#good day to rug hook

[chabric]

ahaha I follow the rug hooking tag on tumblr so I saw when yours popped up (awh shucks hsjdfg) also omg it's so cute :'D

Omg !! I love your work, both rug hooking and illustrations related so it makes me really happy! Thank yoooou ! 🌟

[kitkatscabinet]

FAT, JUICY & WET

pairing(s): dick grayson, kyle rayner, stephanie brown x fem! Reader

summary: certified pussy eaters, champions of the munch cause.

a/n: minors swiftly fuck off

DICK GRAYSON

Loves nothing more than to get on his knees for you, doesn’t care where, how or when, doesn’t even notice the bruises from the tiles or the rug burn from the carpet, it’s a price he’s willing to pay.

You can't count the amount of times he's come home from patrol just to hook his fingers in your panties and dive right in, sometimes he doesn't even get them down your legs, simply pulling them to the side. If you're wearing that one blue lacey set he loves then he'll leave them on.

It's his favourite form of stress relief, making his girl feel good, hearing you tell him how good he's doing, and if you tug on his hair? Man nearly blacks out.

God forbid you wear a dress or take a shower together because he’s already between your legs, large hands gripping the flesh of your thighs to spread you open for him.

KYLE RAYNER

Having your thighs clamp down on his head, back arching off the mattress he’s unintentionally grinding against as you cum? Yeah that's his favourite thing in the entire world, the galaxy.

Kyle is not gonna let you pull away, even when you squirm and beg, he's not finished with his meal yet :(

Not above using the ring to restrain you when you try to slide away up the mattress or dig your heels into his back cause it’s too much. Kyle doesn’t care, he’s gonna keep going. He’s been in space for so long, he’s got literal weeks to make up for.

Accidentally overstimulates himself when he cums from humping the mattress, continuing to rut against the mess he's made.

YOU 🫵

Stephanie works so hard to keep Gotham safe, it's only fair you let her lie back and be the pillow princess she deserves to be. Golden hair splayed across the pillows and fingers clenching the sheets as you lavish her with attention.

Tell her how gorgeous she is, how she's the best thing you've ever tasted, holding her thighs open when she tries to shy away from you telling her how pretty her pussy is.

If she’s been particularly bratty then you make her ride your face, you won’t touch her except for your tongue as she frantically grinds against you, continuously slumping forward because it’s too much and she can’t keep upright, only for you to stop, smacking her on the ass to remind her to be good.

PETER PARKER

Sit on his face, for the love of god, please sit on his face! If you try to pull any of that hovering bullshit he'll grab your thighs, holding you against him with his superior strength as he encourages you to ride him.

It's also the only way to get him to stop talking, any other position and he's constantly pulling away, babbling nonsense about how perfect your pussy is, how it was made for him. How he was made for this, made to spend his days with his head between your thighs.

Please call him a good boy! Pet his hair, tug on it, dig your heels into his back as you praise him. Tell him he's the absolute best and he'll do whatever you want for the rest of his life.

[kissandtellus]

Could you write something with brat tamer zayne and sylus please? 🥹

Brat Tamer: Zayne & Sylus

Warnings: Smut, spanking, punishment, mention of small wound, collar and leash.

Zayne~

“Did I say you could look at me?” Oh. Y/n KNOWS she’s in trouble. As if being bent over Zayne’s lap, his white lab coat still over his shoulders and his large hand punishing her cheeks wasn’t enough of a clue.

She just wanted to give him those big and wide puppy eyes. But even that was beyond how much she acted up today.

It had all started with simply refusing to eat the nutritious breakfast he cooked for her. His hours with her were already short, but she decided to just have a piece of toast, because she was busy. Even though he said he could pack it up for her.

Okay, fine. He could let that slide.

But then it came time for his break. The two always met up at the Akso Hospital garden. But she had sent him a quick text right as he found a comfortable bench.

“Sorry. Can’t make it. Xavier asked me to spar with him. See you at home!” She ended it with a cute little snowman emoji.

Okay, fine. Having good connections with coworkers was important.

The last straw came in the form of her refusing to talk to him after her hard work day. She had clammed up, and would turn her head aside at dinner whenever he questioned her.

“No. Use your words, Y/n. I am not doing this with you.” Uh oh. Y/n knew that tone of voice.

But still she insisted on keeping her mouth sealed.

“It’s nothing, alright? Just drop it.” That did it. Zayne dropped his fork onto his plate, standing up as he carefully wiped his mouth with his napkin.

“Bedroom. Now.”

And the rest was history. Her poor little ass cheeks were a rosy red. Zayne had his fingers hooked in her waist band of her panties to pull them flush between her cheeks so the outline of her drooling lips were visible

Every 3 spanks was then accompanied by his fingers sliding over the outline of her clit through the soaked fabric. Y/n was sniffling and sobbing, squirming from the overstimulation. Zayne’s face was expressionless when she started to beg.

“Z-Zayne!”

“Wrong.” He pinched her swollen pearl between his index and thumb.

“D-Dr. Zayne!” She corrected herself immediately. “I’m gonna cum Gonnacumgonnacum!”

“No.” He pulled his hand away completely and released her soaked underwear. The fabric clung to her sticky folds and she actually cried as the heat in her stomach raged on. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

The kiss to the back of her head was nearly ice cold.

Oh she couldn’t hate but to love him.

Sylus~

Sylus was a man that always had a schedule. A strict schedule.

Most of that schedule including Y/n. His sweet Kitten who could do no wrong in his eyes-

“Present.” He nearly purred to the woman at his feet on the plush, faux bear rug. The pretty red collar around her neck jingled as she crawled with her back to him, breast against the rug and ass arched deliciously so.

Sylus hummed, taking a sip from his wine cup. “Already wet? Are you wet because you disobeyed me? Or maybe because you enjoy putting your life in danger?”

It was neither of those, not really.

Sylus would have taken the bullet if she didn’t intervene. The target was a lot more slippery than Y/n anticipated.

Sylus stared down at her bandage wrapped arm and his heart throbbed. He’d carried her to his car and stayed silent, aside from his one hand pressing on her bicep to keep the wound from gushing blood.

But now she was at his home, his domain. He stood silently from his seat and kneeled down next to her.

She was stripped naked aside from the collar and chain. He grabbed the leather handle and-

“Bad kitten.” The handle came down right across her aching cunt. She gasped out loud, body lurching forward. But Sylus hooked two fingers in her collar to keep her still.

“No. You are going to learn to follow my orders. Ass up, Kitten. Let me see how disgusting you are.”

Y/n lost count of how many swats her pretty pussy took but all she knew was the bear rug was ruined by her dripping juices.

“Clean it up. Mouth only. Then I’m cleaning that wound and we are going to bed.”

Maybe she should’ve let him take the stupid bullet.

[shotmrmiller]

response to this but it got so long and ig im in my throuple era rn

@xoxunhinged i listened to one (1) song on repeat while writing this on the phone

okay yeah wait or just

it's ghost x price first.

Big burly men taking up too much space in the little coffee shop you work at or something and they're there like clockwork too. Every wednesday and friday, 8 am, usually the first clients of the day and all they order is a regular cup of joe. Plain. You offer alternative sweeteners, powdered creamer, but no dice.

Plain black. Like the occasional smudge of eyeliner(?) around the bigger one's eyes.

They're cute, in their own way. John is a blend of rugged charm and seasoned wisdom. The other, Simon, is mysterious. Guarded. Speaks only to his companion.

The pet names start to get to your head. Of course, you reason that John's just not from around here. His calling you sweetheart from across the room to grab your attention must be English.

But logic cannot stop the heat from licking up your cheeks when he does. or when Simon calls you something different altogether eventually.

"Mornin', pet."

It's even more gut-twisting when you catch glimpses of the occasional PDA: A large hand curling around an even bigger jean-clad thigh. Faces so close they could kiss (Waterboarding couldn't get the fact that you've rubbed your thighs together at the thought of them actually kissing out of you) and the fact that Simon's usually sharp gaze softens around the edges, pale gold whispering against the puckered pink of a barely visible scar beneath his face mask.

A couple. They're a couple. It's bittersweet, that feeling settling in your chest. Like dark chocolate coating your tongue. Honeyed nectar of love, the bitter bite of it not being your own.

Maybe it's time to go out with your friends to the bar.

Things take a nasty turn when Simon, out of the both of them, had come in alone and propositioned you on crisp, saturday morning.

Oh, the acid in your stomach felt like it was corroding the walls of your esophagus as it rose. You don't remember much of what you said but it'd been loud, vitriolic. You'd been so furious. Hurt that they had something so sweet, something they could call their own, and here comes this big dumb oaf looking for a piece of warm meat to stick his cock into on the side.

Your manager sent you home for the day.

And home you were headed, well more like the bus stop, stomping away and across the street but the hand that wraps around your arm to keep you in place is John's. (You'd been actually fighting to get away and he hadn't even tightened his grip enough to hurt. embarrassing.)

He clears things up. Tells you to forgive Simon, he's not the most verbose or eloquent with the words he does choose to speak. "He's good at receivin' orders instead of givin' 'em. isn't tha' righ'?"

The "yes, sir" that comes out of Simon is immediate. Obedient. Submissive. (gagging, i actually slammed the desk with my fist rn) A man who knows his place because it is etched in stone. Your teeth grind like rusted gears to keep from turning into a pool of liquid in broad daylight.

"What he meant," he roughly clarifies, "is that we would like you to share our bed." your face burns hot enough to sting. "If you want," John continues, limpid blue eyes fixed on your own.

He looks rather handsome in his uncertainty.

They don't even let you go home to wash and clean up when you nod. (Or shave. Simon had very audibly scoffed at your complaint about that. Said something crass about eating lollipops off the carpet)

The dynamic had been exactly what you'd expected it to be in the bedroom. When authority spoke, Simon listened. Intently. Without hesitation. When John ordered Simon— who'd sat with his broad chest curling around your spine, cocooning you in warmth and the faint scent of smoke, mahogany, and leather— to hook his hands behind your knees and pull your legs up to your shoulders, he'd done so in an instant.

The subtle burn of your hamstrings stretching pulled a hiss from your kiss-swollen lips.

"Bit o' pain with pleasure never hurt anyone, eh, sweetheart?" The deepened rumble of John's voice vibrated in your chest and made your toes curl.

Simon's steady breaths are drowned out by your shuddering ones when John puts his mouth on you, the prickle of his facial hair tickling your sensitive, heated skin.

The burning stretch of your muscles is nothing compared to the sweet sting of two fingers sinking into your hot sex. Pleasure wells in the corner of your eyes when he curls and scissors them while his slick tongue swirls your clit languidly.

He sends you over the edge with practiced ease, shaky limbs, and unsteady mewls. The kiss he plants on your still pulsing cunt is tender, as are your now unrestrained legs.

And he slants his lips-- still dripping slick, dewy beads collecting on his beard-- over Simon's whose mask is now long gone, his erection coming to sit heavy on the fatty mound of your pussy. You can feel the heat of his cock even through his clothes.

A saliva strand connecting them two snaps as he pulls away, glancing down to look at you, sweaty and unkempt, glassy eyes shamelessly staring back.

"I'd let Simon get his turn but," hands weave up your shirt and inside your sports bra while John's grab your legs and wrap them around his thick waist, "gotta prep ya first."

(?)

That comes back to mind after your limbs feel like cold syrup, warmth dribbling from your puffy lips and falling onto the damp bedsheets beneath your arse cheeks.

The question answers itself when Simon slots himself between your aching legs, uncut cock fat and hefty.

(dis)Respectfully, you feel thoroughly used and even now, that doesn't look like it's going to go in easy.

"Easy, love," John's voice comes from above you, "He won't hurt ya. Isn't tha' righ', Simon?"

Simon, who's dark eyes hadn't moved from where John's spend still steadily flowed, cut to him instantly. "Yes, sir."

He hums, a low, raspy sound. "How 'bout you tell our bird tha'?"

A rough hand wraps around your neck, thumb pressed on your fluttering pulse. "I won't hurt ya." His grip tightens, and the swoosh of blood roaring in your ears is deafening.

Much.

The world around you fades, senses attuned only to what's currently wrenching your swollen walls apart, going in, in, and in, it feels never-ending, it's so much, too much, until--

Your stomach clenches, it feels like it's folding in on itself, and a sharp feeling radiates below your navel.

Lips kiss your sweaty temple. "That's all there is. Did so well, eh, sweetheart? Took 'im real good, like you were meant for it."

His cock drags along your over-sensitive, raw nerves in a way that has fire licking up your spine as he pulls back. "Easy, Simon. You'll get your fun from me," John assures.

Your cunt clenches unbidden at that, vise-like around Simon who quietly groans.

The first roll of his hips pushes the air from your lungs, the second blanks your jumbled mind, the third has your nails sinking into whoever's forearms are beside your head, and the fourth has you confusing John's glittering eyes with stars.

And then he places your feet flat on his chest, his weight folding you in half, pinning you in place. Nowhere to run.

Your teeth clack when he thrusts firmly, tip of his cock sitting firmly against the plug of your womb.

"Easy does it, love. Jus' be good 'n take it," John mutters into your ear.

As if you had any choice.

After, when you're completely spent, they tell you to lay back, head propped up by a mountain of pillows, but to keep your legs open, let them see that pretty pussy, they want to see their cum spill out of you.

You thought the fucking Simon gave you had been rough. What John gives him from behind is attempted murder. He grabs at Simon's hair like it's the scruff of a bellicose dog. Pins him in place with his words, growled, thunderous, then his grip. Simon doesn't bare his crooked teeth once.

When your tired hand slithers down to between your legs, tips of your fingers smearing cum around your swollen flesh, arousal surprisingly panging deep in your core, the sheer force of John's thrusts rocks the bed with enough force to crack the wall and Simon whines like a dog in heat.

[l0vebombing]

if each of the boys is aware of the others' existence, i can only imagine how much they'd hate the idea that someone else could have the chance to touch your body the same way they do.

sure, it'd be insanely hot to imagine fucking with all of them at the same time, of course it would, but i don't really believe there's any chance of that happening. just the mention of something like that would probably result in xavier fucking you against the window again, maybe even making you call one of your dear ‘friends’ just to make sure they know you're very much taken, even if your mind tends to wander into unconventional ideas that will never happen.

zayne would have to hold back from rolling his eyes at a suggestion like that. if you wanted someone else instead of him, he wouldn't stop you from chasing who you really loved. but sharing you, after you've already chosen him? not his style, and he'd rather believe you were just trying to get under his skin. still, that wouldn't stop him from reminding you that you shouldn't be so greedy when you can barely keep up with him alone.

rafayel would be so offended, seriously. frustrated, irritated, and all the negative feelings a person could possibly feel. he’d probably say something like, "oh, sure, let's invite a bunch of strangers to fuck my girl. because that's not at all awkward or problematic." it would definitely take you a while to calm him down. and even after apologizing, you wouldn't be off the hook— he's never been particularly rough in bed, but after such a suggestion, he'd feel compelled to show you that he's more than enough and far better than anyone else could ever be.

sylus' incredulous laugh would sweep his momentary anger under the rug, he'd rather pretend he misheard you. honestly, he'd also think you only brought it up to annoy him, because you must know he'd never agree to share you with anyone. you’d spend a good while sitting on his lap, the office door locked tightly, watching some old videos to refresh your memory as to why that idea was ridiculous. his hands would hold your wrists firmly, ensuring yours didn't wander lower than he'd allow for the next week.

suggesting that to caleb would be like asking for another decade of private captivity, without contact with anyone except him. depending on his mood at the moment, he might say he found your joke amusing— or he'd fuck the idea right out of your head. he waited so long to see you again, this time finally able to have you the way he wanted, no longer having to act like just some friend, and now you say something like that? ha. go to sleep— tomorrow's another day, and you'll have plenty of time locked inside his house to reflect on your words. but that only after the number of rounds you've gone through surpasses the number of positions you've tested.

[moonstruckme]

omg i'm SO obsessed with roommate james like you don't understanddddd 😭💗 i've been loving the shy reader fics so far i'm so excited to see more of them!! i don't know if this would make sense w/ shy reader so honestly just write it however you want but i would loooove to see something w/ roommate james where he has friends over but is always like talking about her and checking on her and everything and his friends are just teasing him about it hahaha i think it would be so fun!! anyway tysm and i hope you have a good day!!!

Hi sweetheart! I had this scene already written but I did implement a couple of the things you requested, hope you like it <3

cw: alcohol

part 1 │ part 2 │ part 3 │ part 4 │part 5 │ part 6 │ part 7 │ part 8 │ part 9 │ part 10 │ part 11 │ part 12 │ part 13

roommate!James x shy!reader ♡ 1.3k words

Somehow, you’ve wound up basically in James’ armpit. 

“Falsehoods!” James is laughing, nearly shouting, but you get the sense one needs to yell a bit to communicate in this friend group. Everyone except Lily and Remus, that is, for whom the others seem to quiet reflexively every time they start to speak. “Lies and falsehoods! If I recall, I wasn’t the one who left a pot in the sink for so long it grew mold.” 

“It wasn’t my pot!” Sirius defends himself, propping himself up on Remus' shoulder to make his point. He’s somehow managed to recline on the arm of your couch, his boyfriend’s arm wrapped cautiously around his waist to keep him from slipping off. “You cooked pasta in it and then forgot!” 

“Y/n,” says Lily, sitting across her girlfriend’s lap, “blink twice if you need help.” 

Mary laughs, hooking her hands under Lily’s knees to pull her closer and then intertwining their fingers. This is another thing you’ve noticed about James’ friends: they have a tendency to pile. Not even necessarily with their respective significant others and seemingly regardless of the seating available; last time you came home Sirius was half across James’ lap and Lily and Remus were sitting together on the rug as if the rest of the couch wasn’t empty. 

You laugh too, self-consciousness making you slip further down James’ side when the others look your way. So, it’s possible you have some idea of how you came to be basically in his armpit. 

James grins down at you. “Don’t listen to them,” he stage-whispers. “We both know what a good roommate I can be, under the right management.” 

Your answering smile comes far too easily. You like seeing James like this. You don’t think he’s ever not himself, but as soon as Sirius got here it’s like he dialed up to eleven. And he obviously loves his friends, entertaining them, making them laugh. You can see why, too. They’re an easy bunch to talk to. 

It probably helps that James has been practically tipping ciders down your throat (he hasn’t; he’s offered them to you, and you’ve gulped them down like the nervous freak you are), but you’re actually having a good time. You felt a bit indebted after he’d bought you a pizza last week and you’d still chickened out of coming downstairs, but now you’re glad you’re here. 

Your body feels loose and liquidy, and your shoulder is just starting to hurt from the position you’re in (which makes you wonder how long James’ ribs have been hurting from your shoulder digging into them) when he looks down at you again. He seems amused. 

“You comfy down there?” he asks. 

“Meh.” It’s an honest answer. 

“Here.” He brings his arm to your shoulder, propping you up and then scooching closer to you on the couch. Now you’re not in his armpit so much as under his arm, which drops from where it’s draped across the back of the couch to squeeze your shoulder reassuringly. “Better?” 

“Yeah.” Even the social lubricant of alcohol can’t keep the nervous edge from your voice. “Thanks.” 

“Course, love.” He gives your shoulder another little squeeze, beaming as he focuses back on the conversation. 

Your chest hurts, a gratifying ache. 

You manage to down another cider before his friends start saying their goodbyes, Sirius and Remus each whipping out a cigarette as soon as they’re outside while Lily and Mary fake cough and James heckles them lovingly from the doorway. 

When he shuts the door he’s still smiling, so obviously content you can’t help but feel a crush of affection for him. 

“Thanks for inviting me,” you say, grabbing a rag to clean up where Mary had accidentally spilled a bit of her drink. 

“Of course, I told you you’re always—what are you doing?” 

He sounds so affronted you actually think you’ve done something wrong. You look up from where you’re mopping up the spill, confused. 

“I’m cleaning everything from tonight,” he says, still looking outraged. 

You smile in relief when you realize it’s feigned. “Don’t be stupid. I was participating tonight, too.”

“You make it sound like you were an accomplice to some crime.” James sits down beside you and steals the rag from your hand, cleaning up the rest of the spill himself. “You’re off the hook, you were practically coerced.” 

“I was,” you agree, standing and gathering the dishes from the coffee table instead, “but it was fun in the end. I’m a little bit glad you coerced me.” 

You can hear James’ smile in his voice. “I’ll be sure to do it more often. First, I’m gonna coerce you into hanging out with us again on Friday, and then—“ He turns around, eyes narrowing as he spots the couple of glasses you’re carrying “—stop picking up my mess! Fuck, I can’t keep up with you, you’re like a machine.” 

A giggle fizzes out of you. James stands and holds his hands out for them, but you take a couple of steps back. “Why can’t I help? Anyway, you’re just as clean as I am.” 

“Because, it was my idea,” he laughs, pursuing you. “And I’m only clean because you’re clean.” He backs you up against the stairs, wrestling the glasses away from you with frustrating ease. “If I thought you didn’t care, this whole place would look like the inside of my room.” 

You give an odd bark of laughter, leaning on the banister to look at him. He looks ridiculously smug, both glasses held in one big hand. “Oh my god, you’re so nice. It’s pathological.” 

“Wow.” Some of the smugness falls away as James grins at you. “That’s a real one.” 

“What?” 

“Your smile,” he says. You still don’t get how he can do this eye contact thing, looking at you so openly while he seems so sincere. Your own gaze flees downward, warmth rushing to your cheeks. “I don’t get to see it a lot, out in the open like that. It’s really lovely.” 

He reaches for you, doing this weird chin-pinching thing that shouldn’t be half as endearing as it is. You roll your eyes, but your mouth seems stuck. You don’t know how to respond. 

James doesn’t seem to notice, taking the glasses with him into the kitchen. You grab a few more off the table and follow him. He’s turned the light above the sink on, but the rest of the kitchen is dim. His long sleeves are pushed up to his elbows as he makes soapy water in the sink. 

As you come in, he turns around to take the glasses from you, the light from above casting a glowy halo of his thick brown hair. He’s so beautiful it makes your stomach hurt. You’re suddenly worried you might be just inebriated enough to do something stupid. 

James narrows his eyes at you teasingly as he snatches the glasses away. “Enough of that,” he scolds. 

“Are you sure you don’t want any more help?” you ask. 

He rolls his eyes. You’re pretty sure he didn’t do that so much before he started hanging out with you. On him, it somehow manages to look fond. “Positive,” he says. “Go stop being useful.” 

You catch yourself biting the inside of your lip. “Okay. Then I think I’m gonna head up for the night.” 

“Yeah?” James looks over, and you wonder for a second if something in your voice has given you away. He looks confused, a bit worried, but then that melds into a soft sweetness. He gives you a smile. “Okay. Sweet dreams.” 

“You too,” you say, doing your best to smile in response before you round the corner to the stairs. 

Your brain feels fuzzy. You’re not sure if that’s from alcohol or fatigue or something else entirely, but it feels good to put on your pajamas, clean your face in front of the mirror. The covers on your bed are soft and heavy. You can hear the kitchen sink running downstairs as you slip beneath them, James finally starting to rinse the dishes before he turns in for the night, too. 

You think of his boisterous laugh, the weight of his arm around your shoulders, his thumb pressing into your chin. 

When you close your eyelids, you half expect to find a faint outline of his smile impressed upon the insides.

[spatialwave]

➸ ask: “Now that arcanes over please could we get  relationship headcanons for Jayce (ignoring the ending💀) now that he’s maturer and been through shit” – ➸ pairing: jayce x reader ➸ word count: 737 ➸ tags: mdni! headcanons, fluff, post-arcane timeline, reader meets jayce after everything. ➸ notes: heavy on his trauma. he���s been through a lot, and the reader is his saving grace. 🤍

Dating Jayce isn’t perfect, but it’s close to it. You both have your flaws, and with everything he has been through, you both have a lot of patience for each other. Neither of you have been in a serious relationship like this, so it’s a learning curve, and one you both happily travel together.

Extremely monogamous, there is no one Jayce will ever have eyes for except you. He idolizes everything about you, the only person who makes his heart feel like it can love again.

He would propose to you so fast. After everything that’s happened, he knows that you’re the one and would be a fool to not marry you as soon as he can. (He makes the ring himself.)

Jayce is extremely protective of you, and while it can be overbearing at times, you often don’t mind. 

It overlaps with his abandonment issues, after what happened with Viktor, he fears losing you and always wants to make sure you’re safe. You remedy that with words of affirmation that soothe his worried heart.

He loves giving you gifts and spoiling you. Even if they’re impractical things, he can’t help it. He loves seeing the way your eyes light up when you open up another velvet box with new jewellery or the way you delicately put the 

Jayce is better at asking for help now. If he doesn’t know how to do things, he puts his pride aside and will ask earnestly. It’s usually for things, such as how to cook a decent meal or advice on how to better steer the council after days full of arguing for the better good of Piltover and Zaun.

He works best when you’re with him, needing someone there to keep him staying on track. Furthermore, he appreciates when you’re on his lap, his arm hooked around your waist as he works tirelessly to perfect the hextech research that Viktor left to him.

Since you’re both settled into your careers, he often talks about children or starting a family. Whether that’s in the cards, is up to you, and he never pressures you into agreeing. It’s you he loves, after all. (Though, he knows you would make great parents.)

He’s quick to frustration, which can lead into unnecessary arguments, but he’s always very shameful when he catches himself acting so. He’ll apologize and pepper you with so many kisses until you’re laughing and trying to weasel yourself away from him.

It’s extremely difficult for him to sleep, and even when he does, it’s only for a few hours. He leans on you for support, his heart swelling with how much you do for him, such as brewing a chamomile tea for him before bed or fighting your sleep to stay up with him so he’s not alone. 

Even though it makes his days hard, a part of him doesn’t mind because he loves watching the way you sleep soundly in his arms.

He may not get lots of sleep, but he could easily stay in bed with you all day if you were so inclined. It’s his favourite kind of day, when you can both forget about all your responsibilities and stay wrapped in each other’s arms. 

Kissing you is his favourite thing and will always be, he enjoys tasting sweets on your tongue. He loves pressing kisses to your jaw and hearing the sounds that come along with it, or assaulting your cheeks with a flurry of them to hear your giggles.

He’s extremely gentle with you. He may be rugged and tough on the outside, but you’ve never met a kinder and softer soul, even if he has his days when his past catches up to him. Your understanding and patience goes a long way.

Having his hands on you calms him, fingers brushing along your skin. Tracing patterns of runes he’s carved, sending shivers down your spines.

He enjoys evening drinks with you to unwind, a few glasses of wine and laughs about the shitty days you had. It’s the simple things in life he appreciates more.

Jayce has lived a lot of life for someone his age, which translated into a high level of maturity. He has a better understanding of how his words and actions may make you feel, and he’s a better partner for it.

Although he’s still navigating life after his mistakes, faults and trauma – you’re the one who helps make it easy.

[frudoo]

Two days too late, but here’s Price in lingerie ;)

Warnings: SMUT. John is bound by ropes. Humiliation/degradation. Ball gag. Lingerie, obviously. Boot grinding. Orgasm denial. Ass eating, anal fingering, prostate milking. Mentions of cunnilingus but no scene of it. Dom/sub dynamics. Fem!Reader.

MDNI

“On your knees, Captain.”

John’s bushy eyebrows furrow with disdain as he looks up at you from the ground, thick ropes tied taut around his biceps and forearms, wrists intertwined behind his back. Decorating his furry torso is a brown leather corset with mesh straps that fall off of his shoulders, and a matching mesh g-string that’s practically glued to his crotch, soaked through with his precum. It’s obvious by the pinprick size of his pupils that he’s ready to cuss you out—pity, given that he can’t speak around the ball gag you placed in his mouth.

“Look at you, fuckin’ slag. You’re loving this, aren’t you?” You tease, reaching down to gently scratch the underside of his chin where drool is pooling in his beard. “Wearing your wife’s lingerie like a cheap whore.”

John growls in annoyance, and you cock an eyebrow, wrapping your hand around his throat and applying the slightest bit of pressure. It does nothing to settle his bratty attitude. Scowling, you push the toe of your boot onto his throbbing dick, fingertips hooking on either side of his jaw so that he’s forced to be still and maintain eye contact with you.

“Keep it up and I’ll put you outside, you old mutt,” you hiss, smirking when you see the slightest resignation in his crystal blue eyes. “Yeah? Gonna behave, now?”

Your husband nods, and you pat his stubbled cheek in approval. Slowly, you rub your boot along his shaft, biting your lip at the sound of the paper-thin fabric of the panties squelching with every move. You tut down at him with a faux pout tugging at your bottom lip.

“So wet for me, baby,” you coo, watching the slow burn of his skin rising up, cherry-red arousal showing itself in his flushed neck and rosy cheeks.

John whines, hips bucking erratically in an attempt to get more friction on his leaking cock. His jaw is clenched tightly—you’re positive that when this is all said and done, the ball gag will absolutely need to be trashed, chewed up and destroyed like a dog’s favorite toy. His chest is puffing out with every heave, the leather creaking as it pulls tight around his torso, furry belly threatening to break loose.

“Gaggin’ for it, aren’t you?” You mock, grazing your fingertips over his scalp as he looks up at you with glossy eyes. “Oh, I know, honey. I know you need more.”

Your man nods, huffing through his nose as he leans forward to rub his cheek against your thigh. It’s pathetic—he looks like a kicked puppy, and you almost feel bad. Still, the past week of him being home from assignment had been nothing but John being an irritable bastard, taking his anger out on you in screaming fits, and you finally got sick of it. This is his punishment. You let him work himself up until his eyes are rolling back into his skull and you know he’s about to cum, then take a step back, watching as he stumbles forward and lands face-down on the rug. He grunts in pain and you suck in a breath through your teeth.

“Oh, I’m so sorry, Cap, didn’t mean to make you lose your balance,” you snicker, striding around his tense body so you can see where his ass is in the air, completely exposed to the cool air of the bedroom.

“I was gonna have you lay on the bed before I play with this perfect fucking ass, but you just look so good down there, don’t you, baby?” You suck your teeth and give his right cheek a sharp smack, watching the way it ripples and rubbing the mark in a soothing motion.

John groans, the muscles of his biceps flexing so hard that you think he might hurt himself. You get on your knees behind your husband, leaning forward to press a couple of teasing kisses against his white-tinged knuckles where his fists are strained against the elaborately tied ropes. You leisurely kiss your way down to his hips, then the small of his back, until you reach the thin strap of fabric between his ass. You pull it back and snap it so that it hits his puckered hole sharply, making him whimper.

“That the spot?” You keen, repeating the action to watch as he shoves back against you, desperate for more.

Wasting no more time, you pull aside the flimsy g-string so you have complete access to his ass. You can hear John exhale heavily when you lick a long stripe up between his cheeks, flattened surface wet and scalding hot against his tight ring. He lifts his head as best as he can in an attempt to see you, huffing in defeat when you push him back down so that his cheek rests against the carpet.

“You don’t get to look at me,” you inform him bluntly, biting into the flesh of his inner thighs, then back up to your intended target. “Just take what I give you.”

John’s eyes roll back at the feeling of you spitting a glob of saliva onto his hole, allowing the tip of your middle finger to spread the fluid and prod his insides just slightly. It gets him moaning, though, and the sound is divine—enough to make you slowly insert your entire digit into the hot clutch of his ass, knuckle deep.

“So tight,” you mutter breathily, curling your finger downward the way he would if he was the one fingering you in this position.

Your husband pushes his hips back in silent invitation once again. A second finger makes its way inside of him, stretching the ring of muscle deliciously. You pump back and forth steadily, curving your fingers to press right up against his prostate and get him whimpering beneath your ministrations. He’s already pent up from earlier when you denied him his orgasm, clenching pathetically around the digits in his ass, unsure of what to do with his hands although they’re still bound. You shush him gently.

“Be good for me and I’ll give you a treat, yeah?” You bargain, scissoring your fingers inside of him. “Cum all nice for me and I’ll let you lick my pussy, that sound good?”

John nods frantically, squeezing his eyes shut tight as your fingertips relentlessly massage the sensitive patch inside him. There’s a squelch and then a milky substance coats your digits, creamy and slick as you fuck it back into him.

“Creaming all over my fingers, baby, you gettin’ close?” You purr, reaching your free hand around to cup his aching cock.

He ruts against your hand in response, more precum leaking from his slit into the crevices of your palm.

“That’s right, my big bear, cum for me. Show your wife how fucking capable you are of following orders. Yeah, you got it- yes!”

His gruff voice breaks when he reaches his peak, growls dissolving into soft little whines as hot semen spurts from his prick, seeping through the mesh fabric of the panties. His arms tense and rip the sleeves of the corset, making you laugh as you work him through the high. Once you feel his cock twitch and his body relax, you gently pull your fingers from his ass and give him one last spank for good measure.

“Did so good for me, John,” you praise with a whisper, helping him sit up before untying the ropes and removing the ball gag from his mouth.

John stretches his body as soon as you untie the corset, groaning low in his throat when his joints pop. He stands and removes the rest of the outfit before wrapping his burly arms around your waist and pulling your plush body down on top of him. You giggle, bracing yourself with your hands on his shoulders. He pulls you down into a heated kiss, wide palms splaying across your hips to drag you further up his body. He grunts when you hesitate.

“Sit on my face, baby, please. Never gonna yell at you again, swear it, just- please, sweet’eart, I want my treat.”

He begs so prettily with those baby blues, and it doesn’t take much convincing for you to oblige. After all, he was good for you. You go to slip off your boots, but-

“No. Leave ‘em on.”

Maybe you’ll need to put him in his place more often.

[boop-le-snoot]

kinktober #6

Squealer

kinktober day six | roleplay + innocence kink | 18+, sleazy old man tony and you get into his mansion to, uh, listen to his records. it's all play-pretend. two dorks in love goofin' as usual | word count 2.2k | want more kinktober? click here

“I had no idea you had such a... Pimped-out crib, daddy,” you raised an eyebrow. A smirk tugged at your lips as you took in the interior of one of Tony's numerous mansions.

It was as if you had somehow been magically transported back to the '80s. The glam-rock, golden-days-of-Mötley-Crüe kind. You took off your high-heel Versace shoes, wiggling your toes on the soft zebra-hide imitation rug. A pristine Baldessari hung on a nearby wall, attracting your attention, thus allowing your boyfriend to sneak up on you with a drink in each hand.

“Mmm, I dunno,” Tony faux-pouted. “Seems a bit much even for me. I mean, cheetah and zebra print in one room?” He gestured towards the obscenely tacky couch. “What an eyesore. I should donate it to Goodwill. Maybe someone's grandma will want to remember her youth and get frisky after her old man finally lets her be and leaves for the pits.”

You snorted, accepting your drink. As Tony's arm snaked around your waist to bring your bodies together, you gave the room a good, long ponder.

“This feels very... Coke kingpin. You know, maximalism is making a comeback?” You said, referencing the resurgence of trashy 80s and McBling styles you've seen online. “I kinda dig it. Makes me want to go,” you threw your head back demurely onto his shoulder and batted your eyelashes, “oh no mister, I'm a good girl! I would never do such a thing! I thought we were going to hang out and listen to that record you promised...” You whined in your best baby voice, pouting your lips in a perverse imitation of innocence.

Behind you, Tony stiffened. And then you both laughed. Sputtering over your drinks, holding onto each other. No, it was a truly absurd thing.

But Tony Stark would not be Tony Stark if he couldn't convincingly sell just about any bullshit to anybody. With a flourish, his fingers dug into your waist as he straightened up and steered you towards the turntable.

“Why, but of course, sweetheart. Would make me a terrible host otherwise!” He spoke with a cheeky smile and sparkling eyes. A record was placed and the needle dropped, filling the room with sultry sounds of guitar strings strummed by nimble fingers. It was a song you both knew and loved.

Still laughing, you went for coy. “Oh, dear. My papa would have my head if he knew I listened to that!” Faking shyness, you gave your hips a sway and your skirt a twirl. “I kinda like it, though. Makes me think of someone...” You sighed, acutely aware of embers beginning to smoulder in Tony's dark eyes.

He leaned back to rest against a shelf. “Oh yeah, sweetheart?” He asked, sipping his whiskey without taking his eyes off you. “Special someone?”

“Uh-uh,” you swayed to the song, the bubbly in your blood making you slightly dizzy. It was a great tune, truly! Made you think all kinds of nasty things. “He makes me feel like nobody else does. Like in the song,” you flashed Tony the edge of your smile.

It made him take a calculated step towards you. Taking your arm, he pressed himself into your body, the outline of his budding erection resting against your hip. “I can make you feel even better, princess.” He toyed the strap of your dress.

Bait, hook and sinker.

You feigned nervousness as both of you pushed down on the breaking laughter and settled deeper into your allocated roles. “Mmm, I dunno. It's just a song and I've never done anything like that.”

“Like what?” Tony's fingers slowly pulled down the strap and stroked your bare shoulder. It felt electric.

“Like... Dirty,” you giggled, momentarily breaking character. Truly, this would be one of the least crazy things the two of you had done - just ask Steve!

Tony's empty glass landed on the shelf with a click. He took hold of your shoulders, massaging them gently to release you from the non-existent tension there, and placed his cheek upon your shoulder as you wobbled on your high heels.

“I'll be good to you, baby, I promise,” he rumbled, rubbing his scratchy beard on your tender skin. You giggled again, and Tony steered you towards the oversized couch. “We don't gotta do anything you don't wanna do,” he stressed, “but ya can't leave a man high and dry either. Capiche, Cupcake? Didn't you say you're a good girl?”

Wow, you silently thought to yourself, Tony was a gem amongst rocks. This role suited him to a, perhaps, scandalous amount. The sparkle of mischief in his eye, the sleazy twist to his grin. It promised lots and lots fun.

“I am a good girl,” you stressed, even as he sat you down atop his lap, your short dress hiked so far it barely covered your flimsy underwear.

It was an absolute lie and Tony knew it. He gave you his roundest eyes yet as his hand crawled over your thigh and up under your skirt, palming the lace of your panties with a gesture both posessive and questioning.

“Yeah?” His eyebrows shot up. “You sure 'bout that? 'Cause good girls don't come into strange guy's houses with their tiny lacy panties soaked.” He chided, thumbing the spreading wet spot at your front. Your face flushed in earnest as you fought to clamp your thighs shut over his hand, which did very little to deter him from wiggling his fingers against your cunt. “Don't be ashamed, darlin'. It's perfectly natural.”

You blinked, wide-eyed, awestruck by your boyfriend's commitment to the role. He really was unfairly good at everything he did!

“I don't know, mister,” you finally said. “My daddy said...”

Visibly fighting an eruption of laughter, Tony said. “I'm ya daddy for the night, honey. And I say it's okay.”

Fearing your own giggles making an untimely comeback, you conceded. “If you say so.” And loosened the hold on his hand, allowing him to stroke about the outside of your panties. Your cunt blossomed, fully interested in this sleazy caricature of over the top version of Tony's famed lover boy charm. “I just... Dunno what to do.”

The two of you were beginning to get impatient, if judging from the way his completely erect cock nudged at your side.

“Relax, darlin'. I'll make you feel good,” he bit your shoulder gently as his hand worked its way into your panties and between your outer lips. Tony circled your clit with slippery fingers, delighting in the quiet moans that left your lips, and finally, finally slipped two fingers inside of your sopping cunt. You arched. He groaned. “Fuck, baby, you grip like a vice.”

You flexed your muscles there, intimately familiar with the bumps and valleys of his calloused fingers, and subtly tried to sway your hips to give some much needed attention to your neglected clit. Tony was having none of it. Patting your bottom, he ushered you off his lap, and stuck his fingers in his mouth as he watched you stand up shakily on your tall heels.

“Undress for me,” he ordered, releasing your fingers from his mouth with a pop that added heat to your already flushed cheeks. “Slowly, baby. Don't rush.”

You did just that, sliding the straps of your dress completely off your arms. It was hard to take eyes off Tony for even a second. In the moment, he embodied his character sinfully: blazer and two top buttons of his tight-fitting shirt undone, it was the playboy billionaire of days past that sat in this kitschy living room of a forgotten mansion in Beverly Hills.

His brown eyes watched you shed your dress hungrily as the tent of his slacks rose high and higher to a point where he draped a leisurely hand over it and gave himself an unselfconscious squeeze through his pants. You stood before him in nothing but your heels and lacy thong, preparing to slide the last scrap of fabric down your legs.

“No, leave the rest on,” he said after a moment of contemplation.

“What now, mister?” You gave him a crooked grin, looking coyly at his tented trousers.

“Get down on your knees, baby,” he rasped, offering you a generous hand as you wobbled to sit demurely before him. A picture perfect form of innocence - you batted your lashes and fought the urge to reach for his trousers and swallow him down whole. Tony seemed to be having similar thoughts, as he wordlessly placed your hand on top of his cock and bit his lip. “Take it out.”

You did so, genuinely fumbling with the zipper. The arousal was making your fingers shake and the champagne you had drank certainly did not help your coordination. But then he was out and hard and proud, and you found yourself licking your lips. Seemingly at a loss for words this once, Tony took the back of your head in his hand and scooted closer so his cock was within your reach.

Tentatively, you gave it a lick. Wasting any of the clear, salty fluid was where you drew the line. Tony shuddered.

“Keep doin' that, honey. You're being a very good girl.”

So you did. Kitten licks grew to be bolder as you wrapped your cherry tinted lips over the silken head of Tony's cock, receiving a generous pour of salty liquid for your troubles. Looking up at your man, he was watching you with parted mouth and shaking lips. You gave him a wink and began working him in earnest, producing another moan from him in an instant.

His hand went for your cheek. As suddenly as you'd began, you were pulled off of his cock.

“It'll be over before we even started if you keep doing that, honey,” he explained, breathless. It took a second for him to find his bearings and then he was standing up, looming over you with a naughty smirk and cock glistening in the yellow light, nothing but his trousers undone. “Lay back baby. Show me your pretty pussy.”

You did. The horrendously patterned carpet was soft under your back as you laid down and lewdly spread your legs, showcasing the darkened gusset to your boyfriend's heated stare. Your hands laid demurely atop your belly to top off the picture.

With a thud, Tony landed with his knees on the carpet. Moving aside the gusset if your panties, he bared your swollen cunt to his eyes and you hissed as cool air hit the soaked, heated flesh. Your clit twitched, prompting Tony to slide a finger over it. He savoured your shudder, quick to replace the digit with the tip of his cock.

A gasp left your lips. Unconsciously, your hips wiggled, beckoning Tony to where you needed him most.

“I'm not going to hurt you, baby,” he murmured, transfixed on the way your pussy stretched around the crown of his cock. It disappeared easily into the channel, aided by the moisture that had gathered while you serviced him. That first push was heavenly. You never wanted it to end even as he bottomed put within you, staining the front of his designer slacks with your juices.

You threw your arms around his shoulders unprompted as he began to move. Slowly at first, savouring that first snug slide of your wet cunt over his hard cock, but picking up pace as your moans grew less breathy and more demanding. He always knew how to fuck you just right, hitting that sweet spot time after time with perfect precision until you unraveled, lax and warm, under him, the throb of your cunt allowing him to seek out his own release promptly.

Still inside you and rapidly softening, Tony finally burst into giggles, resting his sweaty forehead against your cheek as his body shook. It made the dam within you burst, too, intensified tenfold when the contractions of your abs made his soft cock slip out of you and seed drip into a puddle on the tacky carpet.

“We gotta tip the cleaning lady,” you snorted, aware of the sticky situation.

Tony just laughed harder, rolling over onto his back and bringing a palm to his forehead.

“Never change, honey. Ever.”

a/n: Thank you, @slothspaghettiwrites for the tiktok you sent me of that pimped out car! Haven't been able to get sleazy old man!Tony out of my head ever since. Tbh, Tony that is just a little sleazy is the best Tony. Even in the throes of Civil War angst that man was so unserious and low-key horny. It's sexy as fuck. So I dedicate this to you, Sloth, and to @persephonehemingway because we're both disgusting perverts for tony in a very similar way.

I genuinely forgot how easy it is for me to write Tony because I wrote this in like 2 hours. He's my best boy. I love him and I don't care that he doesn't even exist.

[erodasfishtacos]

Threadbare - I ||FWB!H||

prompt: yn avoids because she doesn't know what else to do

word count: 3.2k

warnings: angst, cheating

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The transition in being friends to friends with benefits was surprisingly smooth for the impressively big amount of lack of communication, lack of resolution, and all over how much was swept under the rug instead of address.

It’s was a quiet tension between them that was sometimes sexual tension, sometimes angsty.

They couldn’t wait for trivia to be over so they could get their hands on each other or this other.

It was not as pleasant when someone mentioned Lauren or Ben.

How if someone brought up Lauren, YN’s eyes would automatically dart to Harry to see his reaction and she didn’t miss the ways his jaw clenched when Ben was brought up.

It wasn’t a mutual agreement of not talking about these things, acting like them coming together was conventional or that everytime they went out with their friends - they didn't tell them.

They held this secret between them, not only that they were currently hooking up but what transpired that weekend at the lake house.

Neither of them were that kind of person, who would step out on their partner, or cross boundaries they shouldn’t when they’re in a committed relationship but apparently they were that kind of people - both of them.

YN knows there is nuance.

She knows neither her nor Harry were happy in their relationship.

She knew that Lauren treated Harry like shit nearly a ninety-percent of the time.

Ben had never been all that great after the love-bombing phase was done which she had fell for the flowers and the random grand gestures.

It didn’t make it okay.

YN always had a bit of a crush on Harry.

He was a bit more attentive to her than he was to any other females in the friend group but she’d never looked into that or fed into that too much.

She brushed it off on the fact that she had a (now looking back) massive crush on him that she didn’t want to actually acknowledge because she shouldn’t have a crush on someone who’s in a relationship as she’s in a relationship with someone else.

It was fucked up.

The rest of the time of at the lake house was tense after YN had bolted from the pool, leaving Harry mid-apology but knowing better than to chase after her.

He hadn’t bothered her again - even as they both were in different rooms in the same big summer house.

She could hear him in the kitchen, starting the blender, he had to be able to hear when she turned on the shower but there was silence between them.

And it disappointed her, selfishly, she wanted there to be a knock on the bedroom door, another conversation, something from Harry.

But she was the one who ran, who made it clear that what happened wasn’t good, and YN has always struggled with avoidance, it why she hasn’t broken up with Ben.

She hated confrontation and uncomfortable situations to a fault.

Being socially anxious was in her bloodstream, and having hard conversations was like pulling teeth without being numbed first.

So the second Harry had pulled his hand back, his mouth opening to discuss what just happened - there was no other option for YN then to just avoid, flee so that she didn’t have to talk about it.

YN doesn’t come out of her bedroom for the rest of the night.

Her heart’s in her stomach because even if she doesn’t want to be with Ben, there was guilt for liking what just happened with Harry.

She couldn’t get it out of her mind when he’s cupped her breast, when the rough pad of his thumb had nudged over her nipple.

It was fucked up that her thighs were wet at the thought, at the way his eyes had honed in on her, and how fucking turned on he looked as he reached out to touch her.

She’d never felt that kind of arousal in her life and it wasn’t right, she wasn’t expecting it with Harry when she had long ago deemed him out of her league.

YN wasn’t asleep by the time that Ben stumbled in, drunk and clueless to the internal crisis of self she was having.

She kept her eyes squeezed shut when she felt him looking at her.

Determining whether she was asleep or not, and mumbled some intelligible before he was stumbling out of his clothes and crawling into bed - promptly passing out even while YN struggled to calm her mind.

+

YN knew she was making everything worse.

She knew that she needed to talk to Harry but avoidance was easier.

It was easier to not make eye contact with him when everyone clmabered downstairs in the morning.

It was easier to sit as far away as possible from him at the table when they all ate breakfast, and made sure not to look at him.

YN could feel his gaze burning into the side of her face.

She could tell that he was staring at her, willing her to look at him, and she wanted him to stop because he was being obvious - or at least she felt like he was drawing attention to the situation but if anyone notices, nobody say anything.

Then they’re down by the lake, YN’s laying on a lounger on the dock, soaking up the sun, and trying to warm up before getting into the water which was chiller than she usually liked.

It was peaceful until she can feel the wood of the dock start to tremble next to her until someone is sitting on the chair opposite her.

YN has sunglasses on that were big enough to hide her eyes completely, dark enough that he couldn’t see.

She blinked her eyes open to Harry looking at her with an unfamiliar look on his face, she didn’t know what he was feeling but he definitely wanted her attention.

YN sits up as Harry hands her something, his voice quiet and unsure, “You’ve got to reapply, you’re gettin’ burnt.”

“Thanks,” YN takes it from him, making sure their hands don’t touch even though she can acknowledge that it’s dramatic.

Even if she’s being short outward, internally there were butterflies tumbling around in her belly that he was even paying attention to her like this.

Apparently her standards were incredibly low because Ben would never do something like this.

He wouldn’t have noticed in the first place, nor used any amount of energy to go up to the house to get the bottle of sunscreen.

“Think I grabbed the right one, you said the one in the blue bottle irritates your skin, right?” Harry checks, he’s off, subdued.

YN didn’t like it but she couldn’t bring it up, they couldn’t talk about it where anyone could hear them.

The thoughtfulness, the fact that he listened when she made that off-handed comment the other day when Ben handed her the blue bottle.

“This is the right one,” YN agrees lamely, taking it out of his hand, they were both skating on uncertainty.

“You ignored me at breakfast,” Harry observes, suddenly on topic to what they really need to talk about.

And YN knows her eyes must have widened like a deer about to be hit by oncoming headlights because she wasn’t ready to have this conversation.

“Didn’t mean to,” YN lies, it wasn’t even a good one but she could feel this uneasiness starting to churn in her stomach because at the end of the day, she had this stupid fucking crush on Harry.

And now she’s seemingly on track to continuously make herself look like an immature little girl who can’t have a conversation.

Harry’s brow furrows at that, huffing with a shake of his head, “Okay. I guess it’s just in my head then.”

And YN didn’t want to gaslight him either.

Fuck.

“I-” YN doesn’t know what to say, swallowing harshly as toys with the sunblock bottle, “It’s not…in your head. I - don’ know.”

It wasn’t graceful or intelligent whatsoever, she felt tongue-tied suddenly at having to explain her poor behavior.

“I would like to talk to you about yesterday,” Harry replies, his tone is neutral, unreadable.

She'd rather not have a conversation about him apologizing, saying it was a mistake, that he wasn’t thinking, that it didn’t mean anything.

She was going to actively avoid the conversation at all fucking costs.

“Not…here,” YN glances around, no one was directly by them but it wasn’t the place to have it - in active eyeline of both of their significant others.

“You will talk to me about it though?” Harry persists, his fingertips are digging into his knees, she knows

it's

absurd but it looks like he’s actively resisting reaching out and touching her.

YN nods, the guilt revving back up because she knows she’s going to do whatever to avoid it, to not have all of her false hopes and dreams crushed.

He was out of her league, he had a gorgeous girlfriend, he was in a committed relationship, and she was too - it was stupid for her to even entertain the idea.

“Yeah, just not here,” YN agrees weakly, she wonders if he can tell she’s not being truthful with him, if he’ll call her out on it.

“Please just know that -” Harry starts to say, leaning in a bit closer in a way that wasn’t inappropriate but made if more difficult for anyone to overhear.

“Harry! Stop bullshitting and get me a fuckin’ drink!” Lauren interrupts obnxiously from the water.

By the slur of her words, she already had enough alcohol pumping through her veins, and the way she demanded from Harry wasn’t anything new but it never got easier to hear him being barked orders to.

The rest of their friends laugh, like it’s funny how Lauren talks to him.

But by the subtle sharp edge to her tone and the way that Harry’s eyes instantly go dark, his nose scrunching slightly in disgust before he hides it shows just how unfunny that interaction is.

Maybe because she sees too much of herself in Harry in that way.

Ben barking at her for things and she just does it to avoid conflict or arguements.

Nothing was funny about it.

++

YN unsurprisingly doesn’t stick to her word, Harry seeks her out two times during the day to try to talk to her.

The first time YN gets flustered, makes up an excuse about having to use the bathroom, and promptly hides in the bathroom for a good twenty minutes.

The second time, YN suddenly gets very busy helping set up the volleyball net when she notices Harry starting to make his way towards her.

And she knows by the end of the night, his patience is wearing thin - purely based off of the unamused glances he gives her.

The way he’s not anywhere near as talkative as he normally is, and his general demeanor is off - even their friends call him out a few times on it.

Now, she’s nervous to talk to him because of the fact that he’s getting annoyed with her.

She truly keeps digging the hole she’s stepped into deeper and deeper until it feels entirely impossible to pull herself up out of without ramifications.

It wasn’t until late, it was nearly eleven, and their night was in full swing.

The bonfire was blazing, everyone had alcohol flooding their systems except for YN and Harry.

YN wasn’t naturally a big drinker but tonight, she was far too uneasy to think about even sipping anything.

Whereas Harry had a beer or two but he’d been nursing them slowly, enough that he wouldn’t feel any effects of it.

YN feels like the walls were closing in around her.

The conversation was going to come, Harry seemed determined by this point, and YN has probably just made this whole situation worse by not having the conversation in the first place.

YN sneaks away to the bathroom in the house, the second floor one because it was one that no one was allowed to throw up in if they drank too much.

She did it while Harry was in the middle of a volleyball game, and she really didn’t think he’d dip out to have the conversation or pull away from the group because it would surely be suspicious if YN and Harry randomly disappeared around the same time.

But YN is wrong.

God, she’s so wrong.

Because when there’s a knock at the door, YN’s first thought is that it’s Georgia, so without thinking she opens it.

But standing there is a very very unhappy looking Harry who’s lips are in a firm line, his brows drawn inward, and his voice is rougher than usual when he says, “Time to talk.”

“What do you want?” YN has the nerve to huff, surprised by her own attitude as she steps backwards, and Harry follows her in, shutting the door, and locking it behind him.

She wants to point out that this looks so entirely shady, that they should have this conversation not in a locked room, in a house alone but she cannot find it in her to care to point that out nor does she wants to.

“I want you to stop avoiding me,” Harry replies as he crosses his arms, standing towards the door and allowing YN to put some distance between them.

There was this sick, twisted thrill shooting arousal up her spine that she was able to rile him up, get a reaction, it meant in some capacity that he cared at least a bit about her.

When Ben was mad - it turned her off completely but something about the sharp, defined cut of Harry’s clenched jaw, the puffiness of his bottom lip from his front teeth digging into it.

He looked fucking hot when he was pissed and that’s when YN realized she is in deep shit because fuck, she smitten.

“I’m not,” YN replies stubbornly, mirroring his posture by crossing her arms and popping her hip to the side, tongue poking at the inside of her cheek.

Harry looks like he wants to sink his teeth into her- she’d never seen him like this and it was fucked up but she wanted more.

Harry finally smiles but it’s not his normally, boyish grin.

It’s intimidating, sharp and dangerous, his dimples popping as he tilts his head, “I didn’t ask you if you were avoiding me. I’m telling you what you were doing. I’m done with it, we need to talk. Understood?”

And if YN could rub her thighs together without it being obnoxious she would.

It’s twisted, he’s clearly upset and she’s better than no man, thirsting over the way the vein at the side of his neck bulges, his biceps look massive as they flex, and his eyes are sparkling with fury.

“I’m sorry,” Harry takes a deep inhale, calming slightly as he becomes a tad bit more lax in his posture, “It was never my intention to make you uncomfortable and it was completely out of line for me to do. I take full accountability and I’m so fucking sorry for putting you in an uncomfortable position.”

YN takes a minute to process it because…it wasn’t the apology or the regret she was expecting to hear from him.

It wasn’t necessarily rejection.

It was genuine remorse.

“You…I’m the one who showed you them,” YN replies slowly, more confused than ever, and the arousal fizzles when she notices how distraught Harry is underneath hsis cool demeanor.

“I should have never asked. I should have never put you in a position where you felt like you had to-”

“I didn’t feel pressured or uncomfortable, Harry. I’m an adult who made decisions too,” YN points out because it was on both of them, they both participated equally in the bad behavior.

“Then why did you run away? I thought it was because I made you uncomfortable,” Harry’s shoulder slump slightly in relief, his arms uncross but he doesn’t step forward even if she wants him too, even though she shouldn’t want him to.

“I was scared,” YN admits quietly, she has to look away for a moment because his gaze was so fucking intense.

“What were you scared of, Honey?” Harry pushes, he takes a step forward, lessening the space in the small area but they still weren’t touching, and her heart was starting to fully pound like she was running a marathon.

YN finally blinks at him, teeth dug into her lip, debating whether she should tell him the blunt truth - gauging whether that will just lead to rejection but the way he’s looking at her, it makes her want to risk it, say ‘fuck it’.

“Of how much I wanted it,” YN’s voice is barely above a whisper but he could hear it in the otherwise silent house.

“Wanted what,” Harry’s voice is deeper, rougher, and it’s an almost a demand like he needs to know, that it’s not optional.

“Harry-” YN resists, barely hanging onto her morals with a fucking thread, and waiting for him to cut the string.

And he fucking does.

“Tell me, tell what you wanted so badly,” Harry pushes, his fingers are clenching like earlier, he has to restrain himself from reaching out at her.

“It scared me how badly I wanted you to touch me, wanted your hands on me, on my tits, on…yeah,” YN trails off, sheepish and her cheeks were so fucking hot in embarassment at what she’d just said, admitted.

It’s faster than YN can process, the way Harry strides forward, and handles her - twisting her roughly until she’s pinned against the wall across from the sink, it’s tight and their bodies are pressed flushed.

His lips aren’t on hers but they’re ghosting close enough that if they moved even an inch they would brush.

“Tell me I can,” Harry murmurs, there’s this sweet, desperate, needy plea in it that makes her knees weak, “ I wan’na, so bad, honey.”

YN swallows harshly, losing all sense of why this is wrong, and she finds her hands coming to his hair - gripping there and puling his mouth to hers, “Yeah, yes. You can have it.”

[cavernsandcod]

ESPRESSO | Cpt. John Price

─────dad's-best-friend!price x reader

· · ────── ঌ·✦·໒ ─── · ·AO3 VERSION | MY FIC GUIDE

Everyone has a complicated relationship with their father; the good, bad, and the ugly. Just like every complicated adult has their vices to cope with their issues. Drugs, sex, gambling, work, adrenaline— name it, it's been done.

Yours is a bit different: hooking up with your father's best friend.

WARNINGS: mild angst. reader has a shitty dad(—i.e. neglectful, militant), but no depicted abuse. alcohol. strong language. legal age gap (20s/40s). power dynamic. smut. porn with plot. authority kink, d/s. unsafe, risky sex. oral (f+m receiving). dirty talk. praise. petnames. fluff, kind of. fem!reader. not edited. WC: 7.9k

The carousel never stopped growing up.

Each time you got accustomed to a new home, school, or routine, you had to pack your bags and start over.

Your father had a new assignment; another part of the world to risk his life in while your mother did her best—well, her worst—to cope. The loneliness and sleepless nights of worry got to her once you reached double digits in age. Their conversations turned bipolar, either abrasive spats or days of tense silence. You were too young to understand, really, but you got the gist. Only saw her on weekends because she moved hours away to start a new family.

And your father, he never made an effort for much of anything except his career. He received a substantial pay raise for contracts in the UK in your teens and never looked back to ask you how you felt about it.

You, perpetually on the back burner of his mind, were only supplied the basics a child needs. A bed, three meals, and a decent schooling. Sometimes got to tag along with him to work events if you caught him in a good mood.

The uniformed men were always kind, many with children and families of their own. Made you feel safe from the hard conversations you weren’t old enough to understand. Bled some color into the sterile, militaristic surroundings you grew used to.

Even then, you knew your upbringing was atypical. Knew that you shouldn’t get attached to anything because the rug always gets ripped out from under your feet.

Once you reached your teens, school became your only out. If you had any shot of straying from your father's militant footsteps, it became apparent that a good college was the best way. Excessive studying tarnished every fake friendship and social invite you had—but there weren't many of those to begin with.

Dwelling aside, you made it.

All the hours of academics paid off with the reward of a prestigious university. Being away from home and your father was the best part of it all. A mellow roommate, a group of classmates similar to you—and the culture of uni. How startling it was compared to the environment you grew up in.

It's your last year, and summer breaks and holidays still aren’t any easier. Going back home still has that sour taste. Each time you expect welcoming arms and approval, you get a harsh reminder of why you left.

Dressed up. A camouflaged wallflower. Cowering in your father’s shadow, small like you once were.

Countless galas bustling with formal attire and gowns alike, decorated with fairy lights and the low hum of seasonal music. Men and women with chest candy to show their years of sacrifice. Their dry conversations all start to sound the same after twenty minutes.

Logistics, hardship, and embarrassing tales are a poor attempt at humoring the family members sitting at the table. You don’t laugh, don’t smile. Only think about how good the end of this holiday will be when you can return to junk food and mild rebellion.

The weather this time of year is perfect for beers and barbecue, all humid and sweltering. Perpetually smelling of bonfires and chlorine swimming pools.

At least this year you aren’t on display. No blinding lights, no raffle tickets, or overpriced, butter champagne.

It’s not a formal event whatsoever. Just a backyard party hosted by one of your dad’s esteemed colleagues. Already much preferable to the stuffy venue space that leaves you nauseous.

“John’s a good man,” your father told you as you climbed into the truck. If he’s taking a break from talking about himself, you usually listen. “Made himself a Captain. Some of the toughest maggots I’ve seen in years, that lot.” Maybe this John character will be a kinder man than your father. Maybe he’s seen the lengths of his temper. Maybe he’ll be kind to you like the other soldiers.

Is he kind to his own family?

The house is alive when you arrive. People standing in the front, side, and backyard. Children of varying ages roughhouse, running barefoot in the manicured grass, belting out squeals and babbles of excitement.

The smell of meat grilling makes the humidity tolerable. As you enter the backyard, your father makes a beeline for the patio, more eager than you’ve ever seen him.

A pair of broad shoulders overlooks the party, thick biceps bulging from a black tee. The cherry of his cigar shines like the sun beating down on you, a cloud of smoke evaporating each time he puffs. His aura is different to the other men around him; commanding and reserved, standing in a spot against the railing that you know is only his.

It’s only when your father gives him a harsh pat on the shoulder, that you realize this is John—John, the good man.

He cracks a smile in response and returns the gesture, his voice a soothing thunder. John turns and reaches into the open cooler resting beside him, fishes out a beer for your old man. Placating. Giving him a bottle to keep him mellow.

Your father settles into a lawn chair, posture stiff and manicured as ever. Didn’t bother to introduce you around—not while he’s twisting the cap off his only pleasure in life and gulping it down.

You flinch when his eyes move onto you, squinting. It’s only fair considering you’ve been staring. After a beat, he nods his head, mouth curling into a more genuine smile than you saw before. All you can muster is an awkward wave through wide eyes.

Not your best work.

“Oi—“ A voice belts. “Fancy a drink, hen?”

It’s coming in the direction of the plastic buffet tables. The first has bread and toppings, various platters, and the other is decorated with solo cups and pitchers.

The source, a younger man than John, is sitting beside the homemade concessions. He’s easy on the eyes, with charming features, holding a squirming toddler in his arms. She has his eyes and, no doubt, the same feral energy.

“Oh, sure,” he hands you a cup. “You have anything stronger?” You ask, gazing down at the punches and cans of fizz.

“Afraid not.” He dodged a headbutt by the skin of his teeth, shushing her. “Cap’n has all the good stuff.”

“I see,” you take a small sip, allowing the pure sugar to coat your tongue. ”Well, thanks anyways.” He turns his head to the side to mutter something to her, and you spot a smear of sprinkles and icing. You raise your index to point at his cheek, “you have a little something.“

He swipes it, giving his daughter a look of intense betrayal. “Wee menace—“ he bounces her, blowing a raspberry onto her stomach, “ah told ye not to get into the cake!” She squeals, little flip-flops kicking through the air.

You chuckle against the plastic rim of your solo cup and step away from the chaotic mess.

Working the grill is possibly the most formidable man you’ve ever seen, still wearing a hoodie despite the heat.

Standing beside him is a still muscular but leaner man who’s dressed appropriately. A tank top and shorts showing off healthy, bronze skin, his hands nursing a mixed drink. He clatters into the ear of the big one flipping sausages and patties, leaning in and throwing jabs.

(You decide to skip on a plate since the man you’d have to ask for one looks like he’ll devour you whole—)

The punch is gone and the red cup turns weightless in your grip. Watching your father talk the Captain’s ear off, all smirks and happy-go-lucky makes you want a taste of the good stuff he supposedly has.

You trudge the wooden steps of the porch and keep your head down. Embarrassing yourself in front of your father is one thing, and you’ve done it many times. But doing that in front of the smoking-hot SAS-Captain isn’t as easy to choke down.

“Ah, sweetheart, c‘mere!” Your dad’s voice greets you, foreign in its softness. Sweetheart? Since when? “Come say hello to John. He is your host after all, eh?”

You nod before stepping closer, standing before the two sitting men. As you shift your focus to the man of the hour, your stomach clenches. He’s hotter up close.

“Hello.” It’s simple. Perhaps too much. “Nice to meet you, sir.”

John only stares, a light expression on his face. His thighs, thick and muscular, are spread wide in the patio chair. The bottle he’s been nursing is in between them, resting at the crotch of his denim. Two of his thick fingers caress the bottle neck, toying with it until you can’t help but track it.

“Well, aren’t you sweet? It’s my pleasure.” He responds, showing a half-smirk. You can tell his gears are turning, but can’t figure what about. Suddenly, the silence feels too heavy, and he tosses back the last of his beer—gathering himself.

“Call me John, love. It’s not sir here.” His assertiveness comes naturally, but it is not unkind. The faux confidence in your posture shrivels even more.

“Right. Sorry.” You swallow.

He chuckles, sprinkling some warmth to the tension. “No need for sorry either. Didn’t know better.”

“I tell you what, Cap’n—“

Your father’s voice soils the moment, slurring and obnoxious. It seems to startle the both of you. The Captain’s blues shift to him, his jaw clenching.

“She’s never that polite with me—her own old man. I tell ya, respect is a dying breed with these brats—“

The longer he rambles, reeking of liquor and disdain, you tune him out. Try to calm yourself down before the spell you’re caught in shows in front of all these people. The porch feels small as if it’s groaning and sinking under the weight of your dysfunction. Your cheeks are burning, your chest is starting to heave, hands are shaking—

“I, uh, need to use the washroom.” The words are a blurt; crude, disrespectful, ungrateful. “Is it—?” You point an index toward the screen door beside them, already peering inside at your escape.

“Down the hall, take a left,” John answers, eyes full of knowing scrutiny; you can’t tell if it’s toward you or your kin.

You step inside his home, feeling at ease without all the outside noise. It’s remarkably clean—some of the furniture even appears handcrafted. Wood floors, freshly polished and with minimal scuffs. Sparse picture frames, mostly of the same men you saw out there, posing in formation and nearly unrecognizable. The rest of the home is antiquated and fully furnished, but still lacking any clues to the man’s true personality. He’s probably not here enough to let it show. This place is merely a bed and desk between foreign lines and blazing bullets.

You decide to skip the left.

You ascend the L-shaped staircase to your right, glancing over your shoulder to ensure you won’t be caught snooping. This isn’t your house, your place, nor your crowd—and somehow the distraction of an alluring stranger’s home is more lulling than your own. Things that don’t belong to you aren’t weighed down by baggage and bad memories. They serve as an escape.

The washroom door is ajar when you pass it, creeping further down the hall with your head on a swivel. It’s wrong and you know it, but your feet don’t stop. Floorboards creak and groan once you make it to the end of the hall. A bedroom, a linen closet, a storage room. Nothing spectacular.

The first door left closed catches your eye.

To your surprise, it isn’t locked. You push it open silently and shuffle inside, dabbing at your eyes with your shirt. The fireplace on the back wall is unlit, two bookshelves on either side, stacked full with thick hardcovers. Beams of sunlight shine across the desk in the middle, sleek and lacking clutter. Only pens and a few files that don’t make sense to you. All the drawers have a keyhole, preventing you from trudging any deeper.

Sunlight casts warmth on your arms and legs, finally giving you the boost to catch your breath. Instead of falling further, you lose yourself in all of John’s distractions. There are more photos up here, on the mantles. Still the same men, in pubs and restaurants alike worldwide, throughout the years of their relationship.

John is clean-shaven in the first one, a stern but youthful glow to his face. Tan camo gear, a background of sand and humvees. Your thumb skims over the thick Sharpie scribble in the corner: Lieutenant Jonathan Price, circa 2009.

Somehow, you like him better now; salt and pepper, bourbon-breathed, a toned tummy turned soft—

“Find something you like, love?”

Fuck. Your nervous system goes haywire, body rigid. Frozen in place like a rabbit sensing a predator to avoid becoming dead prey.

“I’m really sorry,” you squeak, setting the framed photo back in its spot. “I was just—” His footsteps are slow, but loud enough for you to hear. He’s heading for the honey-stained cellarate beside the door. He kicks it closed before you can run for the stairs and beg your dad to let you drive him home.

“No more apologies.” The cork pops when he removes it, pouring himself a healthy glass of what looks like an aged whiskey. A deep amber swirling in his grip, glinting in the beams of summer. “Doing a bit of snooping instead of joining the party? Now, that’s curious.”

Cuticles tear when you bite at them, unsure of where to go. The door is closed. You feel like you’re in trouble. John is settling into a chair, getting comfortable. His tone reeks of disdain and ambiguity, impossible to peace together.

“I wasn’t snooping, really, I only wanted a break. I didn’t even want to come to this party either.” You explain, rounding the desk without getting any closer. “No offense.”

He chuckles. “None taken. I’ve heard worse. ‘S not exactly your crowd, I’m sure.”

You hike a brow, “what do you mean by that?”

The ice clinks as he sips. “Don’t know, dove. Bar crawls? Street fights? Speed dating? You tell me.”

“I don’t—” You huff, fighting a smile. “I don’t do things like that. All I have time for is studying.” It sounds pathetic to say it out loud, but deep down, it doesn’t feel that way, and only you know why. Anything to keep from home.

He looks pleased, sprinkling a crumb onto that constant fear of being in trouble. “I know. He told me all about it. Though, I sense I’m more supportive of your studies than he is.” Another swig empties the glass and he stands to refill it.

For some reason, you feel the need to come to his defense. He’s a shitty dad. Your shitty dad—whom you’ve known longer than John, since birth. “He’s not… like that. It just takes awhile for him to come around, I guess. My father is—”

“—A prick?”

Can’t argue with that. “We’re complicated. And it’s hardly your business.”

“He made it mine, he’s at my home.”

Four steps closer. A wide body cloaking yours. You can’t move. “Especially when his daughter would rather be hiding in a stranger’s home than around him.”

“I wasn’t hiding,” you deflect, crossing your arms and tucking your chin. “I needed some air.”

“Been crying too, by the looks of it.” He pinches your jaw, forcing you to turn it back toward him. “Too sweet for all of it. And too smart. Not a bratty bone in your body.” It works because you know he’s right, and somehow standing before him, being steered by his hands feels right.

You close your eyes when his breath fans over your face. His voice is soft thunder, drowning out the rainfall of voices in the yard. “Here, have a sip.”

This should be wrong. No, it is wrong. Still, you nod your head and wait for the rim to reach your parted lips.

It’s pungent. A sharp punch to the nose. Your nose crinkles, mouth starting to frown as if you’ve never tasted liquor. Whatever he has is clearly a different league than the kegs at uni.

“Hm, I figured,” John leans back to finish the drink off, muscles growing looser by the second. “Suppose that means you were telling the truth, then.”

“I was.” Unconsciously, you open your eyes and find yourself leaning closer to breathe him in.

John reaches around you to set the empty glass down, fingers dancing close to your waist before closing in. He notices the hitch in your breathing, the clench of your jaw muscles, and most of all the fight inside yourself.

“It’s okay to like it, love. Just don’t want to see you sad, is all.” The tip of his nose burrows into your hair, the free hand holding the back of your head. “Gonna let me help you, doll?”

You nod again, head spinning. And that seems to be all it takes. Something once tucked neat below the surface unleashes so violently that you feel it.

The cracks widen. He grips your jaw, lips latching onto the apple of cheek and trailing until he reaches your mouth. The beginning is a tiptoe that abruptly turns messy and feverrant.

The levee breaks. Your tailbone hits the back edge of the large desk, digging into it. You wince against his maw, beckoning two large hands to lift you onto it. The part of your thighs widens, his pelvis nestled between the crux of them.

The waves pull you under. You moan into the kiss, muffled and pitiful. The pressure of his erection is just right against your clothed pussy.

His name spills—a desperate plea for more that he stifles.

“Shh.” John soothes, pulling the hem of his shirt until it’s left untucked. The kiss breaks with a wet pop. “We’ll need to be quiet, lovey. Our secret.”

Love; there it is again, sodden with need.

Your hips shift when he leans forward to suckle on your clavicle, teetering close to your breasts without giving in.

“I need,” you whisper, “need more. Please.”

He tuts. Something that says patience. Be a good girl. It’s the perfect high pitched frequency to rewire the clutter in your brain. When he starts to slither lower, working your tank top off, you have wholeheartedly forgotten why you were upset in the first place.

Your nipples pebble from the air conditioning, growing erect through the thin fabric of your bra. They beg for relief from the chaffing—and he begs to feast on them.

“You wanted me to see these today, didn’t you? Perfect fucking tits.” John probes, snapping the strap against your shoulder with his hand. His hot, whiskey breath fans across your cleavage as he unfastens it.

They drop without the support—essentially hanging fruit for a man starved. Sweet and full of life on his tongue.

He suckles until his tongue grows tired leaving a trail of saliva in its way, but the fire in his blues remains ablaze. You gasp when he pulls you off the oak, a hand on the nape of your neck to herd you.

You’re facing it now, slowly tilting down until your tits are smushed against his workspace. Your upper half shivers against it, teeth biting into your bottom lip in anticipation. His fingers dig into the waistband of your shorts, tugging them, and your panties, down to your ankles in one go.

When the breeze settles onto your bare ass, you wait for the feeling of hips against it. To feel the prod of a thick cock against your entrance. For him to slam inside you without preamble, splitting you open and pounding you sore.

Instead, you feel his weight shift. A hot mouth between your thighs, two big hands pulling your cheeks apart to get a view of your pussy. It quivers, already glistening without any touch.

You let out a sharp gasp when he dives in. No time wasted with kitten licks or long, wet stripes along your inner thighs. He shakes his head when his tongue is fucking you, oscillating until you fight a cry.

“Fuck—!” You yell, muted by your gritted teeth.

He hums, and it feels like a vibrator pressed against your clit. “Even sweeter down here, sweetheart.” John’s words are muffled, as if tearing himself away would cause him death.

The captain shifts from your hole to your swollen clit. He laps at the puffy bead, suckling each time you let out a whimper for something more—already knowing exactly what you need from him. Letting you take it from him.

“My sweet girl,” Price mumbles against your sex, gently spreading it open with his thumb. “You just need to cum. Just needed your pussy played with a bit, eh? ‘S that right?”

Your brain turns haywire. Yes, yes, yes. He’s right. That’s what you need—

You can’t answer, not with words. All you want is for that coil in your tummy to snap. It would only take a few more seconds.

He latches again, hallowing his cheeks until slick pools between his lips. The bundle of nerves in your abdomen gives way, off the edge of the cliff in an instant.

Everything stops. Your legs wobble, a drooling mouth agape against the back of your hand, eyes rolling to the back of your head. The only reason he rips himself away is the fear of you falling too deep, growing too loud for any of his to remain discreet.

He can’t toy with you today. Can't push the limits, no matter how tempting it is.

His zipper interrupts the ringing in your ears, forcing you to gather yourself. He isn’t done and you don’t want him to be. You want, no, need more of him, whether you faint afterward or not because he’s too much to handle. The logistics of it don’t matter right now.

“Do you feel it, love?” He peels down the waistband of his briefs, pressing his hard cock against your pussy, gathering the arousal. It feels big—but you knew that when you first saw him. Already had expectations for what it might be like, and though you can’t see it, you know you were right.

“Gonna fuck you now.” His voice grows hard, an arm snaking across your belly to raise you up again. The thought of being moved makes you whimper impatiently. You want him now, bent over his desk as you were.

Despite the haste in his actions, you can tell there is a purpose to him readjusting you.

Your gaze lands on a bare chest. He must’ve taken his shirt off at some point behind you. Slowly, your head dips down to take a gander. John pumps his cock, using the slick he collected for a smooth, repetitive glide.

It curves upward toward his stomach, girthier at its base. Dirty-blond curls conceal some of it, conjoined with his happy trail.

The reddened tip leaks pre-cum that you want to taste. But, selfishly, you only want him to give in and put his dick inside you for being good. His mouth was only a lick of what you know he can give.

He stays true to his word, scooting you closer so his stomach presses against yours. Your legs hug his waist, spread wide to let him take his spot.

“Need you facing me.” The tip notches against your entrance, barely pressing inside. You yelp, sucking in a breath. “See? ‘M too big for you to stay quiet, baby.”

Your hole remains snug, but still eases him in, making room for what your cunt wants. It's too much to choke down without noise. “I can’t- They’ll hear us—“

“That’s why you’re looking at me, pretty. So I can help you. Just need you to trust me, alright?” You nod your head, eyes shifting from his cock to meet his. To trust him.

He raises a hand, clamping it over your mouth with a vice grip. His hips start to move, pushing forward until his pelvis is flush with yours, balls deep.

You squeal against his palm, cunt filled to the brim, womb being butted. She aches, fighting the sheer size of it, welding the pleasure and pain of every shallow thrust.

You want him to take it slow, but you’d only beg for more if he did that.

“That’s it,” he groans, mouth against your ear. The other hand digs into the fat of your hip, leaving indents in its wake. “Just take it for me so you feel better, sweet girl.”

His pace quickens into calculated ruts, causing your muffled noises to grow in intensity. Every drag of his cockhead inside you lulls you closer to that addictive ecstasy. His tongue was surface-level, playful, and exhilarating, nothing compared to the deep den of primal need. Something you ached for the first time you saw him whether you knew it or not.

Someone enters the house downstairs, dishes clattering, and John looks at it as incentive. Both hands tighten as an anchor for deeper, sharper thrusts that send the penholder and paper weight cascading to the floor. “Can feel you getting tighter, love,” he groans, stubble and breath tickling your ear. “You want to cum all over my cock—all stuffed full?”

You nod while slobbering on his mitt.

The air punches from your lungs with each jolt inside your pussy. The coil tightens again, snared and full of tension. Instead of jabbing, he reduces his pace to slow grinds along the front wall of your cunt, massaging the spongy spot that makes your eyes roll into the back of your skull.

His head lifts from the crook of your neck to meet them.

“Just—fucking—need to cum, baby.” John stutters, a drunk expression that warrants the lazy movements in his pelvis. “Ah, shit—Do it for me. Be good.” He holds on for you; bites the inside of his cheek until he bleeds.

The muscles in your stomach throb, your spine goes weak. A warbled cry expels into his flesh when you gush around him, knees shaking against his sides. All the tension you carried downstairs seems to vanish for a moment. The consequences of being caught look meaningless. Giving in, inviting rebellion feels like something you can live with.

Your eyes flutter open, brows furrowed as he shifts his focus onto his own pleasure. All you need to do is keep still and take it. Be the good girl he knows you are.

He pulls out, leaving you empty and clenching around his absence. Subtle, slick sounds echo through the office as he grinds against your pussy, bumping into your clit.

His hand does the rest of the work, squeezing the base until he sputters, leaving fingerprint bruises on your hip.

You feel the ropes of cum paint the outside of your cunt, his mouth latching onto yours as he rides through it. “So messy.” He whispers, stubble harsh against your lips.

Your legs and posture drop as he pulls away, tucking his cock back into his briefs. You don’t feel regretful, only tired and in need of a cold shower.

“You go downstairs first.” He instructs, lifting you off the desk. After finding your shirt, he slips it over your head, leaving your bra somewhere tossed aside. After, he kneels, dangerously close to the mess he made, he helps you step into your panties and shorts again, hiding the evidence.

The fabric sticks to you, full of cum and sweat. Your legs throb and wobble without the support of the desk beneath you, the spend costing them causing them to stick. “Get yourself a plate, too. Can’t have you passing out, can we?”

“O-okay.” You, utterly stunned, aren’t sure what else to say.

His lips find your sweaty temple, hand splayed across your heaving tummy. “Be good.”

The descent downstairs is slow and just short of shameful. You aren’t sure of what you’ll say if anyone asks questions.

Hopefully there’s a snug corner you can tuck yourself into.

Months pass before you see John again.

The music pounds your eardrums. People are yelling over it. Bodies slam into you.

It’s the night of your grad party, surrounded by fake friends and alcohol. You lost track of the only decent one you came here with. A few minutes pass when you stare at her text, explaining why. She got bored and decided to bar hop in the city with her guy. Shit.

Your vision ebbs and blurs and you wonder if you should have joined her. This isn’t your element. This isn’t safe. This house is unfamiliar. How are you getting back to your dorm?

You never do this, never stop being the rational one in the group. Always the designated driver who holds a buzz while your friends get hammered. Yet, here you are, holding onto a bannister so you don’t faceplant. As you thumb through your contacts, you wager the options in your head about who to call.

A family member—you’d rather die.

One of your classmates—either here with you, or asleep.

The SAS Captain you fucked within earshot of all his collegues and your dad after he caught you hiding in his home office—now that’s promising. And somehow less humiliating.

You giggle against the wood grain when you click his name, feeling the sway of the alcohol on your decisions, remembering the euphoria of that day. He’s probably asleep, too. A text might be better. Otherwise, his name will continue to collect dust in your phone.

—heyyy

—are you awake captain?

He reads it after a few seconds.

I am, sweetheart. Why are you texting me?—

You pout, as if he’s here to see it.

—i missed you and i thought it was past ur bedtime

—hehe

Call me now.—

You don’t call him.

Why should you? He’s being a proper sourpuss about a little joke—

The screen flashes with his name and it takes a few moments before you can figure it out. Stumbling to your feet so you can walk outside, you cover one ear and raise the phone to your ear.

“Sweetheart.” It sounds more like a scold than a greeting.

Keys jingle on the other line, a car door opening. “Where are you?” John’s unmistakable voice flows through.

Your shoe scuffs against the pavement, balance off as you look for a street sign. Somehow, he’s able to make out the address you stutter through. Luckily, you aren’t too far out from his place because you won’t be upright much longer.

You lower yourself onto the curb and tuck in your knees, eyes drooping from intoxication. “Am I in trouble?”

Your voice is weak, half-genuine but his is neither. “No, love. I just need you to stay where you are until I come get you. Alright?”

“Mm-hm,” you hum, plucking out blades of grass. “I’ll stay.”

The call ends.

You sit there for longer than you can keep track of. The muffled bass keeps you awake even though you’re fighting it. Knowing you will see John again is motivating, too, but it’s unsure if he’s going to be warm. It’s an extremely unlikely way to reconnect with an old hookup.

An engine grows louder, tires crunching gravel through the ringing in your ears. The brakes squeal, a car door closes, boots enter your swaying sightline.

You lift your head from your lap and chew on your lip when you meet his gaze, feigning innocence. “Mr. Price?” You know who it is.

“C’mon. Get up.” His brows furrow, not giving you the time to follow his commands. Instead, he cups your upper arm and pulls you up, leading you toward his car. The other hand holds the back of your head, shoving it to the center of his chest in case you manage to fall. A few scrapes is better than a drunken head wound.

“‘M not supposed to get in the car with strange men.” Your feet drag, ankles bobbing, but his hold on you doesn’t budge.

“Cute.” John retorts, unamused as he opens the passenger door. “But I think we’re past strangers.”

With ease, he lifts your body into the seat, tucking in your feet and then forcing your hands into your lap. When he leans over you to buckle the seatbelt, you lick your lips and smirk at him, shamelessly breathing in his cologne.

“You think I’m,”—you hiccup—“cute?”

John draws back and pauses, skimming your features with a clenched jaw. Decides not to negotiate with you right now.

“We’ll talk in the morning.” Your door closes.

As you slump against the window, your eyes follow his speed-walk around the vehicle to climb inside, and how abruptly he puts it in drive and takes off. After that, most of it is a blur of neighborhoods and headlights that you’re too out of it to pay attention to.

The trudge inside his place is bits and pieces. There’s a constant hand on the small of your back, up the stairs until you reach the bedroom. His bedroom. You only saw a glimpse back at the party—masculine, simple, and neat. Two hands on your shoulders steer you toward the bed until you lower onto it.

John digs through his dresser, pulling out a clean t-shirt. “Arms up.”

You raise them, and he pulls off the sweaty one you’re wearing, and then your bralette. His shirt is more breathable by far, perpetually smelling of him. You toy with the hem as he reaches for your jeans, tugging them off each leg methodically. “Can’t sleep in these, can you?” The captain mumbles, more to himself. “Probably not the shoes, either.” Those are next, tossed onto the armchair with your clothes.

You chortle, cheeks hot. “I like your clothes.”

“Yeah? Then stay right there.” He turns away and enters the bathroom, returning with a small cup that he extends.

You stare at it, puzzled and hesitant. When you cock a brow, he sighs. “Mouthwash. You smell like a distillery, and I reckon you’ll fall over before we can brush your teeth.”

You toss it back, relying on muscle memory to swish it around your cheeks before spitting it back into the cup. The minty aftertaste is miles better than the remnants of your last syrupy, mixed drink.

“Nauseous?” He returns to the bedroom, peeling off his belt and jeans. “Tell me the truth.”

You shake your head and that seems to burn the energy you have left. The world tilts on its axis.

John huffs when you fall over, cheek squished against his navy bedspread. If he weren’t in such a sour mood, he might appreciate the sight a bit more. Instead, he grabs a throw blanket and drapes it over your crumpled frame before climbing in next to you. One arm snakes around your waist to keep you secure and the other supports your head in case you start to roll, or vomit in the middle of sleeping.

You don’t vomit in the morning.

You have a hellacious headache in place of an alarm, however. The body pressed against you throughout the night is gone and you’re shivering now. With a groan, you climb off the bed and follow the noise.

The bathroom door isn’t shut completely. You can see his shadow moving under it, the sound of him brushing his teeth and spitting out the excess.

“John?” You frown from the bright light when you push the door open. “How am I here?” That question reminds you of how you ended up here—actually, that you can’t remember the answer. All you can do is rely on hope that he was responsible enough to not have sex with you when he brought you home.

“A few texts.” He answers, placing his toothbrush back in its cup. “That’s how.”

“Did we… we didn’t—?”

“No,” he shakes his head, expression stern. “Believe it or not, love, I have a conscience.”

You can finally breathe. “Good.” Your shoulders drop, posture relaxing. “I mean, you were mindblowing, but— I’m glad we didn’t.”

The flattery gets you nowhere; John walks past you and you can feel the cloud that follows him. It makes the air thick.

Though all you want to do is sleep, you follow him with furrowed brows. “Are you mad at me for something? Whatever I said, I was drunk. A-and you didn’t have to come get me. I would’ve asked… I don’t know, someone, for a ride home.”

“I doubt that.” John argues, stopping at the foot of the bed. “You were seconds from passing out when I got there, too shitfaced to stand. You’re lucky nothing bad happened.”

Frankly, you’re offended. No, you don’t get out much, nor have you ever been that drunk without a ride. But this spat isn’t remotely fair.

“I know that. I’m not an idiot.” You roll your eyes, pulling his shirt over your head.

Like an asshole, he does that cocky, knowing half-smile. “That’s my point. You’re not stupid, sweetheart.” Despite the heat in his words, his eyes comb over the sight of your bare chest, then the swell of your ass when you bend to grab your jeans.

With your back turned, literally, you are fully intent on ignoring the domineering lecture you know is coming. It’s not his place. You just need to get home and forget about the whole thing.

“Don’t get dressed yet.” His feet shuffle closer. “We aren’t done.”

You scoff, refusing to turn around. “Or what? You’ll lecture me about safe drinking, Mr. Price?”

A dark cloud casts over your bare body in an instant. Two hands clamp onto your shoulders and spin you. Then, a rough palm shoves you onto the mattress. “I’m not doing this with—”

You let out a yelp, hands digging into the comforter. A flame of arousal flickers in your belly and it wages war with frustration. “This isn’t funny to me, John. My head hurts—”

“Shut your mouth. It won’t do you any favors.” The bed creaks when he sinks a knee into it, one before the other to hover on top of you. John’s eyes singe into every inch of your skin, hands beginning to roam. “Besides, I thought it was Mr. Price, sweetheart?”

You shake your head, sincerely regretting your choice to be snarky. “I-I wasn’t…”

“No?” His thumb toys with the waistband of your panties, stilling when your hips buck upward. “Hm, I suppose ‘sir’ is better, anyhow. Easier for you to remember.”

When your mouth opens, he tuts and brings the hand up to your chest. Too far from where you need him to touch you. It’s been too long since you felt it. Stale memories aren’t enough to get off to. None of your toys do the trick. And the blokes your age are clumsy and inconsiderate—nothing like John.

“Though your pretty head might not remember it,” he licks a nipple, teeth barely grazing it until you shutter. “I said we’d talk in the morning.”

You whine and reach for his belt, but he swats the back of your hand harsh enough for your knuckles to sting.

“Ah-ah— you want it? Want my cock inside you?” He asks, almost deceptively sweet. “Be polite.”

Your throat bobs when you swallow your pride, feeling every ounce of dignity drain from your bloodstream. “I want your in me cock. Please.”

He tilts his head like he’s truly thinking about it. Every second feels a lifetime. His index adjusts a strand of hair sticking to your cheek, sluggish enough to count as torture.

“Much better.” John leans down, pecking your lips a few times. “‘M gonna give it to you now.”

Relief washes over you with a shaky breath. You start to think this will go by quick, that a rough fuck will be all it takes for him to forgive you. One that you’ll enjoy probably too much, but God, all you want is for him to fill you—

“Up.” He fists the hair on top of your head, firm enough to make you raise it. “Follow my hand.”

You gape at him with wet eyes, lip all but quivering. You should be whining from the stretch of him, knees tucked as close to your chest as they’ll go—but instead, you’re sitting up and unsure of why.

It takes a slow blink for him to put a foot on the bed and feed his tip toward your lips. Circling them with it until they part enough for him to slip inside. Despite months of fantasizing about having his cock down your throat, you feel tricked.

“Easy. There we go. Hold onto me.” You grip his thighs tight, tilting your head forward. Halfway inside the warm, wet chasm of your mouth, his eyes flutter shut with a satisfied groan.

”Fuck— you’re bloody perfect.” It’s a new, soon-to-be addiction. He starts to pump his hips cautiously, narrowly avoiding your gag reflex.

Tears prick in your eyes as your throat fights to allow him space in it. You gag when he pushes deeper, giving his thigh a light squeeze, not a full-stop.

He pulls out, gripping the base of his glistening cock. “I-I thought—“ You stutter, voice hoarse. “You said you’d give me your cock, John.”

The hand in your hair tightens, enough for your scalp to start screaming. You whine from the mild pain and he reneges, stroking your temple to keep you dazed.

“Try again, sweetheart. Use your head.” After a beat of silence, you gather the pieces missing. Begin to anticipate what will warrant one of his firm corrections.

“I told you what I wanted, Sir.” It’s the correct answer—you can tell. Your neck is already sore, the agitated muscles putting a damper on your speech. “T-that I wanted your cock inside me. You promised you would—“

“Oh, baby.” His voice softens, less militant and more condescending. The hand on his cock starts to pump slowly, spit coating his fingers.

“I said I’d put my cock in you, but I didn’t say where, eh?” The tip prods at your mouth again and it opens on instinct.

You gulp, desperation breeding. Arguing is futile.

He goes deeper than before, easing through every gag and cough until your throat opens. “Your mouth is just as good isn’t it, baby? You can cum from this?” You won’t. And he damn well knows it.

The shift to rhetorical and demeaning feels like something you should hate. He’s been mean for the sake of it; playing with his slab of meat before devouring it.

With your eyes closed, it’s not as agonizing. You focus on the sounds he makes and keeping your teeth from getting in the way. Every grunt and groan makes your pussy clench around nothing. Makes you want to slither a hand between your legs for relief.

“‘M gonna cum, sweetheart. Keep still—“ he retracts with a wet pop, jerking himself off with only the tip being warmed. Your tongue rolls over the slit, nails digging into his hip bones to egg him on.

His fist balls on top of your head when he comes, costing the roof of your mouth and inner lips in hot, milky spurts. “Fuck, mmfph—“

John loosens the grip, finally allowing your head to rest. His mouth meets yours, tongue lapping at the inside of it despite the remnants of his climax still on your tastebuds. Before you lean back again, he works at your soaked panties, nearly ripping the cheap fabric when he rids them.

After all that, you’re practically buzzing with anticipation. Whining into every kiss. Gripping onto him like he’ll run away. Grinding your pussy through thin air.

“Gonna fuck you now, pretty. Like I promised.” He pecks your collarbone. “Turn over for me.”

With his hands steering you, you’re facing the bed in an instant, staring at the backs of your hands digging into the sheets. You arch your back, putting your head down, but he stills you with a gentle pat on the hip.

“All the way down, love. On your tummy.” It’s unusual, but definitely more comfortable than bending your spine. As you shift off onto forearms, he sets a pillow underneath the spot of your pelvis, elevating your ass.

You can tell it’s a calculated move to drive you mad. The soft arch of your back, how he’s going to drape his entire body on you and crane his hips toward that special spot.

Weight settles across your entire back, a cock head finding your hole. You wiggle your hips and he breathes through a laugh, easing inside you smooth as butter.

He doesn’t waste time, not like before. The stretch is seamless, an instant pleasure that flows to the plug of your womb.

“S-so deep. Mm— fuck.” You moan into the pillows, mouth agape.

His cock bullies for its spot in your guts, deeper than it was the last time. He leans closer, fingers slipping across your belly to massage your clit. The other drapes over your tits, his body forcing you into a bear hug from behind.

“I missed being inside you, sweet girl,” his hip bones bite into your ass, balls flush with it. Every drag of them makes your eyes roll, working the places inside you that have never been abused. “Taking my cock so well.”

The rough pads of his fingers swirl around your clit as he fucks you into the mattress, hearing sounds he couldn’t before. But now, every thrust earns a sharp, overstimulated moan from your lips that he’ll savor; to keep him warm when he’s away.

“‘m gonna cum, don’t stop.” Your voice raises an octave, a fire burning in your stomach. The headboard slams against the wall as he quickens the pace, abusing the aching spot that worked so well before.

You come with a shaky moan, coating his dick in a slick that drips down his inner thighs. Sweat poured from your skin, muscles taut and overworked.

You go limp beneath him, relying on his hold to keep your head from dropping. “Almost there, baby—“ Baby. There it is again, only desperate. “Just keep t-taking what I give you.”

Instead of thrusting, he slows and begins circling his cock inside you, grinding his pelvis into the fat of your ass. “Fuck, fuck. M’filling you up this time.” He mutters into the side of your head, unintelligible.

Your vision blurs, body jolting forward when he stills inside you. Spurts of cum coat the inner walls of your cunt as he slumps forward, bracing himself with both palms on the bed now.

You can breathe once he eases up, panting like a dog into your neck. “You’re perfect.” John’s lips feather against your ear before he shifts beside you.

Your pulse begins to slow, limbs jelly, and therefore useless in leaving anytime soon.

“I think I hate you.” You mutter into the sticky skin on your wrist, curling onto your side to face him.

His lips curve upward, slightly impressed. “I’ve heard that before.” He does the same, scooting close so you can lean against his heart. “How’s the headache?”

“Gone.” You reply, begrudgingly.

“Hm. Suppose you should get out of here, then.” John teases, while making no effort to move or let go of you. “Just a few steps and you’d be out of my hair. Easy peasy.”

You huff, fighting exhaustion. “Please stop talking.”

He chuckles hard enough for your head to jiggle against his chest. “Only because you asked me so nicely, lovie.”

[lessi-lover]

to love and be loved II l.williamson x reader

★ to love and be loved II l.williamson x reader

"babe? i'm home!" you yelled through the front hallway, pushing the door closed with your elbow as you struggled to get through the door with all your bags. you were exhausted as you trudged towards the kitchen, your feet weighing down as you dragged your heavy suitcase across the rug adorning the floor.

you hooked your keys over the rack leaning on the wall, a gentle grimace washing across your face as you heard your neighbours kids shouting over the fence which did nothing to sooth your headache.

having to drive up north to be with your best friend whilst she underwent surgery definitely wasn't your ideal start to your break. but you'd made the decision that driving up to be with her whilst her family were living overseas was important, even if it meant missing the last game of your season and by addition the first few days of your break.

the girl had practically been your sister growing up, both your moms attached at the hip from the second they had met and it wasn't any different when their two daughters were coincidently born in the same year.

the holidays during the summer that your families shared would never be forgotten and the memories with them. as a teenager you swore you saw them so much they were easily like family and in the way they supported you throughout your career you could say they felt a part of your own.

washed up feelings of the emotional baggage from the season had endlessly flooded you over the last few weeks and consumed you whole, so allowing yourself to be in the presence of your childhood best friend was a good distraction in itself.

in the days that followed the surgery you were able to spend your leftover time seeing many of your old friends from your sunderland days as you could and getting back in touch with your family that you hadn't exactly been able to properly talk to over the last weeks of the season.

and although you enjoyed your time up north and getting a feel for the city again, you really did miss girlfriend as much as you wouldn't admit to the blonde. the countless calls at horrible hours just wasn't enough to keep you both settled as you tried to communicate with her across the country. and whilst you enjoyed your visit back home, you couldn't wait to be back in the blondes arms again.

leah was clearly your safety blanket and had been ever since you two made it official before your first match for arsenal, the defender having been eyeing you since you had been in the younger age groups way back when she was little.

you and your wife leah had started out your relationship as just close friends, then into best friends and eventually into lovers. meeting through the youth groups for arsenal you eventually confessed your feelings for each other at only sixteen and leah freshly seventeen.

unfortunately you only explored your more intimate relationship for a couple of months before you went down to sunderland fc to get more game time as you felt like playing at arsenal was not helping you to reach your full potential as an young athlete and rather hindering you.

leah had been supportive of your decision to seek more playing time at sunderland fc from the moment you told her, understanding that your ambition to grow as a player and as a person was bigger how much you loved arsenal.

but as soon as you made your return back to your childhood club after only a season, the blonde immediately welcomed you back with open arms and despite the time apart, your bond with leah remained strong even with the distance between you.

you both realized how much you had missed each other during those months apart, and you realised how much you needed leah in your life and vice versa.

she could see how much more confidence you had gained during your time at sunderland, your playing style much more refined and more aggressive in different ways. she couldn't wait for you to come home to be with her again.

from then on leah vowed to be there for you as much as you let her, always having seemingly knowing exactly what you needed as soon as it felt needed.

from making you coffee when you had a particularly grueling day, offering advice or words of encouragement if she felt you wanted, pulling you close when her words were not enough to soothe you, or even sacrificing her golfing sundays when you decided it was the perfect weather for a shopping day, even if all the blonde did was hold your countless bags.

you were utterly exhausted from the drive back home and before you could even push away the loose strand that had fallen in front of your eyes, a hand reached up for you and instead you were met with your girlfriend in front of you.

"well hello there gorgeous." the defender breathed out, you all but happily smiled as you threw yourself into her arms, sighing contently as the familiar scent of the blonde washed easily over you.

"hi leah baby." you said with a smile, taking note of her trackies and slightly damp hair that she had carelessly thrown up, long blonde strands falling at the sides of her face from her grown out bangs.

"leah!" you laughed as suddenly as the english captains toned arms had wrapped around your waist, pulling you off the ground and into the air. "let me dow-." she interrupts your squeal with a short kiss, gently lowering you down to the floor.

you melted into her touch as her thumbs dug into the side of your hips, kisses placed beneath you ear as she slotted her body into you own and her arms wrapped around your waist.

"baby girl i missed you too much." she exhaled, yourself tugging the taller girl down into a kiss as she charmingly let her hands drop lower to your behind.

"missed you more." you teased, stealing another kiss as you finally let your shoulders drop in ease. "impossible, darling girl." she chuckled, once again locking lips with yours. the blonde pressed her forehead to yours, the tip of her nose tucking into your face.

she brushed her lips across the corner of your lips and slipped her hands into yours smiling against your skin. "i love you so much." she whispered, cradling your head against her neck. you laughed pushing her away as she gave you her most endearing grin.

"i love you too leah." you sent a grin, rolling your eyes as the brit distracted you with a quick kiss and grabbed your bags from behind you. "pleaser you are." you laughed, referring to how she left you nothing of your own bags to carry yourself.

"what? can't help my wife after she comes back from a long trip overseas! quite rude you denying my services, they aren't reserved for just anyone y'know?" she grinned, adjusting the bags to grab your hand as she pulled you inside.

the blonde pulled you through the entry of your house and you felt your body feel lighter as you inhaled the familiar scent of home, you noticed that your girlfriend had lit a candle in the kitchen as you walked through.

"baby i know you're knackered and all you want to do is go to cuddle in bed, but i may have invited some the girls for dinner cause it's our turn to host?" she said with a guilty smile, her laugh running through as you whined you were tired.

"and i'm going to do something about it just hold on!" your girlfriend continued, lifting her finger in the air as she walked backwards into the lounge room. "baby!" you yelled out, frowning as you were rewarded with no response.

you slid your shoes off by the door, an amused smile on your lips as the new side table you had asked leah to unpack hadn't moved an inch since it arrived.

you chuckled to yourself, watching as your girlfriend frantically tapped her phone, most likely texting many of your friends to cancel the plans.

"leah i don't mind if the girls come over, i'm not even feeling that bad to be honest." you smiled, now a little more awake as the blonde paced sat up.

"are you sure love?" she asked worriedly, pulling you into her lap as she slumped her body against yours. "very sure, baby." you answered, your thumb tracing the edge of her jaw as the blonde cheekily dug her hands into your waist.

~

you were completely out of it even as your friends entered your home, many of them having brought small dishes in return for the hospitality. you didn't even lift your head up from the couch when beth called hello to you as she strutted in with her arm linked with steph.

"well hello sleepy girl." beth teased, looking down at you as you snuggled further into your wife's body that had replaced the pillow you were resting on before, the english woman a much more suitable pillow in your opinion.

you managed to offer the loud blonde a drowsy smile, your eyelids heavy as you tried to muster the energy to greet her properly. "hey beth. hey steph," you murmured, your eyes shutting almost immediately after.

leah chuckled softly as well as your friends, dipping down to press a tender kiss to your forehead and tangling her hand in your hair to gently massage your scalp. "they brought some food, love," leah whispers you lightly in your hair.

"you want to have a bite, or would you rather rest a bit longer?" she questioned, her hand moving to swipe affectionately across your cheek. "i think i'm okay here lee lee." you mumbled, body barely moving only to shift up further onto the blonde's lap as she tucked you in closer to her chest.

"alright my love," she smiled as she felt you exhale deeply into her neck. the skipper watched as you tried to rest soundly over her, admiring your red flushed cheeks, disheveled hair that fell over her chest and the feeling of your cold puffs of air escaping your lips that hit her skin as you slept.

"baby you can go to sleep upstairs if you want?" leah whispered, shuffling herself impossibly close to you as she watched you shake your head with a clearly heavily exhausted look on your face.

"love you look shattered. i'll even carry you up!" she offered, but again you shook your head. the blonde sighing but lazily pecking the top of your hair a couple times as your friends left you in your own comfort on the sofa and instead attended to your kitchen to give you some time together.

"fine. but don't fall asleep on the couch! keep givin' yourself back problems woman." she warned you, her cold hands tucking underneath your hoodie to hold you tightly against her body.

it was within minutes that your breathing eventually evened out and you were fast asleep, just as leah had suspected you would. the blonde looked down at you, shaking her head with a fond smile. "silly girl," she murmured, gently shifting you off her lap and standing up.

carefully, she slipped her arms under you and lifted you effortlessly, her muscles easily handling your weight as she adjusted you into her hold. "off to bed baby girl." she whispered to herself as she carried you up the stairs, your head resting against her shoulder.

"wife duties williamson." katie jeered as she watched her teammate move with you resting in her arms towards the stairs. leah silencing them with a finger pressed firmly to her mouth before the irish woman's joke caught wind and your friends made enough noise to wake you up.

once in your bedroom, leah gently laid you down on the bed, tucking you under the covers and lifting up the blanket she knew you loved up to your chin. she placed a soft kiss on your forehead before straightening up.

"stay lee. can't sleep without you." she heard you say sleepily, even whilst asleep you managed to hold all of the blonde's attention with a few words.

leah smiled, pulling off her shoes and slipping into bed beside you. "of course my love," she whispered. her thighs pressing against your own as she seemingly curled herself into your sleeping form, rewarding you with a kiss to the side of your jaw.

"i love you my girl." she confessed, allowing you to tuck yourself into her neck as you fell asleep against her, exactly the way she liked it.

[kpop-imgaines-at-your-demand]

How about johnny with stubble eating you out

Break time

Warning : nothing except the fact that it's a shameless smut.

A/N : So many eating out requests; you all really want your idols between your legs.

It was break time, so Johnny didn’t have to shave every single day. A light stubble was growing on his face. You admired it. He always looked good, whether clean-shaven or with a bit of scruff. Sometimes, you wondered what he’d look like with a full beard, but you doubted you’d ever get to see it. Most idols couldn’t grow one. Still, you liked the rugged charm of his stubble. You were staring at him when he suddenly looked up and asked, “Is something on my face?”

“No,” you replied quickly.

He shrugged and went back to what he was doing but the thought lingered in your mind long after. You couldn't help but wonder how his stubble would feel against your fingertips, your lips… your skin. Against your thighs. You shuddered at the thought.

Johnny’s voice snapped you out of your daze. “Where are you lost? I’ve been calling you.”

You blinked up at him, shaking your head. Before you could gather yourself, he suddenly placed his hands on your shoulders and pulled you into a soft hug from behind. His voice was warm against your neck.

“What is it? Why do you look so dazed?”

You sighed softly. It felt strange to say it out loud.

“…Your beard is growing.”

Johnny hummed. “Oh. Is it bad? I’ll shave it tomorrow—I was just being lazy.”

You stopped his rambling with a simple, “I like it.”

His arms around you stiffened slightly. “You… like it?” He sounded almost surprised.

“Yes,” you admitted, voice quieter this time. “I like it a lot… And I was wondering how it would feel against my skin.”

There was a beat of silence. Then, slowly, Johnny turned you around to face him. His eyes darkened, his gaze dropping to your lips.

“Well,” he murmured, voice lower now. “There’s only one way to find out.”

He looked at you, his gaze dark and unreadable, before leaning in for a kiss. The rough tickle of his stubble sent a shiver through you as his lips moved down to your neck, brushing against sensitive skin. A soft sigh escaped you and without thinking, you grabbed his wrist and pulled him toward the bedroom.You barely made it to the bed before he caught you, lifting you effortlessly and pushing you back against the wall. His breath was warm against your collarbone as he tugged your shirt down, lips trailing lower.

“You’re so impatient,” you murmured, though your hands betrayed you, fingers tangling in his hair, holding him close against your chest. You felt his muffled chuckle vibrate against your skin before he lifted his head, meeting your gaze with a teasing smirk. “Is that so?”

It wasn’t just a question—it was a challenge. A silent threat that he could be patient. Patient enough to drive you mad. And you wanted every second of it. You said nothing, only cupped his jaw with slow, deliberate strokes, letting your fingers map the shape of him. The contrast between the sharpness of his stubble and the softness of your palms felt strangely therapeutic, grounding you in the moment. His eyes flickered at the touch, darkening slightly. "Careful," he warned, his voice rougher now. "You might get addicted to that."

You smiled, letting your thumb brush over his lower lip. "Maybe I already am."

Johnny didn’t waste a second. He grabbed your wrist and pulled you toward the bed, his grip firm but controlled. Before you could fully process it, he was already hooking his fingers into the waistband of your panties, dragging them down with swift precision. You raised an eyebrow at him, half amused, half expectant.

He smirked, leaning in close until his lips were just a breath away from your ear. “Well, you just took a shower, didn’t you?” His voice was low, teasing. “What’s better than fresh, clean pussy?”

Heat pooled in your stomach at his blunt words. He always had a way of saying things that made your breath hitch, made your skin feel too tight. You barely had a second to react before he was pressing your thighs apart, settling between them like he belonged there.

“Johnny....”

“Shh,” he murmured, his stubble grazing against your inner thigh as he kissed the soft skin there. The sensation sent a shiver through you, anticipation winding tight in your belly. Your fingers curled into the sheets as he moved lower, his hands gripping your thighs to hold you still. His touch was deliberate, slow, as if savoring the moment, as if making sure you felt everything. And God, you did.

The room was dimly lit, the soft glow of the bedside lamp casting long shadows. You lay sprawled against the pillows, your breath unsteady, fingers gripping the sheets. And Johnny… Johnny knelt between your legs, looking up at you with that lazy smirk, the stubble on his jaw rough against your skin. You had never felt so exposed, so utterly vulnerable under his gaze. He touched you like he had all the time in the world, his large hands gripping your thighs, fingers pressing into your skin as if anchoring himself there.

“Relax,” he murmured, his voice thick and warm, sending shivers down your spine.

You weren’t sure you could. Not when his breath was ghosting over you, not when anticipation coiled so tightly inside you that you thought you might snap from just the waiting. Then, finally, he moved. The first brush of his lips was almost too soft, more of a tease than anything else, but you felt it everywhere. A slow, dragging press of his mouth, his stubble scraping against your inner thigh as he took his time, tasting you, savoring the way your body trembled beneath him. A strangled sound left your lips, your fingers finding his hair, tugging just slightly. He chuckled against you, the vibration making your head spin.

“You’re impatient,” he teased, his voice muffled against your skin. You would have argued, but then he pressed closer, and all coherent thought vanished. It was maddening—the slow, deliberate way he worked, the rough contrast of his jaw against the unbearable softness of his tongue. Every sensation was heightened, like the world had narrowed down to just this, just him.

Your legs tensed, your breath coming in shallow gasps, but he only tightened his grip, holding you in place as he continued his slow, torturous worship. The heat built steadily, a slow burn that left you dizzy, lost in the rhythm of his touch, in the feeling of being completely undone. And then—just as you were about to tumble over the edge—he pulled back slightly, his lips brushing against your thigh as he looked up at you, his eyes dark and knowing.

“Tell me what you want,” he murmured. You couldn’t form words. Couldn’t think beyond the desperate need pooling inside you. But you didn’t have to. Because Johnny already knew. And he wasn’t done with you yet. Suddenly, you felt a strange sensation on the hood of your clit. It was different—rough but not unpleasant. You lifted your head slightly, breath hitching, only to see Johnny deliberately grazing his stubble against you. Then, slowly, he ran it along your slit.

The sensation was new, unexpected, and absolutely electrifying. You shuddered. He seemed to notice immediately, smirking as he added the rough drag of his stubble to the rhythm of his sucking and licking. Your body responded instantly. The sharp contrast between the warmth of his mouth and the friction of his unshaven jaw sent you spiraling toward the edge. Your fingers clenched the sheets, your thighs trembled, and with a final, broken gasp, you shattered, coming undone all over his face. Johnny pulled back slightly, lips parted, chest rising and falling as he caught his breath. His face glistened with the evidence of your pleasure—something he couldn’t simply wipe away with the back of his hand. You stared at him, completely wrecked, as he stood up and reached for a cloth. He wiped his chin, then touched his jaw with amusement.

“Well,” he mused, glancing at you with a lazy grin, “looks like I need to wash up properly.”

Then, with that signature cocky smirk, he turned to you. “You liked it, didn’t you?” His voice dropped to a teasing drawl. “Came just from that. No fingers this time at all. Looks like I just found your weakness.”

You huffed, still breathless but unwilling to let him have the last word. “Don’t be so confident,” you murmured, tilting your head. “Or I might just force you to keep that stubble forever.”

Johnny laughed, the deep, satisfied sound filling the room. “Oh?” He leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to your swollen lips. “Now that, sweetheart, doesn’t sound like a bad deal at all.”

[lila-lou]

✨Different✨

Summary: Loving Soldier Boy was never easy—but tonight, he’s just Ben. Stripped of bravado, weighed down by the world, he lets you see the cracks. In quiet touches and unspoken confessions, he leans into you, searching for something he’s not sure he deserves. And for once, he lets himself rest—just with you.

Pairing: Soldier Boy x Reader

Warnings: FLUFF

Word Count: 3245

A/N: English isn’t my first language, please be lenient. 💙

You didn’t think tonight would turn out like this. Not that dating Soldier Boy ever came with a sense of predictability, but this… this was something you hadn’t expected.

When he walked into your apartment, it was the same as usual—kicking the door shut with his boot, leaving streaks of dirt on the rug you’d told him a dozen times not to ruin. His shield, that ever-present symbol of his ego, clattered against the wall where he left it leaning. He looked exhausted, his hair matted to his forehead with sweat, his movements slower, heavier than you were used to.

“Rough day?”, you asked, already heading to grab him a beer from the fridge. It was part of the routine now. He’d come in, drop some snarky comment about how the world sucked, down half the beer in one go, and grumble until he either passed out or decided he wanted you in bed.

But today, he didn’t answer. When you turned around, beer in hand, he was just standing there, watching you.

There was something in his eyes—something you hadn’t seen before. He looked… unsure. And Soldier Boy wasn’t someone who did “unsure”. He was all swagger and bravado, always walking into a room like he owned it. But now? He looked smaller somehow, like the weight of the day—or maybe the weight of being him—was too much to carry.

“You good?”, you asked, your voice softer this time. Setting the beer on the counter, you stepped closer, unsure of what to say. He didn’t reach for it. Instead, he let out a long, heavy sigh and dropped onto the couch, his head falling back against the cushion.

“Yeah”, he muttered, though it didn’t sound convincing. “Just… tired”.

That was new. He never admitted to being tired. Not the Soldier Boy you knew. He was supposed to be bulletproof, invincible—at least, that’s how he saw himself. But tonight, it felt like all that armor he wore—literal and figurative—was starting to crack.

You sat down beside him cautiously, unsure if he’d push you away. He didn’t even glance at you, just stared at the ceiling like it might offer him some kind of answer. When his hand brushed against yours, it wasn’t the cocky, teasing touch you were used to. It was hesitant. Tentative.

“Ben?”, you asked quietly. “What’s going on?”.

His jaw tightened, and he closed his eyes, like he was fighting something inside himself. “I just—”. He stopped, exhaling sharply through his nose. “Forget it”.

You didn’t let him off the hook that easily. “Talk to me”, you urged, resting your hand gently on his arm. “What do you need?”.

His eyes opened, and when they met yours, they weren’t the arrogant, confident eyes you were used to. There was something raw there, something that made your chest tighten. For a second, you thought he’d get up and leave, maybe throw out some asshole comment to deflect like he always did when things got too real. But he didn’t.

Instead, he leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees. His voice was so quiet you almost didn’t catch it when he said, “I just need… you. Okay?”.

It wasn’t a demand, like you’d come to expect from him. It wasn’t gruff or commanding. It was soft. Almost pleading.

You blinked, caught off guard. This wasn’t the Soldier Boy you knew—the man who had to be in control of everything, who couldn’t let anyone else take charge. But tonight, something was different. He was different. And even if he’d never say the words out loud, you could see it in the way his hand reached for yours again, the way he clung to it like it was the only thing keeping him from falling apart.

He didn’t want to be the unbreakable superhero right now. He didn’t want to fight, argue, or take the lead. Tonight, he just wanted to let go.

He wanted you.

For a moment, you didn’t move. You weren’t sure how to react—this wasn’t the man you’d grown used to, the one who always walked through life with an unshakable ego. But as you looked at him now, slumped forward, waiting for your response like he didn’t know what to expect, you realized how fragile he seemed beneath it all.

“Okay”, you murmured, your voice steady despite the odd knot forming in your chest.

His shoulders eased, just slightly, like that single word was enough to let him breathe again. You reached out, resting your hand gently against his back. He didn’t flinch or shrug you off, and you could feel the tension knotted there, his muscles taut beneath your fingers.

For a moment, the two of you stayed like that—his head bowed, your hand resting on his back, a quiet stillness settling over the room. You could feel the weight of the day on him, not sadness exactly, but something heavier. He wasn’t broken, but he was worn, like he was just… done. Done with all of it.

“Wanna take a shower?”, you murmured, your lips brushing against his bicep. It was a small gesture, but one you knew he wouldn’t resist. The tension in his shoulders shifted at your words, and though he didn’t respond right away, you could tell he was considering it.

Finally, he let out a low hum, more a grunt than an answer. “Yeah”, he said, his voice rough but softer than you expected.

You stood first, tugging lightly at his arm until he followed. He didn’t protest, letting you lead him through the familiar path to the bathroom. It wasn’t like him to give up control so easily—normally, he’d be making some quip about how lucky you were to get him out of his clothes, or joking about how he didn’t need to wash off because “dirt doesn’t stick to perfection”. But tonight, there was none of that. Just quiet compliance, a rare and fragile thing.

The bathroom light was soft, warm, and it reflected in his tired eyes as you turned the shower on. Steam began to rise, curling in the air, and you glanced over at him as he leaned against the sink, his arms crossed, watching you. He wasn’t rushing, wasn’t putting on a show. He was just… waiting.

“You need help, big guy?”, you teased gently, trying to lighten the mood.

He huffed, the faintest flicker of his usual smirk appearing for just a second. “I’m not that far gone”, he muttered, but there was no edge to his voice.

Still, you stepped closer, your fingers reaching for the heavy buckle of his supe suit. It was scratched and battered, the once-pristine metal dulled by years of wear and tear. As you started to undo it, you could feel his eyes on you—not in the usual cocky, flirtatious way, but softer, more curious, like he was trying to understand why you were doing this for him.

The belt clicked open, and you carefully slid it free, letting it drop to the floor with a dull thud. Your hands moved to the fastening of his suit, your fingers deft as you worked it loose. The fabric was thick, stiff with grime and the scent of smoke and sweat lingering in the material. It was a stark reminder of what his life was—a never-ending cycle of fights, missions, and expectations.

“You’re quiet”, you murmured as you worked, glancing up at him.

“Just… tired”, he admitted, his voice low, barely above a whisper. His gaze softened, and for a moment, he almost looked like he might say something more. But then he fell silent again, letting you continue without interruption.

As the top of his suit came loose, you slid it down his arms, revealing his broad chest and the scars that marked his skin. They told the story of a man who had been through hell and back—a story he rarely let anyone see. Your eyes lingered on a particularly deep scar over his ribs, one you’d traced with your fingers before in quieter moments.

You didn’t say anything about it now. You knew better.

“You’re a mess”, you teased gently, trying to bring some levity to the moment. Your hand brushed over his chest briefly, more out of instinct than anything else, and you felt the way he leaned into the touch—subtle, but there.

“Yeah, well”, he muttered, his lips twitching into the faintest smirk. “You knew what you were signing up for”.

That was more like him, and the familiar quip made you smile. “Sure did”, you said, pulling the rest of his suit down until it pooled at his feet. He stepped out of it without a word, standing before you naked now, the steam from the shower curling around his frame.

For a moment, you just looked at him. Right now, he was just Ben, tired and worn, standing in your bathroom like he didn’t know what to do next.

“Come on”, you said softly, taking his hand and guiding him toward the shower.

The water hit him first, soaking his hair and trailing down his body, washing away the grime and tension he’d carried in with him. He tilted his head back under the spray, his eyes closing as he let out a low, contented sigh.

You stepped in with him, the warmth of the water cascading over both of you. His hands found your waist instinctively, steadying himself more than anything else, and you stayed close, your fingers running gently along his arms, his chest, wherever you felt he needed the comfort.

The water poured over both of you, the steady rhythm of the droplets filling the silence. He wasn’t saying much—wasn’t saying anything, really—but his hands lingered at your waist, not gripping, just holding. Like he needed to know you were there, solid and steady.

Eventually, as the steam enveloped you both, you felt him shift slightly. His shoulders sagged, and then, slowly, his head dipped forward until it came to rest against your collarbone. The unexpected weight of it was grounding, and you instinctively raised your hand, threading your fingers through his damp hair.

You let him stay there.

You didn’t say anything—didn’t tease him about the rare vulnerability or push him to talk. You just let him be, standing in the warmth of the shower, your hand gently stroking through his hair, the other tracing soft patterns along his back.

His breathing slowed against you, the rise and fall of his chest evening out. The tension he carried, the tight coil of pressure always wound so deeply inside him, seemed to ease just a little. He wasn’t completely relaxed—he never could be—but this was close enough.

After a while, he murmured, his voice muffled against your skin, “You’re… too good at this”.

You smiled faintly, letting out a soft chuckle. “At what?”.

“Letting me… I don’t know”. He paused, shifting slightly but not pulling away. “Letting me stop. Even just for a second”.

Your hand stilled in his hair for a moment before continuing. “You don’t always have to keep moving, Ben”, you said softly. “You don’t always have to be… that guy. You can just be you with me”.

He didn’t respond right away, but you felt the way his arms tightened slightly around your waist. It wasn’t a thank you, not in words. Soldier Boy didn’t do thank yous. But it was enough.

“I don’t know who the hell ‘me’ even is anymore”, he said after a long pause, his voice quieter than you’d ever heard it.

You pressed a soft kiss to his temple, your lips lingering there. “Then let’s figure it out together”.

For the first time that night, you felt him exhale fully, the kind of breath that carried the weight of everything he wasn’t saying. His head stayed resting against you, the water continuing to wash over both of you as the world outside faded further and further away.

And for now, that was enough.

After the shower, the two of you moved quietly through the motions of getting ready for bed. Ben didn’t say much, but he didn’t have to. The air between you was calm, steady, the kind of quiet that spoke more than words could.

When he finally slid into bed beside you, you expected him to turn back into the Soldier Boy you knew, trying to get you tangled up beneath him. But tonight was different.

He simply lay back, his body sinking into the mattress like he was letting himself rest for the first time in years. He turned onto his side, his back to you, and for a moment, you just stared at him, unsure of what to do. It wasn’t like him to pull away, and yet here he was, retreating in a way that didn’t feel like rejection, but something else entirely.

You scooted closer, the mattress shifting under your weight as you moved toward him. Your hand reached out tentatively at first, brushing over his back lightly, testing the waters. His body was warm under your touch, his muscles taut but not as tense as they’d been earlier.

When he didn’t pull away, you let your hand settle more firmly, wrapping your arm around his torso. He let out a soft, almost inaudible sigh at the contact, his shoulders relaxing just a little more.

You leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to the curve of his back, just between his shoulder blades. The faint salt of his skin mingled with the lingering scent of soap from the shower, grounding you in the quiet intimacy of the moment.

His hand moved, covering yours where it rested against his chest. The warmth of his palm settled over your fingers, holding them in place like he needed the reassurance of your touch. Neither of you spoke. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable; it felt heavy with meaning, with emotions too raw to voice.

After a while, though, you felt him shift. Slowly, he turned in your arms, rolling onto his back and then to his side, facing you. His movements were deliberate, unhurried, like he was gathering the courage for something.

Your breath hitched slightly as his gaze locked onto yours. Those green eyes, usually sharp and full of mischief or arrogance, were softer now, vulnerable in a way that made your chest tighten. You bit your lip instinctively, unsure of what he was searching for as his eyes traced your face.

Your hand, still resting on his chest, moved on its own accord, brushing upward to the scruff of his beard. Your fingertips traced the coarse texture, lingering along his jawline, and you couldn’t help but let a small, almost shy smile tug at your lips.

“What?”, you asked quietly, your voice barely above a whisper.

He didn’t answer right away. His gaze shifted, moving from your eyes to your lips and back again, like he was debating something in his head. His hand lifted, resting lightly against your side, his thumb brushing over the fabric of your shirt.

“You”, he finally murmured, the word low and rough. “You’re just… different”.

“Different how?”, you asked, your fingers still absently stroking along his beard.

His lips twitched faintly, like he was fighting a smile. “Not like anyone else”, he said. “You don’t… expect anything from me. You don’t need me to be anything I’m not”.

You tilted your head slightly, your smile softening. “Maybe because I like who you are. Not who the world thinks you have to be”.

For a moment, he just stared at you like he didn’t know how to respond. Then, unexpectedly, his hand moved, brushing over yours where it still rested against his beard. He caught your fingers lightly, holding them for a moment before pressing them to his lips in a gesture so tender it made your heart ache.

“You make it sound so fucking simple”, he said, his voice quieter now, almost vulnerable.

“Maybe it is”, you whispered back.

He didn’t say anything else, but the way his hand lingered against yours, the way his gaze stayed locked on yours as if he was afraid to look away, spoke volumes.

For a man who had always carried the world on his shoulders, tonight he let himself lean on you.

His gaze softened even more as you whispered the words, “I love you, Ben”, against his lips, the confession slipping out like it had been waiting there all along. For a moment, he didn’t move, didn’t even breathe.

Then you kissed him, gentle and unhurried, your lips brushing against his like you were sealing the words between you. He didn’t respond at first, almost frozen, but then his hand tightened against your waist, pulling you just a fraction closer. The kiss wasn’t demanding or hungry; it was tender, the kind of intimacy that came with trust.

When you pulled back, you kept your eyes on his, watching for his reaction. For once, he wasn’t guarded. He wasn’t hiding behind his usual cocky smirk or sarcastic quip. Instead, he just stared at you, something unreadable flickering in his green eyes.

“You don’t have to say it back”, you whispered, sensing the hesitation in him. “I just wanted you to know”.

He let out a exhale, his free hand coming up to rest on your cheek. His thumb brushed along your skin, and you could feel the tension in him, the struggle between the man he was and the man he wanted to be with you.

“I don’t deserve you”, he muttered, his voice barely audible.

“Maybe not”, you teased softly, a faint smile tugging at your lips. “But I love you anyway”.

That drew a quiet laugh from him, and you felt his chest shake slightly beneath your hand. He didn’t say anything else, but the way he held you, his arms tightening around you as you shifted to rest your head against his chest, told you everything you needed to know.

The steady rhythm of his heartbeat under your ear was calming, the rise and fall of his chest lulling you into a quiet peace. His hand stayed at your waist, his thumb brushing slow, lazy circles against your skin, grounding you both in the moment.

As sleep began to tug at the edges of your mind, you heard him murmur something, so low you almost missed it.

“Love you too, doll”.

Your lips curved into a sleepy smile, but you didn’t respond, letting his words settle in the quiet between you. The world outside didn’t matter right now. All that mattered was the man holding you, the man who, for the first time, was letting himself be held.

And in his arms, you drifted off, the soft sound of his breathing the last thing you heard before sleep claimed you.

———————————

A/N: Well, this was something else. Please let me know what you think.🥰

-

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[moonstruckme]

Mae!!!! Congrats on 8k sweetheart <3 the new theme is such cozy vibes and i hope you’re having just as cozy of a time! It’s crazy how Halloween ends and it’s basically christmas time :O

may i please request a hot cocoa with Remus + staying in bed all day? I’m studying for finals right now and there’s nothing i want more than to be snug as two bugs in a rug with Remus— frankly i would like to burrow under his sweater and live there for the rest of eternity. thank you :)

Thank you for requesting angel <33

Remus Lupin x fem!reader ♡ 425 words

The light coming into your bedroom is pale and gauzy, making Remus’ skin look nearly as light as his scars and giving the air a wintry feel. You and Remus have been up at intervals, kissing and cuddling and then falling asleep again, nothing better to do on a slow, cold Saturday. He’s taking his turn dozing now, face tipped up towards the ceiling while you trace the scars on his chest lightly with your fingertips. 

“Do you want some tea?” he asks after a few minutes of silence. His eyes don’t open, lips barely moving. “To warm up?”

“No, I’m alright.” You take a detour to circle the bump of his collarbone. “I’m plenty warm.” 

“Your fingers are cold,” he murmurs. It’s not a complaint, his words lined with fondness. He doesn’t move away. 

“Maybe you’re just hot.” 

Your lips tug as Remus’ eyes open to slits. He’s clearly heard the teasing in your voice, but he doesn’t rise to the bait. 

“C’mere, then,” he says, more gentleness than playfulness in his tone. 

You go anyways, hooking a leg over his hips so you’re halfway in his lap. He really is warm. Every part of you that’s above the covers is chilled, but Remus’ bare chest is its own heat source under your cheek, even his fingers pleasantly warm as they stroke the baby hairs at your temple. 

“Did you want tea?” you ask after a few seconds, guilty. 

Remus makes a sound like a chuckle that softens before it starts, a low hum in his chest. “Later.” 

“If you’re hungry, we can get up.” 

“No, why?” His hand smooths over the side of your head, pacifying. “I’m good here, sweetheart. Nobody needs to get up.” He pauses. “In fact, I think when we do, we should eat and come straight back.” 

Now you laugh, feeling your ribcage shake pleasantly against his. “Yeah,” you agree, “that sounds perfect.” 

Your finger finds a triad of long scars going across Remus’ side. Clearly carved by a cruel hand, inches from where your cheek lies now. You trace them each one at a time, gentle and indolent. 

You can feel Remus’ eyes following your finger as you do. You know it doesn’t bother him when you take notice of his scars, not anymore, but it still feels intimate and privileged every time. 

“Love you,” you say, just to remind him. 

You hear the smile in his voice, feel the faint impression of it pressed to your head in the form of a kiss. “I love you, too.”

[alternate-real-ities]

I'd love to see what alternate versions of this guy there are.

Sure buddy. It wasn't easy tuning my machine this time, but I think I've found some interesting realities out there! Hope you like them :)

In an alternate reality not so different from our own, this bearish hunk has taken on a more muscular, less chubby form - transformed into a behemoth. Here, he's not just any old gym rat; he's a world-famous powerlifter and internet celebrity whose influence knows no bounds.

Young men from all corners of the globe look up to him as their idol, their motivation, their reason for living - especially when it comes to getting swole. They follow his every post, eagerly absorbing each tip on training and nutrition like gospel from a fitness prophet. And why not? With a physique like his, who wouldn't want to emulate perfection?

His pecs are massive, each one a study in taut, rippling muscle that defies the laws of physics. His arms bulge with thickness, as if carved from granite by some mythical sculptor. His thighs are tree trunks, powerful and unyielding, while his calves are chiseled masterpieces of human anatomy.

But his influence extends far beyond the gym walls. In this world, a new wave of ripped teens has become the norm, thanks largely to their idolization of this muscular beast. Gone are the days of skinny, awkward youth; now, every boy from puberty onwards is driven to get big and buff in order to measure up.

Parents worry about the health implications, but who can blame them for wanting their sons to grow up strong and confident like this fitness icon? And as for the young men themselves, they'd follow him anywhere - even into the depths of steroid abuse if it means achieving that perfect, chiseled physique.

In this world, there's no escaping his shadow - nor would anyone want to. For in the presence of such unadulterated muscle majesty, all other men are but mere mortals, forever relegated to the sidelines while he reigns supreme as the ultimate embodiment of human potential.

In another reality, our bearish hunk has been reborn as a towering Latin stud, the kind of papi that makes hearts race and loins stir across every continent. Hailing from Colombia, he grew up in a world where machismo is king, and his rugged good looks and powerful physique were destined for greatness.

Here, he's known as Papi Leche, a towering figure of masculine perfection with a body that could make even the most devout Catholic priests weep with lust. His skin is a rich, burnished brown that glistens with the sheen of oil and sweat after a long day at the gym.

But it's not just his physique that sets this Latino daddy apart - it's his legendary cum, renowned throughout the land for its unparalleled potency and addictive quality. Gringos from all over the world can't resist the allure of his Latin leche, once they've tasted its salty, intoxicating flavor.

He takes great pleasure in breaking them down, both physically and mentally, until they're nothing more than obedient little cumsluts desperate for another taste of his golden nectar. And he always delivers, pumping load after massive load into their eager mouths and throats until they're drowning in Latin dick juice.

And it's not just a physical addiction. They gradually change the more leche they drink. Their skin darkens, their features soften, and their accents change until they're speaking in perfect, melodic Spanish.

Before long, this Latino daddy has an entourage of half-Latino, half-gringo chicos who worship him and vie for his attention - all of them hooked on his leche like junkies on a fix.

So if you ever find yourself in Colombia, make sure to keep an eye out for this hulking bear of a man - but be warned: once you've caught sight of him, there's no escaping his gravitational pull. You'll be drawn in like a moth to a flame, helpless to resist the allure of his latin leche until you're nothing more than a mindless, cum-addicted shell of your former self.

Finally, in yet another reality, our bearish hunk has been reborn as a cocky, wealthy young Arab stud - the epitome of Dubai's high-flying elite and a player in every sense of the word.

Here, he's the king of the scene, with a body that's equally at home on the beach or in the boardroom. His skin is a flawless, golden brown, his features chiseled like marble from the hands of a skilled sculptor.

As a member of Dubai's elite social circle, he moves through life like a prince among paupers - except instead of a crown, he wears a gold-plated watch on each wrist. He cruises the city in his gleaming black Lamborghini, with a string of adoring twink boys piled into the backseat for good measure.

These young men are just playthings for him to use and discard, their tight little holes and eager mouths mere receptacles for his boundless sexual appetite. He'll fuck them raw, pump them full of cum, and then toss them aside like yesterday's trash - all while smirking in satisfaction at the knowledge that he's left another broken little twink in his wake.

But it's not just about the physical act for this Arab stud; it's about the power dynamic. He loves nothing more than to humiliate his conquests, reducing them to quivering, tear-streaked messes as he lectures them on their place in the world - namely, at his feet, servicing his every whim.

And when he lets loose with that massive, cut Arab cock, it's a sight to behold - thick, veiny, and heavy as a horse's head, with a bulbous, slit-tipped crown that glistens with precum. It's the kind of dick that can stretch even the most well-fucked hole to its limits, leaving its recipients gasping in awe at his sheer size and potency.

And yet, despite all the degradation and abuse, these twinks can't get enough of him. They're addicted to the thrill of being used by such a powerful, dominant figure; they crave the taste of his cum on their tongues and the feeling of his thick, veiny cock splitting them open.

But despite all of this, this Arab boy has a soft spot for romance. He adores showering his favorite twink with expensive gifts and lavish dates - taking him to the finest restaurants and clubs, then whisking him away to his private villa for a night of passionate lovemaking under the stars.

So if you ever find yourself in this version of Dubai, keep an eye out for this hunky Arab stud. Just be prepared to worship him... and pray that he deigns to notice your pathetic little existence.

And so, once again, we have explored the possibilities that the multiverse provides. Which version of our friend here do you think is the most appealing? Or perhaps you have your own alternate version in mind? Who knows, the possibilities are endless...