you, his pretty baby, do all the work.

Your hands cling desperately onto the door frame as you begin to grind against him, lightly gasping as you feel him twitch through his pants. jake has to fight back his laughter, again, as he looks down at the sight in front of him, a twinge of pride blooming as he observes you trying your best to please yourself, to please him, but struggling with each short breath that escapes your mouth. He decides to let you try, make you work for it a little, at least for the moment, guiding your movements with a large hand on your lower abdomen to push your pelvis further into his groin.

you lift up your skirt to expose what’s left of your bare skin, and that’s when you hear him groan. Deep, guttural, and desperate. It’s the last thing you catch before Jake’s lifting you up from the ground, pushing the back of your head onto his shoulder with a hand around your neck.

“fuck that, baby, don’t worry, let me take care it,” he whispers, “I’ll take care of you.”

he begins to move, and you try your best to keep up with his firm and controlled shoves, but your feet are swinging mid-air while his metal badges dig harshly into your skin. it hurts, but his hard cock is rubbing at just the right spot, blurring the lines of pain and pleasure. An overwhelming flash of warmth travels down your body, and you could only squirm as his hot breaths brush the underside of your earlobe.

It’s still early in the morning, you suddenly remember, but you can’t seem to shut up when the rugged fabric of his pants is jutting fervently against your wetness. You squeal when his hand on your stomach pushes down onto your bladder, where a sneaky finger grazes your perked clit.

you yell suddenly, a little too loudly for a cheap apartment with paper-thin walls, and just then, you feel the inside of his police cap ram onto your face. his other hand wraps itself tightly around your waist to secure your position, and soon, all you hear is the rustling of fabric-on-fabric and jake’s quiet grunts.

you suddenly realize, you’re completely off the ground, trapped between the intoxicating smell of his shampoo and the hard shoves of his hips. you smile. you got what you wanted, like you always do.

“so good, jakey, feels- feels so good,” you mumbled incoherently. He chuckles with a huff, and knowing you can barely hear, asks, “yeah? feel good? want more? want me to give it to you?”

“yes,” you purr against the hard wall, nails scratching at the paint as you beg, “need it, please, please, need it right now.”

he continues grinding his clothed member into you with an unrestrained exasperation, letting his groans loose in the process, and when you manage to arch your back and meet his rough thrusts, he growls. With a final drive of his hips, the tight knot in your stomach snaps.

you writhe with a strangled scream as you cum, but Jake only holds you tighter, squeezing you to him as he drops the hat. He continues to prod against you sharply, while you snivel at the overstimulated pleasure pulsating in your pussy. You flail helplessly and your cunt flutters around nothing when he cums with a loud groan, and you tremble with a sigh as the dampness between you grow.

The two of you stay there for a beat, breaths becoming synchronized as you both come down from the dizzying feeling.

“you gotta stop wearing that uniform, jakey,” you manage to say after a while.

he releases you from his grasp, gently pushing you to the wall as he grabs a handful of your ass and pants into your neck.

“Never,” he breathes, tucking your hair behind your ear before placing a tender kiss on your cheek, “not if i get to do this every time.”

a/n: “fuck the police” well yes! In more ways than one pls!

#wyniepooh #jake peralta x you #jake peralta x reader #jake peralta smut #jake peralta imagine #jake peralta #brooklyn nine nine #brooklyn 99 #b99 #jacob peralta #andy samberg #jake peralta fic

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st7rnioioss · 2 months ago

Note

If you still want request you should do a fic based off of when bsf!Chris and inexperienced!reader first kissed or realized they liked each other. Like what led up to it and how everything happened?!🩷

𓂅 ♥︎ INEXPERIENCED!READER x BSF!CHRIS

⋆ ˚ .ೃ ࿔ * pairing... inexperienced!reader x bsf!chris

𓂃 ֹ ᮫ in which... inexperienced!reader and bsf!chris kiss for the first time!! ;3

warnings... fluff, kissing, swearing, lowkey dry humping

♡ ˖ ࣪ ◟ you’re not sure how it happened—whether it was from the ridiculous amounts of junk food, or maybe because chris had been making you laugh for what felt like hours by now, by your tummy was starting to ache.

“shut up! it wasn’t that bad, he just didn’t see me wave at him,” you blushed, embarrassed by the memory of when you tried to wave at your crush. “nah, it was definitely really bad,” chris laughed along with you, amused by the way your face went so pink. they always seemed to do that whenever he was around.

chris’s bed was scattered with snacks—some still in their packaging, others open and halfway eaten through, a movie playing in the back that you’d forgotten about, just like always.

yet, the air was different tonight. just a little. chris’s back was against a wall of pillows, and you were undeniably close to him, his hand seconds away from reaching out to fix your hair, and you both felt it—holding eye contact for a little too long, unusually touchy, and laughing too hard at each others lame jokes. it was like you both knew, but yet were way too scared to do anything about it.

“wanna keep watching, or..?” chris cuts off the silence with a soft voice, his eye searching yours, a smile still visible on his lips. you shrug, keeping your eyes on his.

he nods in response, quickly looking away from you as you do the same, clearing his throat when the room became quiet. you sit up next to him, your arms touching and thighs resting against his,

offering him an awkward smile when he looks at you.

how it went from nearly crying of laughter, to looking deep into each others eyes in a matter of minutes made your heart skip a beat, but you couldn’t complain about it with the way his eyes roamed your face, knuckles brushing over yours.

you sat there in silence for a little, breaking the awkward silence by laughing, giggling about some stupid stuff, but it was all light and forgotten in a second.

“can i.. uh—“ chris rubbed the back of his neck, his eyes dropping to where your fingers brushed against his, “like…” he trailed off, and you tilted your head to the side in question.

“hm? what is it?” your voice was like honey, not purposely, just on instinct whenever his voice dropped—almost like you were mimicking him. your eyes searched his face, the slight blush on his cheeks, his awkward but shy smile, his eyes avoiding yours.

he cleared his throat again, before making eye contact with you. “i.. it’s gonna be a totally weird question, and i don’t really expect you to say yes, but i—“ he chuckled, obviously nervous, so you reached out to take his hand in yours, “i’ve… i’ve really been wanting to kiss you all night, but i know you’ve never kissed anyone so i wanted to make sure you actually wanted it to be me, because i wouldn’t want you to regret your first kiss.. so— uh, can i?” he rambled, eyes never leaving yours, not once.

you were completely flustered, unsure of what to say or do, your whole world stilling. chris? chris wanted to kiss you? this had to be a joke. you had no clue how to reply, your whole body feeling like it was going numb. chris wanted to kiss you? the same boy you basically learned how to walk with, whose been helping you out with homework since you were eight, though he was just as lost, wanted to kiss you?

“i— woah, i’m.. you’re not kidding, are you?” he shook his head no, starting to give up his hope when you blinked, and then blinked again. you stared at him, noticing the nervous expression that started to strike his face, and you immediately started smiling, nodding as if it was obvious.

“um.. yeah, i— yes, please kiss me,” you giggled through the words, obviously extremely shy about this whole thing, your face ridiculously red. chris’s face lit up immediately, slowly tracing his fingertips along your jaw before he placed his palm against your cheek, tilting your head up, “i jus’.. dunno how to.”

it was silent, but it was like nothing had to be said—just pure communication through each others eyes. “just.. just follow my lead, yeah?” he whispered, and the second let out a quiet ‘mhm’, his lips were hovering over yours.

it was slow, really slow. breaths mingling together, eyes closed, lips barely brushing, almost like you were testing each other too see if you really wanted it. carefully, chris pressed his lips to yours, the kiss gentle and full of warmth.

you reached for his hair, both hands burying themselves into his somewhat disheveled curls, allowing him to take full control of the kiss. his other hand made its way to the small of your back, pressing you a little closer to him. “shit, you have no idea how long i’ve waited for this,” he murmurs between kisses, his hand sliding to the nape of your neck to keep you close.

a soft whine escapes your lips at his words that makes chris’s head fuzz, and your own cheeks burn. his hand drops from your back to your thigh, lifting you into his lap, desperate to have you closer to him. by now you’ve given up, allowing chris to control the kiss that had gone from simple and light, to desperate yet gentle.

you’re both a hot mess, hands everywhere, sitting so close you might mold to one, chris’s tongue now prodding at the seam of your lips. without knowing what you’re doing, you part your lips gently for him, allowing him to explore your mouth.

it doesn’t take long before you’re whimpering quietly, pulling on his hair, your skin prickling. you’ve got zero idea whether you’re good at what you’re doing, but you know that chris is definitely doing a great job from the way you’re subconsciously starting to grind on him.

the room was completely quiet, the air thick and your skin buzzing with ever passing second. you two had obviously gotten a little off track, and chris had eventually noticed how you seemed to get a little bit needy.

chris pulls away with a soft smile, his fingers delicately brushing over your flushed cheeks to brush hair out of your face, taking a clear look at you. to say you two looked like a mess would be an understatement—breathing heavily, faces warm and beet ret, lips glistening.

“w-was, uh— did i do okay?” you meekly asked, a shy smile growing on your lips when what had just happened finally settled. chris chuckled like it was the most obvious question ever.. well, which it was. “are you kidding? that— that was.. like, crazy..”

more inexperienced!reader x bsf!chris here!

˚𝜗𝜚 notes... i hope this doesn't seem like it's too hurried, i was ovulating and wrote this. anyway, i lowkey forgot about this one because i stayed up til sunrise playing karaoke in roblox (it boosted my ego). my bad everyone, here it is.

۶ৎ taglist: @jetaimevous @missmimii @mattscoquette @pearlzier @witchofthehour @elizasturn @loveparqdise @delilahsturniolo @phone4pills @sturnsmia @hearts4werka @cayleeuhithinknott @strnilolover @sturnvxz @lovergirl4gracieabrams @ifwdominicfike @toftomgmf @emely9274 @sturnioloangell @blushsturns @sierrraaaaxz @slut4chris888 @marrykisskilled @sophand4n4 @sturnihoelooo @unknvhx @chrisslut04 @sturniolossss @slvtf0rchr1s @blahbel668 @starkeysturniolo @miolos @user1smvtysturniolo @lizzyzzn @sturnslutz @decimatedxdreams @chrissturnioloswife88 @sturn777 @sturniolonationsblog @frankoceanfanpage @priscillaog @courta13 @sweetrelieef @loverboysturn @sturns-mermaid @cutseylady @sofieeeeex @sofia-is-a-sturniolo-triplet-fan @mattsturnii @conspiracy-ash

#🐇་༘࿐ works #chris ₊˚⊹♡#⌗⋆. bsf!chris x inexperienced!reader ⋆. 𐙚 ˚#sturniolo triplets #chris sturniolo #chris sturniolo smut #chris sturniolo imagine #chris sturniolo x you #chris sturniolo x reader #chris sturniolo fluff #chris sturniolo fanfic #sturniolo fanfic #the sturniolo triplets #sturniolo

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cupcakegirl3 · 4 months ago

Text

“hold it”

i know places - chapter 6

ch 5 , ch 7

wc: 3.7k

tw: kidnapping, stockholm syndrome, smoking (weed), drinking (wine), kissing and dry humping <3, forced intox, anal, inspection kink (kinda), fingering, degradation, slapping, spanking, vibrators, natasha pov (it deserves its own) , "shocking collar" (its wandas powers), wanda and nat referring to their straps as “cocks”

a/n: tysm for reading <333 — started chapter 7 but i’m super busy for the next couple of weeks :(

my most feral chapter imo

Finally, it was just Wanda and I home alone. Natasha had some important business, something Wanda said I shouldn’t bother my pretty little head about, so I didn’t.

She was my mommy, she knew best.

We had a wonderful lunch then cleaned up after. I didn’t have to be chained anymore, not when they were home with me. They trusted me now, trusted me to stay by there sides and listen.

My head going under the cold water, my lungs filling with it.

I still thought of my last punishment often, being pulled from sleep from it. But I wouldn’t do something like that again I vowed. They make me happy, they know what’s best.

I sighed happily as Wanda placed a plump cherry onto my lips. I was laying down, my head in her lap as we laid on a blanket. The sunlight was tickling my skin. Wanda had said she wanted to spend some time outdoors, I couldn’t complain. I didn’t know the last time I was outside.

None of that matters now, I’m here with them.

She spread the juice on my lips, staining them I was sure. Then she would lean down and lick the juice off of them, tickling my sides as she did so. My giggles filled the afternoon air.

“Have you ever smoked weed before?” She asked, her hands playing with my hair.

“No mommy.” I had never even drank besides at church, even if I had turned 21 last year.

“Let’s try it.”

I wanted to say no but I knew I couldn’t. I just needed to make her happy, needed to keep making her want me. So I sat up, facing her. She took the first hit, exhaling the foul smelling smoke.

She held the joint to my lips, forcing me to take a deep inhale. Instantly I coughed, unable to keep any of it down. My lungs burned, just like when…

“Come on darling, keep going for mommy.”

She pulled my head up, pushing the joint back to my lips. It didn’t matter that I was coughing and sputtering, she kept forcing me to take hit after hit.

“Hold.” She said, I held my breath against the burn before I had to let it go. I couldn’t breathe past the burn of my throat and lungs, I could do nothing but cough.

Wanda forced some water into my mouth, “Good girl.” She said quietly. The water did little to stifle the pain.

Instead I just sat back. I felt so different. So…foggy.

“Here darling, just drink some wine. It helps settle the high.”

I didn’t even realize she had brought out a bottle. The entire time I had been here. Home. I hadn’t been allowed to drink wine with them.

The wine was sweet but it didn’t help the burning in my lungs.

I liked the way it felt though, like the world was a little brighter, a little more fun.

“You’re smiling.” Wanda laughed, pinching my cheek.

I couldn’t help but lean forward and kiss her beautiful lips. Fuck it felt so amazing. She lowered me down so I was straddling her waist. I couldn’t help but buck my hips.

I didn’t care if I was desperate, it just felt so fucking good to grind my hips onto her. She encouraged it, pushing me down onto her. Drool and spit connected our lips as her hands became more and more desperate.

I was panting, rubbing myself onto her frantically. Chasing any sort of feeling I could. I tangled my hands into her shirt, pulling at the fabric of it.

I needed more, needing something to undo the tight coil in my stomach. I whined as Wanda pushed us both up so we were sitting chest to chest.

“Drink some more wine, bunny.”

She tipped the glass into my open mouth. She filled my mouth up again and again until the glass was out. My head was spinning, I had never felt anything like this before.

I leaned forward to kiss her again but she stopped me.

“Tell mommy what you want.”

I whined, so desperately embarrassed by my thoughts.

She kidnapped you!!!

Mommy was just so beautiful, so…ugh.

Words were hard to form, Wanda tsked. She used her magic to pour more wine, I opened my mouth to try and please her.

More and more wine went down my throat. I giggled at the feeling, I giggled again at how beautiful she was.

“Mommy…” I whined, my hands grabbing her shirt again. I looked down, unable to brave making eye contact with her.

“You poor shy thing.” She cooed, her hand coming to my cheek. “You can’t get anything until you tell mommy what you want.”

“Touch me…” I whispered, still not able to look at her.

“Look at mommy.” Her green eyes were piercing and so lovely. “Ask nicely now.”

“Mommy w-will you—“ Words were hard to form, especially with my heart beating so fast. My head felt so dizzy. “I feel so hot.” Was all I could get out.

She smiled, “Let’s cool you off.”

I didn’t care that she removed my shirt, the sun was warm on my hot skin. I wanted her to touch me all over but she wouldn’t, not until I told her.

“Touch me.” I whispered, finally being enough to tell her.

“Oh poor baby.” She cooed, her fingers instantly finding my sore nipples. “I bet these hurt.”

“Mhm.” I bit my lip, fuck it felt so amazing. She was relentless with her teasing but I was just so happy she was touching me again.

Her lips found the column of my neck, sucking on the sensitive skin there. I moaned, unable to hold anything back from her.

“Do you want mommy to do anything else?”

“Please.” I whined, bucking my hips towards hers. “Pleasepleasepleaseplease.”

Wanda laughed, pinching my nipple extra hard. “Words honey.”

“Touch me—down there.”

“Drink some more wine.” She demanded, using her magic to pour more into my mouth.

There was no room for complaints, not when her lips stayed on my throat. My head was completely spinning now, it was hard to even sit up.

Wanda eased me to lay down, spreading my thighs as she did. “Oh darling, you’ve got yourself so worked up. I mean look at this giant wet spot on your panties.”

She ran a singular finger over the wet spot on my grey panties. “Tell mommy how wet you are.”

“So—so wet.” I slurred, my head falling to the side. “For you—mommy.”

“For me?” She gushed, her hands tickling my sides. “What do you want mommy to do about it?”

“Touch me.”

“Good girl.” She lowered herself, her face level with my clothed pussy.

Her warm, beautiful mouth started to lick me. The feeling wasn’t enough. I whined, bucking into her mouth but she held me down.

“Take what I give you.”

“Yes mommy.” I gasped out.

I felt myself throbbing with want, it was really the only thing I could feel. My head was numb, unable to hide any noises coming from my mouth. Tears began leaking out of my eyes, frustrated with the lack of attention.

“Mommy..” I whined, my hands trying to reach her but failing. “More please.”

“Oh does my little slut want more.”

I nodded quickly. “Please.”

“Come here.” She pulled me forward, kissing me again. I kissed her back desperately, pushing my naked chest into her. “Eager.” She mumbled into my lips.

She pulled back, holding my face in place. “Mommy wants to feel your other hole today.”

My head was spinning, I didn’t even respond.

She positioned me so that I was face down ass up, my arms stretched above my head. It was hard to hold myself up, Wanda grabbed my hips to help me.

Finally, I felt my panties slipping off my body. I arched my back more, trying to get any attention on where I ached the most.

“Oh baby, so wet for mommy. You’re gushing, it’s all down your thighs.” She kissed the bare skin off my ass before pushing one finger into me. I gasped, pushing myself back into her.

“Now bunny, you have to stay calm for mommy. Can you do that?”

“Yesyesyssyes.”

She laughed, slowly pumping her finger in and out of me. Wanda pushed in another, making my head spin even more. I tried my hardest to stay still but fuck it was so hard.

“Squeezing mommy’s fingers so hard darling. Does bunny need her mommy?”

I moaned out a yes, pushing myself back into her. She smacked my already bruised ass. “Patience darling.”

“Yes mommy.”

A third finger pushed into me, stretching me out. “Oh baby, do you feel that stretch?” I nodded, unable to form words. “Already too fucked out huh? My beautiful, pathetic, little princess.”

She worked her fingers in and out of me at a slow pace. I was shaking, barely able to breathe with want, need. I needed her to keep touching me, to keep corrupting me.

This is what I was meant for.

“God baby, my fingers are so wet, I doubt i’ll even need lube.” She commented, pulling her fingers out. “Just a little…” Her hot spit hit my back, her fingers spreading it onto my asshole.

“No—mommy.”

“Shhhhh baby, mommy wants to feel how tight you are. Take it like a good girl.”

It started with one finger, just like my pussy. She slowly pushed it in and out, commenting on how good I felt for her.

Then the second finger was pushed, I hated that the stretch felt so good. She kept working me open, slowly getting me ready for something. My clit throbbed, just wanting to be used.

Then the third finger, and the fourth. I was a panting mess as she pushed it in. I felt droll pooling out the side of my mouth but I didn’t care, or want to do anything about it.

I was sick for wanting this. For wanting her to play with my body like this.

“This is your home.”

“I think you’re ready bunny.” She pulled back, her fingertips still slightly inside of me. “Now you’re going to have to be patient or mommy will really hurt you. Or maybe you want that?”

I quickly shook my head no. “Alright, mommy wants to feel how tight you are around her cock. Since daddy won’t let us take your virginity, I’ll just have to use the other hole.”

The head of her cock pressed against me. At first I tried to move away but Wanda was quick to stop me.

“Just the tip.”

She pushed the big, mean tip into me. She stretched me more than her fingers ever did. I cried out, tears rolling down my cheeks. I tried to plead with her but they went dead at my lips.

Why does this feel so good?

“Made for this baby.” Wanda said, fucking the tip in and out of me. “Oh shit honey, it’s sooo tight mommy has too…”

I gasped as she pushed into me, until her hips were flushed with mine. The pain was hard but fuck I hated how good it felt.

“Mommy has to fuck you all the way, feel too good.”

I was thankful with how slow she went, slowly working me open to her cock. She was moaning behind me, grabbing at my hips so hard she left bruises.

“Mommy’s not gonna last long, fuck.” She moaned, I had never heard her like this. I loved the fact that she was also coming undone around me.

Her hand found my clit, running fast circles on it.

“Mommy wants you to cum, squeeze my fat cock in your ass.”

I was so desperate for release that I came quickly, screaming into the open yard. She cussed behind me, her hips stalling.

I felt a hot liquid spilling into my ass. I got nervous at first, having no idea what had happened. She pulled out of me, slowly.

When her cock finally left me, something else replaced it. It was much shorter than mommy’s cock but just as wide. I felt the fabric of my panties being pulled back up, uncomfortably wet.

“Good girl baby.” She cooed, pulling me back up. “Can’t wait to show daddy that later.”

…

Natasha pov

There she was.

Natasha shut the door behind her, already smiling at her. She was on her knees, eyes bloodshot as she looked at her.

So Wanda had made her smoke.

Natasha was already wet with the thought of how pliable she was stoned. Would she even fight it anymore? After her last punishment she had shaped up, no longer verbally saying no.

Natasha liked it when she fought, when she got to use her strength against her.

“Hello, darling.”

“Hi daddy.”

Wanda coughed from behind her, “Show daddy.”

Her face instantly flushed, her eyes now wide and nervous. Natasha of course already knew, Wanda had recorded the whole thing.

Still she acted innocent as she turned around and present her ass to Natasha. Her fingers shook as she pulled her panties to the side.

“Oh darling.” Natasha cooed, crouching down beside her. Natasha couldn’t help her hand darting out to press down on the pink jeweled plug. She groaned, arching her back.

“Do you like your ass being stuffed huh?” Natasha teased, snapping her panties back into place. She got close to her ear, “You know who likes stuff like that? Sluts.”

Natasha picked her head up, slapping her flushed face. “I come home from a shitty day of work and you look all pretty for me.” She slapped her again, loving the scared look on her pretty face. “You’re so fucking precious, my little princess.” She slapped her again, this time making it really hurt.

“Daddy why.” She whined, her eyes barely open.

“Because you just look so fucking pretty.”

Natasha stood up, walking over to Wanda to give her a kiss.

“How’d she do today?” Natasha asked, her hands sneaking around her waist.

“Good, really good. Drank a whole bottle of wine.” Wanda’s hands rested on her chest. “Work really that bad?”

“No,” She kissed her wife’s face, “Just missed you.”

“We missed you too.” They both looked over at her, “Isn’t that right.”

“I— missed you.”

She wished she could beat her favoritism out of her. But that had been the deal. Good cop, bad cop. Natasha liked discipline, she liked having a pretty little thing squirming under her. Wanda liked a babbling little princess, desperately panting for attention. They got the best of both worlds.

Wanda and her had cooked dinner and cleaned after them. She knew the look in Wanda’s eyes, she had known them for years. She wanted to be fucked.

They couldn’t even make it to their room, stumbling to the couch. A softer set of footsteps followed them, but they weren’t going to receive any attention.

Wanda was desperate in her mouth, instantly grabbing her through her clothes.

“On your knees.” Natasha barked at her, kissing Wanda again. The floor creaked as she listened and she pushed Wanda onto the couch.

She went beside Wanda, grabbing her warm pussy instantly. Natasha left their toy on the ground while Natasha kissed her wife. Wanda was more than willing, shoving her tongue deep into her mouth.

“What do you have planned?” Wanda mumbled against her lips.

“Just follow my lead.” Natasha’s hands reached for the bottom of her shirt, stripping her of it instantly. Natasha gripped her bare breasts. This had been the reason she had fallen in love with her, well and her dazzling smile.

Soon, Natasha was stripped of her clothes as well. Wanda’s fingers began playing with her. She groaned, relaxing her head into the back of the couch.

“Do you remember that one toy, the strange looking one?” Natasha mused to Wanda.

“Oh she won’t like that one.” Wanda smiled, raising one hand to use her magic. Instantly before their eyes, the giant dildo was on the floor in front of them, it was shaped like a dragon tail almost. Small at the end and extended wide at the bottom.

On her knees she squirmed, biting her lip. Wanda used her magic to grab something else. A small pink toy that had a vibrator to sit perfectly on her clit and g-spot.

Natasha’s hand extended to Wanda’s pussy, starting a slow assault on her wetness. “Take out your plug.”

She cringed as she pulled the plug from her ass, dropping it onto the floor. “Use the lube. Get it all over that toy.”

Wanda’s back arched as Natasha’s fingers sped up before slowing down. Wanda’s fingers kept a steady pace, at least until she was able to entertain them.

Her hands shook as she stroked the toy, it really was huge but neither of them expected her to take it all. Not that she knew that.

“Give us a show, princess.” Wanda said, her eyes solely focused on her. “Put that toy inside, the bigger part goes on your pretty clit.”

With a grimace on her face, she did it. Discreetly, Natasha started the toy with the remote. Just a low setting to get her settled in. She leaned back balancing with her hands. The toy was much too tall for her to sit on her knees, so she had to get up on her feet.

She whimpered, pitifully, when the toy began stretching her open. Fuck she loved that sound. She was so utterly pathetic for them, ruining her hole just for their enjoyment.

Wanda’s fingers stuck themselves inside Natasha, making her buck her hips involuntarily. The girl in front of them watched the scene with wide eyes as she eased herself on the toy.

She stopped for a moment, catching her breath. Wanda was quick with her magic. Red wisps extended around her neck, jolting her slightly when she stopped.

“Keep going, look how desperate daddy is.” She teased, setting it down when she picked up her pace again.

“Bitch.” Natasha swore, speeding up her movements on her clit.

Soon, the girl was panting in front of them. She was further down the toy than either had expected. Her poor arms were shaking with strain from having to be in that position for so long.

Natasha couldn’t help herself. She grabbed ahold of Wanda by the neck, pushing her to lay down. “Need to taste you.” She mumbled before pushing her face into her wet, open cunt.

Wanda arched her back, a beautiful moan leaving her mouth. Still, she didn’t miss it when she stopped moving on the toy, sending her another jolt.

It was wonderful watching sweet, little mommy give out the punishments this time. Natasha loved doing it but fuck she had relished in watching what Wanda had done to her last time. She only wished she could feel how tight her pussy was when she was pushed down into the cold water. Natasha had wanted to fuck her right then and there but Wanda wouldn’t have it. They fucked for hours after they locked her in her room.

Wanda came around her mouth with a loud moan, her pussy gushing all over Natasha’s tongue. She was quick to lick it up, trying to look over at her to see what she was missing.

Her eyes were wide, watching the scene unfold. Natasha reached for the remote, her tongue still inside of Wanda, unrelenting until another orgasm was pulled out of her. Natasha turned up the toy tenfold, causing her to scream. She fell further on the toy, crying out as she did.

Wanda came again, quickly at the sight. Tears began leaking from her eyes, they were locked on Wanda.

“Come here.” Wanda begged, her voice a little coarse. “Don’t stop honey, you’re being such a good girl for us.”

She whined, legs shaking from the force of the vibrators. “Daddy I’m gonna—“ She moaned, her eyes rolling back.

Natasha turned down the toy, causing her to let out a loud whine. She stopped again, Wanda was quick again.

“Haven’t seen you do that before.” Natasha mused, climbing on top of Wanda.

“First time I’m trying it.” Wanda smiled, still out of breath from her orgasms.

Wanda’s fingers found her pussy again. For a moment, Natasha forgot about the scene in front of her, completely absorbed by Wanda. She really was sweet, and willing and oh so gorgeous.

Natasha arched her back as Wanda’s fingers curled right at her g spot. She looked back to their girl, humping herself desperately on the toy. Fuck she couldn’t wait to watch the cameras back.

Natasha felt herself throbbing around Wanda’s fingers by just watching her. She was so fucking pathetic, so sweet, so pliable. Natasha wanted nothing more than to corrupt her, to turn them into their little fuck doll.

She felt her peak approaching, deciding to turn up her toy. She screamed, her hips halting again. Tears rolled down her face when Wanda jolted her. “Mommy—daddy please i’m gonna cum!” She screamed.

Natasha felt herself tip over the edge, barely paying enough attention to turn off the toy all the way, perfectly ruining her orgasm. Wanda fucked her through it, biting a spot on her neck as she sat stars.

Their girl collapsed on the floor, her pitiful whines filling the room. Wanda jolted her again before her fingers inside of Natasha finally slowed. She was crying into her arms, curled into a ball.

Natasha kissed Wanda once, twice, one more time, then got up to get her. Natasha slipped her shirt back on, leaving the rest of it on the floor. She scooped her into her arms.

“Why the tears?” Natasha asked, trying to sound sweet like Wanda.

“Mean.” She mumbled out.

“You think I don’t feel the way you squeeze me every time I am mean to you? Don’t act all innocent now.”

She huffed, Natasha had never seen her act so bratty.

Why did it hurt a little?

She sighed, “You can sleep with us tonight.”

Her head shot up, smiling a little through her tears. “Really daddy?”

Natasha rolled her eyes, pretending to be annoyed but being so far from it. Waking up next to her sounded wonderful.

#wandanat my luvs #my works #wanda maximoff #wanda x reader #wandanat x reader #dark wandanat #natasha romanov #dark wlw #natasha x reader

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