septicace-writes

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as if you havent already filled enough indulgent prompts for me already—Juliet & Gus, "competition"

Juliet's always been the jealous type, but she's never been jealous of Gus.

Maybe for like a week, right after Vancouver, she had a mild freakout over how it would all work. Which was normal of her, Juliet maintains. Shawn was historically bad at saying no to both of them, they were trying to keep things a secret at work, it was so so so new in ways that blended the heady butterflies and anxiety about the future into one single entity in her stomach, and, well. She was suddenly very personally aware: there were things Gus knew about her boyfriend that were probably so hyperspecific that they completely escaped her scope of imagination.

The little thread of anxiety tied to this particular knowledge started to dissolve the first time Shawn called her in the middle of the night when he couldn't sleep. And besides, she had thought -- wasn't this all just a great opportunity to get to know Gus better, too?

Juliet is a pragmatic woman and a strategist and the initiator of their local public library's Feminist Fantasy and Friendship book club. Over the last fifteen years, the number of times she's felt like she's competing with Burton Guster for Shawn's attention is so small it's kind of irrelevant.

"Juliet!" Gus follows the sound of his pained voice through the door. "It's been three hours! He's not answering his phone!"

Juliet closes the front door and sighs. "He's fixing the dishwasher."

Gus's scarf is hanging lopsidedly from around his neck and the top of his perfectly round head glistens with the remnants of a spring rainstorm. He raises both eyebrows. "Shawn. Our Shawn? The Shawn we know. Is fixing the dishwasher."

"Didn't he do it for a living for like three weeks back in ninety nine?" Juliet asks, taking Gus's coat from him and ushering him into the living room.

"Well, yeah," says Gus, in a tone that implies the mutual understanding that Shawn is annoyingly handy when he isn't distracted by twelve other more interesting things and/or being deliberately useless. "I just didn't think he'd have the patience to sit down and do it. Especially when he was supposed to come over three hours ago to go over these case files with me. I gotta pick up Junior from daycare in twenty minutes!"

Wordlessly, Juliet nudges him closer to the half-shut kitchen door. Gus pauses, frowning, then tilts his head as Shawn's animated voice floats through to them, a sample of the bits and pieces of conversation Juliet's been neglected for all afternoon.

"... then he goes over and stands by the record stand -- cue music -- have I played Try A Little Tenderness for you yet? Not exactly in this household's hall of fame, but one of the greats for sure. Now, music starts playing, and he starts dancing -- bam bam beeeenyon, hang on, I gotta demonstrate -- now imagine you're Andi, and you're standing over there, looking appropriately reserved and restrained 'cause life is just complicated, you know?! You're trying to figure out how to be a person in high school."

"Aaaab aaab baa."

"Exactly! Don't worry, you don't have to go to high school for ages. Maybe by the time you do high school the aliens will have invaded. Mol, note to self -- if aliens invade, make sure they do experiments on me first. You and Mommy and Uncle Gus are too important to be experimented on."

"Baaaa."

"That's right, because I love you. So back to Andi -- it's hard, 'cause she totally stands out, you know? But that's only because she has a great personality, and get this, the general population of the world is not interested in good personalities. You're definitely gonna have a great personality, but if anyone doesn't like you they'll have to go through Mommy, right? Then me, and then Gus probably third -- Hm, no. Me, Grandpa, Selene, then Gus. Your Uncle Gus is a sensitive soul."

"Abbbrrrabababa"

"Right. I think you might have the most personality of anyone I've ever met, including myself and the inimitable Rod Steiger impersonator I met once in Arkansas. It's just been obvious from pretty much the second I held you; you know your dad's a great judge of character. So anyway, Ducky starts dancing -- oooh, I just had a thought. How do we feel about pineapple Fruit By the Foot in a cheesy chili dog? Here me out -- same concept as a pizza -- but with maximum shelf life for the fruitiness. We gotta try that one on Uncle Gus ..."

Gus blinks at the door, then at Juliet, then back at the door.

"I'm not that sensitive," he says defensively. "I am fully prepared to fight a man and or woman and or other self-identified gender to protect your daughter, Juliet --"

"Gus, focus!"

Gus clears his throat and straightens up.

"All afternoon?" he asks.

"It's so sweet," Juliet whispers miserably, "I don't think he's ever had a more captive audience."

There's a mild clang from inside the kitchen, and Molly's bubbly shrieking laughter. Gus's eyebrows climb by the inch up his forehead. He looks like he doesn't know whether he wants to laugh to look sympathetic or shed a few emotional tears; Juliet can relate.

"And you've been ..."

"In the kitchen, doing boring tax stuff. They've been so caught up in their conversation it's like I'm not even there."

"Jules, she's six months old."

"Don't laugh at me."

"I'm not laughing! I feel neglected too. Three hours, remember?"

Molly laughs again, clapping her hands. Shawn's started singing Try a Little Tenderness and is surprisingly on-key until it suddenly gets muffled by what Juliet presumes is the screwdriver he's been using to fix their kitchen appliance.

"I am not jealous of my baby," she says determinedly, bringing forward a vehement finger. "And neither are you." Gus holds his hands up in surrender.

"I'm Switzerland. And have to pick up my own baby. Tell Shawn I stopped by."

"Tell Selene she has to finish chapter five by Sunday."

"Man, I have to finish chapter five by Sunday. Selene's read all the way ahead to the sexy stuff."

"Gus!" Juliet shoos him away in distress. "She's not supposed to do that! We're meant to experience the book together in friendship!"

"I am not going to be discussing fairy smut with a room full of adults, Juliet, I don't care how a book club works. I am attending this out of the goodness of my heart because you are a valued member of my circle --"

"Go pick up your kid, oh my God."

Gus huffs, shrugging his coat on. "And you go rescue yours from another hour's worth of Pretty in Pink. You know, he did this to me once when we were in ninth grade?"

"Oh, me too. Third month together. The whole thing."

"What number are we at by now?"

"Eighty-seven watches. And counting."

The realization that exposing Molly's baby eyeballs to movie screens isn't very good for her baby brain has had a surprisingly mitigating effect on Shawn's own movie watching habits. Juliet supposes that he's found a decent workaround; Shawn's nothing if not a good storyteller. And it's not like he forgets any of the details.

" -- exactly! The subtlety? The delicate traaamble of her lip? You're named for her, you know. One of the greatest actresses of all time --"

"Amm mama!"

"Bye," says Gus. The front door slams shut. More clattering of tools from inside the kitchen.

"Jules! Sweetheart! Where are you? We miss you in here!"

Juliet can't help but smile.

"Coming! And you know that's the sound she always makes when she needs to nurse, Shawn." The kitchen door swings open to the sight of Shawn on his side, wedged into the dishwasher's depths, and Molly in her high chair with slobber all over her fist. Juliet feels her heart melt anyway when Molly reaches for her. "Hi baby," she coos.

Shawn extracts himself from the innards. "Not true," he says. She takes a seat at the kitchen table and situates Molly and undoes her nursing bra. "I can read the intonations. This was a genuine emotion, beyond need for boob --"

"Mmmhmm," Juliet says.

"-- and I missed you," Shawn finishes, sincerely.

Juliet's smile grows big and bright and silly. She pets Molly's head, tilts her head at him. She has no idea if their dishes will be washed anytime soon.

"Gus was here," she says. "He's jealous of our six month old. You should call him." Then, unable to help herself, has to start laughing at the expression of deep distress that immediately overtakes Shawn's face.

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Billy Hargrove being too shy to ask to be hit during sex, so he just says vile shit that he thinks would make Steve want to hit him.

But Steve is too nice for that.

He stays real sweet, calling Billy a good boy, even when Billy's cursing at him and calling him the meanest fucking things imaginable.

Oblivious™!Steve doesn't realize it until one night where Billy just spells it out for him.

A night when Steve's got Billy over-sensitive, dripping out orgasm number three, when Billy's crying, lust-drunk and overwhelmed, asking, begging, pleading Steve to fucking hit me Steve, fuck, please, god, I just want you to hurt me, please...

Suddenly, Steve isn't so nice.

Steve's a fucking menace; all hair pulling and slaps to the face and spanking and choking and anything, anything Billy wants from him...

Anything to get Billy clenching around him like that. Anything to get Billy crying that he loves him like that, all breathy and desperate and needy.

Yeah, Steve would give up being nice for that any day.

[septicace-writes]

Billy Lee master list

Consecration

Retrieval of Lost Things

A Little Show (fragmentary)

Lessons

Only Ashes

If He Lives (it’ll be like this)

Centralia

[septicace-writes]

Any thoughts about Sy realizing shy reader has praise kink? 🙈 My ex always made fun of me and made me ashamed... After ending this toxic relationship years ago i'm still dealing with fear with starting any future relationship and this happening again. It's okay if you don't want to write it! Still love your blog! Thank you for your amazing stories l!

Summary: You accidently give away to Sy that you have a praise kink. Your ex always made you feel ashamed of your kink, so how will Sy react?

Pairing: Captain Syverson x Female Reader

Word Count: approx. 1.3k

Warnings: Praise kink, smut, fingering (f receiving), implied oral sex (f receiving), mentions of kink shaming, some angst.

Authors Note: Hi Anon. I’m sorry you had to go through that. I’m relieved to hear you are out of that toxic relationship and hopefully you can continue to heal. I hope you enjoy this fic and good luck.

Thanks to @amberangel112 for the beta read. Edited by me, there will be errors.

Masterlist

Nice Reward

Your hands start trembling as you feel his eyes on you. You peek at Sy, and sure enough, he is watching you put away the dishes. He has finished washing up, and is leaning lazily against the kitchen bench, feet crossed at the ankles, drying his hands on a dishcloth. His gaze makes you nervous and it doesn’t help that for some reason Sy is the kind of guy who made everything he did, even drying his hands, look like a sex act.

Sy’s eyes narrow as he catches you looking at him and he smirks. Your first instinct it to hide. It’s not that you don’t want him to look at you like he is, because you do, you really do. You want him, but every time things start to get intimate between you two, your anxiety spikes. You haven’t been together long, only had sex a handful of times and perhaps your worry could be put down to new relationship nervousness. But you knew it wasn’t.

Putting the last plates away, you feel your heartrate rise, a combination of fear and arousal making your body work overtime. Glancing over at Sy, you see him push off the bench and throw the cloth towards the sink. His intent is obvious as he stalks over to you, and he sucks his lower lip into his mouth. You look away quickly, too shy to watch him approach, too scared to let him know how much he affects you.

Sy traps you between his arms, his hands laying on the counter. Maybe it will be ok this time, maybe he won’t notice how you react to those certain things he says, maybe he will never know.

“Seein’ you in that pretty dress, your feet bare, wandering around my kitchen, watchin’ you clean up my mess… You’re makin’ it real hard for me to support women’s equality, Sweet Pea.” Sy brings his body close to yours and you can hardly breath as he makes sure you can feel his growing hardness. He hums, and starts to look you over, as if he hadn’t already done it a hundred times.

“You helped me.” It’s a lame response, but you can’t think straight, as Sy starts bunching your dress in his fists.

“Shh, don’t ruin my fantasy, Darlin’,” he grins. Then he looks down and he watches your thighs slowly be revealed.

The way he looks at you, the hunger you see in his eyes, the way he smacks his lips, the words he says… Jesus, the words he says… You wonder why you even bother to wear panties. Then you bite your lip, remembering which panties you were wearing, and you curse yourself. You had felt so brave when you put them on, confident that he would like them, but now you’re not so sure. They were nothing exciting, simple plain white cotton briefs, but Sy had confessed that they were his favourite type, so you went and bought yourself some, wanting to please him, to show him you care.

You close your eyes, you can’t bear to look, the anticipation too much, he will see them any second now and you wonder what he will say. You hear him suck in a breath, and with your heart in your mouth you gradually open your eyes.

“Fuck me,” Sy mumbles. You see his chest start to puff and his knuckles turn white as he grips your dress in his fists. “Did you wear these for me?” he asks, tearing his eyes away and looking into yours.

“You said you liked them,” you shrug, feeling your face burn. “So, I got some.”

Sy blinks, his eyes flick down and back up at you. “You bought ‘em? To wear for me?”

“Yes,” you say. He brings his face close to yours, his gaze dark and you wonder if you did the wrong thing.

A smile crosses Sy’s face and he tilts his head. “Ain’t you just the sweetest li’l thing. You’re such a good girl doin’ that for me.”

You try and hide your reaction, suppressing the moan that sticks in your throat, but your thighs cinch together and your hips jerk back. Sy’s smile faulters and his eyes widen, and you know he saw. You freeze, you can’t move, except for the fear induced panting, you’re as still as a statue. He’s going to tease you, make you feel stupid, needy or use it against you, make you feel like there’s something wrong with you.

With slow and deliberate movements, Sy puts his hand between your legs. His eyes close briefly as he cups you, and when he opens his eyes, you’re confused by what you see. He looks excited, aroused, he licks his lips as he pulls your panties to the side. Your breath hitches as he slides his fingers over you, you can feel how wet you are. You want to run, hide, push him away, you shouldn’t get that turned on by his simple words.

“I love how wet you get for me, Darlin’,” Sy says. “You’re a good girl, always ready for me.”

This time you can suppress nothing. You reach out and grab hold of his arms, your knees weak as his fingers tease. “Sy,” you mewl and squeeze your eyes shut.

“Don’t close ‘em, Sweet Pea,” he says in a soft voice, gentle, coaxing voice. “I wanna see your pretty eyes.” Tentatively you open them, you don’t want to, but his sweet praises make you want to please him. “Atta girl. Keep ‘em open for me.” His words travel like lightning through your veins, igniting your desire and you feel your cunt throb as it cries out to be filled. But shame works its way through you with as much intensity and you can’t take it.

You were going to ask Sy to stop, but then his strong, thick finger inches its way into your core. He feels so good, all you can do is widen your legs in a silent invitation for more. He growls as you whimper and you clutch at his forearm, solid and taut, as pushes into you so deep you end up on your toes.

“You like it when I tell you you’re a good girl, don’t you?” Sy asks, a knowing smile on his lips. You want to deny it, but it’s too late. You feel the sting of tears in your eyes, the humiliation overwhelming as you slump your shoulders and nod. “Why are you cryin’, Sweet Pea?”

You sniff, you don’t want to cry, but even as you try and form the words, you can’t hold back the tears. “Cause you’re going to laugh at me.”

“Laugh at you?” Sy looks confused, drawing his brows together. “Why would I…” he doesn’t finish the thought, and you see his face relax as realisation dawns. “You tellin’ me there’s some asshole out there who didn’t appreciate havin’ a sweet girl like you?”

You don’t say anything, you don’t have to, he sees the answer in your eyes.

Sy grimaces and his eyes slide over your body. When he looks at you again, his expression is naked with need. “You ain’t gotta worry about him anymore. You know why?”

“No,” you say, shaking your head.

Grinning smugly, Sy thrusts another finger inside you, and you feel a sweet pressure grow low in your gut as you start to stretch around him. “Because now you’re my good girl,” he says, emphasising his possession by his deep thrusts as he fucks you with his fingers. You watch, breathless, as Sy drops to his knees adding, “And when my girl goes out of her way to make me happy, she gets a nice reward for bein’ such a good girl.”

Tag List 1

@henryobsessed @omgkatinka @legendarywizarddetective @posiemax @nostalgicb-txh @moonlacebeam @anitababi @agniavateira @blakerogue @shadesofarrogance @mansaaay @stxlemate @wheretheriversrunintothesea @amberangel112 @madbaddic7ed @eldarwen333 @wolvesandhoundshowltogether @summersong69 @littlefreya @littlebirdofrivia @luclittlepond @myloveforhenrycavill @mary-ann84 @tellingyouastory @beck07990 @zealoushound @sofiebstar @sweetlybigdragonn @bloodyinspiredfuck @marantha @diegos-butt @greensleeves888 @endofalldays01 @justaboringadult @ysmmsy @offroadinjandals @littlewrenofrivia @pussyverson @foxyjwls007 @kebabgirl67

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Hope! this is so good!!! They're a perfect match, August and Will, and I love the dynamic you gave them. I forgot how filthy and bloody you write your Will and dann did this remind me how much I love it!!! And I see we're adding ever more onto the mystery of August. Istg he is my favourite character of yours in terms of how you characterise him. Like I feel like I know nothing about him but at the same time you tell so much in that vagueness??? I have no idea how but you make him feel familiar yet mysterious and it is so. Damn. Intriguing. And him guiding both you and Will?? Hot damn, absolute death material that. Death by pleasure 💀 And probably some pain but mostly pleasure.

Okay okay okay. I gave it like ten whole hours of thought and I kept getting caught on Good Dom August and a pleased little, "Good girl." But then I realized that we haven't heard from Mob!Boss Will in a hot minute. So maybe a little tale of August either standing in for Will and showing him how things are done or Will needing a steadying influence to give his woman what she needs and getting some verbal guidance from our favorite not-dead secret agent. Bonus points if we find out Will also has a praise kink. Super duper bonus points (and, idk, an ice cream cone with sprinkles) if both men join in on the action.

I'm very much so in a Will/August/Me mood rn.

We are probably not remotely on-prompt but we do have some threesome action going. To Live in the Moment. Will x August x Reader. Smut, scars, brief blood and gore, threesome, riding. Each of them is intense on his own, but wait until you get them together.

Tagging @iwillmakeyoucraveme @its--fandom--darling @indigosaurus @summersong69 @wonderlandfandomkingdom @imneonpanda @october505 @seriouslygoodlookinggents @feralrunaway @takemeback-toparadise @ashleyskywalker @little-green-love @critfailroll @luclittlepond @devterra @davidbuddbg @brandycranby @mary-ann84 @zealoushound @hylian-hoe @enchantedbytomandhenry @beck07990

Oh Will, all chaos and blood, with the vibrant electric hum of the fight frozen now in scabs and little raw spots on his face, but goddamn if he isn’t captivating. He’s— well, he’s Will, and whatever that might mean to him, to you it means blood on his teeth that he spits salty on your tongue; it means torn collars that half the time are from the way you grip at him.

And today it means August fucking Walker with his broad hands on your hips, holding you steady as he lowers you down onto Will’s cock. There you go, you pretty little thing. Take it in, take it all in. Is he big? Does he stretch you terribly? Good, that’s good. Go slow and feel him inch by inch. And there’s a lot of him, isn’t there; you’re slick as fuck and still it’s a struggle.

August is wildness transmuted; he is the link between the old guard and the new, careful and conniving til the moment violence rips through him like a hurricane. Do you remember the night he came slouching through the door with a bullet in his side? Do you remember how he met your gaze and in the cruel sharp cold of his eyes he reflected moon and blood and the last fading gurgle of whoever he’d last crushed beneath his boot? Do you remember how he fingered the wound just a little once the bullet had fallen rattling into the sink?

Yeah, you remember. And he knows that if he’d called you over, if he’d taken your hand in his and pressed your fingers to the wound, you’d have felt the beating burning heart of him. And that’s August. He’s Will in a decade, if Will lives that long— if he tempers all that rage and recklessness, if he takes it in his hands and makes a shining spear. He can do it, maybe. If he imagines all that anger running down his arm into his hand, if he balls it up and crushes it in his fist to forge something better. Brighter.

You think too much. Let us do the work. All you have to do is take it. And it’s August’s words in your ears but Will’s eyes on yours, Will’s cock thick and pulsing hot inside you. Will’s little cut over his lip, still tasting of the fight, Will’s eyes rolling back when August grips your hips and moves you just so. Look at that. Look how good you feel around him; he can barely stand it. But you’ll be good for me, won’t you, Will? You’ll keep it together because you might be Will’s filthy little thing but you both are under August’s sway; Will with the prickly two-steps-forward-and-one-step-back stray-cat approach, and you.

You filthy little thing.

You’d say you’re just here to get fucked, but that’s a bald-faced lie. And no matter what you do, the truth comes out in gasps, in sighs, in the way you’ll drag August’s arm across your ribs later, in the way your legs will tangle with Will’s. This is a strange and tentative thing, a precious thing; it’s not soft— how could it be— but in each man you see the shadow of the other. August with his fury leashed and channeled, Will with his wildness flecked with vulnerability.

Do you remember what Will said when they buried Papa Shaw? I don’t think I’ll see thirty. How am I supposed to lead when I’m so— and sure, the odds were stacked against him; Will was green as fuck and if Papa had his way, his firstborn son would be managing accounts somewhere far away and safe. But August saw the power vacuum forming; he whispered words to Sy who spoke to Will and thus the line of succession remained unbroken.

And that is August: he’s got power, sure, but really what he has in spades is influence. He’s been in this game a long time and before that he wormed his way through the cracks and crevices of the world, dealing death and pain and not one of his victims knew his name but they damned well knew what he was. Reaper, angel, terror— hammer. He was fear and he was hate and he grew tired. And now he’s here, playing a long game with rules only he understands; breath by breath he bends the world to what he needs.

Will’s face is hazed with pleasure but he can still gasp at the sight of August with his hand under your jaw, turning you toward him for a kiss that bruises and scrapes and sends fire roaring through your veins. He can still reach and find his fingers tangling with August’s; together they mark you with their fingerprints. They draw their map across your skin and in each landmark— each dip and swell, each shiver, each river of sweat— Will marks his path.

In a decade Will is going to turn your head with a hand gentle under your jaw and he will kiss you full of fire. He will carry pain and beauty and a thousand different scars; if he lives that long— and he must live that long— he will cradle his mug in broad hands and watch the sunrise. Perhaps you will be by his side.

[septicace-writes]

PLEASE PLEASE DO A SEQUEL TO HIS TUITION OMG IT IS SO GOOD

Summary: You and Sherlock got married in the morning. After travelling all afternoon, you and Sherlock arrive at your hotel and your honeymoon begins.

Pairing: Sherlock Holmes x Female Reader

Word Count: approx. 2.6k

Warnings: female masturbation, voyeurism, fingering (female receiving), implied breeding kink, praise kink, slight degradation kink, Dom/sub relationship.

Authors Note: Thanks Anon! Ask and you shall receive (when my muse lets me that is!) Thanks to @amberangel112 for Beta reading. Edited by me, there will be errors.

Masterlist

His Tuition: Part 1

His Tuition: Part 2

Although you were tired, your heart thumped in your chest as you followed Sherlock to the suite. He opened the door for you, allowing you to enter, before he closed and locked the door. Your spine straightened at the sound of the turning mechanism, trapping you with your husband. Your mouth felt dry as you laid your travelling hat on the drawers and started to remove your coat. You tried to concentrate on the room, so as not to dwell on why you were here. You began to inventory the beautiful rich and modern furnishings and noted the door to the private bathroom.

Feeling like you should say something you cleared your throat and said in a low voice, “The room is lovely, Mr. Holmes.”

Surprisingly close behind you, Sherlock helped you remove your coat and remarked, “Yes, I suppose that it is.”

Unsure of what to do next you move to a painting and pretend to be interested. It wasn’t by an artist of renown, no doubt someone local, but it had enough charm to be interesting. Below the painting stood a small stand with tulips, and you inhaled deeply letting their grassy fragrance calm you.

You feel Sherlock behind you, his warm breath tickled your neck and made your spine quiver. Your body also responds in another way, a way that has become familiar over the past few days. Heat gathers between your legs as the wetness starts to well. The low ache in your belly that you had felt since you saw Sherlock that morning started to grow into a deep throb. All you could think about, even before God, were the nights you had spent with his words of promise ringing in your ears.

Heat rose to your cheeks. Even though you were man and wife, the images in your mind were scandalous, probably wrong. You had tried to ask your mother about what to expect, but her answer was the same one she gave you since your engagement. “You do not have to enjoy the experience, only tolerate it and let him believe he performed well.”

“Are you very tired, child?” Sherlock asked, placing his hands on your hips. The intimate touch startled you and you felt your knees grow weak.

“Only a little, Mr. Holmes,” you replied, your voice shaking as his hands moved to your waist.

Sherlock turned you to face him, a small smile played on his lips. “How did I instruct you to address me in private? Do you remember?”

You lowered your eyes and watched as Sherlock began to undo the buttons of your blouse. His hands were steady, as if well practiced. “Yes, Sir,” you said.

“Good girl,” Sherlock praised, his voice was low, seductive and you stifled a moan.

Without further word, Sherlock continued to strip away your clothes, first removing your blouse then outer skirts and petticoats. He paused a moment when you were left in your undergarments, your sensible travelling corset, chamise, draws, stockings and shoes. He kneeled and started to undo the buttons on your boots. Once again, his deft fingers caught your attention, and you started to fidget, chewing on your lip and picking at your fingernails. You knew how unladylike it was, but your body tingled with both nervousness and excitement.

Stepping out of your shoes and hose, you expected that perhaps Sherlock would undress, but he continued his course, turning you around as he loosened your corset and circling you, unclipped the front. You couldn’t help noticing the darkening of his eyes, how they were narrow and hooded as he inspected you, almost as he would horseflesh at a stockyard. Instead of feeling like upset, it only further added to your desire as he licked at his lips.

You were thankful your corset was removed, you were becoming breathless. The thrill and fear in you were heightened by your near nudity, only thin cotton stood between a semblance of modesty and full undress. You shivered, a slight chill in the air made your skin grow tight as Sherlock raised a hand to your breast. Openly biting your lip now, you saw the darkened skin of your nipples were visible as they poked against the thin fabric. Sherlock’s hands seemed so large and they cupped your breasts, thumbs rolling over your peaked buds and you gasped in surprise as a tingle rippled through you.

Sherlock’s lips parted, his own breathing became hard, and soft rumbles left his throat as he lifted your shift and unbuttoned your draws. They fell to the floor, and you began to tremble, knowing how close you were to complete exposure and what was worse was that you were eager for it. The thought so shameful you reached up and covered your breasts, your immodesty suddenly too much.

Instead of being upset, Sherlock took a step back and began to remove his coat and hanging it on the cloak stand. He glanced back at you as he removed his collar and tie. “Have you been practicing your treatment, my love?” he asked unbuttoning his vest.

For a moment you didn’t reply, too enamoured by watching your husband undress it took you a few beats to realised he addressed you.

“Yes, Sir,” you answered as soon as you could. You dropped your gaze away from him as he removed his cuff links and rolled up his sleeves. Your thoughts ran away from you. For the first time you realised just how big Sherlock was, his forearms were huge, veiny, and hairy, as large as a labourers or soldiers. You couldn’t help but imagine what it would feel like to be truly held in his arms, tight and close.

“Has it been successful each time?” Sherlock returned to stand in front of you, his fingers pinched at your chin, lifting your gaze to his. His shirt had been unbuttoned halfway and you noticed the coarse, thick, curly hair on his chest and your eyes widened. “Hmm?”

Sherlock had spoken, what had he asked? “Yes, it has, Sir.”

“That is good news,” Sherlock said, his smirk had returned. “I will require a demonstration of your progress.”

You had suspected he would ask you and as soon as you thought about touching yourself again, your clitoris (you had been making sure to remember the correct terms) began to throb. Sherlock moved bed and sat on the edge. You looked around the room and saw a large wingback chair and settee. “Where shall I sit, Sir?” you asked hesitantly.

Shockingly, Sherlock patted his thighs. “Here,” he said simply.

Your jaw dropped in shock, “On you Sir?”

Seemingly amused, Sherlock said, “Yes. I wish to touch you while you demonstrate.”

“Why?” Sherlock’s face lost its amusement, an eyebrow raised you quickly corrected yourself. “I’m sorry. Why, Sir?”

“Several reasons, some will become evident as we progress but ultimately, I wish to touch you for my pleasure.”

His answer confused you, wouldn’t touching someone be pleasurable for them alone? What pleasure could he get from touching you? “I thought I made it clear, child. I expect to be obeyed when giving instruction.” Sherlock’s terse words broke you from your thoughts and you hurried over to him.

“Yes, Sir,” you said as you stood in front of him, unsure of how he wanted you to sit on him.

Sensing your confusion, Sherlock placed his hands around your waist. “Good girl. I did hope I wouldn’t have to start disciplining you immediately.” He lifted you and you yelped with surprised as you were sat on his lap facing him, your knees on the bed, legs spread wide over his. You were so close, his face so near yours, you could smell the heady scent of tobacco and tea on his breath.

“Discipline, Sir?” you asked before you dared to meet his eyes. You stopped breathing. They were so blue, deep, intelligent, that you couldn’t look away, even as you felt him gather your chamise in his hands and lifting it over your bottom.

“Something to discuss another time, my love,” Sherlock said, his voice was mostly calm, but you noticed the slight tremor in his words. “Lift your arms.”

You began to pant, fear gripped you, you almost shook your head. The flimsy cotton was your last defence, your last modicum of decency. “I’m scared,” you whispered.

Sherlock’s face looked compassionate for a moment, but it passed so quickly you thought you had imagined it. His face returned to his stern demeanour, “Don’t be overly emotional, my love. You are my wife, I will see all of you.”

Taking a long shuddering breath, you nodded and slowly lifted your arms. Your skin tightened with goose flesh as the clothing was removed and you squeezed your eyes shut. You heard a sharp intake of breath as the chamise fell away. Gingerly opening your eyes, you saw Sherlock looking at you, his eyes mapping your body and he licked at his lips. You were still afraid, still mortified at your bareness but you also felt a need grow within you and you realised with shame that you liked the way Sherlock looked at you.

Meeting your eyes again, Sherlock’s gaze was different, there was a hunger you had never seen before, it terrified you and you let out a small whimper. Sherlock gave a satisfied hum and said, “You’re quite lovely. A beautiful feminine form.”

You didn’t know how to respond appropriately, so you said softly, “Thank you, Sir.”

It must have been the correct thing to say because Sherlock nodded. “I want you to commence your treatment, but as you do, I will touch you and kiss you. Don’t stop, unless I tell you to, do you understand?”

Swallowing hard, your mouth felt dry from fear, your voice was hoarse as you said, “I understand, Sir.”

Lifting a hand to the side of your neck, Sherlock rested the other on the small of your back. You stiffened; the heat of his touch felt blistering hot against your cool, bare skin. “Begin,” came his order.

Trying to control your irregular breathing, you let your fingers skim over your thighs. At the same time, Sherlock began to move the hand on your neck, his thumb pressing your chin up and you closed your eyes as your head moved back. Your fingers caressed over the soft skin between your legs, the slick wetness coating them, the sensation causing you to moan softly. Then you felt his warm breath on your throat, followed swiftly by his soft lips.

“Sir!” you cried as your felt his wet tongue prod against your skin. You heard him hum, the vibrations of his deep baritone made your whole body clench and his hand on your back pulled you tighter stopping you from falling back.

“You respond so strongly to stimuli,” Sherlock whispered against your skin. “Unlike any I have seen before. It’s fascinating.” He kissed you at the hollow of your neck, tongue flicking out and your body once again writhed in his grasp. “Is it because of your virginity and lack of experience or because you are so aroused already, I can smell it, my love, that your response is so heightened?”

You weren’t sure if you were expected to answer, not that it mattered really, you had no answer for him. You continued moving your hand between your legs, seeking the nub, the apex of your desires. You moaned as your fingers brushed over the spot, shuddering with the pleasure. You began to slowly make the small circles you like, exerting just the right amount of pressure you learned you enjoyed the past few nights. You bit your lip to suppress your cries, but Sherlock brought your head forward and said, “Look at me, my love. Look at what I do to you.” His thumb pulled your soft flesh from your teeth. “Let your voice carry, I wish to hear your noises, I will discover what you relish.”

Sherlocks teeth sunk lightly into the tops of your breasts, and you let out a loud yelp, “Sir!” Your hips bucked against your circling fingers as waves of both shock and pleasure rolled over you.

“Good girl,” Sherlock praised you as he cupped your breast in his hand, he looked up at you as his warm mouth enclosed your bud. You didn’t think anything could feel as good as his kiss on your neck, but this, this was magic. Your fingers started to move furiously fast as you chased that release, you panted as his tongue flicked over you, and you began to feel close to the climax you sought.

Releasing your bud with a pop Sherlock’s hand moved down your belly lower and felt your tummy tremble under his touch. He circled the spot below your belly button, just above the hair that grew between your legs and laid his hand flat against it. “Your uterus is here my,” he said almost to himself. “This is where my seed will go, and you will carry my son.” His finger went lower past your where your hand worked and pressing between your legs, he swiftly found the spot he had early claimed as his. “Did you obey me, love?” he questioned his finger teasing at your entrance, “Are your insides untouched?”

Breaking out with sweat on your forehead, your core clenched at nothing, desperation filled you. “Please Sir!” you begged.

“Are you untouched?” Sherlock asked again, with a hard edge to his voice.

“I didn’t touch there, Sir!” you forced yourself to say. “It’s yours. Please, Sir, I need…”

“I know, my love,” Sherlock said, with a soft voice. “I know what you need.” You felt a pressure before as his finger pierced your most private place. Relief flooded you as you felt a fullness, a wholeness, a completeness you had never felt before.

You groaned and your body shook as heat rolled over you and your core pulsed around his finger. He explored your secret cavern with delicate poking and prodding until he touched a spot that made you say forget yourself and say a forbidden word. “Fuck.”

Sherlock grunted, his face pulled into a grin as you felt yourself being stretched again. “Sir,” you mumbled, nearly weeping, the hedonistic desire you felt was too much.

Pressing both fingers against that special place on your silky, hidden walls Sherlock withdrew them a little then plunged them back. You heard the squelching and slapping of his attentions, and you moved your hips to meet his touch. “So heedless, so sybaritic, so innocent, yet you bounce on my fingers like a whore. Do you like being fucked, my love?”

“Sherlock!” you bawled with quivering breath. Every muscle in your body grew tight. You knew your body now, you knew you were on the verge of the release you sought. It hit you with a ferocity that you had not felt before. You felt electrified, bliss overtook you as you ground your hips against Sherlock’s thrusting fingers and your circling ones. Euphoria settled over you as you fell weakly into your husband, your head resting limply on his shoulder.

You thought Sherlock would remove his fingers, but he didn’t as he whispered soothing words. “You did so well, my love.” Whimpering into his shoulder, you jumped as you felt another invasion into your core. “But we aren’t finished yet…”

Tag List 1

@henryobsessed @omgkatinka @legendarywizarddetective @posiemax @nostalgicb-txh @moonlacebeam @anitababi @agniavateira @blakerogue @shadesofarrogance @mansaaay @stxlemate @wheretheriversrunintothesea @amberangel112 @madbaddic7ed @eldarwen333 @wolvesandhoundshowltogether @summersong69 @littlefreya @littlebirdofrivia @luclittlepond @myloveforhenrycavill @mary-ann84 @tellingyouastory @beck07990 @zealoushound @sofiebstar @sweetlybigdragonn @bloodyinspiredfuck @marantha @diegos-butt @greensleeves888 @endofalldays01 @justaboringadult @ysmmsy @offroadinjandals @littlewrenofrivia @pussyverson @foxyjwls007 @kebabgirl67

[septicace-writes]

A Private After Party

Summary: You've been invited to a very special afterparty with your rockstar boyfriends. You're and your p*ssy are the guests of honor and they plan on celebrating all night.

Pairing: Rockstar Stucky x Reader, mentions of other band members x reader

Warnings: Choking (reader and Bucky), Pussy slapping, implied group sex, public sex, fingering, smut, 18+, minors DNI, cream pie, oral (fem rec) exhibitionism, voyeurism, masturbation, praise kink, overstimulation, belly bulge, size kink, sir kink, dom/sub vibes, Buckys a switch

Word Count 2.4K

A/N: Beta'd by the wonderful @whisperlullaby and @sparkledfirecracker. But all mistakes are my own. Do not copy, repost, rewrite or translate my fics. I appreciate every comment, like and reblog.

The deafening roar of people shouting and clapping swells into a thunderous chant of Buc-ky, Buc-ky Buc-ky filling the arena.

Bucky’s a rock star, a talented musician with a wicked reputation. It's hard to tear your eyes away from his lean tattooed chest, his abs flexing as he stretches his arms above his head, his intricate tattoos weaving across his muscular shoulder down to his wrist.

The drumsticks twirling through his fingers as he launches into his solo making the crowd go wild as his bandmates watch the shirtless drummer live it up.

The air filled with chaotic energy. The sea of people moving as one, phones, signs, and lighters swaying above their heads as they scream.

You survey the stage, rainbow-colored lights glittering across them, fans blowing discreetly from the edge of the stage. Nothing like an up-close view of one of the greatest bands of your time.

Natasha swings her bright red hair as she holds onto the mic with her long manicured nails. The pit of dancers enraptured by the sultry singer swinging her curvy hips.

You laugh at Steve winking at the row of girls staring up at him in awe as he lightly strums his guitar.

It's the final show in this city and they always give their fans a little extra.

You lean on the wall, arms folded across your chest as you watch your man flip his drumsticks in the air, catching them with one hand, his head turning to find you.

20,000 people screaming Bucky’s name and all he cares about is his girl standing just to the side of the stage, wearing his ripped leather jacket over her shoulders.

Bucky finishes his solo, banging his sticks together in the air, the rumble of the boisterous audience vibrating across the stage. He whips out a bright red cloth from his leather shorts and wipes off his sweat laced forehead, heat radiating off his chest with every deep breath.

He turns his head again, watching your pretty eyes narrow in disbelief as you focus in on the red peeking through his fist. Those are your- you scrunch your eyes shut, pressing your fingers to your eyelids. You knew that fucker took them. He stole your panties after his ritual of eating you out before hitting the stage. You should have known when he scurried out the green room leaving you whimpering and trembling on the couch.

You raise your brow at the rockstar, sneering at his gleeful smirk. He waves your panties at you before twirling them around his drumstick as he screams goodnight.

Rolling your eyes, you pray that your panties don't end up in the crowd. The second the thought forms in your brain, it's like fate laughs at you, because your panties twirl off the end of his stick, heading straight to the front row. Steve catches them mid air and wipes his chest off with it. He screams your name to the crowd, whipping them around his finger before tossing them to Nat.

You sigh in relief, only to groan a second later when she holds the crotch of your lace panties under her nose and inhales into the microphone. “Nothing better than some sweet pussy right!”

Scrunching your eyes shut as the crowd roars in response. God, you can’t stand them sometimes, it’s okay though because you decide you’re going to accidentally leak a few pics to your IG tonight.

Flipping them off, you go to the green room to get ready for the after-party. And Bucky.

Adrenaline buzzes through Bucky's veins, nothing compares to the post-show high he gets. After waving to his adoring fans, he runs off stage, heading straight for you.

When the door bursts open, a sweaty Bucky envelopes you in a hug, plastering kisses along your neck and chest. He’s always so horny after a set and you fight him off ordering him to shower. Bucky puts you down, his mouth opening, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

“Nope,” you declare, walking away from your drummer. “Just did my hair and I’m not messing it up in the shower.”

Bucky’s face drops into a pout, his hand palming his crotch as he stares at you.“I’ll blow you after you’re clean.” You promise, biting your bottom. "You can fuck my throat if you're-" The sounds of your laughter follow him as he sprints into the bathroom.

Bucky saunters out almost thirty minutes later, a white towel around his waist. “Your man is clean, I’m ready for you to suck..." He trails off, you duck your head, hearing the shock in his tone.

"What the fuck” He huffs, skidding to a stop when he sees the room full of people.

Avoiding his gaze, you hid your smile. It's not your fault the door was left unlocked. You’re braiding Wanda’s hair as she plays blind man’s bluff with Sam. Nat’s propped up on the pile of suitcases in the corner taking a selfie, her shirt off and her hand barely covering her tits. Steve’s surrounded by a cloud of smoke as he lounges on the couch, his guitar propped next to his leg. Music playing softly under the chatter filling the room.

Bucky thought he was going to have you to himself for a while before the afterparty started. He’s been hard for two hours now and he can’t wait much longer. You catch his baleful eyes, tension rolling off him as he glares at you. Shrugging, you turn back to the redhead and finish her final braid.

Bucky slumps on the couch with a dramatic groan. His fingers playing with the hem of the fluffy white towel. You love when he gets like this, the rockstar who has groupies begging to suck his cock is practically pouting for your touch. He keeps groaning, shifting his hips lower and lower on the leather couch, his legs spread wide, the ends of the towel pulling apart, more and more skin showing.

Ignoring Steve’s mutter for him to knock it off, Bucky says your name, patting his thigh. “C’mere kitten. Need to tell you something.”

“She can hear you from over here.” Wanda quips you giggle as you smooth down her hair.

"Kitten.” The guttural warning has you glancing over your shoulder. Bucky meets your playful eyes, you know exactly what’s about to happen, slick forming in your aching cunt the second he flicks the towel open, his cock springing free.

“Put that thing away Buck,” Steve groans, his head dropping back on the couch.

Your mouth waters at the sight of cock swaying between his thighs. It’s practically saying your name as you stare at it. You get up, knocking Sam over with your hip when you scramble to your feet, his cards scattering on the carpet as you skip over to Bucky.

You stand in front of him, putting your hands on his tattooed shoulders. Bucky grips your waist, pulling you on his lap, your knees straddling his thick thighs.

Bucky pinches your chin between his fingers, licking your bottom lip as he hums. "Want me to put it away, kitten?"

Fuck yes you do. “You should listen to Steve,” you nod. Taking his hand, you lick his long fingers one by one before sliding it between your folds. His is hooded slate-blue eyes flare when he feels how soft and wet you are.

He orders you to turn around, his voice deepening. You smirk, turning around, your legs sliding over his thick thighs, your back flush to his firm chest. Lifting up your hips, he slides a warm rough hand under your skirt, the material bunching around your hips.

Without taking his eyes off your ass, he smirks, “alright Steve, I’ll put it away.”

He brings you down, down, down, over his thick cock, the sensation of his swollen head pushing up into your tight wet heat has your head flinging back on his shoulder.

“See Stevie-“ your mouth going slack as another wave of sensations hit you, “-it’s oh fuck me, it’s away”, you mewl.

Steve props open one eye, pursing his lips as he rolls his head to the side. The rest of the band watching you bounce on Bucky's cock, your gasps get louder as he stretches your velvety walls.

You hear murmurs of praise echoing around you, ‘take his cock pretty girl, fuck he’s deep, look how wet she is, damn she’s hot, I want a taste of her cunt’ and it’s driving you wild knowing you’re the center of attention. White-hot pressure building as he thrusts deeper into your pussy. You cling to his arms, the fast brutal pace making you lightheaded.

“Fuck Steve, her tight little pussy is sucking me back in. I can feel me right here,” he groans, putting his hand on your belly as he tugs your head back. His lips swallowing your cries as he pushes his fingers into your skin. “You feel me, don't you, kitten?”

You wheeze out a yes, yes Bucky oh god. Out of the corner of your eye, you see everyone staring at you, Sam whispering in Wanda’s ear as he pulls her braids, her hand slipping under the band of his shorts, a flash of color catches your attention, you catch Nat propping her leg on the table, spreading her pussy with her bright red nails.

“Cmon Barnes, give it to her harder, her pussy can take it,” her sultry voice tinged with lust as she works her clit. “That’s it, get it nice and sloppy for me.”

He feels your walls flutter around him as he pistons into you, “can you take it kitten, you think you can handle me?” He breathes in your ear, taunting you as he slams into your tight heat. “Don’t think she can take me Nat, feels like I’m splitting this little pussy in two.” Bucky angles his hips up, his cock hitting your sweet spot and oh god he’s so deep, stretching you so wide around him, you feel him in your belly. Your thin, high wail echos through the room, the air thick with need.

“Thatta girl.” you don’t know who said it, more praise drifting around you as you continue to shamelessly mewl.

“Make her cum before I do,” Steve warns as he sits up, his bottom lip rolling between teeth. He watches Bucky’s shaft move in and out your cunt, more and more of your slick coating him. The urge to taste both of you is overwhelming.

Steve stands in front of you, wrapping his large hand around your throat, squeezing softly before he yanks your shirt up, his fingers rolling your nipple.

“C’mon sweetheart, make a mess of his cock, lemme see you cream all over him so I can clean you up.” His hoarse, desperate promise makes you clench down, another wave of pleasure coursing through you as he pinches your sensitive nipple.

“‘m close Steve,” you sob out, the sounds of Bucky’s low groans in your ear, his warm breath washing over your skin. You gasp when he sinks his teeth into your shoulder, his pace getting erratic and sloppy. “Please, please Bucky,” you beg, needing just a little more, you’re so close to your peak, the knot in your belly tightening, god all you need is a little more.

"I said make her cum Bucky,” the way he says it, teasing with a hint of domineering impatience that has you and Bucky moaning. Steve places his hand around Bucky’s throat, your head snapping to the side to watch his fingers push into his skin. Oh god you never know what you like more, being choked or seeing Steve choke Bucky. Steve tightens his grip, his rings digging into the sides of his neck, your walls spasming as Bucky’s mouth falls open, a litany of fuck, fuck fuck pouring out of his mouth as you grind down.

“Right fucking now.” He grins, watching Bucky’s eyes flutter shut as he wheezes out a yes sir.

Steve’s darkened blue eyes slide over to your face. “You better cum for us, sweetheart. You better be good for me.” His guttural, dark tone has your belly tensing, as Bucky hits that little rough patch again, it's good, so good you can only nod. Steve raises his other hand, waiting for you to look up at it, your aching bud twitches as you lick your lips, a strangled, incoherent please seeping out.

He brings his hand down, slapping your clit, the sharp stinging sends you over the edge. The next couple of slaps have you jerking in Bucky’s arm as the knot snaps in two, pure electricity streaming through you, pleasure sinking into every fiber of your body.

“Oh yes fuck yes Steve,” you scream, your nails clawing into Bucky’s wrists as you toss your head back, your hips circling erratically as your orgasm winds through you.

“What did I say, Bucky?” Steve still has his grip on Bucky’s throat. “I told you to make her cum.” He stares him down, the challenge in Steve’s smug blue eyes has Bucky throbbing inside your sensitive cunt. Bucky grits his teeth, his hands moving to your waist, holding you still as he fucks up into you.

He blocks Steve’s next slap, his rough, calloused fingers slipping over your puffy clit. “Steve thinks he made you cum,” His voice, dark and gravelly, in your ear, “but it's my cock your greedy pussy is trying to strangle, isn’t it? Who’s making you feel good, kitten?”

“You are, you Bucky,” you chant, words slurring together as the heady pressure forms again, “so good, don’t stop, don’t stop Bucky.”

Steve pops his slicked covered fingers in Bucky’s open mouth, groaning under his breath as you come again. The force of your orgasm halts your breath in your chest, a faint gasp forming as your eyes roll back. “Good job, Bucky.” Steve praises, resting his forehead on his, staring into his dazed slate blue eyes. “Now cum for me, fill her pretty little pussy up until she’s leaking.”

“Fuck, goddamn you Steve.” He spits out in response. You don’t know if it's the way Steve demanded Bucky to cum or the way Bucky’s hips stutter into yours as Steve increased the pressure on his throat, but you feel yourself clench down again.

Another wave of bliss soaring through you as Bucky grunts his release, your spasming walls coated with ropes of his thick hot cum. You collapse on his chest, Bucky sliding down the couch, taking you with him as Steve let go of his throat.

Steve places his hands on his hips, sighing as he gazes down at the two of you tangled up in each other. Steve kneels down, you whimper as he takes Bucky’s softening cock out of your pussy.

“So pretty.” He murmurs at the sight of Bucky’s cum seeping out of you. "And look how she creamed all over you," he sighs, pumping Bucky's cock a few times until he groans out his name.

Steve pushes his finger in his mouth, the vulgar groan coming from his pink lips sends a shiver down your spine. He glances up at your faces, chuckling loudly. “Guess I should clean you both up, huh?"

“What about the after party?” you question, leaning on your elbow, your hand pushing on Bucky's abs. "I thought we had-oh" a broken moan falls from your lips at the feel of Steve's wet tongue gliding through your messy folds.

“Sweetheart your pussy is the party.”

[septicace-writes]

Congratulations friend!! 🎆🎆 you deserve every last one because your writing is amazing!!!

Y’all. I’m not quite sure how it happened, but I’ve hit 900 followers. In celebration, send me prompts, your favorite meme, burning questions you have about my stories, whatever strikes your fancy.

You may have noticed I’ve expanded my repertoire to include MCU as well as Cavill characters. I’ve been having fun broadening my horizons. Thank you everyone for coming on this journey with me!

❤️❤️❤️

[septicace-writes]

This was amazingly sweet and light and joyful but man those last two paragraphs are absolutely exceptional! That really is the essence of life, isn't it? There's all this shit going on and love makes it all bareable, makes it worth it.

an oasis, with him

(2.7k, explicit)

Everything’s gone rather hazy.

He won’t indulge the bard’s moans about it, but Geralt can privately admit to himself and Roach that this is one of the worst heatwaves they’ve travelled through on the Path, if not the worst he’s experienced in his long life. And as fate’s cruel luck would have it, they’re in the forest between monsters, miles from the nearest decent town when it strikes.

It’s the thick, simmering sort of heat that turns air to stew. Too hot to hunt, too hot to sing, too hot to do anything but trudge toward a village at night and try to sleep during the day, in the deepest shade they can find.

They’re a night’s walk still from the closest town when they come across the thickest strip of stream they’ve encountered in days. They’ve been subsisting on weak trickles, but here at last it widens into a rushing, roaring thing, clean and sparkling in the gold wash of sunset.

Geralt makes to fill their flasks, let Roach quench her thirst—and then he realizes, to his abject horror, that Jaskier is stripping off not only his tunic, but every last stitch of clothing he’s wearing.

“Melitele’s blessings above, thank fuck,” Jaskier groans loudly, and tumbles naked into the river with a splash.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Geralt growls. The flask. Focus on the flask. Unscrew it. Don’t look up.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Jaskier parries, the brat. “You’re going to melt if you don’t get that heavy armor off and join me in here right this minute.”

“‘m fine,” Geralt grunts, his vision blurring from the sweat he staunchly refuses to brush out of his eyes. Roach whinnies at him pointedly as he sets out her fresh water, and he flashes her a betrayed look.

Because it’s not, in fact, the heat itself that’s the worst of the issue. It’s how Jaskier’s clothes cling to his shape with sweat, how his skin gleams with it as it pools in the hollows of his throat, mats the hair on his chest and his thighs. How the fierce sun makes Jaskier’s scent strong like this, salt-rich and fucking intoxicating.

It’s how the thick, suffocating air brings all Geralt’s basest wants dangerously close to the surface of his heart.

Geralt feels...compromised, in the summer’s intensity. Furiously parched, clumsy in his futile wanting and half-mad with thirst.

For fuck’s sake, he’d thought Jaskier’s sweat-drenched chemise was the worst torture he’d had to endure, and now the bastard’s just gone and stripped it off, as well as everything else, the shameless, merciless creature.

“You’re not fine, you stubborn brute.” Jaskier lies back in the river, groaning obscenely as the cool water soaks into his hair. “What’s your excuse? Can’t swim, can you?”

“I can swim.” He can even see fairly well under the water, which is a problem when under the water is Jaskier’s very bare body.

“Just too proud then, are you?” Jaskier kicks his feet, the picture of careless handsomeness, gleaming there in the dappled shade. “Honestly, you impossible man, there’s nothing wrong with admitting you’re uncomfortable now and then.”

“The only thing making me uncomfortable here is you,” Geralt grumbles, and that, of course, is too close to the truth.

“So what is it, then, is it—oh!” Jaskier stands up in the river with a jolt, suddenly frantic. “Or it’s not—there’s not a monster in here, is there? Is there? Geralt!”

“Yes,” Geralt says drily. Jaskier squeals and splashes, water sloughing off his curves, and Geralt fights back a smile, even as he schools his gaze firmly on Jaskier’s face.

“Wait, are you serious? Fuck, where!” Jaskier steps in a sort of an awkward, desperate spin, searching the waters.

“The worst, most hideous sort of monster,” Geralt drawls, delighting in Jaskier’s distress. “And he won’t leave me alone.”

“Oh.” Jaskier blinks as it dawns on him, then grits his teeth into a ferocious sort of smile. “Oh, you prick! All right, that’s it—”

Geralt sees him coming, obviously. He could very easily move out of the way.

In a moment of weakness he has to chalk up to the heat, he lets Jaskier tackle him into the river. Those surprisingly strong hands on his shoulders, a roll of pebbly mud—and then the sweet and heady cool water, rushing over him.

“Fuck,” Geralt growls. His armor soaks almost at once, but then Jaskier’s—Jaskier’s undoing the laces and buckles, as he’s done a thousand times before when Geralt stumbles back from a hunt half-alive, but this time Jaskier’s laughing, practiced fingers easing him out of the heavy leather. His bare biceps gleam in the sun as he flings the armor to the riverbank, where Roach is watching on lazily as she drinks.

“How dare you,” Geralt snarls, his heartbeat racing quick enough to rival the rush of the river. He aches to tackle Jaskier back, but he’s just in his trousers now, and Jaskier’s still fucking naked, and the cold relief of the water clears his want-addled head just enough to fill it with its usual shame.

“Come on,” Jaskier wheedles, winking, “I did you a favor!”

“You didn’t,” Geralt says rather weakly, as he’s made no move to exit the river.

“You know I did, witcher,” Jaskier grins, and splashes him, and well, Geralt simply can’t let that stand. It’s a matter of pride, isn’t it?

With a rising sense of relief, Geralt splashes back. Jaskier’s brows raise in an incredulous laugh, and then they’re splashing, crashing into each other, dunking and tumbling each other through river-mud and clean, cool tide. Jaskier can’t stop laughing for what feels like ages, even when he swallows a too-large gulp of water and needs Geralt to thump him on the back. Geralt nearly forgets the heaviness of the heat, the stinging ache of his longing—and then Jaskier pins him, on the shallowest part of the bank. His hairy chest heaving, dripping onto Geralt’s body, the sun behind him framing his unguarded face like a halo.

Smooth stones press into Geralt’s back. They were rough once, he knows. Sharp and mottled things, worn down to softness by the patient swell of the river, and time.

Geralt’s want slams into him again like a wave.

“There,” Jaskier says, panting. He’s straddling Geralt’s waist, flashing that cheeky sunbeam smile. “Doesn’t that feel better?”

Geralt can only permit himself one more moment of looking into those coast-blue eyes before he cuts his gaze away and shoves Jaskier off him.

“No,” he growls, and storms away.

-

Jaskier finds him at the campfire as the taunt of sun dips at last below the treeline. He’s dressed and dry and smelling of freshwater, the heaviness of his scent washed away. Geralt glares into the flames.

Jaskier sits near him with a flourish of limbs.

“What was that for?”

Geralt is quiet for a long moment.

“I’m not made for that,” he says at last.

“For what?”

Geralt cuts his gaze to Jaskier and his stomach twists unpleasantly. The bard is watching too intently, too piercingly to be as obtuse as Geralt always hopes he is.

“Bathing in rivers,” he replies drily, turning back to the fire. “Indulgences. Sweet…silly…”

“Comfort?” Jaskier asks. Has he always been sitting this close? “Perhaps…pleasure, even?”

The sun has fully sunk now, the forest only pleasantly warm, but Geralt feels a bead of sweat creep down the back of his neck.

“Yes.”

“And so what, then?” Jaskier gives a low laugh, but it’s rough, strangely unlike him. “What, witchers weren’t made for nice things, so you won’t grant yourself a small shape of peace—a cool swim on a horribly hot day—because you don’t think you deserve it?”

“Yes.”

“Even if no one’s there to watch, no one to stop you or tell you you can’t?” Jaskier pushes, a twinge of earnestness in his voice that makes Geralt’s throat go dry. “Even if it’s right there...offering?”

“Jaskier,” Geralt says warningly.

“You don’t have to punish yourself, Geralt,” Jaskier says softly. “Not with me.”

His voice has never, ever been this gentle before, trembling with emotion.

No, that’s not true. It has been. Only once.

You did your best, he’d said. Just trying to work out what pleases me, he’d said, just as gently as he speaks now. Geralt had felt flayingly vulnerable in the heat of those words.

This time, he almost, almost lets himself lean in.

He stands abruptly instead.

“Oh come on—” Jaskier groans, his voice cracking.

“I won’t stop wanting it.”

“What?”

Jaskier stands too, but Geralt doesn’t turn to him. He stares out into the depths of forest instead. Cold and dark and teeming with distant monsters.

Where he belongs.

“It’s not—I can’t just swim, Jaskier,” he grits out, his blood rising. “It won’t slake this thirst, all right? I’m going to have to get up tomorrow and trudge through this heat, and then there’s blood and battle, monsters and money, and gore and destiny, and thinking about how nice a fucking indulgence might feel is only going to make that worse when I can’t have it again!”

“And why wouldn’t you be able to have it again?”

“Because you don’t want me like that!”

A ringing silence fills the clearing. Geralt feels sick.

“You don’t—fuck, Jaskier. You don’t know what you’re asking of me. It’s not fair. It’s not—I couldn’t just—it would mean too much.”

Geralt can’t help himself. He looks over his shoulder, and his breath catches in his chest.

There’s a strange look on Jaskier’s face. Half-heartbroken, half-furious, and…

Ravenous.

“That’s what you think?” he asks quietly.

“What?” it’s Geralt’s turn to ask.

“You think I don’t want you,” Jaskier says slowly, taking a step closer, “every single fucking day, for the rest of my life, for as long as you’ll have me?”

Geralt’s mouth has never felt this dry in his life. He licks his lips, and Jaskier makes a soft noise like he’s been wounded, moving into Geralt’s space.

“Jaskier,” Geralt says helplessly. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“You idiot,” Jaskier says, his voice cracking with fondness as he reaches out.

When Jaskier kisses him, Geralt’s head fills with what feels like every thought he’s ever had, then clears, leaving behind only one.

This, this is what an oasis must feel like.

-

Everything goes rather hazy again.

The next thing Geralt knows, the earth is soft and cool beneath them. Jaskier’s naked again, only this time, at last, Geralt can bury his face in his curves, worshipping the swells and hollows of his body, as Jaskier cries out and begs him to again and again. Jaskier’s sweat is in his mouth, Jaskier’s hands are in his hair, and when Geralt finds his way inside him at last, Jaskier parts for him so beautifully, spreading and welcoming.

It’s pleasure, yes, so much pleasure Geralt isn’t sure he’d ever been fucking doing it right before, the way it floods his body as Jaskier rises to meet him, but more than anything else, it’s relief. A sweet, encompassing settling as he gives in to what he’s been fighting back for so long, the dam set free, the wash of love crashing in to clean the wounds of his wanting.

Because it is love, after all. He can name it now, and he can’t help but name it, not when Jaskier gasps it as he approaches the peak of his pleasure and then comes to himself and freezes, terrified as he meets Geralt’s eye.

“I know,” he murmurs, “I love you too,” and he can’t help but smile into the crook of Jaskier’s shoulder as the bard shudders and rolls him over, pinning him almost exactly as he had before. He starts to ride him so confidently Geralt’s sure he’d been picturing it there on the riverbank, and then Geralt can’t think of anything but those clever hands braced on his chest, that pink mouth hanging open in joy and pleasure, and the tight, slick, perfect clench around him.

Geralt drags his tongue over his palm and wraps it around Jaskier’s thick, bobbing cock, and he knows he’s not the same anymore, not now that he’s seen the way Jaskier wrinkles his nose too fucking cutely, the way he fucks himself down harder, erratic and slipping in slick and sweat and precome, his muscles twitching as he forces his eyes open so he can meet Geralt’s awed gaze. Geralt presses his other forearm down across Jaskier’s thighs, grinding the head of his cock hard against the spot Jaskier’s been angling for, and Jaskier lets out a broken wail, sobbing as he comes and comes and comes.

He collapses on Geralt’s chest at last, and Geralt finds he’s perfectly content to just hold him, but Jaskier doesn’t pull free. He rocks weakly in Geralt’s lap instead.

“Jask,” Geralt says, his voice hoarse, “you don’t have to—”

“Want it,” Jaskier moans, taking Geralt’s cock as deep as he can, “please, please, I want to feel you, don’t make me wait anymore—”

Geralt swears and sets his hands back on Jaskier’s hips. He fucks up into him in an easy rhythm, chasing his own pleasure. Jaskier’s tired face spreads into a genuine smile even as his eyes drift closed, as he digs his teeth into his bottom lip. He pushes himself up and leans against Geralt’s thighs, arching his back, and slowly, almost lazily, he wraps his hand around his come-soaked, half-hard dick and starts stroking himself again.

“Fuck,” Geralt rasps at the sight, “fuck, fuck—”

Jaskier laughs, and it’s tired but it’s bright with mirth and so him Geralt’s heart soars.

“Yes, love, that’s what we’re doing.”

It takes a moment for Geralt’s sex-dazed mind to catch up. When he does, he growls and flips them, pressing Jaskier into the bedroll and hitching Jaskier’s legs around his waist. Jaskier squeaks, but it dissolves into a moan, his cock stiffening fully at the new angle.

“Oh fuck,” he gasps, stroking himself quicker as Geralt thrusts deep and rough into him.

“Yes, love,” Geralt manages to mock, even as his own orgasm curls up his spine, “that’s what we’re doing.”

Jaskier laughs again, raucous and raw and riotously happy as his free hand cups Geralt’s face, and that’s what sends Geralt over the edge at last. No, it’s never felt like this before. He’s filled with a hot, bright, brilliant pleasure, heightened as he feels Jaskier clench up again, and he comes deep inside Jaskier’s ass. When he opens his eyes at last, Jaskier’s face is settled in a hazy grin, fresh come spilled across his chest. Geralt groans.

“Liked that, did you?” he asks. When he pulls out, a thick slide of come drips from Jaskier’s stretched hole, and Geralt has to fight not to lick it up. He looks up to find Jaskier staring at him in a way that suggests next time, perhaps, he’ll be allowed to do just that.

“Yes,” Jaskier says vehemently, and gathers Geralt into his arms. “Didn’t you?”

He’s going to answer automatically, but Jaskier studies him, earnest and searching, and Geralt takes the time to actually consider it.

He feels...eroded. Softened, shifted, the stone of him parting for something sweet and strong and clever. It feels right. It feels natural. It feels better than anything ever has.

It makes him...happy.

No, this isn’t destiny. It’s certainly not what witchers were made for.

But if he could choose one thing for himself in the hard-worn drought of his life, it’s the oasis of Jaskier’s love and it’s right here, bright and clear and asking for him.

“Yeah,” he says at last, “fuck, yeah. Of course,” and Jaskier’s face crinkles into a smile Geralt wants to see every day he can. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” Jaskier tells him, and kisses him again.

The sun will rise again the next morning. There will come blood and battle, monsters and money, gore and destiny and the swelter of summer.

But there is this, too. And it turns out that everything becomes that much more bearable because of it.

[septicace-writes]

Reminder

Pics from Google, I do not own.

Description - He was a patient man most days. You liked to test him and his unpredictable tolerance. One day Bucky presents you a small token to jog your memory of just the kind of man he is.

Pairing - Black Female Reader x Mob!Bucky Barnes, Black Female Reader x Peter Parker (platonic)

A/N - I was partially afraid to post this one, I don’t know why but I hope anyone who reads likes it! I was thirsty for something like this and couldn’t let it go. The title is from a Weeknd song. Though, his song Tell Your Friends definitely fits Mob!Bucky’s vibes more. I thought of that while writing this.

(I included Russian speech in this, since it was a hc between me and my friend about this Bucky. I tried my best to review each translation so that the meaning fit. If it doesn’t look right please, feel free to correct me! At the bottom of the fic is a rough translation)

Word Count - 7.4k

Warnings - smut (18+ please), oral (male receiving), fingering, pussy slaps, exhibitionism, humiliation and punishment, dacryphilia, anal play, praise kink, age difference (reader is early 20s, Bucky is late 30s), power imbalance, possessive behavior, manipulation, alcohol consumption, mentions of Bucky losing sleep, jealousy, Bucky is mean here, slight dubcon just to be sure, mentions of guns 

Here is my masterlist if you enjoyed ♡

Keep reading

[septicace-writes]

This was absolutely amazing! I'm such a sucker for the detached/medical(-ish) talk but the care and love shining through. And Sherlock keeping our poor reader on her toes, I'm sire he'll have the most fun slowly unravelling all the little secrets of pleasure to her 😈

hiii~ is it alright if you write a smut about henry or one of his characters teaching y/n to touch herself in front of him? 👉👈

Summary: Your fiancé, Sherlock Holmes teaches you how to treat yourself for Hysteria (he teaches you to masturbate)

Pairing: Sherlock Holmes x Female Reader

Word Count: approx 2.6k

Warnings: Slight Dom/sub vibes, masturbation (female), exhibitionism, medical discussions maybe (is that a thing?), outdated views on women and sexuality.

Authors Note: Thanks Anon for the ask, I hope you enjoy it.

This is my first Sherlock fic, so I’m a little nervous! Thanks to @amberangel112 and @henryobsessed for Beta reading. Edited by me, there will be errors.

Masterlist

His Tuition

You heard the clock chime the hour and packed away your embroidery. “Thank you, Mr Holmes, for visiting me but I must be on my way. I have a doctor’s appointment you see.”

“Are you unwell, child?” Sherlock asked. A warmth spread through you as you noticed the subtle note of concern in his voice.

“No,” you shook your head. Normally you would not discuss your medical needs with a man not your father, but you were to be married to him in less than a week and would have to tell him then. “It’s treatment for my Hysteria, my nervousness and occasional irritability.”

Sherlock looked askance at you. “You’re seeing a doctor for Hysteria treatment?”

You nodded, “Of course.”

A small smirk played over your fiancé’s lips as if he were trying not to laugh. “And do you enjoy your treatment, my love?”

Heat rose to your cheeks, perhaps it was wrong to tell him before you were married. “Forgive me, Mr. Holmes, I’m sure I don’t know what you mean. It’s a medical treatment, not a trip to the fair.”

Sherlock gave a small hum and said, “Yes, you’re quite right.” He paused and said, “But so is a sip of brandy, medicinal but also pleasurable, correct?”

Swallowing down your embarrassment you said in a small voice, “Sometimes.”

“What if I told you, you didn’t have to see a doctor to get the same relief?” Sherlock raised an eyebrow, the hint of a smirk still played on his lips. “What if I told you, you could learn to do it yourself.”

That surprised you. You had thought that special knowledge of anatomy was required to evoke a hysterical paroxysm. However, you were interested. If you learned to do it yourself, you could do it every night to help you sleep and to wash away the worries of the day. As an added benefit you wouldn’t need to have to see the sweaty old Doctor anymore; he made you uncomfortable when you smelled his repugnant breath and saw his crude tongue lick at his thin lips as you lifted your skirts. “I would be interested in learning. Do you have the name of a doctor who is giving lessons?”

“Not a doctor,” Sherlock corrected. He rose from his chair and crossed the room, his imposing figure made you shrink into your chair. “I can teach you.”

Shocked you gasped at the suggestion, “You!”

“Yes,” he said. “I assure you I am most proficient and have treated many women successfully myself.” Again, he smirked, and you wondered what he found so amusing or was this his way of trying to put you at ease.

“Would you have to touch me?” you asked.

Sherlock let out a short humph. “No. I can instruct you without touching you. I will give you directions and observe to ensure the correct technique.”

“So, it would not be improper?” you asked seeking more clarification.

“No, my love,” Sherlock responded. “I would not sully your reputation days before our marriage.” There was something in his tone that made you doubt his honesty. You nibbled the inside of your lip while you tried to decide. “Come now, child. Do as I say.” Although his voice was even and low you felt as though he left you no room for argument.

You agreed with a slight dip of your head. “As you wish,” you said softly, unable to conceal your apprehension.

“Wonderful,” he said, satisfied and offered you his hand with a slight bow. You gingerly accepted and he led you to the large red leather settee. Sherlock gave you a full grin, brief but genuine, with a low hum. He lifted your hand to his lips; his soft lips grazed your skin lightly and you gasped. Then he swiftly turned his back and returned to his seat opposite you and instructed, “Now, remove your undergarments and lay on the settee as you would in the surgery.”

You stared at him as Sherlock picked up his small pipe and packed it with tobacco. “Quickly. I expect to be obeyed. I have no time for your silly, girlish modesty.” Closing your eyes, your ears burning with shame you gathered your skirts and reaching under them, undid the button holding up your draws. You began to unclip your hose, but Sherlock said, “The stockings can stay.”

Relieved you could retain some propriety you lifted your skirts high, jumping slightly as the cool dark red leather chilled the untempered skin of your bottom. You nestled into the pillows, arranging them so you were well supported.

“Comfortable?” Sherlock asked. “For my method of self-treatment it is imperative that you feel at ease, hmm.”

You nodded. You were comfortable physically, but your mind felt decisively uncomfortable. You couldn’t shake the feeling that this was wrong somehow, it felt different to the sterile, cold environment of the doctor’s surgery. He did, however, breathe heavily like Sherlock was beginning to, and looked at you with the same predatory regard. The difference was you didn’t feel disgusted with your fiancé like you did with the doctor. When Sherlock did it, you felt your tummy flip inside you, and it made your heart race.

“Now, I want you to bend your knees then open your legs, make sure to spread them wide, I need to observe your performance,” Sherlock paused and struck a match, chuffing on his pipe until it glowed. “For correction,” he finished.

Immediately the familiar smell of his tobacco filled the air. It was a comforting smell, familiar to you now after spending many hours with your fiancé during your courtship. Sherlock studied you as you slowly let your legs open, his face impassive, cold almost. However, his gaze was intense as he raked your exposed legs and Lady Jane. You noticed his puffs of his pipe were shorter, more rapid than normal. You wanted to ask why he seemed so excited but were too afraid that your suspicions that this was not appropriate were correct.

“My methods may sound unorthodox but follow them precisely and you will notice the difference,” Sherlock said, his voice held an edge to it that you were unused to. And shamefully you found that you liked his commands, liked the way his voice sounded and liked the way he looked at you. You wanted to obey him, to please him, to make him proud of you. “Shall we begin?”

“Yes, Mr Holmes,” you said softly.

“Sir,” he said in his new tone. “You shall call me Sir when we… are alone.”

“Yes, Sir,” you murmured. “I am ready.”

“You may close your eyes, or look at me during the procedure, but you must remain focussed on my instruction.” Sherlock waited a beat to make sure you understood then continued. “Starting at your knees, let your hands move down your thighs with the lightest of touches, concentrate on the feeling. Does it tickle? Does it make you feel warm? Does it make you tingle?”

You caressed your thighs with the soft pads of your fingers, your nails scraping the delicate skin as you moved. You couldn’t suppress the shiver that rippled down your spine. “It tingles, Sir, and makes me feel warm.”

“Good, my love,” Sherlock praised and the heat you felt began to bloom from deep within you. “Continue until you reach your labia.”

You looked at him questioning, “What is that Sir?”

Sherlock’s lips grew into a tight line around his pipe, clearly unsatisfied with your lack of knowledge. “The swollen flesh at the top of your thighs, where your hair grows.”

“Oh,” you said meekly. You followed his instructions, and when your fingers reached the coarse hair between your legs you felt your breaths start to grow shallow and uneven.

“Using your dominant hand,” Sherlock said. “Slide it up the skin between your labia, and tell me love, is there a wetness between your legs?”

Gliding your fingers between your folds you found there was a dampness and you sat up in shock. “Sir, I am sorry, I…”

“Lay down,” Sherlock ordered with a strong steady voice that hinted at impatience. “It is merely your bodies way of producing the lubrication needed for copulation. However, it can also serve to make the procedure more pleasurable. Dip your fingers into the wetness, coating them thoroughly.”

With hands shaking with trepidation, you followed his command. Your eyes widened as you touched the soft hidden skin and found the touch to be pleasing despite your fear. The dampness that welled was thick, slick, sticky and seemed to come from the place of your menstruation. Your fingertips glided over the hole, and your body instinctively wanted something inside. You were poised, about to enter when Sherlock said, “Stop. Have you ever put anything in there?”

You froze and shook your head. “No, Sir.”

“Good. You shall not start today either. That is for me and me alone.” Something about his words, his claimed ownership of that most private of places, made your legs want to close as your centre clenched. That untouched corridor felt so empty, lonely in a way you had never felt before. You looked at him, you knew there was a plea in your eyes, but for what you begged for, you didn’t know. A tiny smile played on his lips, and he whispered, “So wanton, my Love.”

You gasped, and your back arched, straining against your corset. Its tight restriction somehow felt good, like you were held in a tight embrace, captured, and loved. You didn’t deny his accusatory words, words you would have protested mere minutes ago, but now they thrilled you, made you burn, made you moan, “Please.”

“In time,” he said, his impassive face showed little emotion bar his lips, but his voice was rich and deep, speaking of his own desire. “Move your fingers up to the place where the Doctor touches, it should feel rigid and agreeable to touch.”

Your still trembling hand moved, and your eyes fluttered close as you spread the wetness over your delicate skin. You let out a short cry as you found the hard nub that elicited the hysterical paroxysm that you craved, the release of tension that calmed your frail nerves.

Sherlock let out a short satisfied humph as you found your spot. “Place a finger on each side of the clitoris,” he paused as he saw your confusion, and for once he was not annoyed by your inexperience. “The hard nub, you found,” he explained before continuing, “and whilst applying slight pressure, start to move your fingers in little circles.”

Taking a deep shuddering breath, you started to move in small circular motions. You felt some of the familiar feelings, the sudden little jerks your body made, and the sensation of lightning strikes down your legs.

“Good my love,” Sherlock said. “Keep going, slowly increasing the speed of your movements and experiment with pressure some women prefer a harder touch.”

Doing as he asked you pressed harder, and you sucked in a breath as your hips bucked. Your body became tense, your booted heels dug into the leather and your free instinctively caressed your neck and breasts.

“What a sight you make, my love,” Sherlock crooned. “I knew you would have shapely legs, having glimpsed them while you danced, but that sweet cunt of yours is a nice surprise.”

You lost all decorum then, and a heedless moan escaped your throat. “Sir, please,” you sobbed as sweat started to break on your brow.

Sherlock closed his eyes briefly and put down his pipe. He shifted in his seat, spreading his legs wide in a dominant, and ungentlemanly display. His crude stance made all the more vulgar as you noticed the large bulge in his pants. “Please, what love? Do you know what you beg for?”

Shaking your head, you admitted you did not. You couldn’t shake the feeling though, the desire, nay, the need to be filled, the empty cavern between your legs milked as you worked your nub, and you felt the wetness trickle down between your arse cheeks, no doubt pooling on the leather beneath you. You can’t stop the moans falling from your lips, you don’t remember that happening with the Doctor, none of this felt like with the doctor.

“You beg for me to satisfy you, my love. Fulfil you as a husband fills a wife, his seed implanting her with child. That is what you crave, is it not?”

The brazen words of your fiancé lit a new fire in you and for the first time in your entire life a curse left your lips, “Fuck.”

Sherlock’s eyes grew dark and you noticed his jaw clenched, “Yes, as a matter of fact that is one name for it.” For a moment he observed you, watched you as you wantonly squirmed then said. “Think of me fucking your cunt, love. Think of my hands, on your body, my teeth nibbling your neck.”

“Sir…” you begged. Your head thrashed against the pillows, your hair would be a mess, but you didn’t care, your body felt so tight, the tension too much, you needed the release, the climax of your treatment.

“Think of my lips on yours,” he continued. You closed your eyes, threw your head back, imagining him kissing your exposed throat. The growing heat was too much, and you felt a rivet of sweat down your spine “My lips on your neck, your breasts. Think of my kiss between your legs, my tongue on your nub…”

“Sir!” you cried. “I… I… feel…”

“My breath warm on your cunt as I taste your hidden nectar.”

Something inside you snapped and you shouted his name, “Sherlock!” Your hips ground against your fingers and waves of blissful heat washed over you radiating from your core. It went on and on, you felt like it would never stop, until it slowly ebbed away, and euphoria set in, making you feel as weak as a lamb. You were lightheaded, dark spots swam in your vision and for a moment you felt as if you would faint.

You felt hands on your shoulders, they held your still as you slowly regained your senses. “Open your eyes,” Sherlock said, his voice was hoarse but tender. You found yourself looking up at him, your head in his lap as he fanned your sweaty brow. “There now, my lover, feeling better?”

Unable to speak yet, you nodded, the euphoria not yet past, you felt as though you wanted to giggle.

“You’re a quick study,” Sherlock complimented. “I trust that you will get even better at that with time.” He smiled at you, then his attention was drawn to the soft round peaks of your breasts, he traced them with a delicate caress, you shivered, your skin still electrified and sensitive. “You’re so responsive. Its delightful.” You couldn’t help glowing with pride, you had pleased him, shown yourself eager to listen and learn, shown him he would not regret having you as his wife.

“Our wedding is in four days, I doubt I will get the opportunity to see you again,” Sherlock gave you a slight look of apology. “However, I expect you to practice every night, including tonight, what we did here, child. Think of me as you touch yourself. I expect you to show me all the things you have learned on our wedding night.”

“But isn’t the wedding night for, uhhh, what you said earlier.”

“Yes, love.”

“Then why would you want to see me practice my treatment?”

“Oh, my sweet, summer child,” Sherlock chuckled and kissed your forehead. He lifted the fingers you had between your legs, and you could still see the wetness of them. Sherlock placed them in his mouth, sucking them gently, licking them with his tongue. “Like strawberries,” he muttered. He turned his attention back to you, “I’ll explain on the night. And show you there is more than one way to receive treatment.

Tag List 1

@henryobsessed @omgkatinka @legendarywizarddetective @posiemax @nostalgicb-txh @moonlacebeam @anitababi @agniavateira @blakerogue @shadesofarrogance @mansaaay @stxlemate @wheretheriversrunintothesea @amberangel112 @madbaddic7ed @eldarwen333 @wolvesandhoundshowltogether @summersong69 @littlefreya @littlebirdofrivia @luclittlepond @myloveforhenrycavill @mary-ann84 @tellingyouastory @beck07990 @zealoushound @sofiebstar @sweetlybigdragonn @bloodyinspiredfuck @marantha @diegos-butt @greensleeves888 @endofalldays01 @justaboringadult @ysmmsy @offroadinjandals @littlewrenofrivia @pussyverson @foxyjwls007 @kebabgirl67

[septicace-writes]

And you are rightfully proud! Your writing is creative and inspiring and unique and the world is richer for having it. Fandom, or rather the fans, can be unbearable sometimes and I for one am glad you decided to stick through it and continue to create because every work of yours is a gift.

Sometimes I still think about that one person who thought that my using the same characters in a threesome meant that I was plagiarizing, and I think about getting mad about them coming into my asks and my dms. I think about the sheer gall of it, and about the way it planted seeds of doubt as to whether the Cavill fandom was the one for me.

But then I think about the way processing those accusations helped me develop my writing philosophy. I think about the support of the wonderful people I’ve met, and about how I’ve gained the confidence to start branching out, about how I’ve grown and found so many new stories to share.

I don’t know that I would consider myself a part of any fandom. I write, sure, and once in a while one of my stories really strikes a chord with someone. Those are the moments I’m here for— not the fandom drama or the petty arguments or the politics. I’m not here to try to win points by writing the popular kink or pairing of the moment. I write what interests me, and if I still sometimes fall victim to judging the quality of my work by the number of notes it receives, I’m learning.

What started as a quarantine hobby has become something greater than I ever imagined. Before a year or so ago, I’d never written anything that wasn’t for a grade. Now I’m finding my voice and refining my style; everything I write is an evolution. And I’m learning to be proud of that. I’m teaching myself to look at what I’ve made and be okay with saying you know what? This is good. I am proud of this.

[septicace-writes]

Will Shaw x Reader | PlayStation & Chill

Summary: You've been best friends with Will Shaw all your life, you've also harbored a massive crush on him since you were both thirteen but you never thought in a billion years he'd ever want you back so, you kept your mouth shut and suffered in silence for years until a day of yard work turns much hotter than you ever anticipated.

Warning: 18+ minors DNI, Smut, Teasing, Oral (female receiving), No protection, V n P, some dirty talk, also some nerd stuff.

Word Count: 4.7 K

Please do not repost my writing anywhere. If you like this reader imagine, please feel free to like, comment, re-blog, and follow for new posts and updates. <3 Also DM me if you would like to be added to my tag list.

Tag List: @littlebirdofrivia @smile-sugar @ughdontbeboring

Master List

Will’s been your best friend since–well, since you can remember. You played in the sandbox together, rode the school bus together, and graduated together.

Now days you're both in your mid-twenties trying to navigate the struggles of adulthood.

Will moved out of his parents' house with a couple of friends from school not long after you all graduated. You just can’t afford a place of your own and the idea of living with a group of strangers gives you the creeps whenever someone brings up getting a roommate.

You still see Will almost every day. All your girlfriends from high school moved away. You can’t believe some of them are getting married and starting their own families while you haven’t had a steady boyfriend since junior year.

At least you still have Will. He is your one constant. You text and talk on the phone. He’s always across the street doing laundry or helping his dad work on something, so at least there’s that and he always comes over to hang out. Just like old times.

“Jeez, come on.”

You groan, grabbing the pull cord of the push lawn mower. But it was being stubborn and won’t turn over.

“Can just one thing go right today?”

As you grab the cord again, you hear footsteps coming closer and a pair of hairy arms grab you and wrap around your waist, swinging you off your feet before deep laughter tickles your ears and spine.

“Hey, Shrimpy.”

You roll your eyes at Will when he kisses the top of your hot little head. He’s been calling you Shrimpy and Squirt since you were both thirteen and he had a grown spurt, shooting past your height by a solid foot. And boy, he doesn’t let you forget it either.

“You butthead. I could have sacked you in the balls. I thought you were some kind of sex pervert.”

You laugh, swatting his meaty arm. Gone are the days when Will was all knees and elbows. For a while he went through this phase where he looked so lean. Like someone straightened a slinky. Will was a glorified beef cake now. Not that his awkward phase lasted long. You feel you are still in yours most of the time.

Will took a step back, shielding his arm and his groin from a ninja attack.

“Pshh. You couldn’t hurt a fly with those little arms, YN. What are you talking about, sex pervert? You looked like you were trying to mount this poor John Deer.”

Will laughed, seeing your cheeks go pink.

“I just can’t get enough oomph to get her started.”

Well, that explanation didn’t sound like it was steeped in sexual innuendo at all.

Will grinned, grabbing the open tails of his short sleeve button up and ripped it off his broad beefy shoulders and tossed it at you, flexing shirtless in the hot June afternoon sun.

“Show you how this is done.”

“Oh, yeah. Okay.”

You can’t help smirking while folding his shirt over your arm, making the deflated Squidward face when Will cranked the lawn mower in one pull.

Will laughed at your face, sweeping his arm as you lay his shirt over his shoulder and start pushing.

“I’ll get outs and hit it from the back.”

Will has to shout over the roar of the lawn mower, his long legs carrying him across the street as you get to work.

---

Thirty minutes later, you and Will are lying in the lawn chairs on the front porch.

“We did it.”

You huff, lazily reaching across the space and high fiving your bestie.

“We did. Was it good for you?”

“So good, I’ve never done it outside before.”

You both keep up the running innuendo, laughing at each other for a few more minutes as you cool off.

“What do you want to do now?”

Will looks at you, wiping some of the sweat from his face with his shirt. You refrain from suggesting that the two of you cuddle as you stand up, giving your pants a little tug as they try to slip down your hips.

“Shower.”

With a grunt, Will stood up, too. “No cold water, I don’t want you thinking less of me.”

You snort a laugh, shoving him towards his parents' house.

“I mean for myself, butthead.”

As Will jogged down the steps, he turned, smiling up at you.

“Hey, wanna Playstation and chill?”

You smile.

“That sounds great. Meet you back here in… twenty minutes? I’ll leave the door unlocked so just come in.”

---

It’s gotten easier over the years. The feelings you have for Will. As kids it was nothing, you were just best friends; it wasn’t until you got older than you liked him in a different way and it got progressively stronger into your teen years.

Will was just a great guy, but if he ever knew how you felt he wouldn’t touch you–not the way he does and you know it means nothing by it. He always looked out for you, would hold your hand walking down the sidewalk from school, hug you, throw his arm around you if you came over to talk to him about something when he was hanging out with his buddies. Even when he had a girlfriend, Will never stopped hugging you or kissing your head. His girlfriends hated you, but that was just Will.

Loyal. Always a friend. You weren’t about to do anything to ruin that.

You close the house door behind you and grab your things, an old black Metallica t-shirt that’s seen a lot better days and a pair of pink velvety shorts as he gets a towel and cloth hustling to the bathroom.

The water feels so good, because of course you turned the cold water on all the way as you stand under the spray. It’s barely been five minutes when you hear the screen door slam and you're halfway through washing your hair.

“Will?”

From the bathroom you hear him, then footsteps down the hall.

You don’t have a weapon. What if it isn’t Will? What if someone heard you say you would leave the door unlocked?

“Will? I swear to baby Jesus if you’re messing with me, I will tell your mother!”

Suddenly you're freezing under the tepid water that wasn’t that cold to begin with, suds sliding down your shoulders and breasts. You shake, your arms protectively moving around your body as if that will save you.

“Will please!”

Your voice goes up several octaves in panic before you hear him laughing right on the other side of the shower curtain. Relief washes over you.

“I FUCKING HATE YOU WILLIAM SHAW! Don’t do that to me! I really thought you were somebody coming to kill me.”

His laughter continues as you push the curtain back enough so only your face is visible, staring daggers at him.

“You’re a real fucking prick sometimes, you know that?”

Shaking your head and duck back behind the curtain and finish washing the shampoo out of your hair.

Rinsing out your hair, you work the conditioner through the ends and then massaging your scalp, letting it sit while you wash up.

“So cute.”

“Are you still in here?”

“Yep.”

As you pour body wash onto your washcloth, you wash while you let the conditioner sit, prepared to make him wait now so you take the time to shave your arms and legs and even exfoliate with some of that sweet smelling sugar scrub you found at Target. All the while shaking your head.

“You’re being really extra today, y’know.”

As you rinse your hair and your body and shut the water off, you peak out of the curtain again, but this time Will’s gone and you can hear voices in the kitchen, Will’s, and someone else's that you don’t recognize.

Drying off, you pull your clothes on quickly, smearing some deodorant under your armpits and lotion onto your legs before Will comes back and catches you naked–not that he hasn’t seen you nearly undressed before. You’ve changed into your bathing suit before with just a towel covering you while he did the same. Things neither of your parents ever knew you did, but it never came to anything.

“I ordered pizza.” Will said, turning the corner in the hall, chewing on a slice as you comb your hair out.

“Extra pepperoni?”

Will nods, offering some of the slice to you and you eagerly biting into it, nodding, and giving him a thumbs-up as you grab your towel and dirty clothes.

“Mm hm, c’mon. Let’s hit the couch.”

You drop your clothes off in the hamper and go into the kitchen to make up some plates. Will didn’t just order pizza either, he ordered cheesy bread sticks and those chocolate lava cakes.

“I didn’t think I was hungry until now.”

With your plates ready, Will grabs some drinks and you head into the living room together.

“Where’s your mom, YN?” Will asks, flopping onto the big lumpy sectional sofa.

Taking up the whole corner, propping one leg up while the others cocked at an angle as he accepts his plate.

“Thanks.”

You sit down next to him, folding your legs up criss-cross applesauce and dig in.

“Singles Cruise, remember?”

For a long time, after your parents got divorced and your dad moved on like he never had a wife and daughter, it was really hard for your mom. Paying a mortgage and raising a kid alone on her salary, times were tough. Sometimes the lights got shut off. Sometimes there wasn’t running water, but by God she was doing the best she could. Sometimes you had to stay with your grandparents because it was freezing cold and there wasn’t any heat in the house but your mom always made sure that there was a roof over your head, that you had clothes on your back and food in your stomach. Just sometimes, there wasn’t enough money to stretch.

Now? She seemed to do a lot better. Between the two of you working, there were never any shut off notices, and she could put some money back out of each of her pay checks for emergencies. You finally talked her into taking a vacation, doing something that was just for her.

A comfortable silence settled over the two of you while you ate, save for your moans of pleasure while eating.

You notice that every time you make any kind of sound, Will’s eyes glanced toward you, he shifts in his basketball shorts and it’s easy to see the girthy outline of him against his thigh but it’s not like you haven’t noticed him before–you want so many things, but they just will not happen.

When you’re both too stuffed to eat another bite, Will grins, grabbing you and hauling you over to him, making you sit between his legs as he grabs the PlayStation controller.

“So, what do you wanna play?”

The screen saver wakes up as he goes through your selection of games–again, this is nothing new between you. When you were kids, you always had to share the remote and once Will was big enough to overpower you, you always ended up in his lap or between his legs but after today, when it felt like nothing was going right, this felt good instead of frustrating.

“Give me that.” You say, snatching the controller. “You played first last time.”

You quickly select God of War 3 and smile as the credits begin.

“Remember when we were kids, and we figured out they showed nudity in these games?”

Will laughed, his voice right next to your ear, sniffing your hair, then your shoulder and neck.

“We had to be lookouts for each other because if our parents saw that… we’d be banned from video games for life.”

“Our asses would still be red now.”

You chuckle but it’s cut short quiet fast when Will shifts you onto your hip and slams his palm against your ass cheek.

“Stinging like it just happened.”

Your breath is stuck in your throat as he eases you back down, chuckling low in your ear.

“Mmm, smell so good… is that… coconut and vanilla?”

“Uh-y-yeah.”

Dumbly, you stammer out a half-witted response to Will’s question.

“I like it. Suits you. Cool and sweet.”

Will’s hand comes up, threading the hair at your temple, stroking your head as he rests his chin on top of your head, feeling him sigh and breath beneath your body as the game kicks off, the controller vibrating as the scene opens up with Krato’s on the back of Gaia one of the Titans climbing Mount Olympus.

You’ve had no particular style for game play. Will was always the one with all the combos and strategic attacks. You were more of a, ‘hmm I wonder what this button will do’ type of player, and he teased you for it mercilessly, but today he wasn’t shit talking, telling you what buttons to hit.

His hands scaled down your sides, stroking your outer thighs as you tried to pay attention to what you were doing.

“Will…”,

You groaned in annoyance and felt him chuckle beneath you.

“Sorry, I’m distracting you, aren’t I?”

He stops, laying his hands over your stomach like he’s going to be good and leave you alone until his fingers twitch the soft, thin cotton of your shirt up a little, and then just a little more, another couple of inches and you shift between his legs.

You’re biting your lip in concentration, whipping the Blades of Chaos, trying to remember the buttons to push to grab your opponent and yank them back to you when you feel Will’s hand moved lower down your abdomen. He’s got your shirt up just enough that he could slip his hands underneath and touch your belly, but he’s bringing the controller closer and closer to your apex. You can feel the vibrations in your pussy and you inhale sharply.

“Will…”,

“Hmm?”

Like he does not know what he’s doing as he uses one of your hands to rub the controller's grip up and down the folds of your pussy.

“Do you need some help, honey? Are your little hands too small for that great big controller?”

Will’s voice in your ear is too sweet, teasing, mocking as his much larger hands move over yours and start guiding your thumbs on the buttons and joysticks as he shifts in his seat, bringing the controller lower, letting the very phallic looking hand grips rub against you. You’re really regretting not putting on panties underneath the soft velvety booty shorts you grabbed because there’s so little to shield you from the vibrations and warmth that’s pooling into the crotch of your pink shorts.

While you're trying not to die, the stubble of his jaw has found its way to your neck, pricking you as his lips find a place to suck.

The wetter you get, the harder it is to stay still and with Will’s lips on your neck and shoulder it's getting increasingly difficult to concentrate on what you're doing in the game as you get killed for the first time and the ‘You Died’ screen pops up.

“Fuck.”

You hiss through your teeth, back arching involuntarily.

The controller is still, but Will continues to rub it against your short clothed lips, just teasing you with it and you stutter his name in a low heady voice. You don’t know what brought this on or if Will is just horny, but it feels like your heart is crumbling in your chest the wetter you get. You don’t want to be a booty call.

“If you need me to stop, YN just say the word. I’ll stop. I’ll do whatever you want me to, but I’ve wanted this for a long time. I love you, YN. I have for so long… but I was afraid to say it. I didn’t want to lose you.”

It feels like your chest it going to explode listening to Will’s confession. It all comes flooding back. This is exactly the way he teased old girlfriends, but Will had not dated seriously since–right after you broke it off with your high school boyfriend and Will was there for you every day through the whole thing.

Breathing heavy, you turn, twisting at the waist to look at Will. Is he serious?

He is. The fear and anxiety that shimmers in his eyes is evidence of his feelings. You can practically see the pounding of his heart in his chest.

“I’ve been waiting to hear you say that since I was thirteen.”

Will seals his lips over yours, cupping your cheek in his palm. His hand at your cheek eventually made its way to the nape of your neck, massaging the muscles there as his tongue swept against your bottom lip to gain entry.

For several fevered minutes you’re inseparable, and for the first time since your mom went on vacation you were glad that she was out of the house while you climbed all over your best friend, tongues wound together before you both had to pull away to catch your breath.

Clearing his throat, Will glances at the tv screen. “Do… you want to keep going?”

For a second, you're not sure what he is referring to, but then he moves his hand to the controller your loosely gripping and gasp, remembering what the two of you were actually doing.

You’re surprised that Will isn’t stripping you down right now, but maybe he wants to take things slow and you can’t feel disappointed about that either. A smile clinging to your lips as you nod.

“Sure.”

Kissing him one more time, as you try to pull away, he grabs you on either side of your face, holding you there for a few more seconds before releasing you, his hand tapping the side of your butt.

“Turn around, on your knees… I want to try something.”

You can see the wheels of his mind turning as you turn around, shifting to your knees, his legs disappearing as he sits up behind you as well, guiding you to the end of the couch and pushing you until your elbows are resting on the arm of the couch with your ass up in the air.

As you press continue, your respawn at the beginning of the game as Will moves behind you. You can feel him against the back of your thighs while his hands slid up your back and his fingers brush over the tickle spots of your tummy, making you flinch and giggle before he smacks your ass.

“Stay still baby.”

His tone is light, playful, like he’s trying to do something of utmost importance and your giggles are disrupting his train of thought.

“Sorry,” you murmur, but you don’t sound sorry at all.

You’re enjoying this way too much, feeling his hands on your body, exploring you for the first time, and it’s nothing like when the two of you used to wrestle with each other. It’s totally different now. And as you're considering all the differences, the way his hands squeeze and massage over your lower back, down your thighs and how you can feel his cock pressing against your eyes, you completely lose all process of thought when he tugs your little shorts down and moves away.

The instant you can feel him moving, but not right against you, the game be damned, you look over your shoulder only to find his shoulders leveling with your ass and he makes a ‘turn around’ motion with his index finger before his hands spread you apart.

Eyes going wide, you look back at the television; you hear an appreciative hum from Will’s throat as he must be pleased by what he sees there before his tongue flattens against your folds and in one long slow lick his tongue trails up to your puckered little rosebud and his mouth stops, cupping you with his lips as he sucks and twirls his tongue around the rim.

No one has -ever- done that to you before. Ever. And you can’t help the whimper that erupts from your throat as Will’s lips tighten their suction and pull away. It takes zero seconds for him to return his lips to yours again and just toys with your folds before dipping inside for a taste and he growls against your folds, sending the vibrations up your tailbone as you shudder and the ‘You Died’ screen pops up again as you curse under your breath, but you really don’t even care.

“That’s two…. three more deaths and you get a penalty.”

“What to do you mean a penal,- “

Instead of your voice coming out reasonably and at a normal octave it shrieked up several more octaves as Will thrust his tongue into your cunt and fucked you, using his grip on your hips to pull you back against his mouth. His tongue was like the desert, scorching every nerve ending it touched as he used his skill to make your back arch. Whatever the penalty for five deaths in a row, you were likely to find out quick as you continued the game. Only every time you fought off the gods and their minions Will would change his tactics.

You were on your fourth death and had gotten further than ever before, making it inside of Mother Gaia and luckily there isn’t much to fight within the Titan herself except to use the Blades of Chaos to swing from one portion of her innards to another when Will pushes his index finger one knuckle deep into her rosebud and you hit the wrong button.

Your thighs are shivering and dripping with sticky honey when he sits up triumphantly.

“That didn’t take long.”

Will laughed, his voice condescending. He always thought he was the better out of the two of you to play video games, he was always highly competitive in any sport he took a liking to but when it came to video games his favorite thing to do was make you lose on purpose and you supposed nothing had changed since you were kids.

“You did that on purpose.”

You whimper out as you're trying to catch your breath. Too many times you were on the cusp of an orgasm, and Will would inexplicably slow down or stop.

“Mhm.”

From behind you, Will mused as he tugged his shirt off and tossed it onto the floor before he pushed his basketball shorts down, exposing the tumescent girth of his heavy cock. Gripping his shaft in his fist, he gave it a few pumps in his hand before lining himself up with your hips, using the hold on his cock to rub and smear the bulbous head against your wet folds. You swallow at the heat of his velvet head, rubbing against you, splitting your folds, and rubbing your clit with it, make your hips spasm with pleasure before he slides down to the narrow little opening.

A gasp leaves your lips as you sit up straighter, feeling the head push into you. With your chest heaving, Will takes his time stretching you to fit his inches, sinking in slowly until he finds the barrier of your innocence and breaks past it as you let out a sharp squeal and he stops.

Wrapping his arms around your waist, he’s still, letting you catch your breath and adjust to his size as he buries his face in your shoulder, kissing your neck softly before he lifts your shirt off and his hands move up your tummy to your breasts as he breathes against your skin, taking in your sweet scent.

“I knew it.” Will said, whispering. “I knew you never let any of them have you.”

He was panting with the effort it took to be inside of your clenching depths; he wasn’t even halfway in and there was a lot more to go. Holding himself back from slamming every inch he had to give you inside as you trembled against him. “I fucking knew you never let them fuck you, my sweet girl.” Will crooned as he pushed another inch inside just as your walls stopped throbbing quite so hard.

He wasn’t wrong. The farthest you ever got was making out and some fingering. You gave your last boyfriend a blowjob out of pity because he kept complaining that you gave him blue balls and you were a tease. As soon as he started pressuring you for me you ended it and then he went around the school telling everyone what a whore you were. Will beat the shit out of him when he made the mistake of talking about you within earshot of him, and now Will knew the truth.

For all he knew, maybe you did everything six ways from Sunday with that boy, but it didn’t matter then whether you did. Will didn’t like it and he broke the guy's nose and suffered a two-week suspension from school for it.

Will thrust half his length into you in one quick motion of his hips and you let out a cry. You were absolutely full, stuffed completely by his cock.

“Will…. I-I can’t take anymore.”

Your voice hoarse as he gripped your chin, turning you to face him as he kissed your lips. Slowly pumping in and out at a steady pace, rutting you gently. “Shhh…. it’ll fit. I’ll make it fit…. just gotta get you nice and stretched until all your pussy knows is the shape of my cock.”

He moved at a slow pace, rolling his hips in this deliciously slow way as his veiny inches slipped in and out. Swallowing hard, you moaned out his name as the heat built inside and Will quickened his thrusts, pushing another inch and another until his hips were slapping against your ass, buried to the hilt, his balls smacking against your sticky wet folds.

A feral growl collided in his throat as he pounded in and out of your weeping cunt, groaning deep in his chest as he took your arms behind your back, folding them together as he held them in one hand, pressing your shoulders down into the armrest of the couch as he fucked you.

You can’t stop the series of lustful whimpers and moans that come from your lips, cheeks turning red as you beg him to fuck you harder, faster even when you don’t think he could go any harder, Will surprises you still.

“F-ffuck! W-Will….”

You can’t breathe as the muscles in your abdomen tense, the roll of heat in the pit of your stomach forcing your channel to tighten and throb, swollen from the pounding you’ve been taking. You’re going to cum all over him.

“Do it.”

Will moves over you, his hips still hammering into you as his back bows and you can feel him swelling inside you, pushing his length against your mound spurring your orgasm closer with each stroke and god does he know how to manipulate his stroke to slam against it and grind with each thrust.

“Drench my fucking cock, YN. I’m g-gunna….c-um.” Will’s voice tightens as he grips the armrest for leverage, the echo of your bodies meeting in sexual congress fill the living room as your moans reach their apex and you spasm sharply, melting around him in a hot gush of fluids as he paints your womb white with his cum.

Four more thrusts and Will nearly collapses over you, his lips and teeth marking the skin of your shoulder, your back and neck as he kisses you. Pushing your sweaty hair away from your face before he carefully slides out of your cunt and you feel your combined fluids oozing from your weeping, swollen pussy.

“Don’t move baby… I’ll be right back.”

Will kicks off his basketball shorts, rounding the coffee table naked as the day he was born as he goes to the bathroom. You’re too tired to move so you stay where you are but he’s back in no time with a soft wet rag in his hand which he uses to clean you up before tossing to the floor and pulling you on top of his chest wrapping his arms around you. He even hooks one of his legs over you hip as he cradles you between his thighs. Kissing the top of your head.

“Go out with me tomorrow night… I want to show you off. My baby… so everyone knows, you’re mine. You were always mine.”

[septicace-writes]

The Gentlemen’s Agreement. Helmut Zemo x Bucky Barnes. Smut, angst, dubcon, oral, biting, minor bloodplay. They are complicated messes of men, perhaps more alike than they wish. There’s no excuse for any of this, and yet it happens.

Here’s the thing. He sees the struggle and the hurt of you, and he doesn’t care. He’s Zemo, yeah? He takes and takes and thinks that maybe someday it’ll all add up to equal the gaping hole inside him. He’s wrong, but who cares. Neither of you are likely to live long enough to see the outcome. But that’s further down the road and beside the point; the point is that it’s been a long while since you dipped a toe in the nascent kink scene of the 40’s, sweetheart, and you never would’ve thought this was even possible.

You, Bucky. The big tough, the muscle, the ray of sunshine who could smile and melt hearts from across the room. Yeah. You. Who’d’ve thought you would find yourself on your knees for a man like this? Who’d’ve thought you’d be so goddamned hard for it?

Do you trust me?

No.

Good. Open your mouth.

This is Helmut Zemo’s thumb stroking your lips, assessing, warm, more callused than you thought it would be. He could be feeling lust or nothing at all, and does it matter? Either way you’re here on your knees and you can feel every chip in the concrete and every shameful breath that shudders through you. Oh, Bucky. Listen. You are so fucked.

It’s so easy to let yourself fall beneath his hand, to feel those fingers trail up your cheek and into your hair; doesn’t matter if you’ve cut it short, there’s still plenty left to grab. And he grabs because he knows the way it fires all through you and the way you try to hide it; no teeth because there’s wrong and then there’s wrong; it’s part of the gentlemen’s agreement that you probably won’t kill each other here and you’ll absolutely, definitely keep your teeth off his cock. Anywhere else, though, is fair game.

Bite me, go on. I dare you— ah. Again. Again. Harder. When you taste blood you can stop. You filthy fuck, you love this. On your knees, aching, so fucking hard and I’m not touching you this time. You’re going to make yourself come so there’s no doubt in your mind how much you need this from me.

Zemo’s thighs are blooming red and purple and he is absurdly, preposterously hard; precome slicks him and why don’t you have a taste, you nasty boy? He tastes like salt and sweat and all the shame you feel because freedom is wonderful, isn’t it, but what you want is an order to follow. What you crave is his words in your ear, uncoiling along your spine, freeing you from decision and thought and all the spiraling grief that leaves you shaking in the dark. Shouldn’t have undone it, little man. You’re trapped with your own mind now and it’s so hard; decades of the winter soldier and the good man tangling around each other left you cold and broken and you need this, need it like air. Boy, you’d give anything for a blank mind but you can never tell a soul.

But I know. I know what you need, even if you hate it. Hate me. It’s alright, you’re neither the first nor the last. I’ll use you and you’ll let yourself be used, and in this way we both get something of what we need. He says he needs the win, the last of the serum crushed beneath his heel and all these fucking super soldiers bleeding in the dust (and that means you, friend; you’re a fool and a sucker and if you think he wouldn’t kill you the minute something better came along—)

But what does Helmut Zemo really want? You’ve guessed, haven’t you, in those moments when he comes and he is briefly unguarded; in the depths of his eyes are reflected little moments: firelight, droning insects in summer, silhouettes in the doorway and he is never, ever going to get them back.

Like calls to like. You and I are irreparably broken; I will push and you will fall and we will curve our bodies like the spray from severed arteries. This whole thing is untenable, Bucky-boy; sooner or later the next meeting will be the last and if you’re not in prison for aiding and abetting you’ll probably be burying him. But wouldn’t it be nice— wouldn’t it be nice— if he could grasp hold of your mind again and empty you out completely even as he fills you up? You’re a filthy disheveled wreck with your right hand on your cock and your left digging gouges in the floor; it was either that or crush his femur with the autonomic clench of shining fingers. He sees, and he knows, because he sees right to the heart of you. Doesn’t he?

Of course he does. He’s fucking Zemo and you should know by now that he is keen-eyed and poisonous. And he sees the way you keep your hands aside; he sees it and he doesn’t smile but there is a new sharpness to him. Oh, sweetheart. He’s in your throat and he is thick, isn’t he; when he moves he steals your air and your tears and the ropy thick spit that comes from him fucking in deep. He doesn’t last; he can’t, not when the smell of blood is sharp in his nose and you’re working his cock like your life depends on it.

Come with me, he doesn’t say. And he doesn’t say if your eyes slide shut then you can’t see my face. Can’t see me. Because this isn’t nice and it isn’t right but there’s that little spark of something there. It could be the spark to light your campfire or to burn the forest down, and would you notice? Would you care? When all you want is his gloved hand tight around your mind, what does it matter if you fall to ruin? And when you think about crushing his devious fingers underneath your heel when you’re pulling at your cock deep in the night, why does your mind drift to him breaching you and filling every hole?

Bucky, oh you wicked thing. You straight-spined, filthy little fuck. You’re gonna taste this for days, bitter come in your throat and that salty musk of his skin, and when you lick your lips distractedly it’s because you’re chasing the ghosts of those last dregs. You’re lost, whether you can admit it or not. You’re lost and he sees it, but here’s the thing. You see him too. After all, like calls to like.

And when you come it’s shame and glory; it’s little pearly spatters on the floor and the tensing of your shoulders. It’s his softening cock slipping free, and the way his hand cards through your hair for just a moment. And he was right, you know. He was right although it hurts you and you hate it. You want it. Want this. Want him. And it burns, it burns; the spark falls, and fire blazes up.

[septicace-writes]

How do u think daddy!henry and little!readers kid (so Henry and reader have a kid together and now they are big like 16) would react to someone flirting with reader

Not Enough

Summary: The barista from your local coffee shops tries to hit on you, but you brush it off. As your husband, August Walker, finds out about it he’s clearly having none of it.

Pairing: Daddy!August Walker x little!Reader

Content Warning: DDlg themed, on the rather angsty side, implied emotional neglect, mentions of insecurities

Word Count: ~ 1k

A/N: Thank you, nonnie, for sending this aks! 🌸💕 I don’t really write RPFs so I hope that Daddy Auggie is okay too. I’m sorry that this turned out to be way more sad and angsty than I had planned it to be, but some stories just start to take their very own path.

.....there's a Part 2 now......

To you it was nothing. A piece of paper with a number scribbled onto it. The young, admittedly handsome and charming barista at your favourite café had slipped it to you after you paid for the coffee you and your daughter had enjoyed during a little shopping stroll through the nearby mall. At first you thought that it was addressed to your daughter, who was turning into a truly beautiful lady with each day that passed, but the note left beside the number was without a doubt directed towards you.

‘Don’t hesitate to call me if you ever feel lonely, Mrs. Walker.’ it read. After inspecting it for the first time you flinched a little, unsure whether to laugh about or feel offended by it.

“Is everything okay, mom?” Your daughter asked, her brows arched with curiosity.

“Of course, sweetheart. I just thought the barista mixed up the receipt, but it’s alright. Shall we go home now? I bet your Dad’s already worried sick about how much we bought this time.” You threw her a warm smile, shoving the piece of paper into one of the shopping bags alongside the actual receipt.

**********

For the past few days August seemed off. It wasn’t all that obvious, but after some time you noticed him looking at you with dull eyes, watching and observing you with worried looks and after some more days went by the fake smiles started to appear around his normally endearing lips that used to spoil you with loving kisses and words of heartfelt praise.

You knew that something was absolutely not sitting right with him, but every time you tried to get the conversation going he shrugged it off. The tension between the two of you grew from day to day up to the point where you just couldn’t take his brooding anymore. You had tried everything to cheer him up since he wasn’t willing to talk to you about what was wrong and it left you devastated.

With your knees pressed against your chest you had your arms wrapped around your favourite stuffie, a fuzzy and soft teddy bear. Mr. Honeypaw was always there for you when you felt sad and needed comfort. This night in particular you needed his companionship a lot for August practically locking himself in his office. Actively shutting you out. Tears had started to run down your flushed cheeks as soon as you heard the key being turned, knowing that he now went on to avoid you. It’s been hours since and the crying eventually stopped. Not because you felt less sad, but much rather because you had run out of tears, not leaving your place right in front of your shared bed, hoping that he’d come around at least at some point and yet your hopes dwindled with every minute passing.

After crouching down for so long you finally had it, gathering all your remaining strength and making your way to his office door. With one arm you held Mr. Honeypaw close to your chest as you knocked onto the wood with the other. No response. You knocked again. Still nothing.

“Daddy, please…” You winced with a shaky voice that left no doubt about your state of mind.

Finally. After another excruciatingly long moment of silence you heard him moving behind the door, the shuffling reigniting your last bit of hope.

August opened the door with hesitation and an audibly heartbroken gasp fell from his lips as he saw your bloodshot eyes, swollen cheeks and sore nose.

“Princess...what is it?” He asked, letting go of the door handle to pull you into a tight embrace.

A new wave of white hot tears threatened to shake you again, because that hug alone was more affection than he had given you in days.

“Daddy…” You whimpered again, your brittle voice getting lost in his grey shirt.

“Daddy’s here for you, princess. What’s wrong?”

Pulling yourself from him ever so slightly you looked up to him, staring right into his concerned eyes.

“You better tell me… why...w-why..”, the words seemed to get stuck in your throat, forming a heavy, dry lump “Why don’t you talk to me?”

A deep sigh rumbled through August’s chest as he released you from the embrace and pulled a wrinkled piece of paper from his pocket. You felt your stomach drop at the sight of it, memories from you absentmindedly throwing it into one of the shopping bags resurfacing in an instant.

“No, Daddy, it’s not…-” But he cut you off, unfolding the note.

“Am I not enough, princess? Am I not giving you everything you ask for?” His words were laced with hurt and disappointment you could barely endure. “Is this what we have come to now?”

You shook your head almost violently, your hand rising up to rip the paper out of his fingers.

“August!”, you snapped out of it, letting your stuffie fall to the floor “This is nothing, I promise! I love you and only you…”

He huffed, his whole demeanor riddled with anger and his own insecurities, because deep down they still lingered, waiting on their chance to hold onto something. Something like this. His emotions boiling up so unhinged made it almost impossible for him to look at you. You were everything he could’ve possibly wished for and more. You were his whole word, his princess and the mother to a beautiful daughter. Something he never thought the world could have in store for a man like him, but since he found the note while unpacking the bags for you the paralyzing fear of losing you to someone else, perhaps someone younger, someone who’s home more often, someone who could take better care of you burned him from the inside out, rendering him bitter.

“August.”, You repeated “Please…”

[septicace-writes]

You made this so soft and cozy!!! Poor Mike he's been through so much I'm glad he's found his home, is learning what home is and that they'll always be there for him.

👋 Hi friend!!!

I've thought of something else I'd love to see your take on: What do you think would happen if, in the PSU, either Mike or the reader got a little jealous of each other. If for one reason or another they felt like Walt is paying more attention to the other. Just.... Sub on sub jealousy. If you want to of course ❤

Nothing ever seems to go to plan, does it? Least of all stories like these. Three Stages of a Dream. Walter x Mike x Reader. Mild angst, softness, allusions to smut. Mike wakes up alone, and finds his way to you. Just a little bit of something to chase away the night chill.

Tagging @iwillmakeyoucraveme @its--fandom--darling @indigosaurus @summersong69 @wonderlandfandomkingdom @imneonpanda @october505 @seriouslygoodlookinggents @feralrunaway @takemeback-toparadise @ashleyskywalker @little-green-love @critfailroll @luclittlepond @devterra @davidbuddbg @brandycranby @mary-ann84 @zealoushound @hylian-hoe @enchantedbytomandhenry

So, jealousy. Yeah. The poison in the well, the green-eyed monster, the thing that creeps and crawls and etches its name in your throat with its acid. Jealousy. Yeah. Everyone’s got a little of it; everyone’s got a little bit of envy too. Or a lot— it depends on the person and the place, on time and circumstance and the aligning of the stars.

Mike’s got both, because Mike is hurt and broken and patched together with gold, but he still remembers loneliness and pain. He still remembers the first snow on his lips that day, when cold sun blinded him and so many questions burned his ears; pretty boy, where have you gone? Oh love, oh angel, oh you fallen beauty, come back to the dark and the damp; come back, come back—

And he wakes with sweat clinging to his skin; he breathes and looks for Walt but Walter’s gone. So are you and the blanket, and he listens in the dark. He is sharp-eared and silent and when he leans his head against the glass he is haloed in white; he could lift a finger to write his secret name, the one he heard in the deep dark underground. He could write the key that opens the box-that’s-not-a-box; he could hold his head in his hands and press at his temples til the world goes quiet.

There’s the image of you and Walter and the way he opened you on his hand; Mike plays the scene again and again and if you were to ask he’d answer nothing. Just thinking. But listen, little bird. Sweet one. He’s searching for the twist of pain but he cannot find it. He is lonely and he is raw; he is afraid, a little, in the fading echoes of his dream. But the little voice that calls him down is dying, torn apart by another that rises up.

Sir. You think he’s gonna be okay?

I do. But listen. We take him as he is. We are his harbor, sweetheart, and when he drifts in broken by the storm all we can do is give him a haven to rest in. He has far to go.

And we go with him.

This is the feeling of the salt spray on his face

that day, when you drove for hours til you reached where the road met the sea. This is the feeling of damp gathering on the blankets in the back of Walter’s truck, and the warm cocoon of goosedown and shared breath. This is home. This is home.

This is home. Mike whispers the words and cuts the threads of envy; he hears the murmur of your voices down the hall and finds a hollow space between your words, just big enough for him. He remembers the ghosts of your hands on his flanks and Walter’s teeth so light at his throat, and lets jealousy sink into the dark. I am home. There will be much back-and-forth before he knows it in his bones and heart and mind; he is broken and there will always be those gaps where dark and doubt seep in. But so it goes.

Hey there, beautiful boy. Walter smiles his soft smile and opens his arm; there is room on this sofa for three and so Mike makes himself a part of the pile. It’s all knees and elbows and Mike wrapping his long legs around your waist and it is perfect.

I had a dream, Mike says. I’m thinking of writing it down. It’s all so clear. Mike’s hand is in your hair and Walt’s in his; you are a chain of love and hope and late-night strangeness. There were cities of ash, and when the wind blew, all the towers were torn down and remade. I remember that I knelt in chains and someone was talking with a voice like pebbles in a jar. I remember the questions, not the words but the feeling. They offered broken glass with an open hand.

Mike is shivering and so you close yourselves around him; every inch of him is touching either you or Walt and through you all passes the metronomic steadiness of Walter’s breath. I wondered where you were. The words are halting, slow, but softening with each exhale. I thought you might be fucking out here.

Would you like it if we did? We could drive away the bad dreams.

But Mike’s hand is lazy in your hair; he yawns and flexes his legs to squeeze you tight. Nah, babe. This is good. I just want to feel you both, to be all warm and cozy. Let’s fuck later, after coffee. Maybe bring the blankets out to the porch swing and wave at the neighbors when they come out to get the paper. You can hear the smile in his voice; he hums a little and drifts into a dream.

Hey, babe. Listen to this. I dreamed about the hum of powerlines overhead, while I lay in the grass. All the hair on my arms was standing up, and light flashed down to crawl across my skin. It bit and it tingled, and when I woke up I was so damn hard.

Michael.

Yeah, boss?

Have you heard of a violet wand? I think it’s something you might like to try.

[septicace-writes]

Thanks for the mention 😁

Captain Syverson

❣ my kinda sunday ❣ cute bunny, run bunny ❣ sin on skin ❣ riding the stallion ❣ the baby maker ❣

@blakerogue

❣ Skin Deep ❣

@fallenangelbb

❣ cockblocked ❣ period ❣ candy cane ❣ girls' night needs ❣

@sillyrabbit81

❣ Quiver ❣

@darklydeliciousdesires

❣ Happy Mother's Day ❣

@angryschnauzer

❣ weakness ❣

@wendimydarling

❣ a dog named kevin ❣

@princesscassashoneypot

❣ watermelon sugar ❣

@zealoushound

❣ truck stop ❣

@septicace-writes

❣ my girl ❣ pregnant ❣ useless giant ❣ homeland ❣ oh, to see without eyes ❣ I like my men big ❣

@cruelfvkingsummer

❣ sick ❣

@onlyhenrys

❣ I'm not your daddy, sweetheart pt.2 ❣

@fuckoffbard

❣ take what's yours, and get out ❣ labor pains ❣

@fun-with-jane

❣ flight 292 ❣

@fourmarkdove

❣ more recs ❣

@la-cey

❣ feral collisions pt.2 ❣

@littlefreya