rinawrote

[rinawrote]

A list of my WIPs in order of how insane they are driving me (most feral at the top):

- DS Sean Stone (full fic)

- Jeremy Goode (full fic)

- Tony (full fic)

- Dr. Flynn (full fic)

- Jeremy Goode one-shot

- Tony one-shot

- Matthew Parker (full fic)

- Dean Tavalouris (full fic)

- Dr. Flynn one-shots (got 2 of them mfs on the go)

- Viktor one-shot

- Mr. Warren one-shot

- NSFW Alphabets

- Furfur (full fic) (dead underwater somewhere)

Obviously prioritising requests tho bc I love writing those 😽😽😽

[rinawrote]

I have so many fics/one-shots that I’m writing but I made them all SO long I AM MY OWN WORST ENERGY like yes I need 32k words of tense build-up before the smut in my Sean Stone fic and 26k of pining before they fuck in my Jeremy Goode one. No I will not delete a single word. Yes I am pacing around my enclosure like a sad bear. Please keep sending requests I need to distract myself with shorter works :3

[rinawrote]

Hey my lovelyyyy if you have time I was wondering if you’d be interested in writing an F!reader x Lisgoe proposal? 🤭🤭 your fics are giving me life as usual, thank you for keeping us all well-fed hehe 💗

Hehe thank uuuu I hope u like this one 😽

The Proposal

Joseph Lisgoe (The League of Gentlemen) x f!Reader

AO3 link here

Summary: Lisgoe hasn’t been himself all week, but you realise why when he pulls out a shiny silver ring.

Warnings: Swearing

You know something’s off with Joseph the moment he doesn’t shout at Glenn for a failed collection. It’s a Thursday. Rain pours in sheets against the shipping container windows, and Barry’s smacking his lips on a steak bake. Normally, Lisgoe would have smacked it out his hand by now and called him a fat bastard. But today? He just sits at his desk, fingers pressed together, eyes flicking from the grimy window, to you, and back again. And when he’s not doing that, he’s twitchy. Pacing. Muttering under his breath.

“Something wrong?” you ask, arching a brow.

He grunts, refusing to look at you. “Nah.”

Glenn side-eyes Barry, who snorts and mutters, “Mr. Lisgoe’s not been right all week.”

“Shut it,” Joseph snaps, but there’s no bite behind it.

Later that night, when the Baggs’s have gone and the wind whistles against the shaky rusted walls, Lisgoe stands awkwardly by the door, scratching at the ink on his neck like it might give him answers.

“You got plans tomorrow night?”

You blink at him. “You mean, other than watching telly with you?”

He hesitates, then says, “Put somethin’ nice on then. We’re off out.”

You stare.

“Somewhere proper,” he clarifies quickly. “Fancy.”

Tomorrow comes, and the “fancy” place turns out to be Luigi’s, the only ‘authentic’ Italian in Royston Vasey, where the table cloths are stained and the garlic bread tastes like it’s from Tesco. You don’t comment. Because he’s freshly shaved. Slicked his hair extra neat. Even wore his ‘nice’ jacket.

He’s sweating. He fidgets for the whole meal. Taps his fingers on the table. Barely touches his spaghetti bolognese. And that tells you everything you need to know. Something’s wrong.

Finally, after the world’s most awkward tiramisu, he shifts uncomfortably in his seat, adjusting his tie, and mutters, “Supposed to do this proper, wasn’t I?”

You set your fork down slowly. “Do what?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just stares at his lap like it’s personally offended him. Then, “We’ve been together a while now, ‘aven’t we?” he says, glancing up, eyes flicking over your face like he’s waiting for you to laugh or run. You don’t do either.

“Well. I thought, maybe … y’know…” He digs in his pocket, fumbles, swears under his breath, then finally pulls out a little black box. He opens it like it might combust. The ring gleams. A silver band adorned with a single beautiful diamond that catches in the light. It looks expensive. You gasp.

“Right,” he says, more to himself than to you. “Here goes, then.”

You stare at him, mouth hanging open. He tentatively gets down on one knee like the floor might swallow him, then clears his throat. Loudly. Twice.

“Look,” he starts, then stops. Rubs a hand over his mouth like he’s trying to physically shove the words out. “I’m not … I’m not good with this stuff,” he says tensely. “And I ain’t some soft twat with a guitar. But I’m not stupid either. And I know what I’ve got.”

Your heart hammers in your ribs.

“Been carrying this around for a while, trying to figure out how the hell I’m supposed to say it right.” His voice is low now. Uncertain in a way you’ve never heard from him before. He stares at you like you’re a miracle. “…I love you. More than any prick has a right to. And that’s that.”

You smile, catching your bottom lip between your teeth.

“And I want-” he clears his throat. “I want to marry you. Properly. No pissing about.” He pauses, releasing a shaky breath. “So,” he says, lifting the box up to you nervously. “Will you marry me?”

You look at him - your beautiful bastard of a man. His slicked hair and his gold chain and his neck tattoo and his aura that exudes that of a Victorian ghost. You think of how he barks orders at Glenn and Barry - and in the same breath, offers you his last cigarette. How he brushes your hair out of your face when you’re half-asleep and thinks you won’t notice. You grin.

“Yeah,” you say softly. “I will.”

And in a rare moment, Joseph Lisgoe smiles. Real and wide and boyish - before he mutters, “Thank fuck for that. Almost lost me nerve and lobbed the ring in someone’s soup.”

He slips the band on your finger, returns to his seat, and signals to the waiter with a snap of his fingers. “Bottle of your best, Luigi - we’re celebrating.”

You lean across the table and kiss him softly, fingers brushing his jaw. His lips are soft and warm against yours. When you pull away, his icy eyes are gazing into yours, dazed and full of feelings he could never put into words. He’s smiling softly, eyes warm, like for once in his life he finally has something worth keeping.

[rinawrote]

i am ITCHING to do some NSFW Alphabets for Reece characters 😝🫦

[rinawrote]

HEY MY LOVE me again hehehe 😋 Could I request a fic where Lisgoe unexpectedly has babysitting duties dumped on him and has to take care of his niece last minute so brings her to work, where F!reader spends most of the day looking after and playing with her. And ofc Lisgoe is grumpy at first but loves watching them together and is all heart eyes 🥹 I FEEL LIKE IT WOULD BE SO CUTEEEEE

Oh. My. God. YES. I had to drop everything and write this immediately. Hope you enjoy!!!

A Bastard’s Guide to Babysitting

Joseph Lisgoe (The League of Gentlemen) x f!Reader

AO3 link here

Summary: Babysitting wasn’t on Lisgoe’s agenda - but seeing you with his niece shifts something deep inside him.

Warnings: Swearing

The shipping container was not designed for childcare. This fact becomes glaringly obvious when Joseph storms in with a toddler on his hip, red in the face, exuding fury.

“I’ve been stitched up,” he announces, like someone’s planted drugs on him.

You’re mid-way through making tea on the dodgy little plug-in kettle that squeals when it boils. You look at him, then at the tiny, messy-haired girl clinging to his blazer like she’s scaled a particularly grumpy tree.

“Whose is that?” you ask, eyebrows raised.

He glares at you like you’re the one who left a child in his care. “My sister’s,” he growls. “Said she had an emergency appointment. Bollocks - more like she’s gone to get her nails done.”

The girl sneezes, and Joseph jolts like she’s just expelled a demon.

“Right,” he barks, marching over to the old chair opposite his desk that you usually sit in. He plonks the girl down like she’s a briefcase full of explosives. “Don’t move. Don’t touch anything. Especially him,” he adds, pointing a finger toward Barry, who’s halfway through a sandwich and doesn’t even notice. You put the kettle down and crouch beside the kid.

“Hey, love,” you say gently. “What’s your name?”

She eyes you, then mumbles, “Milly.”

“Nice to meet you, Milly. Do you like drawing?”

She nods. You dig in the drawer of Joseph’s desk, through receipts, debt records, a pair of nunchucks - pulling out every colour of biros and highlighters you can find, and a notebook with half the pages missing. Within minutes, Milly’s sat happily on the floor drawing wobbly rainbows while Joseph paces in tight circles, muttering curses about “unpaid childcare,” “emotional blackmail,” and “that bloody woman and her feral kids.” You bring him a cup of tea.

“Cheers,” he says, grimly.

“She’s alright, y’know,” you say, nodding to Milly, who’s now drawing something that vaguely resembles Joseph with horns. “Could’ve been worse.”

“Could’ve been not happenin’ at all,” he snaps, but his voice isn’t laced with its usual venom.

By lunchtime, Milly’s made a little nest out of his coat, claimed the notebook as her own, and is hosting a full-blown tea party using mismatched mugs, you and Barry as guests. Joseph pretends to be busy with work, but every few minutes, you catch him watching. Just … watching, expression unreadable. Brow furrowed, mouth tight. But his eyes soften in the way they do when he looks at you and thinks you’re not paying attention.

The moment is those when Glenn drops a box of files and curses loudly.

“Don’t swear, you fuckin’ bastard!” Joseph barks immediately, turning on him like an attack dog. “We’ve got a bairn in here, you thick git!”

Glenn stares, mouth hanging open. You try not to laugh.

“She’s fine,” you say, smiling as Milly offers Barry an invisible biscuit. Barry accepts it with deep sincerity.

“She shouldn’t be here,” Joseph mutters, crossing his arms and leaning back in his chair.

“No. She shouldn’t.” You tilt your head. “But you brought her.”

He twitches. “Had no bloody choice.”

You step close to him, voice quieter now. “Yeah - and instead of chucking her in a pub with a bottle of J2O and hoping for the best, you brought her here. You’re looking after her. You’re doing alright.”

He just scoffs.

What feels like hours pass. Glenn and Barry eventually go out on a collection. The office is quiet, just the low hum of the desk fan and the scratch of pen against paper.

Then Milly toddles up to Lisgoe, tugs his sleeve, and says, “Uncle Joe! I drew you and the lady!”

He blinks, then looks down at the paper she holds up - two wobbly stick figures holding hands. One has an angry scribble of dark hair. The other has little red love hearts around her head.

“Oh bloody hell,” he mutters. His cheeks go bright red.

You grin. “Is that me with the lovely hair?” you ask.

“She said your forehead was too big so she ran out of paper,” Joseph mutters under his breath, smirking.

You swat his arm. He snorts at his own joke. You kneel beside Milly. “This is amazing, sweetheart. Can we put it on the fridge?”

“We haven’t got a fridge,” Joseph says immediately.

“Then I’ll buy a fridge,” you reply, snapping your head round at him, grabbing the drawing, and tucking it in your bag.

He shakes his head, rolling his eyes - but the smile on his face betrays him. Then he sits back in the chair like his bones have betrayed him. His eyes drift back to you and Milly on the floor, cross-legged over crumpled paper, you letting the little girl decorate your hands with highlighter hearts and biro stars.

He huffs like he’s annoyed - but he’s not. He’s staring. And he’s gone all … soft round the edges. He watches the way you smile at Milly like she’s the only person in the world. The way you make space for her in your lap like it’s the most natural thing. The way she rests her head against your shoulder without a second thought. Something clenches in his chest, like a fist closing around his heart. Something weird and warm and horrible and nice, all at once.

He pictures you like that again - but in your own place, not this dump. He imagines you in the kitchen, still in your dressing gown, holding a baby that looks like you. Or maybe one that looks like him, God help it - big scowl, bad attitude. He feels something shift behind his ribcage, sharp and sudden. He swears quietly under his breath.

“You alright?” you ask, looking up at him with a smile.

You’ve got pen on your cheek and highlighter across your knuckles. Milly’s clambering into your lap like she’s known you for years. Joseph Lisgoe - hardened loan shark, all around mean bastard - sits, blinking slowly at the idea of you holding his kid. You sat in a hospital bed, a tiny bundle in your arms, snarling at the nurses on his behalf while he’s fainted on the floor.

He coughs once to clear his throat. Then, “You ever think about it?”

You blink. “Think about what?”

He nods toward Milly, but he’s not looking at her. He’s looking at you. Like he’s seeing you for the first time all over again. “Having one.”

The silence stretches. You just smile. “Sometimes.”

His jaw tightens, like the thought terrifies him. But he says, voice rough, “I reckon you’d be good.”

You tilt your head, teasing. “You reckon you’d be any use?”

He shrugs. “Wouldn’t scar ‘em for life, probably. Got low standards, haven’t they? Kids.”

You laugh, soft and warm. Milly tugs at your sleeve, muttering something sleepily. You settle her against you like it’s second nature, gentle and patient and safe. Joseph watches you like he’s guarding something precious.

Then, after a pause - almost like he’s testing the weight of the words before he lets them leave his lips, “What if we…?”

You meet his eyes, softly. You catch your bottom lip in your teeth smiling at the baby-fever-ridden man. “Maybe.”

His hands come up to his face, hiding an idiotic grin like he’s just won the lottery. Like he’s just won everything.

Joseph doesn’t even notice when Glenn and Barry return. He’s just quietly wrecked. The sun is low, painting the walls of the office in golden rays. Milly is curled up in your lap, squiggling on the back of an old invoice. Joseph’s pretending to read a file, but he’s watching you both like it’s telly.

There’s a knock at the container door. Three quick, impatient bangs.

Joseph grunts. “That’ll be Joanna.”

You glance down. “Milly, sweetheart - time to go.”

She groans. “But I’m not finished!”

“Doesn’t matter,” Joseph mutters, standing and stretching. “Get up, you feral little thing.”

You smack his arm as he goes to open the door. Joanna storms in like she owns the place. Her eyes skim the container, take in Barry - who’s eating again, and Glenn - who’s perched on a stool wearing a sparkly sticker that says ‘excellent behaviour!’, and finally her daughter who bolts over, showing off her finished ‘artwork.’

Joanna’s eyes narrow. “What the hell is she holding?”

Joseph glances over. “That’s a biro. That’s her hand. That’s a fictional ransom note. It’s fine.”

“She’s got pen on her face.”

“And?” he says flatly.

She squints down at Milly, who’s bouncing up and down in one place, “Did you give her coffee?”

“No,” he lies.

You stand. “She’s been an angel.”

Joanna rubs her temples. “I can’t believe I left her here.”

“Relax,” Joseph mutters. “She’s had the time of her life.”

Joanna just exhales, defeated. She crouches to Milly’s level. “Come on, darling. Let’s go home.”

Milly quickly spins to wrap her arms around you, and you ruffle her hair. Then they turn to leave - but not before Milly looks to Joseph and shouts, “Bye Uncle!”

Joseph raises a hand in half-hearted salute. “Don’t talk to the police.”

The door closes. Silence. You glance over at him. “You liked having her here.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Sure.” You say, teasing, before you step forward to wrap your arms around him.

He scoffs, but his hands find your waist anyway. “Little sod drew on my VAT returns.”

You grin. “You’re still smiling, though.”

“I’m not.”

You lean in, smug. “You are.”

And he is. Just a bit.

Later that night - back at his flat - Joseph sits on the sofa, legs stretched out, shirt half unbuttoned, eyes tired. You’re curled up beside him, warm and quietly smug. He’s calmer now - settled. Thoughtful, even. The TV hums gently in the background. Then, his phone buzzes on the armrest.

Joanna (Don’t Answer) flashes up on the screen. He answers with a grunt.

“Yeah?”

You hear a very angry sounding, “Joseph. What the hell have you been teaching my daughter?”

His eyes narrow. “Nothing.”

“She’s been swearing like a bloody sailor since we got home!”

You laugh into your sleeve.

Joseph covers the mic. “Didn’t think she was listening that closely.”

The voice on the other end rises. “She’s made her brother cry!”

Joseph smirks, “Sure it isn’t you she’s learning all this off?”

There’s the sound of her sighing heavily through her teeth. “She’s going to repeat this at nursery.”

“She’s got to learn sooner or later.”

His sister groans. “I’m hanging up.”

“Send our love to the child,” he says.

The line goes dead, and he tosses the phone onto the coffee table with a grunt, then slouches deeper into the sofa like he’s been personally wronged.

“You’ve turned her into a tiny, sweary criminal,” you laugh.

He shrugs. “You’re welcome.”

You nudge your knee against his. “You’re going soft.”

“Bollocks,” he says, but he’s smiling. Not much, but enough. You see it - and you know what it means.

He watches you for a moment longer. Then leans in, presses a quick, rough kiss to your temple like he’s embarrassed about it already.

“I meant it, earlier,” he mutters. “About having one.”

“I know.”

“Still do.”

You nod. “Me too.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then he sighs. “Well. Suppose we better start practicing.”

You raise an eyebrow. “For parenting?”

He smirks. “For making one.”

You shove him, laughing. “You’re grim.”

“You love it,” he mumbles, already leaning in.

And - God help you - you really do.

[rinawrote]

Reassurance

Ollie Plimsolls (The League of Gentlemen) x f!Reader

AO3 link here

Summary: Ollie wakes up from a bad dream - and you comfort him in the best way possible.

Warnings: Smut, unprotected sex, swearing

You feel it before you fully wake up - the way his arms tighten around your waist, clinging protectively. Ollie always spoons you, but this is different; he’s clutching at you desperately, as if you’ll vanish if he loosens his grip. You stir slightly, rolling onto your back. He doesn’t let go.

Ollie props himself up on his elbow beside you, gazing down with tired eyes. His glasses are off - having only just woken up himself. Without them, he looks younger. Messier. Fragile. Clad in nothing but the boxers he slept in, blond hair tousled from tossing all night, mouth forced into a pout that doesn’t quite match the arrogance he usually wears like a shield.

You smile up at him without hesitation. “Morning, baby.”

He stares at you for a second too long, voice coming out quiet and tight. “…Do you still love me?”

You blink, used to this now. The cycles. The questions he always asks like he isn’t quite convinced of the answers.

You don’t hesitate. “Yes.”

He swallows. “Say it.”

“I love you.”

His eyes search yours. “Still.”

You reach up and run a hand through his disheveled hair, brushing a strand from his forehead. “I still love you.”

He nods - more to himself than to you. “Okay. Yeah. Good.”

You squint at him. “What’s brought this on?”

His presses his lips together, sulking. Then, a mumble. “Bad dream.”

Your face softens immediately, and you pout. “Awh, baby…” you coo, your hand cupping his cheek. His eyelids flutter at your touch and he leans into it like a cat. Like he can’t help it. You tug him down gently and kiss him - soft, slow, sweet. You know he likes being babied, even if he’ll deny it later.

You pull back just enough to ask, “What was it about?”

He sighs and lets himself melt halfway onto your chest, head tucking under your chin. “You were with someone else,” he mutters. “You left me.”

You feel his voice more than you hear it, vibrating against your chest. You hold him tighter, threading your fingers through his hair once more. “Was it Linda again?”

He grumbles something unintelligible, which you take as a yes. Her shadow still lingers in the corners of his confidence. No matter how dramatic he is, how grand his gestures, or sharp his temper - there’s cracks he can’t quite patch with showbiz bravado.

“Well, I didn’t leave you. I’m here. I love you.”

He shifts to look up at you again, pout still prominent. “You were laughing. In the dream. With her.”

“Sounds like your subconscious needs a stern talking-to.”

He huffs. “It was rude.”

You laugh softly, kissing the top of his head. “I’d never leave you, Ollie.”

He pauses. Then, “Even if I’m … emotionally high-maintenance?”

“Especially then.”

“…Even if my issue-based plays are underappreciated and too avant-garde for the general public?”

You snort. “Even then.”

He finally gives you a proper smile. Small and sleepy - but real. And then, he nuzzles in close again. “…You still love me.”

You smile, closing your eyes. “I still love you.”

There’s a pause, and for a second you think he might settle - finally let himself drift back to sleep wrapped around you like a needy scarf. But then-

“Then prove it.”

You barely have time to register the words before his hand appears at your jaw, and he’s pulling you into a kiss. Not a soft one - it’s messy. Urgent. The kind of kiss that says, ‘please mean it.’ The kind that’s clawed its way out of his dream and into your mouth, where all his insecurity tangles with want. You kiss him back just as fiercely, hands tangling in his hair, holding him against you. You feel him sigh into your mouth, like maybe - maybe that nightmare could be overwritten by the warmth of your lips, the grounding promise of your fingers brushing against the hair on his chest.

When he finally pulls back, he looks down at you with pink cheeks and swollen lips, eyes wide and blinking like he can’t quite believe what just happened. He takes a second to take you in. To register the moment. Then he surges forward, grabbing at you. Your waist, your face, your shoulders - like he can’t decide where to hold you first. His touch is clumsy and frantic. Then he kisses you again, harder this time. Desperate. All tongue and teeth.

He shifts his weight so he’s on top of you, elbows on either side of your head, body pressed to yours, grinding against you - already hard. He kisses you like a man starved, hands sliding under your shirt like he needs skin-to-skin proof that you’re real and still his. You gasp against his mouth and hold his face in your hands, grounding him. Letting him take what he needs.

“Ollie,” you breath between kisses, “I’m not going anywhere.”

He nods, eyes fluttering closed, still clinging. Still hovering over you like a shelter. You kiss him again - gentler now, but no less sure. He shivers at the feeling of your lips moving with his, the soft sound of your breath catching. His hands start sliding - slow but firm - up and down your sides, still beneath the hem of your shirt. You arch into his touch and he groans, like the reality of your body under his has knocked the air from his lungs.

His voice comes out hoarse when he speaks. Low and wrecked, "I need you to show me."

You blink up at him, hand still curling in his hair. "Show you?"

"That you still love me. That it's real." His fingers tighten at your waist. You pull him into another kiss, and he melts into it instantly. His mouth opens against yours with a soft, needy sound.

"I'll show you," you murmur, lips brushing his. "Every way you need."

He stares down at you, eyes wide. Your beautiful mess of a man. You pull your shirt up slowly, wordlessly, and his breath catches as he sees your bare chest, even if he’s seen it a hundred times before. You swear you see his eyes gloss over - overwhelmed, worshipful, terrified, and turned on all at once.

"God, you're..." he bows his head, leans down, and kisses your chest like it’s sacred. "I don't deserve you."

"You do," you whisper, guiding his hand to rest against your heart. "You always have."

Whatever restraint he has left snaps then. He kisses you like you’re the answer to every question he's ever screamed at the ceiling. His hands roam your body - reverent, greedy. You feel him tremble as he hovers over you, hips pressed flush, breath hot against your ear.

"Tell me again," he rasps. "Tell me you love me."

You wrap your legs around his waist, drawing him in closer. “I love you, Ollie. Always."

He buries his face in your neck with a broken sound, his body pressing you into the mattress with grinding heat.

"I need you," he whispers, "I need all of you. Now. Please.”

Your heart clenches at the sound of him so raw and undone. You've heard Ollie loud before - over-the-top, theatrical. But this isn’t that. This isn’t a declaration for a stage or an audience. This is a confession, whispered like a prayer in the curve of your neck. You turn your head, kiss his temple, and then his cheek.

Your voice is steady even as your pulse races. "Then take me."

He freezes for just a second - like he can’t quite believe you said it - but then his mouth finds yours again, slower now, more deliberate. The urgency doesn’t vanish, but it shifts - less frantic now, more like reverence. Like he wants to memorize you, piece by piece. His fingers skim your ribs, making you shiver. He exhales shakily against your lips, and you feel the tension in his body - all that pent-up fear coiled tight in his heart - bleeding out through every touch.

"God, you feel so nice," he murmurs, his voice muffled against your skin as he kisses down your collarbone. "You're so warm. You're mine."

You let him take his time, watching him fall apart as he undresses you. Every inch of skin revealed feels like another point against the argument he’s having with himself. He tugs your shirt over your head, throwing it to then side, then yanks your pyjama shorts down with your underwear in one swift motion. His hands are adoring - trembling like he thinks you’ll disappear. You tangle your fingers in his hair, tugging at the blond roots.

Ollie surges forward, kissing you again - deeper now, anchored in the present. His hands grow confident, moving with purpose as he settles between your thighs. He pauses once, searching your eyes for permission. You give it without hesitation - tilting your hips up to meet him, pulling him close until there’s no space left between you. You feel his hard bulge as he presses against you, whimpering your name like it’s the only thing keeping him alive.

His hands paw at your bare chest, groping your breasts. His mouth drops to your nipple as he squeezes, sucking gently at the delicate skin. You inadvertently roll your hips up against him, and he whines. Like it’s almost too much. The only thing that separates you is the fabric of his boxers, which you desperately tug at. Ollie shifts his weight - mouth not leaving your breast - and pulls them down his legs quickly, tossing them onto the floor.

You reach a hand between you both, firmly gripping his cock before giving it a few pumps. You gather the precum from his leaking tip, swiping your thumb over his sensitive head. He mewls into you and bites down on your breast, before pulling away to gaze up at you, eyes full of devotion. You position him at your entrance and he captures your mouth in a searing kiss. He pins your thighs apart and moans as you slowly guide him into your soaked entrance.

Ollie’s whole body shivers like it’s the first time he’s had you, and a shaky, “F-Fuck,”

tumbles from his mouth into yours.

He juts his hips forward without warning, slamming himself into you, your cunt greedily swallowing every inch. Your hands fly to his shoulders, nails digging in as you cling to him. He doesn’t hesitate to move - thrusting his hips hard and fast. It’s desperate and messy and full of everything he was scared to say. You throw your head back into the pillow as Ollie’s throbbing cock brushes your g-spot with every piston of his hips. He clings to you like you’re the last person on earth, hands roaming your body with familiarity and awe. They slide from your waist and land at the sides of your thighs, gripping them tight enough to bruise.

When his head falls to the crook of your neck, panting fast and broken, you know he isn’t going to last long. This isn’t one of those days. This is Ollie pleading. Pathetic. Trying his hardest to convince himself you’re his. He ruts against you like an animal - moaning pitifully with every thrust - skin hitting yours in rhythmic slaps. He babbles out endless praise like it’s all he knows how to do.

“Mmh. So. Fucking. Good.” He punctuates every word with a thrust. “So - ah - tight.”

You moan at his lewd desperation, crying his name out, lost in pleasure as his cock drives into you deliciously. You feel him pulse inside you, throbbing. His movements grow uneven, along with his breaths. His grip on your thighs tightens.

“Please - I’m gonna cum,” he whines.

Before you can say anything, he’s already crying out your name in a broken moan, hips pushing into you in one last time. Hard. His whole body trembles above you, stomach twitching as he spills into you in hot streams. He tries and fails to catch his breath while rocking his hips into yours gently - slowly - riding out his intense orgasm. He presses a loving kiss to your shoulder, then collapses against you with a long, shuddering exhale, still inside you. The two of you lay silently like that for a while, skin damp, breathing heavy.

Then, softly, he whispers, "You love me."

You smile, kissing the side of his head. "I love you”

His breath catches. "Still?"

You laugh - gentle and breathless. “Especially still."

He lets out a shaky little laugh, burying his face in your chest like he wants to crawl inside you and never leave.

"Okay," he murmurs against your skin. "Okay. I believe you."

You hold him tighter, fingers combing lazily through his hair. “Good," you say softly. "Now go back to sleep, you needy little disaster.”

[rinawrote]

I’m gonna get drunk tonight and finish my new Ollie Plimsolls smut get ready

[rinawrote]

Hope you enjoy this one pookie!!! :p

Claimed

Joseph Lisgoe (The League of Gentlemen) x f!Reader

AO3 link here

Summary: You bump into an old friend on the street. Joseph doesn’t like him one bit.

Warnings: Smut, unprotected sex, swearing, mentions of violence

The streets of Royston Vasey smell like wet tarmac and cigarettes. You’re only popping out to the shop to get some rolling papers and a coke, but Joseph insists on coming with you, trailing like a ghost. Even on mundane errands, he sticks close - just a step behind, like he’s keeping tabs. Or daring someone to try their luck.

“Won’t be five minutes,” you said.

“Might be six,” he mutters.

You roll your eyes and head down the high street. Lisgoe pauses for a moment to light a cigarette, falling slightly behind as your steps don’t falter. The streets are dead - like always - but outside the butchers, someone calls your name.

“Y/N?!”

You turn, and there he is. Benjamin. Old family friend. Sweet. Big grin. He looks genuinely pleased to see you.

“Christ - I thought you’d left this dump!”

“I should’ve,” you say with a small giggle. “But here I am.”

He steps closer. A little too close, looking you up and down. “You look amazing. I mean it - bloody gorgeous.”

You smile out of politeness. Instinct. “Thanks, that’s sweet-”

“Who’s this then?” says a low, sharp voice behind you.

Joseph. He appears at your side like a shadow. Eerily calm, but his eyes are like daggers. His hand slides to your lower back in a gesture that looks like affection but feels like a claim. His icy gaze fixes on Benjamin with the focus of a predator.

Benjamin blinks, suddenly wary. “Just an old friend,” he says quickly, nodding at Lisgoe. “Didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“Didn’t need to, either,” Lisgoe says harshly. “But here you are.”

You shift slightly. “Joseph, this is-“

“Don’t care.”

A pause. Then Benjamin gives you an awkward smile. “Right, well … good to see you.”

He starts to move past, but Lisgoe steps into his path, head tilted. Testing.

“You always this generous with compliments, or just when you think someone’s boyfriend’s not looking?”

Benjamin tries to chuckle. “Look, I didn’t mean anything by it, mate.”

Lisgoe smiles. A slow, smug, terrifying smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “I know exactly what you meant.”

For a moment, the air tightens. You see Benjamin calculating whether Lisgoe is the sort of bloke who barks, or the sort who bites. He must’ve decided the latter, because he gives a short nod and briskly walks away, muttering apologies under his breath. Joseph watches him go, not moving until Benjamin turns the corner.

Then he turns to you, expression flat. “You smiled at him.”

You cross your arms. “I was being polite.”

He steps closer, voice growing sharper. “You laughed at something he said.”

“He was just talking-”

“I don’t give a shit if he was reciting scripture.” His hand grips your chin suddenly, not hard, but firm enough to make a point. “You don’t laugh at another man in front of me.”

You stare at him, breath catching in your throat. His eyes search yours - burning yet cold, full of something possessive and relentless.

“Joseph,” you say softly, warning.

But it’s already too late. Lisgoe’s blood is boiling. “He looked at you like he wanted you. Like I wasn’t standing right there.” His voice goes low. “I should’ve dropped him right there on the pavement. Stupid grin and all.”

You reach for his blazer, grounding him. “But you didn’t.”

He looks down at your hands, jaw twitching. Then he exhales, slow. “Not worth the mess,” he mutters.

You lean into him, smoothing down his lapel. “Are you seriously jealous?”

He sneers. “I’m not jealous. I’m marking my territory.”

His hand slips around your waist, pulling you flush against him. You feel the tension in his body - lean, sharp, and hungry.

“You’re mine,” he murmurs. “Every look, every sweet little laugh. That’s all for me.”

You nod slowly, heart pounding. “And you’re mine.”

He smiles. This time it isn’t smug - it’s mean. “Good girl. Now let’s get back to the office. Clearly, I’ve got to remind you who you belong to.”

You know that by the time he’s done, there won’t be a trace of someone else’s voice left in your head. And suddenly you don’t care about going to the shop anymore.

The walk back to Lisgoe's office is wordless. He doesn’t hold your hand - he never holds your hand - but his fingers stay on the small of your back the whole way. A warning. An anchor. Like he’s afraid you might run off if he lets go.

Inside the shipping container, the air is thick with heat and tension. Glenn and Barry are thankfully gone - Barry probably off lumbering after the ice cream van, with Glenn trudging behind him like a man resigned to babysitting a twenty-five stone toddler.

The second the door clicks shut behind you, you barely have time to turn before Joseph is on you. His mouth crashes against yours. Hot. Bruising. Punishing. One hand wraps around your throat - not tight, but just enough to feel your pulse beneath his fingers. His other hand pushes under your coat, yanking it off with rough impatience.

"You let him look at you," he mumbles against your lips. "Let him talk to you like I wasn't even fuckin' there."

You gasp into his mouth, fingers scrambling at his blazer, tugging it from his shoulders. "I didn't do anything-"

"Didn't stop him either."

Lisgoe sweeps everything off his desk in one violent motion - paper, pens, lighters, ashtray, clattering to the floor. Then he grabs you by the hips, shoving you backwards onto the cleared surface like you’re his to ruin. You barely register it. He stands between your legs, eyes glistening like ice, breath harsh.

"Tell me who you belong to," he says.

You meet his gaze. “You."

He rips at your shirt, tearing open the buttons in one rough tug, leaving it to hang open pathetically on your shoulders. “Say it like you mean it."

"I belong to you, Joseph."

The way you say his name hits him like a slap in the face. He lets out a low growl, bunches your skirt up to your waist, and drags your soaked underwear down without ceremony. You arch underneath him, the cold wood of the desk biting at your back. Your eyes fall closed. You hear the clink of a belt. A zipper going down. There’s not a hint of a warning before he slams into you, making you cry out - half shock, half need.

"This what he wanted?" he growls in your ear, thrusting into you hard and fast. "Wanted to see you like this? Open and begging?"

You shake your head, whimpering. "No - just you - only you."

"That's right." His breaths are short and laboured, hands gripping your thighs hard enough to bruise. "This cunt's mine. You let anyone else even look at you too long and I'll fuck you in the street just to prove a point."

You moan helplessly, nails digging into his shoulders as he pounds into you, rough and swift, teeth grazing your jaw. Without warning, he bites your neck, sucking at the delicate skin. Not to hurt, but to mark. His cock throbs inside of you, tip leaking, smearing your slick walls with precum. Echoing off the office walls are the rhythmic sounds of skin slapping against skin harshly, the wetness in your core only making it louder. It’s punctuated by mewls and low growls. Whispered claims. Your hands trail up, tangling in his hair.

"Gonna keep you full of me," he snarls. "So next time some prick gets ideas, you'll still be dripping my cum down your thighs."

Your whole body tightens, pleasure coiling hot in your core, his voice tipping you closer to the edge. His cock drags against your g-spot just right. You can’t stop the moan that escapes you when his thumb falls to your clit, rubbing in messy circles while his fingers press into your abdomen. Your walls clamp around him as you feel the knot begin to unravel, slowly then all at once. Heat rippling through your body. Your climax burns through you, making you tremble underneath him, back arching with intensity.

He feels your walls flutter around him, gripping his shaft impossibly tighter. His breaths turn rapid, muttering a string of curses under his breath. His mouth falls open and he squeezes his eyes shut, the rhythm of his hips growing unsteady. Lisgoe grips onto your thighs like a lifeline before his hips start to stutter. He lets out one last animalistic growl, slamming into you so hard he pounds against your cervix. His release is hot and heavy, painting your walls with ropes of cum, filling you up completely.

He stays there for a moment. Just breathing. His grip on you is still firm. A shaky sigh falls from his lips - like you’ve just given him exactly what he needed. Then he finally pulls out of you, leaving you whimpering under him. The desk is a mess. Half your shirt is still tangled around your arms. Your legs are shaky, thighs sticky with him. You lay back, catching your breath, heart hammering against your ribs.

Lisgoe tucks himself back into his trousers and stands between your legs, belt hanging loose, gold chain catching in the low light. His hair is slightly ruffled, a strand falling down onto his forehead. He lights a cigarette, staring down at you with a satisfied smirk.

"Look at you," he mutters smugly, exhaling smoke toward the ceiling. "Wrecked. Used. Full of me."

You shiver as he drags his fingers up your thigh.

"You let some other prick talk to you again," he says, voice quieter now, "and you won’t be able to walk next time."

You bite your lip and look away, flushing at his shamelessness.

He leans down, close, brushing his lips along your cheek before whispering, "Don't pretend you don't love it. Being ruined by me. Owned by me."

You don’t reply. You don’t need to. Your body answers for you - legs still trembling, still open, all of you still his.

He smirks. "That's what I thought.”

[rinawrote]

every time i use an em dash i get 3% stronger

[rinawrote]

Hey queeeeeen okay so I’m a sucker for the angsty hurt/comfort trope where X turns up on Y’s doorstep all bloodied and bruised, says “I didn’t know where else to go” then collapses into Y’s arms 🫠🫠🫠 and I was wondering if you’d be interested in doing this sort of thing for F!reader x Lisgoe?! Maybe reader got into a scrape on the way home and didn’t know who else to turn to than her scary boss 🤭 I feel like this is defo pre-relationship vibes but with tensionnnnn hehehe feel free to take this wherever you want to!! Thank youuuu 💗💗

Oh my god YES. I hope you enjoy this one diva 🤭

Nowhere Else to Go

Joseph Lisgoe (The League of Gentlemen) x f!Reader

AO3 link here

Summary: After a rough night, you show up bloodied and bruised at your boss’s door - and end up seeing a side of him you didn’t expect.

Warnings: Smut, unprotected sex, angst, swearing, mentions of violence, injury, blood

It’s 1 a.m. when you find yourself tentatively knocking at the scuffed front door of Lisgoe’s flat. You’re trembling so hard your knuckles barely make a sound, but after a moment, you hear muffled signs of life behind the wood. The click of a light switch. Then the slow, disgruntled shuffle of feet. A muttered grumble behind the door.

“Who the fuck’s this at this time?”

The door opens a sliver, latch still on. His eyes peer out, bleary and tired, but still sharp - suspicious. He’s wielding a baseball bat. But when he sees you - glassy eyes, blood smeared across your cheek, arms clamped around your middle like you’re trying (and failing) to hold yourself together - he freezes. His gaze darts behind you, scanning the corridor, and he drops the bat with a sharp clatter, letting the latch off the door to open it fully. He stands in front of you - confident but wary, clad in a pair of boxers and a black t-shirt that looks like it’s just been picked up off the floor and thrown on.

“‘Sup with you?” His voice is rough but cautious - like he’s not sure whether you’re about to cry or combust. His gaze flickers over your split lip. The way your coat hangs off one shoulder. Notices there’s a rip in your tights, exposing your grazed knees.

Your voice comes out shaky, barely a whisper. “I didn’t know where else to go.”

Then everything gives way. Your knees buckle, and you collapse forward. He catches you before you hit the floor. Strong arms closing around you with a quiet curse hissed through his teeth. You swear you hear his breath catch. For a man who makes his living off of fear and violence, there’s something delicate in the way he holds you, even as your body trembles like a leaf in his grip. His face softens - just for a second. A blink of humanity beneath the steel-framed surface.

“Fuck’s sake-” he mutters under his breath, tightening his grip. “You’re shaking. Get in here. Now.”

You feel his hand on your back, grounding you in reality. He pulls you inside with the same voice he uses to bark orders at the office - firm, but quieter now. Like he’s not quite sure what to do with this version of you. You step in on wobbly legs, barely aware of your surroundings.

His flat is dimly lit and barely decorated, full of furniture that looks like he got it off the side of the road. Exactly kind of place a man like Lisgoe would have. Nothing soft. Nothing welcoming. Impersonal. Like at any given moment he’s ready to pack up and leave. But right now, it feels like the only safe place in the world.

He closes the door and locks it with a click. You pull your coat off and lay it carefully on the back of a chair. Then you slump down on the edge of his peeling leather sofa, your hands clasped hard between your knees to steady the trembling. Your breathing is shallow and paced.

Lisgoe stands in front of you, icy eyes burning into yours, arms crossed, jaw tight. He scans you like he’s trying to piece together a puzzle. You feel small under his gaze; you see on a daily basis what he’s capable of. Your heart pounds against your ribcage, and it becomes very apparent in your mind to try hard not to piss him off.

His voice drops, controlled and deadly. “Who did this?”

It comes out as more of a demand than a question. You shake your head.

He huffs. “Don’t bullshit me.”

You look away, ashamed. “I was walking home - took the shortcut down the alley. Then…” You release a shaky breath. “Some woman who owes you money - she recognised me. It was fast. I tried to run but-”

You trail off, throat getting tight with the weight of everything finally crashing down. There’s a long silence. Lisgoe’s eyes narrow with the trademark seething anger you came to associate with him. He moves to the kitchen, muttering something along the way about how he’s “gonna kill the fuckin’ bitch.” He yanks open a cabinet with more force than necessary, and pulls out a first-aid kit and a mostly clean tea towel that he passes under the kitchen tap, then wrings out.

“Sit still,” he says firmly, coming to crouch down in front of you. He takes your chin in his calloused hand and tilts your face up.

It’s the gentlest thing he’s ever done. You flinch. Not from pain - but from him. In this situation. How careful he’s being. It doesn’t match the Joseph Lisgoe you know. The man who snarls across his desk at you. The one who once threw the office landline against a wall. He notices the tension.

“I don’t bite,” he mutters, dabbing at the dried blood on your lip, lingering a moment too long on the soft skin. His touch is a little rough, but not unkind. “Not unless someone owes me 500 sheets.”

You let out a breath that’s half a laugh, half a sob, then your shoulders slump. He doesn’t say anything else after that - just works in silence, patching you up as best he can. When he’s done, he sits back on his heels, arms resting on his knees - watching you. You’re still shaking.

“You didn’t have to come here,” he says quietly, voice lower than you’ve ever heard it. “I’m not a bloody soft touch, y’know.”

“I didn’t think you were,” you murmur. “But you live close. And I thought I’d be safe here. No one messes with you.”

Something in his eyes shifts. A flicker of something unreadable. Like he wants to say more. Like he feels more.

But instead, “Next time, don’t walk alone. Royston Vasey’s not safe at night.” He runs an aggravated hand through his hair, still pushed back, but softer than usual, not full of it’s usual lacquer. “Fuckin’ idiots everywhere. You included.”

You should be mad at that, but you’re too tired. “You done being a prick?” you mumble, eyes widening a second later as you realise you just called your boss a prick to his face.

He just grunts like he doesn’t care. He��s definitely been called worse.

“Come on.” He takes a seat next to you on the sofa and nods his head toward the hallway. “You’re not going back out there tonight. Spare room’s through there. Don’t touch anything, though. I mean it.”

You blink up at him. His face is as unreadable, but with softer edges now. Something simmering under his scowl.

You nod, then, “…Lisgoe?”

He looks at you, waiting.

“Thanks.”

He doesn’t answer. Just sits there for a second, thinking. Then he mutters, almost too low to hear, “Don’t make a habit of this.”

His eyes flick to the hallway again, then back to you. He watches you for too long. Beautiful, hurt, sad you, wrapped in a poorly bandaged mess he tried his best with. You feel his eyes on you. You lift your head slowly, the dried blood that he missed is tight along your jaw. Your eyes meet his. They’re shiny. Not crying anymore, but red-rimmed and full of everything you haven’t said. Fear. Exhaustion. Gratitude. And a hundred other things that Lisgoe couldn’t name if he tried.

He stares down at you like you’re a problem he couldn’t possibly solve. Not with a baseball bat, or a brick, or an invoice. He shifts in the seat, arms crossed tight across his chest. There’s something wound tight in his restless frame. The silence is heavy, like there’s no oxygen left in the room.

You speak first, voice hoarse in your throat. “Why were you awake?”

He lets out a dry laugh, but doesn’t look at you. “I wasn’t, you daft sod. You knocked like the fuckin’ postman. Thought it was someone trying their luck.” A pause. Then he adds, quieter, “Didn’t expect it to be you.”

You nod slowly, eyes still on him. You don’t know what you were expecting. He’s been a complete bastard since the day you started working for him. Shouting orders. Slamming fists on desks. Cold and cruel. But tonight you see a barely-there glimpse of the man behind it. Unshaven. Hair soft. Wrinkled t-shirt. And he’d caught you when you fell. Held you and didn’t quite let go when he should’ve.

“I didn’t mean to…” you start, voice catching in your throat. “I didn’t want to bother you.”

He huffs a laugh, sharp and bitter. “Yeah. Well. You did.”

You wince, but then you see his mouth twitch. Not into a smile, but something else. Guilt, maybe.

“Doesn’t mean I didn’t want you to.”

You blink once. Twice. The air in the room feels tight. Lisgoe looks back at you, finally. Really looks at you - and for the first time, there’s no mask. Just him.

You whisper, “You’re not what I thought.”

His jaw tightens. His arms uncross. He shifts a little closer on the couch. “Neither are you.”

He stops inches away you, like he’s afraid if he moves any closer you’ll break apart. His eyes drop to your mouth, then to the bruise on your jaw, then back up. Your breathing is shallow and rapid.

“Joseph,” you breathe. It’s the first time you’ve said his name like that. Soft. Not “Mr. Lisgoe.” Not “sir.” Just him.

His hand lifts, hesitates for a beat. Then he skims your cheek - light, barely there. His thumb grazes the edge of the plaster he placed himself. You lean into it. That’s all it takes.

He leans in, slow and cautious - as if you might change your mind - and brushes his mouth against yours. Not with greed. Not with roughness. Just full of heat and tension pulled taut until it snaps. Your lips meet his, bruised and shaking and desperate. You taste the blood from your cut, but can’t bring yourself to care. He kisses you like he hasn’t kissed in a long time, and probably doesn’t think he deserves to. One hand cups the side of your face, the other grabs at in the back of your t-shirt, pulling you impossibly closer. You part your lips. He inhales sharply. His thumb brushes patterns on your cheek like he’s signing his soul away.

Then he pulls back - breathless - eyes dark. He stares at you half-lidded, completely undone.

“This is a bad idea,” he mutters. His voice is thick.

You nod and swallow. “I know.”

You’re still close; you could kiss him again if you moved half an inch. You want to. He breathes in sharply, like he’s trying to hold something back, eyes dragging over your face.

Then he says, voice softer than you’ve ever heard, “Spare room’s through there.” He jerks his chin toward the hallway. Then, as if thinking something over, he pauses for a moment. Swallows gravely. “My room’s opposite.”

You nod slowly. The moment hangs between you, heavy and aching. You both stand. He steps aside to let you pass. Before you disappear down the hall, you pause, glancing over your shoulder. He’s still standing there, hand half-raised like he wants to reach for you again.

You whisper, “Thanks again, Joseph.”

He doesn’t answer - just nods. And when the door of the spare room closes behind you, he exhales like he’s been holding his breath all night.

The spare room is small, boxy, and dim. Barely more than a bed and a scuffed chest of drawers. The sheets smell faintly stale cigarette smoke. You sit on the edge of the mattress. Outside, the hallway creaks under his steps. You hear the low creak of his door opening, the soft thud of it closing again. Then nothing. The silence swells, and with it, so does the ache in your chest. The kiss lingers in your head.

You get comfortable, pulling off your shoes first. Then your tights, torn and stiff with dried blood. Then you reach under your top, unhooking your bra and pulling it out from under your shirt. You hiss in pain when your fingers brush a particularly nasty bruise.

Slipping under the covers, you expect the fatigue to knock you out. But the moment you let your eyes close, it’s there. The alley. The panic clawing at your throat. Your whole body flinches before you can stop it. You turn onto your side, pulling the covers tight around you, trying to breathe through the rising wave of anxiety. It doesn’t work. Every creak in the pipes makes your skin crawl. You jolt when the wind knocks a tree branch against the window. The flat feels too quiet - too dark.

You lie there for what feels like hours - but was probably only twenty minutes - heart hammering, eyes wide. Your fingers grip at the bedsheets. You tell yourself you’re safe now. The door is locked. Joseph Bloody Lisgoe is just across the hall - nothing would dare follow you here. But it doesn’t help; fear doesn’t listen to reason.

Eventually, you sit up, the blanket sliding off your shoulders. You swing your legs over the edge of the bed, feet grazing the cold floor. You hesitate when you get to the door. Your hand hovers over the handle, guilt crawling up. You’re already pushing your luck. He said not to make a habit of this. But the memory of his arms around you, the way he kissed you, the uncharacteristic softness in his voice. It’s the only thing grounding you in reality right now.

You step into the hallway, the air cool against you. The flat is quiet. His door is closed. You walk up to it, and stand there for a second, breathing shallow, gathering whatever courage you have left. Then you raise your hand, and knock.

He doesn't answer at first - just breathes. You can hear it. Then the mattress creaks, and his voice comes out low, gruff, still hoarse from sleep. "Door's open."

You hesitate. Your hand tightens around the handle, then you push the door open and step inside. His room is darker than the spare. Pitch black, no windows cracked, no streetlight leaking in. Just warmth and shadow and the subtle sound of him shifting to the far side of the bed. The mattress dips.

You stand there for a second, unsure and vulnerable. "You sure?" you whisper

A pause. Then his voice - low and rough and almost unreadable, "Wouldn't've invited you in if I wasn't."

So you move - slowly and carefully - and climb in beside him. The sheets are warm from his body. You lie on your side, facing away at first, unsure of the rules here - if there even are any. But then you feel the heat of him behind you. Close. A breath. A shift. Then his hand brushes your back - light, unsure. You twitch at the feeling, thinking of how easy it would be to fall into this.

You turn to face him. He's already facing you. You can't see him - not properly - but you can feel his breath, soft and shallow against your cheek. Neither of you say a word. Your hand finds his chest, which is bare now, and you lay your palm flat against the warmth of his skin. You feel his heartbeat. It’s racing. His breath stutters.

And just like that - no warning, his mouth is on yours. It's nothing like earlier. It's hotter. Needier. All teeth and breath and desperation. You gasp into him, and he takes it like air - hands curling around your waist, pulling you in until there's no space left between your bodies. The kiss is messy, uncoordinated, but real. Full of heat and hunger and the ache of things unspoken. His mouth opens against yours with a soft sound - part surrender, part restraint fraying at the edges. He rolls slightly, arm sliding under your back, pulling you into him.

His hand slips into your hair, anchoring you to him - like if he lets go, the whole world might collapse. Your body responds before your mind can, one leg hooking around his, hips jutting forward. Your hand slides up, tracing the curve of his jaw with your fingertips. You feel the light stubble. The tension in his jaw. The way he’s still trying to hold himself back, like this might come apart if he lets it go too fast. Your hand comes to rest at the nape of his neck, brushing against his gold chain, fingers tangling in his hair. He groans into your mouth, low and husky, and slips a hand up your shirt, testing the waters of how far you’ll let him go.

His thumb strokes your skin gently, like you’re made of porcelain. Like he’s memorised the bruises that litter your aching body and is careful not to skim a single one. Gently, he rolls you onto your back and leans over your frame. Hand travelling further up your shirt, you feel him gasp against your lips when he realises you’re not wearing a bra. His thumb finds your nipple, tracing the sensitive skin gently, and it hardens at his touch. His head drops to the crook of your neck, kissing the skin once. Twice. Then again. And again. Squeezing gently at your breast as he does so.

The other hand moves from your hair, softly coming to rest at the waistband of your skirt, fingers stroking your hipbone. He pulls away from your neck, and you see a fragment of pale blue in the darkness when he looks down at you. Asking. You answer, unzipping your skirt and shuffling it part way down, lifting your hips as he pulls the fabric from your body. It falls to the floor. Your t-shirt is quick to follow as you sit up and he pulls it over your head.

You’re left in just your panties, which are getting more soaked by the second. Joseph is straining against his boxers. You feel the hard bulge resting warm against you as you lay back on the pillows, pulling him down with you. You lace your fingers around his neck, and he kisses you with all the softness a man like him can muster. You feel his hand move against you, slipping between the warmth of your bodies. He’s tugging at his boxers - removing them before tossing them to the side, not breaking away from your lips once.

He presses against you once more, and you moan at the feeling of his cock against your skin. A newfound courage washes over you, and you slip your tongue past is parted lips. He instantly returns the flavour, licking at your mouth like he’s trying to commit your taste to memory. He subconsciously starts to grind into you, like he can’t take the heat. You never thought you’d see Lisgoe in such a vulnerable state. He leans on his elbow to steady himself, and his other hand tugs at your panties, sliding them down.

Once he has them completely off, your legs fall open, and his hand is on you immediately. He pulls away from your mouth to look at your face while his deft fingers begin to play with your clit. He circles it with perfect pressure, pausing to slide his finger up and down, gathering your arousal before returning. You let out a raw, shaky moan - and his eyes don’t leave you. Not even for a second. He leans in again, and kisses the bruise on your jaw. Then the plaster he’d placed over the wound on your cheek. Then the cut on the corner of your bottom lip.

The absurdly tender kisses from Lisgoe mixed with the way he’s rubbing at your clit like it’s his god-given right is almost too much. Your breaths grow short and laboured - he draws out moan after moan from you. Pleasure pools in your core, heat spreading up to the knot in your abdomen. You feel it rise. Further and further. And when he slips a finger inside of you, curling it just right, it tips you over the edge. You whimper out his name - eyes falling shut and grip on him tightening - as you come undone beneath him. Your orgasm crashes over you in powerful waves. You buck up into his hand, and he lets you ride out your climax for as long as you need.

When you open your eyes again, he’s still looking at you, eyes hooded with need. Then he shifts, hovering over you. You feel his breath on your face before he kisses you once more. Slow and soft.

Then he pulls away, lips still brushing yours while he grinds against you. His voice is low and rough. “You on the pill?”

You bite at your bruised lip. “Mm-hmm.”

His eyes darken and his voice drops with honey. “Good. I want you raw.”

You whine at his lewdness, and his mouth is back on you in seconds. Your lips. Your neck. Your shoulder. He positions himself between your open legs, his aching cock so close to where you need him. His hands roam your body, gripping any piece of flesh he can. One hand lands at your breast, groping it softly. The other grasps his shaft, gathering your slick on his tip before positioning it at your entrance.

He leans down, capturing your lips in a searing kiss as he pushes inside. Just the head at first. You cry out at the stretch, arms flying up to grip his shoulders, nails digging in. He coos at you softly, lips moving up to kiss your forehead with an unexpected gentleness. Then he pushes in further, slowly, until he’s completely buried inside of you. He lets out a shuddering breath from deep in his chest that turns into a groan half-way out of his throat. Lisgoe pulls out slowly, the drag of him inside you creating delicious friction, before he snaps back in.

You squeak out a whimper at the feeling, nails raking down his back. He finds rhythm fast, like he already knows your body. Like you belong pressed to one another. It’s slow and deep and laced with a heat that only arises from something burning for so long. With every thrust, Joseph feels another piece of himself being gently claimed by you - bit by bit, more of him becoming yours. His mouth latches onto your neck, sucking marks into the skin. Claiming you right back. Your bodies move together in perfect unison.

Somewhere between the push of his hips and the shameless moans that bounce off the walls, his fingers find your clit again. It’s messier this time; he’s completely lost in his own pleasure. His fingers move in feverish circles that make your mouth fall open and animalistic noises rip from the back of your throat. He feels you tighten around him and his pace doesn’t falter. Your orgasm approaches faster this time, still sensitive from the first one. You feel your core throbbing as your body starts to tingle. It rises in you, building with delicious pleasure. With one last cry of his name, you’re cumming around his cock.

The feeling of your nails digging into his back. The way your mouth moves to his neck, biting at the delicate skin underneath the tattoo. The way your soaked walls clench around him like a vice. It’s almost too much. Breathy moans rumble from his chest. His hips stutter. You feel him pulse inside of you. His hands fly to the sides of your hips to steady himself. His grip is bruising as he moves you in time with him, fucking you on his cock. He throws his head back, sweat clinging to his body. His mouth fall open and a stray hair falls down to his forehead. A loud, broken moan, more high-pitched this time, escapes him as his cock twitches and he cums inside of you in thick, hot streams. His lower abdomen convulses as he fucks his load into you.

He catches his breath slowly, still inside you, then drags an admiring hand down your sweat slicked body. Finally, he pulls out and collapses onto his back, making you whimper at the emptiness as his cum leaks out of you. He notices, lets out an amused exhale, and throws you his t-shirt from the floor. You wipe yourself off without ceremony and toss it back to the ground. Unexpectedly, he drapes an arm over you and pulls you into his side, too tired to pretend anymore.

The room is still pitch black, the air thick with sweat and adrenaline. He kisses you again, not holding back. And, suddenly, the world outside doesn't exist. His hand stills at your waist. His lips are slow against yours - less urgency now, more ache. More weight behind it that neither of you want to address. When he finally he pulls away, he stays close. Forehead resting against yours, hand splayed across your skin, fingers gripping you tight, like if he lets go, you’ll vanish.

You’re both breathing hard, mouths still so close you share every shaky exhale. The tension coils tight between your bodies. Neither of you speak, but there’s something screaming between you - ‘don’t move, don’t speak, don’t ruin this.’

You press your forehead to his a little harder, eyes shut. Your heart hammers in your chest. You whisper, barely audible, “What are we doing?”

His fingers twitch against you. He doesn’t answer right away - just breathes in through his nose, slow and measured, like he’s trying not to burst into flames.

“Don’t ask me that,” he mutters. His voice is gravelly. Not angry - but not soft, either. Just raw.

Your fingers curl against him. You feel like you’re standing on a ledge, and so is he. You let out a shaky breath. “Do you want me to leave?”

His answer is immediate. “No.”

You pause. “Then say something real,” you whisper. Your voice trembles. “I can’t do this if it’s just convenience - just comfort.”

The words hang heavy between you. Raw and terrifying. In the darkness, you feel his jaw clench, like he’s grinding his teeth - fighting instinct.

He exhales through his nose, then finally says, voice quiet and laced with sleep. “I’ve been trying not to care about you since the day you started.”

Your breath catches. And he keeps going, cautiously. “Thought I could ignore it. Be an arsehole. Scare you off.” He lets out a humorless huff. “Didn’t work.”

You swallow hard. “No,” you whisper. “It didn’t.”

His hand clings to your waist, pulling you even closer. Breaths syncing. Bodies too close to ignore what’s unraveling between you.

Then, soft, “Scared me, y’know. You knocking on my door like that. Looking like that.” A pause. “Didn’t like it.”

You nod once. “I didn’t like it either.”

There’s a long pause, and for a moment you just quietly lay in each other’s presence.

Then, he breaks the silence. “You alright?”

You nod, eyes closed. “Yeah.”

A pause. Then his fingers move, rubbing your hip. “Good.”

You shift slightly, nestling into his chest. There’s no space anymore. Just warmth and him. You finally let yourself relax. The tension still sits there, embers burning beneath the surface, but for now, you let it rest. You don’t speak. Neither does he. You just stay. Curled into each other in the dark, letting the silence say what neither of you can.

[rinawrote]

Hell on Earth

Furfur (Good Omens) x Reader

AO3 link here

Summary: Furfur never stays for too long.

Warnings: Angst

previous chapter

Chapter 13 - The Weight of Almost

You don’t remember falling asleep again.

He left before morning had fully broken.

Your breathing was slow, steady, tangled in dreams you hadn’t woken from yet, and Furfur watched you, just for a little longer. You were curled on your side, one hand still half-reaching toward where he’d been. Like some part of you already knew. Like your body could sense the shift - the absence approaching.

His hand hovered just above yours. Not touching. Not quite. He couldn’t bring himself to do it. Not again. Last night had been … what had it been? A mistake, probably. A mercy he wasn’t meant to take. He told himself that a thousand times as he sat there, lacing his boots in silence and placing the ring he’d left back on his finger. The bed creaked softly as he stood. He paused, watching to see if you would stir.

You didn’t.

Part of him hated that.

Part of him was grateful.

He walked quietly across the room, each step slower than the last, full of regret. When he reached the door, he turned to look at you one last time. Lit faintly by morning light, soft around the edges. Still untouched by what he was about to do.

Still peaceful.

“I wanted to memorize it,” he had said.

And he had.

Every breath. Every shift. The way your fingers curled slightly when you dreamed. The way your face softened in sleep - unguarded, unknowing. He’d etched it into himself with a hunger that felt too close to hope. But this - staying - was never going to last.

Furfur closed his eyes. You don’t get to sleep. You don’t get to stay. He turned the handle. The door creaked open.

And that was when your voice broke the silence. Soft. Half-asleep. Raw.

“Furfur?”

He froze. The way you said his name almost made him turn on his heel and take you right there.

Your voice was barely above a whisper. “You’re leaving.”

Not a question. A knowing.

His throat tightened.

“I have to.” he said, without turning.

There was a long pause. You didn’t beg. You didn’t cry. And somehow, that made it worse.

“Why?” you asked.

He clenched his jaw. “Because if I stay, I’ll want more.”

Silence.

“And I don’t get to have more,” he added, softer. “Not with you.”

You let out a breath. “Then why did you stay at all?”

He didn’t answer right away. His hand was still on the doorframe.

Finally, he said, “Because for one night, I forgot what I was.”

And then he stepped through the door. Didn’t look back. Didn’t close it, either. Just left it there, cracked open, as if part of him didn’t want to seal it shut. He walked past Sooty on his way out, snoring softly, blissfully unaware of the weight of the situation. He’d never say it out loud, but he reached down to pet him before he left.

When the morning finally came in full, it found you sitting in the silence he’d left behind. Holding the weight of a someone who’d never truly been yours.

But God, he had tried.

And that made it worse.

[rinawrote]

I am staring into the void and my drafts are staring back at me. Here’s a list of what’s to come (eventually):

- Dean Tavalouris x f!Reader

- DS Sean Stone x f!Reader

- Jeremy Goode x f!Reader

- Tony (Catterick) x f!Reader

- Dr. Flynn x f!Reader

- Matthew Parker x gn!Reader

- So much Lisgoe

- The rest of that fucking Furfur fic (one day I’ll complete it I swear)

If anyone has any more suggestions pls gimme them I’m a little weirdo who loves having a task to do at all times. I’ll write for literally any Reece character whether it’s from TLoG, Psychoville, Inside No. 9, or any of other projects. This man will be the death of me.

[rinawrote]

So ya’ll love Lisgoe a LOT, huh? (me too) (he’s so sexy to write for)

[rinawrote]

Looooove your Lisgoe fic. Would love to see more of him being possessive and cute!

Thank you sm!!! Hope you enjoy this one my love <3

Going Soft

Joseph Lisgoe (The League of Gentlemen) x gn!Reader

AO3 link here

Summary: Lisgoe’s caught feelings, and it’s the most conflicting mess he’s been in so far.

Warnings: Swearing, mentions of violence

The shipping container is quieter than usual today - save for Barry Baggs rustling a family-size pack of pork scratchings like it’s his life’s purpose - mouth chomping, crumbs tumbling down onto his shirt. Glenn is slumped in a chair, scrubbing chewing gum off his boot. You’re sat on the edge of Joseph’s desk, swinging your legs. His hand rests on your thigh like it belongs there.

He looks up from his file and narrows his eyes at Barry. “Oi, Fatty Arbuckle. If I hear one more crunch, I swear on me mother’s grave-”

“You said your mam weren’t dead,” Barry mumbles, crumbs flying from his mouth.

“She would be if she heard you chewing like that. Christ - you’re like a combine harvester with worms.”

Barry flinches and shuffles toward the corner. You give Joseph a look. He just rolls his eyes. “Don’t get soft on him. He once ate a chunk of a bench.”

You smirk. “I think you like having Glenn and Barry around. They make you look competent by comparison.”

He glares at you, but you catch a flicker of amusement in his expression.

“You wanna be next on my list, sweetheart?” he asks, flexing his fingers at your thigh. His voice drops, low and dangerous, “Because I’ll charge you interest.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Is that a threat or a promise, Lisgoe?”

He leans in close. “That’s what we call a business transaction, love.”

Later, after Glenn decides to bugger off and Barry wanders out for a kebab, the shipping container grows silent. You sit at the desk, absentmindedly flipping through a file full of names and numbers you can’t quite be bothered to read.

Joseph comes up behind you, placing his hands on the arms of your chair, boxing you in without even touching you. “You poking about in my files?”

“Just making sure I’m not next to have my door kicked in.”

He huffs a laugh through his nose. “Nah. Not you.”

You turn to look at him. He pauses for a beat too long. “Why not?”

His jaw clenches, like he is biting something back. “…’Cause you’re mine, aren’t you?”

You blink. “Yours?”

He reels back, face hardening immediately, like he wishes he could take the words back. “You heard me. Don’t make me say it again. I’m not gonna get all soft. Makes me feel … ill.”

You stifle a smile. “Joseph Lisgoe, you hopeless romantic.”

“Shut it,” he grumbles, stalking back to his seat, grabbing a cigarette and lighting it with a trembling hand. “Now piss off or kiss me. I haven’t got time for both.”

You quirk a brow, teasing. “Hmm?”

Lisgoe leans back in his chair, exhaling smoke through his nose like a dragon who’s just done ten years in the clink. “You heard what I said, love. Clock’s ticking.”

You stand, slowly, and walk around the desk. His eyes flick to you, then away, like he’s pretending not to care despite already tensing. Like a dog that bites out of habit but secretly wants to be scratched behind the ears. You stop in front of him, close enough to smell the sharp mix of tobacco and cheap aftershave that clings to his skin.

He flicks his eyes up to yours, feigning disinterest. “…Well?”

You take a seat on his lap, then kiss him. Hard. He tastes like smoke and spite, but there’s something underlying beneath it. Warmth under steel. A quiet, surprised groan echoes in his throat, like he never expected you to actually do it.

But then he kisses you back, hands firm, rough, flicking his cigarette to the ground before gripping your waist like he’s staking a claim - like he’s trying to tell the whole world ‘this one’s mine.’ His tongue slips past your lips with desperation. One hand comes up to brush your cheek, and there’s a tremble he tries to mask with pressure. He kisses you like it’s a crime to want - like he’s angry at himself for needing you.

When you pull back, his forehead rests against yours, and for a second, he just breathes. Then he mutters - quiet - like he doesn’t mean to, “…You make me feel all fucked up inside.”

You blink. “What?”

He pulls away instantly, face twisting into a forced scowl. “Forget it. Weren’t important.”

You grin. “You really are getting soft, Lisgoe.”

“Don’t start,” he growls. “I’ll have Glenn kneecap you.”

You lean in close again, nose brushing his. “You wouldn’t dare. You like me too much.”

“Do not.”

“Do.”

He grabs your chin and kisses you again to shut you up, but this time it’s slower. Longer. Less bite - more quiet ache. Like it physically hurts him to feel.

Then, he whispers against your lips, barely audible, “God help me for saying this,” he paused, “but, stay with me.”

You smile. He grins back, reluctant and crooked - and just for a second, in that hellhole of an office, things almost feel perfect.

[rinawrote]

Interview Skills and Other Foreplay

Ross Gaines (The League of Gentlemen) x f!Reader

AO3 link here

Summary: It’s six weeks of promised hell at the job centre - until Ross starts making unemployment feel dangerously fun.

Warnings: Smut, unprotected sex, swearing

Monday morning in the restart room. The air is thick with sweat, smoke, and stale anxiety. You step inside, one of the last to arrive.

Pauline, the restart officer, is already shouting. “Come on, sit down and grab a pen, everyone! Jesus, it’s like herding fuckin’ cattle.”

Just six weeks of this hell and you’ll be free.

Scanning the room for a seat, your eyes land on a man at the front row, his elbows resting casually on the desk. He’s already watching you. His hair is parted with care, his glasses sharp against bright blue eyes, and a blazer that looks brand new. He stands out – clean, composed, and far too polished for a place like this. You suddenly feel underdressed, growing bashful under his gaze.

Slumped placidly next to him is a younger man with a naïve, crooked-toothed grin plastered on his face as he chews the lid off a marker. You shuffle nervously, glancing around, realising the only free seat is two desks down – between a chain-smoking pensioner and the marker chewer.

You sit, hesitantly. The marker guy has a name card in front of him: Mickey. Of course he’s a Mickey. He’s still smiling like he knows a secret he isn’t smart enough to keep. Your eyes drift back to the man beside him. The one who hasn’t stopped watching you. The name on his desk? Ross. Oddly fitting.

You write your name on your card and face it toward the front, pretending not to notice the way Ross’s eyes immediately drift down to read it. You’re snapped out of your thoughts by a grating interruption as Pauline decides she’s ready to begin.

“Hokey cokey, pig in a pokey!” She announces, beaming with a forced enthusiasm - like a kids TV presenter with even gaudier fashion choices, “Good morning, jobseekers! Today we’ll be starting with something so simple, even you thick bastards can understand it.”

Everyone watches her, expressions flat. Mickey grins, not quite gathering the malice behind her words.

“Today, we’ll be looking at our job options,” she gestures with her pen to a pad where ‘JOB OPTIONS’ is scrawled in thick black ink.

You decide to tune out after that, only chiming in when absolutely necessary. Still, you feel Ross’s gaze lingering. There’s something about it - intense, quietly disarming. The morning drags by in a blur of pens and Pauline berating people. You have to hold back a laugh when Ross snaps at her sarcastically, only to be met with a sharp, “Piss off, Ross!”

Your smile soon fades when she turns to you.

“And what do you think you’re laughing at?” Her voice was venomous, “You’ve been slumped there like a bloody corpse all morning. No wonder you can’t get a job, you bone-idle worthless speck of dole scum!”

Your jaw falls open unintentionally and you stare at her with a mix of shock and amusement on your face. Another laugh escapes you before you have time to register it. Her fuchsia-painted lips twitch with rage, but she swiftly spins back to the board, continuing her so-called lecture. Out of the corner of your eye, you catch Ross glancing at you over the rim of his glasses, the corners of his mouth twitching up into a smirk.

The moment Pauline claps her hands and declares, “Right, that’s your lot for today. Off you go, no dawdling!” you shoot up from your seat. You grab your bag and turn to leave, but Ross is already standing, closer than expected. He doesn’t say anything at first, just quirks a brow, eyes scanning your face like he’s still figuring you out.

“Didn’t take you for someone who’d laugh in a restart officer’s face,” he says finally, voice low, dry with amusement. “That was brave. Or idiotic. Could go either way.”

You shrug, the adrenaline still buzzing under your skin. “Didn’t realise sarcasm was such a grave offence.”

He gives you a small smile. “With Pauline? Breathing’s pushing it.”

You walk together down the corridor, past the outdated posters about employability and perseverance, neither of you in a rush to head back to whatever waits for you on the streets of Royston Vasey.

“So,” he says, after a beat. “What’d they catch you for? Late signing on? Failure to smile at job interviews?”

“Let’s just say I pissed off my manager,” you reply, giving him a sidelong glance, and he chuckles. “Couldn’t find new work ‘cause I’d been sacked. So I wound up here. You?”

He avoids your eyes, thinking of a reply. “Overqualified. Undercompromising. Too many opinions.”

You snort. He’s smug, - but charmingly so. At the doors, sunlight bleeds in through the glass. You hesitate, unsure if the moment’s about to end - if you’re meant to go one way, and he the other.

Ross looks like he’s contemplating, then gestures with his head toward the street. “Fancy a coffee? Or is that too human for ‘dole scum’ like us?”

You blink, surprised. But you nod. “Lead the way.”

And just like that, you’re walking beside him - out of the job centre, and into something slightly less bleak.

The café Ross leads you to is - full of character. Peeling wallpaper, one working plug socket, and a faded chalkboard offering artisan toasties that are anything but. Still, it’s quiet, warm, and no one’s shouting about CV layouts, so it’ll do.

You each order your coffee, and Ross pays for both without asking. Strange behaviour for someone allegedly out of work, but you admire his generosity. You sit opposite each other by the window, the street outside blurred by condensation. He stirs his coffee and you watch him, vaguely amused.

“So…” he says slowly, drawing out the silence. “What’s your plan? After your mandatory six weeks in hell.”

You sip your drink, and shrug. “Figure out what I’m actually good at. Ideally something that doesn’t involve a big scary woman shouting at me.”

He smirks, then, sarcastically, “Sounds like you’re a dreamer.”

“I just can’t be arsed with dead-end shite.”

Ross leans back, tapping his fingers against the side of his mug. “I can work with that.”

You glance up at him. “Oh, can you?”

There’s a flicker in his expression - not quite a smile, not quite a dare. Just something that lingers for a second longer than it should. He looks away first. The conversation drifts easily after that. Half cynical takes on the job centre, half stories of your past. At one point, your hands brush when reaching for the sugar. Neither of you comment on it, but neither of you pull away quickly either. By the time your cups are empty, it’s dark outside.

“Well,” Ross says, standing and stretching slightly, your eyes wandering to where his shirt lifts as he does so, “if we’re both going to be institutionalised for another six weeks, I wouldn’t mind sitting with you next time.”

You quirk a brow. “Because I’m quiet, or because I laugh at inappropriate moments?”

“Let’s call it … professional curiosity,” he says, lips twitching.

You shake your head, but your mouth betrays you with the hint of a smile. Outside, you part ways with a promise to see each other outside of the course again.

Next session, you sit together. And the one after that. And after that. It starts slow, at first. His thigh starts inadvertently rubbing against yours. His hand lingers a little too long when he passes you a pen. His eyes roam up and down your body whenever he thinks you’re not looking.

Then, you’re paired up with him for a ‘workplace roleplay exercise’ - otherwise known as Pauline yelling at you for ten minutes while Ross plays your manager.

Pauline points a finger at him. “Now Ross, you be the boss. Y/N here is ten minutes late for her shift at Tesco. What do you do?”

Ross leans back in his chair, lacing his fingers together behind his head. “Check the CCTV. Conduct an audit. Flag up a formal disciplinary.”

Pauline blinks, clicking her fingers. “Ooh. Good! Someone’s done this before.”

You stare at him. “That’s a bit extreme, isn’t it?”

He looks straight at you, eyes darkening, voice going quiet, just so you could hear it. “Got to get you behave, somehow, haven’t I?”

Your breath hitches and your cheeks flush. You avoid his eyes for the rest of the day.

The session ends, mercifully. Another day of Pauline shouting at no one in particular, another tick on the box of compulsory misery. You’re halfway down the hallway when you hear his voice.

“Do you always flush that red, or is it just when I threaten you with corporate discipline?”

You stop, and turn. He’s there, leaning against the doorframe with one shoulder, arms crossed, smirking like he’s just won a game you didn’t know you were playing.

You roll your eyes. “I’d say you’re pushing your luck, but you don’t seem the type to believe in luck.”

He pushes off the frame and starts walking toward you, slow and deliberate. There’s a quiet confidence in the way he moves - measured steps, eyes never leaving yours. You take a step back; the air between you suddenly feels too thick.

“I believe in probability,” he says, voice low and amused. “And the probability of you enjoying that little performance? Very high.”

You raise a brow. “Is that what that was? A performance?”

He stops just in front of you - too close - but not close enough to touch. You can smell the faintest trace of his aftershave. Woody, masculine, and incredibly troublesome.

“Course it was,” he murmurs, “but I meant it.”

Your pulse skips. You hate how obvious it must be. You cross your arms, trying to look unimpressed, but he notices the way your fingers curl against your sleeve.

“Pauline looked pleased enough,” you mutter, suddenly self-conscious.

“She’s a tyrant with a clipboard,” Ross says, leaning just a little closer. “You? You looked deliciously pissed off. Suits you.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “Is this your idea of flirting? ‘Cause it’s not very subtle.”

He tilts his head. “You want subtle?”

“I want honest.”

His expression shifts slightly - still amused, but now something heavier beneath it. He looks at you like he’s committing your face to memory.

“Alright,” he says. “You’re clever. You’re trouble. And I like it.”

You blink. For a second, you forget the fluorescent lights, the lingering scent of coffee, Pauline’s bellowing. It’s just him and you.

“That supposed to charm me?” you ask, your voice quiet.

Ross smiles - not the sarcastic smirk you’ve grown used to, but something close to sincere. “No. That was me being honest.”

You should leave. You should break the eye contact and make a witty remark, or mutter some excuse, something to cut through the moment. But you don’t. You just stand there, letting it buzz between you, your heartbeat an unsteady traitor.

He steps to the side, eyes still on you. “Come on. I’ll walk you out.”

You fall into step beside him before you can even think. Something’s changed. You can feel it in the way your arms almost brush. In the quiet that feels charged and dangerous. The silence carries at first, your footsteps echoing on the scuffed floor. You glance at him out of the corner of your eye. He’s still got that that calm, assured stride - like he’s never doubted anything in his life.

Then, without looking at you, he says it - quiet, suave - like he’s asking if you want a cigarette. “Come back to mine.”

You stop walking, and he turns to face you, one brow raised - not smug, not pushy - just waiting.

You blink. “What?”

His lips twitch. “Not for anything scandalous,” he lies, badly. “Just coffee. Or something stronger.”

You hesitate, weighing your decision quietly. Him. The way he looks at you like he already knows you’ll say yes. The way your heart’s beating like you already have.

You cross your arms. “That’s not how this works. You don’t get to stare at me, flirt like that, then invite me back to yours like it’s no big deal.”

Ross shrugs. “Why not?”

You hate how warm you feel under your clothes. You hate how close he’s standing again.

He leans in just enough for his voice to drop. “We both know what this is. You’re bored. I’m curious. And it’s either a night of staring at your ceiling wondering what this could’ve been, or it’s a drink and some music. With me.”

You look up at him, steady now. He’s giving you an out. But also, not really. You should walk away. A sensible person would walk away.

“Fine,” you say, voice cool despite the heat rising up your throat. “But if your bed is just a mattress on the floor, I’m leaving.”

He laughs - a proper laugh this time - and it’s completely disarming. “Noted. Come on.”

Outside, the streets are damp and grey with that fine rain that soaks you through. He doesn’t talk much on the walk, just holds an umbrella above you both, glancing at you every now and then, as if checking you’re still beside him. Like maybe he can’t quite believe it either.

His flat is only ten minutes away. It’s pleasant by Royston Vasey standards, besides the hallway smelling faintly of weed. He unlocks the door with a flick of his wrist and steps aside, holding it open for you.

It’s clean inside. Open, sparse, but smart - bookshelves stacked, a record player, weights on the floor, and the faintest scent of coffee and clove. You briefly wonder how he can afford such a nice place, but you’re in too deep now to care, let alone ask.

He drops the umbrella and kicks his shoes off at the door, but doesn’t tell you to do the same, just wanders behind the kitchen counter. “Still want that drink?”

You hover near the kitchen, glancing around. “What’ve you got?”

“Whiskey. Red wine. White wine. Champagne.”

You smirk. “Whiskey.”

He pours two, and walks over to you, handing you a glass without ceremony. When your fingers brush, you feel it again. That buzz. You take a sip - it’s smoother than expected.

Ross watches you over the rim of his glass. “So. You always follow strange men home after government-mandated restart courses?”

“Only the ones with discipline fantasies and nice blazers.” You giggle and set your drink down on the counter.

He laughs again, and you hate how much you like it. Then there’s silence - loaded. He sets his drink down and steps closer.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmurs, voice lower now, on the edge of something dangerous. “If you want me to.”

You say nothing, just look up at him, and he doesn't ask again. Ross's hand comes up, unhurried and intentional - fingertips brushing your jaw, then sliding back, cradling the side of your neck. He’s warm. You tilt your head slightly, breath catching before it even starts.

Then he kisses you. Not tentative - not testing the waters. More like he's already decided this was inevitable, and now he's just following it through. His mouth is hot against yours - insistent, confident, maddeningly sure of itself. You inhale sharply against him, but your body is already responding, leaning in, lips parting without thought.

His other hand finds your waist, pulling you flush against him. It's all too much, yet not enough. You can taste the whiskey on his tongue as he pushes it into your mouth, feel the quiet growl vibrating low in his throat when you bite down on his bottom lip, just enough to make a point. He presses you gently back against the wall, careful but firm, crowding in until there's no space left between your bodies. Your hands grip the front of his blazer, fingers twisting in the fabric like it might ground you - or bring him impossibly closer.

He pulls back for a breath, forehead resting lightly against yours, his voice a little rough. “Do you always kiss like you’re trying to prove something?”

You smile, lips still tingling. “Only when I’m trying to win.”

His smile is slow, almost dazed. “Then congratulations. You’ve already won.”

You don't give him a response - you just pull him back in instead, kissing him harder this time. Messier. Like something pent-up, finally letting go. His hands are everywhere now - your hips, your back, slipping under your jumper.

The wall is cold against your spine, his body hot against yours, all that teasing tension from the restart room, the café, the corridor - unraveling in every breathless kiss, every soft noise caught between your lips. It’s not polite. Not cautious. Just the salacious result of two people circling something they're too proud to admit they want, until it fractures all at once.

His hands move further up your jumper, dragging it up in one swift motion. You raise your arms without thinking, and it's pulled from your body, dropped somewhere on the floor behind you. His mouth is immediately back on yours before you can catch your breath - rougher now, like he's making up for the barely-there touches and stolen glances.

You feel the tension coiling in him like a spring - thinly veiled restraint. He grips at your waist like he's trying to memorise every curve, tugging you closer until your hips collide with his, a noticeable bulge pressing into you. His lips trail to your jaw, then your throat, tongue flicking against your pulse. Your knees almost buckle.

You barely clock when he murmurs, "Bedroom?"

You nod, almost too quickly. He leads you through the flat without letting go of you, his fingers tangled with yours like he can't bear to lose contact - even for a second.

The bedroom is dim, lit only by the soft flood of the streetlight through the curtains. You see the bed, the mess of books beside it, a crumpled jumper thrown haphazardly. But then his hands are on your waist again, spinning you toward him, and you forget everything else.

He kisses you slower this time - not gentler - but like he's finally letting himself have you. Like he's tasting a reward. His fingers slide to the back of your jeans, gripping your arse hard, pulling you flush against him. You can still feel the evidence of how much he wants you, and it sends a shiver through you. You reach for his belt, but he catches your wrist - not to stop you, just to look at you. Really look at you.

"Are you sure?" he asks, voice low, and a little hoarse.

You don't hesitate. “I wouldn't be here if I wasn't."

That's all it takes. He rips your t-shit from your body in a blur of hands and half-muttered curses, then reaches down to your jeans, unbuttoning them with speed. He tugs them down your legs, letting you kick them off once they reach your ankles. Then, Ross pushes you down gently on the bed, your back hitting the mattress with a soft thud. His eyes scale over your body - full of soft, revering, longing.

Hurriedly - like he couldn’t bear to wait a second longer - he strips himself down to his boxers, then crawls on top of you on the bed. Hovering, gazing at you like you’re his last meal. Your hands find his chest, then skim down his body - subconsciously curving your fingers into the dark hair littering his torso. You bite your lip as your hand dips into his boxers, grasping his hard cock, finding a rhythm fast.

His mouth meets yours again, kissing you like he's starving, and you kiss him back just as fiercely. His hand instinctively reaches up to curl into your hair, the other settling at your breast, groping you through your bra. Then, he pulls away from your mouth, dipping his head to leave hot, wet kisses over the tops of your breasts.

Broken moans rip through his chest, lost in the sensation of you jerking his cock, whining when you swipe your thumb over his leaking slit. He growls, tugging his boxers off completely, and you pull your hand away to let him. In one swift motion, he flips onto his back, pulling you so you’re straddling him, clothed core hovering over his cock. You squeak, hands flying to his chest to steady yourself. With a bruising grip on your thighs, he pulls you down against him, grinding on you.

A hand moves up the curve of your spine, fingers lightly grazing the skin. Suddenly, your bra clasp is undone with skilful ease. You gasp. Ross smirks up at you - glasses slightly askew - proud. You let the bra slip down your arms, falling onto the floor lightly. His hands immediately cup your breasts, squeezing gently, thumbs brushing at your hardening nipples.

His mouth falls open. “Fuck - you’re beautiful.”

His hips unintentionally roll up into yours, eliciting a soft moan. He pulls you down into a searing kiss, tongue colliding with yours. Ross reaches down and pulls your panties to the side. He swallows your whimpers as he glides a finger along your dripping cunt, gathering your wetness before sliding it into your hole. His other hand clamps your hip, holding you in place as he starts moving. His kisses turn softer, but his motions inside you grow faster. You feel him groan into your mouth at the sensation of you so close to his aching length. He adds another finger - harder, faster - stretching you out for him.

Without warning, he pulls his fingers out of you, and you whimper at the emptiness. All you receive in return is a teasing look, then he’s gripping the base of his cock, positioning himself at your soaked entrance. You hover above him for a moment, teasing. He slides himself between your folds, gathering your arousal, and you finally sink down onto him. Slowly. Agonisingly slowly. And, before Ross can stop himself, he grips your hips, slamming them down onto him until he’s sheathed completely inside of you. You cry out, nails digging into his chest.

Ross hisses through his teeth. “Fuck. You’re so tight.”

You begin to gyrate your hips, grinding down on him. He bites back a moan, fingers flexing at the soft flesh of your hips. Thrusting upwards, he encourages you to bounce on his cock, lifting your hips before you slam back down on him, hard. Your bodies find rhythm fast - mouths meeting again, fingers slipping over bare skin, drawing out sounds neither of you were expecting. There's nothing soft about it - but it’s somehow sweet.

The bed creaks beneath the weight of your bodies as your flesh slaps together in a symphony of sin. His hand leaves your side to grope at your breast, rolling your nipple between his digits. Then, he trails his fingers back down your body, between you both, arriving at your clit. He bites his lip smugly, moving his thumb in fast circles. His hips snap, matching the pace of your bounces. You cry out at the feeling, walls clenching around his shaft. You lean down, mewling, brushing your lips against his neck, kissing and nipping playfully at the delicate skin. His shaky breaths are hot against your ear.

You pick up the speed of your hips, moving up and down on his cock at a feverish pace. Ross wraps an arm around you, arching your back, guiding you in perfect motion with him. You feel your climax approaching. Your stomach tenses. His thumb massages your clit faster now. The coil in your abdomen tightens, igniting your whole body. You lean back. Ross stares at you like you invented sunlight as your orgasm crashes over you. You shudder above him, moaning his name, wetness engulfing him and walls clenching tightly. It’s almost too much for both of you. His grip on you is bruising.

“I’m close.” He breathes out between soft pants.

You moan loud - shameless - your motions unfaltering. Suddenly, a hand appears at the curve of your jaw, thumb brushing the skin gently.

“I want you to swallow it.” His voice is barely above a whisper.

Your eyes widen and you softly gasp. He stares up at you, eyes hooded with lust and adoration. Catching your lip between your teeth, you climb off him, inching down his body until you hover at his crotch. You bat your lashes up at him teasingly, and he reaches a hand down to brush a stray hair from your face.

You grip his cock, then flatten your tongue against the shaft, licking a wet stripe from the base to the tip. You moan as you taste yourself on him. He lets out a shaky breath, then almost loses it when you finally take him into your mouth, sucking at the sensitive head. You pull away gently, gathering your spit at his leaking tip, before slowly sinking your mouth back onto it. Your head moves further and further down, until he’s fully buried in your mouth, his head hitting the back of your throat.

You don’t give him time to think before you grip his thighs and start bobbing your head at a fast pace, hollowing out your cheeks and licking at the underside of his shaft as you move. His breath catches in his throat, and your name falls from his lips like he’s chanting a prayer.

“Just like that- fuck.”

You peer up at him through half-lidded eyes while you bow your head up and down. He looks utterly gorgeous. Eyes fallen shut. Glasses slightly fogged, lips parted, hair sticking to his forehead. Then, a strangled sound escapes him - half moan, half growl - and without warning, he’s cumming down your throat in hot, thick streams. You swallow every drop, keeping him in your mouth until he gets sensitive.

Finally, you pull away, inching back up the bed before collapsing next to him. Neither of you speak for a while. You're both breathless, skin damp, heartbeats thudding in unison as if speaking a language no one else knew. His arm drapes over your stomach, thumb tracing idle circles - like he needs to keep touching you.

Eventually, he murmurs, into the space between you, “So ... roleplay exercises. Effective, then."

You let out a soft laugh. "If Pauline knew she was this good at matchmaking, I think she'd weaponise it."

Ross chuckles. Then, "You staying?"

You glance at him, already knowing your answer. "For now."

He nods, like that's all he needs, and you lie there beside him - tangled in his sheets - knowing that nothing about this makes sense, but you can’t bring yourself to care.

[rinawrote]

I’m back for more Lisgoe hehehe 😋 If you’re interested, can I request a smut fic where Lisgoe and F!reader are about to go to a fancy function and reader comes out with a pretty dress asking for help with the zip or whatever and Lisgoe is all heart eyes. And then ofc they’re very late… 😈 And if you could make it proper like lovemaking vibes that would be sexy af 😋😋 Thank you so much!! 🥹💗

PERFECT idea. I hope I did it justice! Enjoy darling <3

My Girl

Joseph Lisgoe (The League of Gentlemen) x f!Reader

AO3 link here

Summary: You and Lisgoe are due at an important function, but one look at you and he’s making you late for all the right reasons.

Warnings: Smut, unprotected sex, swearing, mentions of violence

You hear the low snarl of Lisgoe’s voice echoing from downstairs as he arrives home - on the phone, checking over some new client’s repayment schedule. Or what passes for one. You know better than to ask questions. He can deliver a threat so calmly it makes blood run cold, then hours later bring you your favourite takeaway like nothing happened. Like he hadn’t just bricked someone’s windows.

You stand in front of the bedroom mirror, illuminated by the dull lamplight, tugging helplessly at the zip of your dress. Tight, black, off the shoulder. Looks expensive - though you got it in a sale at a boutique just out of town where no one knows Lisgoe’s name. He insisted on you dressing the part, especially tonight. A parade of sleazy business owners pretending to be legitimate, thinly veiled as a ‘gala.’ Joseph has an important deal to close tonight. A contract with some big bad businessman from the next town over.

“Joe?” you call. “Can you come help me with my zip?”

You hear the familiar sound of the key tray rattling - he always empties his pockets like a ritual. Keys, lighter, brass knuckles. Then, the sound of his trainers on the stairs - slow, measured, intentional. He finally comes into view, dark and smug. The gold of his necklace catches the landing light like a beam. Then he sees you - and stops dead. For once, Joseph Lisgoe has nothing to say - like he’s seeing you for the first time, even though you’ve been together long enough to share a mortgage and argue about which milk to buy.

You raise a brow and bite your lip, suddenly growing shy under his loving gaze. “What?”

He smirks - lips pulling into that sharp, proud, sideways grin. He takes a step into the room, letting the door close behind him with a click. Then, he strides up, arms wrapping around you from behind, chin coming to rest on your shoulder. He rocks you gently from side to side as he gazes at you both in the mirror, eyes shining.

“My girl.”

He says it low. Possessive. In love. Like a warning to anyone stupid enough to look at you the wrong way. His fingers brush against you, and you swear you hear his breath catch. For a man who could break bones without blinking, he touches you like you’re made of glass.

“Could kill a man for looking,” he murmurs, tone lazy but laced with steel. His hands slide up and down your sides, breath hot on your neck. “Lucky for them you’re with me, eh?”

You smile, leaning back into his chest, eyes flicking down to the glistening engagement ring that wraps your finger. “Always.”

“Damn right,” he mutters, pressing a kiss just below your ear. “Would’ve had to shut down the whole bloody town if you weren’t.”

You turn to face him, catching his expression - still smug, but weaved with something softer. Proud. Like he’s won a prize.

“You gonna help me with my zip, or keep staring?” You grin.

“What d’you think?” he says, voice low, eyes not leaving you. “Course I’m staring. You seen yourself?”

You smile up at him, and he continues.

“You do this on purpose,” he murmurs.

“Do what?”

“Put on something like this. Then act like you don’t know what you’re doing.”

His arms wrap possessively around you, playing with your zip, but refusing to pull it up. His fingertips dance across your bare back.

“You’re making it hard for me.” His voice is low and rough.

“I hope that’s not a euphemism.”

He snorts, “Might be.”

You roll your eyes, but your stomach flips anyway. It always does when he talks like that - filthy, but yours.

“Such a dickhead,” you chuckle softly, shaking your head.

He just smirks. “And you’re marrying me.”

You catch his tie in your hand, tugging him a little closer. “Yes. I am.”

He kisses you then - not soft, but not rough. Just certain. The kind of kiss that says, ‘you’re mine.’

“They’re not gonna stop looking at you, y’know,” he says, quieter now. “That dress. You walk in there and it’s game over.”

You tilt your chin up. “You jealous already?”

He shakes his head slowly. “Just proud.”

Typical Lisgoe. Royston Vasey’s meanest bastard - soft only for you. You bring your fingers up to his collar. “You need to get changed or we’re gonna be late.”

He shrugs. “Seeing you like this … you’ve given me a reason not to bother.”

“Joseph,” you warn, but it’s too late.

In one smooth movement, he bends, arms hooking around your thighs, and he lifts you like you weigh nothing. You yelp, grabbing at his shoulders as he tosses you gently onto the bed, the mattress dipping beneath you with a soft bounce.

“Joe-!”

He crawls over you, smug as anything, looking like sin personified. “Nah, not lettin’ you walk out looking like that without reminding you whose name you’ll be giving at the altar.”

You prop yourself up on your elbows, laughing breathlessly. “Oh, so this is about your ego?”

He leans in, bracing his hands on either side of you, eyes hooded. “What can I say? Man’s got pride.”

“You’ve carry brass knuckles in your coat and a knife in your sock. I think your pride’s safe.”

He grins, all teeth and trouble. “Knife’s in my shoe, actually. But thanks for noticing.”

You roll your eyes, but your smile remains. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Mm. And you’re gorgeous,” he says, a little softer now, lips trailing the edge of your jaw.

Your heart skips, but you cover it with a giggle.

He quickly presses a kiss to your forehead - an unusual move for him, but it lingers, then he pulls back, icy eyes going dark. He gives you a wicked smile, the one that always comes right before he does something reckless, then lets his thumb drag over your bottom lip.

“Don’t make us late,” you warn, breathlessly.

His voice drops to a low rasp. “You can’t wear a dress like that and expect me to behave.”

You laugh, but it catches in your throat when his hand slides down to your hip, fingers pressing into the soft fabric clinging to you, zipper still undone. He leans in, his mouth barely grazing your neck. You grip his shirt, pulling him closer, your bodies fitting together in the way only long, complicated love ever does. Burning at the edges, but steady at the core. The rest of the world - Royston bloody Vasey - fades. It’s just you and him.

Joseph’s hands roam your body gently, but there's nothing soft in the way he watches you - like he's deciding what part of you to ruin first. He slips your dress away slowly, inch by inch, then tosses it to the floor. Just you beneath him. No bra, only a pair of tiny black lace panties. That look in his eyes darkens, starved and worshipping. He doesn't rush; his hands know you now. They move with intent - claiming, not exploring. One on your thigh, firm. The other skimming over your ribs like he's reminding himself you're real. His mouth follows, trailing wet, open-mouthed kisses, slow and deliberate, until you forget how to think.

The room is warm, the lamp flickering gently in the corner, painting gold rays across the bed, catching in the chain around his neck, the edge of his jaw, the shadows under his eyes. The mattress creaks beneath the shifting of weight, the tension between you taut and volatile.

You arch into him instinctively, and he answers without a word, without hesitation, his hand curving around your back. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, teeth grazing your skin. He makes a sound of pure desperation. Full of need. There’s nothing between you but heat, raspy breaths, and heartbeats out of rhythm. His fingers press against your spine, the weight of him above you promising safety. Comfort.

Then, finally - finally, he kisses you. He groans into your mouth, licking at you like he was trying to commit the taste to memory. Your lips and tongues move together in perfect unison. His calloused hands find your breasts, squeezing gently, thumbs grazing your hardening nipples. Joseph brings his thigh to rest between your legs, letting you grind your soaked core against it as you whimper into his mouth. You feel his stiff bulge press against you. He kicks his shoes off, then shifts his weight so he’s settled between your legs.

You help him shrug his blazer off and he briefly pulls away to loosen his tie, yanking it over his head in one swift motion. Your fingers find the buttons of his black cotton shirt and you immediately begin undoing them at a nimble speed. He pulls the fabric from his shoulders and dashes it to the side. Your fingers skim against the dusting of dark hair on his chest that trails down past his lower abdomen.

You place a hand at the nape of his neck, tangling your fingers in his hair. He grips your other hand, leading it down his body and placing it over his hard length. You press your palm into him and rub at his shaft through the fabric. He releases a raspy groan and kisses you again - hard. His own hand appears at your panties, slipping past the hem and cupping your heat, a finger gathering your wetness before circling your clit. Wordlessly, his mouth leaves yours, and he smirks down at you like a predator eyeing its prey.

Joseph licks down your body like you’re a holy relic - and he’s devoting himself to every inch. Mouth hovering above the hem of your underwear, his eyes sweep up to you, pleading. The answer is given when you start tugging at the dainty fabric. He quickly pulls your hands away, pinning them to your sides before he pulls your panties off with his teeth. You mewl at the sight, bucking your hips up unintentionally.

His voice goes low and quiet, “Spread those gorgeous legs for me, darlin’.”

You do, and he rewards you immediately, lowering his head to lap at your soaked cunt, his grip on your wrists tight. You can’t stop the loud moan that escapes you. Lisgoe laces his fingers with yours, rubbing his thumbs over the skin as he sucks on your clit, silently wrecking you. One of his hands leaves yours to tease at your entrance, then he slips a finger inside, curling it in and out before adding another. You cry out, back arching.

He fucks his fingers into you skilfully and you chant his name like a prayer. He groans into you, the vibrations sending shockwaves through your core. Your free hand laces into his slick hair, gripping at the roots and grinding into his tongue, moving his head with the rhythm of your hips, You feel him smirk against you; he loves it when you use him like this - adores being the cause of your pleasure.

Your body feels like it’s engulfed in flames, heat pooling at your core. Tightness builds in your lower abdomen as your orgasm approaches, your eyes rolling back and mouth falling open. A loud, shameless whine falls from your lips as your climax charges through your body. You clench around Joseph’s fingers. He laps at you greedily, tasting every drop, until the sensation becomes too much and he feels you inching away. He lets go of your wrist and removes his fingers from you, sucking them clean.

He looks up from between your thighs, eyes half-lidded, full of lust. Then, slowly, he trails up your body and kisses your mouth with ferocity. You taste yourself on his lips.

He speaks again, smirking softly, voice dripping with honey, “All mine.”

Reaching a hand between you, he removes his belt quickly, followed by his trousers and boxers. Your hand immediately finds its way down his body, gripping his shaft and jerking him, using your thumb to gather the precum at his tip, smoothing it over the sensitive head. He lets out a quiet, breathy moan as your fist moves up and down his cock. Joseph’s head drops to your shoulder, placing soft kisses on the skin.

“You gonna let me take care of you, pretty girl?” He hovers over you, eyes gazing longingly into yours.

You bite your lip and nod, moving your arms to wrap around his shoulders. He grips the base of his cock, sliding it between your slick folds before positioning himself at your entrance. His lips latch onto yours as he pushes himself in, slowly burying himself to the hilt. You whine against his mouth, arching further into him. His lips move to the curve of your jaw as he places wet, revering kisses against it.

Lisgoe begins rocking his hips into yours with hunger and need, whispering endless praise into your ear. He pulls out almost completely, then slams back in, angled just right so he’s brushing against your g-spot with every thrust. Slow, but deep - intoxicating. One hand clasps yours, holding it gently above your head, lacing your fingers with his. The other grips your hip, rubbing gentle circles into the skin as he continues moving his hips in a delicious rhythm.

Lisgoe leaves a trail of kisses from your neck to your chest. Then, he grips the backs of your knees and folds your legs back, the new position allowing him to bury his cock deeper inside you. Joseph groans at the sensation of your tight cunt enveloping even more of his length. His gold chain dangles down above you, swaying in rhythm with his thrusts. He lowers his lips to your nipple, then flicks his tongue against the sensitive skin before gently sucking it into his mouth. Your hands wrap around his back, clawing at the skin, sure to leave marks.

The bed creaks softly in time with your bodies as Joseph drives into you. He pulls away, hovering over you. His hand moves down, and he starts to play with your clit. You cry out and grip him tighter, legs clamping around his waist. He doesn’t falter for a second, looking down at you with adoration as he ruins you. Your walls squeeze around him and he lets out a raspy moan.

You bite your lip as you feel your climax draw close. He feels it too, your tightening cunt driving him wild. His hips snap into you, faster now, the rhythmic sound of skin against skin falling into an irregular pace as Joseph’s orgasm edges nearer.

You’re the first to break, whining and bucking into him as he continues to rub at your clit. The familiar sensation builds inside your abdomen, warm and tight. You cum around his cock with a loud moan, voice breaking, walls fluttering, soaked. It’s all too much for Lisgoe - the feeling of you clenching around him, the vulgar sound of your whimpers, the sight of you unraveling beneath him. He curses under his breath, voice rough, as he sheaths himself completely with one last, hard thrust. He spills inside you, hot and heavy ropes of cum painting your walls. He growls into your ear like an animal as he fucks his release into you.

Then, he collapses, the full weight of his body pressing against yours. You’re both slick with sweat and catching your breaths. Your hair sticks to your neck, but Joseph doesn’t seem to mind, pressing wet kisses into the skin. Eventually, he pulls out, and you feel his cum leak from you, but you’re too exhausted to care. He rolls onto his back and pulls you into his side immediately, like he can’t bear not to touch you, even for a second.

You giggle dreamily and look around the room. Your dress is somewhere on the floor. Inside out. Abandoned like a crime scene. Lisgoe pulls the sheets over you both, and you curl into him, warm and flushed, cheek pressed to his bare chest. His fingers draw idle patterns on your back like he’s sketching something only he can see. Your fingers absentmindedly trail along his lower stomach, nails skimming the skin. His abs flex at the sensation.

The clock ticks faintly on the dresser and you become all too aware of where you’re supposed to be.

“You know we’re late now,” you murmur, lips brushing his skin.

“Mm-hmm,” he grunts, eyes closed, smugness practically radiating off him “Suppose that’s a shame.”

You lift your head just enough to glare at him. “Don’t blame me if you tank your own deal, knobhead.”

He shrugs, one arm curving tighter around your waist like he’s anchoring you there. “If they want it that bad, they won’t mind waiting.”

You snort. “Right. People in your trade are known for their patience and diplomacy.”

He smirks, eyes still half-lidded. “Well,” he clicks his tongue, “I’m known for being the man people don’t keep waiting. So if I do it … makes ‘em nervous.”

You laugh, flopping back down. “God, you’re full of it.”

“And you’re full of me,” he says pridefully, hand smoothing down your thigh.

You swat his arm, rolling your eyes, “Romantic.”

“I thought so.”

For a moment, there’s silence. The kind that settles between people who know each other’s rhythms by heart. His breathing is slow now, steady. Like he could fall asleep and leave the rest of the world to burn. You trace a scar on his side. “You really don’t care about the gala?”

He opens one eye, brow lifting. “Care more about this.”

“This?”

“This,” he says, tapping your ring finger. “Us. This bed. This version of the night.”

Your heart does that annoying thing again - tightens and skips and aches, all at once.

“You soft bastard,” you whisper, grinning.

“Only for you.”

He leans in, pressing a kiss to your forehead. Gentle. Uncharacteristically so.

Then, without missing a beat, “Think they’ve opened the buffet yet?”

You laugh, burying your face in his chest. “Oh my god, shut up.”

“I’m just sayin’,” he grins, smug again. “Could’ve shown up, closed the deal, made every bloke there hate himself watching you walk past-“

“-and instead you chose to throw me on the bed and make us late?” You interrupt.

He chuckles, low and proud. “Best decision I could’ve made.”

You tilt your head up just enough to kiss him softly, then immediately sit up.

“Dressed. Now.” You warn.

You swing your legs over the side of the bed, already reaching for your heels, while behind you, Joseph Lisgoe - the most feared man in Royston Vasey - just watches you with the stupid, self-satisfied smile, of a man completely, stupidly in love with you.

He grins, eyes shining with fondness. “Alright, let’s go.”

[rinawrote]

Is anyone interested in a potential Dean Tavalouris fic or do I have to keep this one for myself? He’s such a little cutie :( ALSO I have a Jeremy Goode one in the works (I can literally never focus on one thing at a time)