#the bear drabble

[lovebugism]

you’re writing for carmy now omg i’m frothing at the mouth 😭 i love the trope where reader is quiet in bed and needs to be coaxed a bit but… i feel like it would be kind of hot if reader was the one coaxing carmy? 👀 no worries if you’re not feeling this one!

ty for requesting! — you teach the bear how to use his voice in the bedroom (new relationship, inexperienced!carmy, experienced!reader-ish, smut 18+)

bug's summer fic fest (⁠ꈍ⁠ᴗ⁠ꈍ⁠)

Carmy never notices when he’s quiet. His head is always so loud in comparison — it’s easy to forget he isn’t saying anything out loud when his mind’s constantly racing. He doesn’t mean anything by it, though. He’s just chronically observant. And painfully silent with it.

He lays on his back, pressed between unmade sheets and your warm body. The covers bunch at your bare hips as you roll in languid thrusts over his lap. A satiny summer breeze smooths over your burning skin from a cracked-open window. Every time the curtains billow, more of the moonlight peeks in. It drips in silver shades over your naked skin and your pretty face, now twisted in a look of undeniable pleasure — brows scrunched, eyes closed, mouth wide open.

Carmy’s tattooed hands rest impatiently on your hips. His fingers dig into the plush of them as he rocks you back and forth over his cock. You make pretty noises for him every time your clit brushes his coarse thatch of pubic hair, so he angles his hips just right to make sure you keep hitting that spot. 

“Carmy,” you moan in a whimsical sigh that makes his chest swell. “Just like that. ’S so good like that. Please don’t stop—”

His face, made of dark shadows and sharpened edges, is pinched in a look of acute concentration. A distant feeling of deja veux swims in his stomach. It makes him wonder if he’s seen this in a painting before. One of those Renaissance types. The kinds that are harrowingly realistic and always heart-wrenchingly beautiful in a way. 

It makes him want to draw you. Just as you are now. Head tossed back, mouth gently agape, lashes fluttering over glowing cheeks. He wouldn’t be able to do any of it justice, but he tries to memorize the soft lines of your face, anyway. 

Your hips slow to a stop. Reality hits him hard.

“Woah, woah— Hey,” Carmy mumbles in protest, brows pinched in confusion when he comes down from the clouds. Through labored breaths that make his sweaty chest rise and fall, he wonders, “What happened? Why’d you stop?”

His icy blue eyes dart over your face, searching for any sign of harm. In true Carmen Berzatto fashion, he immediately thinks he’s done something wrong — that he got too far in his own head and hurt you in some way without realizing. The anxiety is fleeting, but he feels the pinch of it anyway — right where your palm rests flat on his chest, just over his pounding heart.

“Are you okay?” you ask him, similarly panicked. Your bare chest sparkles with a thin layer of sweat and catches the moonlight with every uneven inhale.

Carmy nods rapidly, chestnut curls brushing the pillow. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m— I’m great. Why?”

You exhale a small sigh of relief, growing sheepish under his unwavering gaze. You feel a bit silly for stopping now. “You just aren’t… You aren’t really, you know… saying anything,” you answer shyly.

“Am I supposed to be saying something?”

You giggle quietly to yourself until you realize he’s being genuine. Your smile ebbs as you stammer, “Well, no, it’s just— Some people usually moan, I guess— When they feel good.”

Carmy nods firmly in reassurance. “I feel good.”

“Okay…” you nod back, slower and more unsure. 

“I promise,” he tells you, tattooed hands squeezing your sides. He shifts nervously on the mattress, similarly victimized by your adoring stare. “I just… I just like watchin’ you, I guess…”

A shy smile quirks the edges of your mouth as you peer down at the boy beneath you. “You’re sweet, bear,” you coo in a honeyed murmur.

“You’re sweeter,” Carmy insists. You think you see the faintest hint of a grin on his lips, but it’s hard to tell in the low light. “Wanna taste?” he teases a second later.

Wordlessly, you bend down for another kiss, far too chaste for his liking. He almost says something about it until you roll your hips again. The words of protest disappear when he inhales sharply through his teeth.

“Does that feel good?” you ask him.

He nods silently, squeezing your sides in a feeble attempt to move you faster on top of him.

“Tell me.”

“Feels good,” Carmy obeys through gritted teeth.

The subtle assurance makes you moan — a pretty, breathy thing that spills accidentally from your opened mouth. All he can think about is getting you to make that sound again. 

“Do you like it when I talk to you?” he wonders aloud, very innocuously curious.

You nod, brows furrowed as you grind over his lap. The bed frame squeaks quietly when you roll your hips forward. When you roll them back again, he can hear the faint sounds of your wet pussy — the quiet schlick-ing of his cock fucking into you. The two noises play one after the other in rhythmic tandem. The sinful sounds of sex.

Carmy racks his head for something to say in the not-so-silent meanwhile. You watch him get lost in his mind and cup his cheeks between gentle palms. “Don’t think so hard about it, bear,” you say with a wavering smile. “You don’t have to say anything. It’s okay.”

You duck down to kiss him again. The angle shifts. Carmy bends his knees and fucks up into you, mercilessly and without warning. Your mouth hangs open in another weak moan that fans across his chin. 

“That good?” he pants.

“Yes,” you whine. “Carmy— fuck— You’re so deep…”

Babbles spill from your mouth in thinkless slurs. They tumble from your swollen lips with an admirable effortlessness, which Carmy has never thought himself to possess. He tries, anyway, to talk to you with such sinful ease. 

“You’re huggin’ me so tight,” he mutters through a clenched jaw. The very first thought to come to mind as the velvet confines of your cunt pulsate around him, squelching quietly in time with his thrusts. “Can feel you throbbin’ around me, babe— Shit— It’s like a fuckin’ heartbeat.”

Your whine fills the quiet bedroom, adding to the symphony of bed squeaking and skin slapping. 

Carmy shifts his hips upward. The new angle allows his cock to reach a spongy depth inside you and pins your swollen clit against his happy trail, which now glimmers with a layer of your honey.

“Right there?” he pants.

You nod wordlessly until the words catch up to you. The tip of your nose brushes the bridge of his. “Yes,” you whimper. 

His brutal thrusts pick up pace a second later, never wavering in their wicked pursuit. “Let me hit that spot,” Carmy mumbles to himself like a man crazed. “Let me hit that spot, let me hit that spot.”

Pleasure swells within you, overwhelmingly so. It’s a warm and sparkling feeling in the pit of your stomach — a tightening coil, a fraying rope, a dam about to burst. The intensity of your inevitable orgasm frightens you.

“Carmy…” you whimper.

“I know,” he nods sympathetically, right before he plants his feet on the mattress. He strengthens his thrusts, which have slowly started to lose their rhythm. “It’s okay. C’mon. Cum for me— I can feel you fuckin’ drippin’ on me, baby— C’mon.”

Your jaw clenches to fight back the scream clawing at your throat. It comes out in a pitiful whimper instead when you tense over his lap. Your orgasm washes over you in waves that leave you shaking, thighs trembling on either side of his hips.

Carmy goes accidentally silent once more as he watches you, swelling with pride as you reach the height of your pleasure. His light eyes flit over your features in a feeble attempt to memorize them — the furrow between your brows, the wrinkles beside your shut eyes, the spit-slicked sheen to your kissed lips.

You’re painting brought to life. A heavenly thing he can’t believe he gets to touch with unworthy hands.

“That’s it…” Carmy murmurs lowly. The words bubble in his throat and fall from his mouth mindlessly. He doesn’t even have to think about them now. It just feels right to praise you like this. “That’s it. There you go. So pretty… Always so pretty for me.”

As your body racks with aftershocks, you seek refuge in his arms. Your weight rests entirely upon him as your tense limbs slowly relax, but Carmy doesn’t mind. He just wraps his tattooed arms around you and holds your trembling body closer.

“I got you,” he promises through labored breaths, chapped lips brushing your temple with every word. “I got you. ’S okay. You did so good for me, baby. Thank you.”

You don’t have the words to tell him that you should be the one thanking him.

[brunettemarionette]

Late Night at The Beef

💜 pairing. Carmy Berzatto x Reader

🔮 summary. you and Carmy share a charged, flirtatious moment during late night kitchen prep. As you banter over cleaning and perfectionism, the tension builds with stolen glances and suggestive remarks.

🌙 tw. suggestive content. workplace dynamics. sexual tension

The Beef was quiet, except for the walk-in fridge's low hum and the occasional clatter of Chicago's nightlife filtering through the cracked back door.

It was past midnight, the kind of hour where the world felt like it belonged only to those too stubborn to sleep.

Carmen was leaning over the stainless-steel counter, his chef's knife gliding through a pile of onions with surgical precision. His curls stuck to his forehead, damp from the heat of the kitchen and the intensity he poured into everything, even prep work no one would see.

You stood at the other end of the counter, wiping down the cutting boards, the faint scent of bleach mingling with the earthiness of the herbs Carmy had been chopping earlier.

You'd started working at The Beef a month ago, and somehow, these late-night shifts with Carmy had become your unspoken routine. He didn't talk much—never did—but the silence between you wasn't empty. It was heavy and charged, like the air before a storm.

"Yo, you missed a spot," Carmy said, his voice low, almost teasing, as he nodded toward a smudge on the counter you'd just cleaned. His blue eyes flicked up to meet yours, lingering a second too long before dropping back to his onions.

You smirked, tossing the rag over your shoulder. "You're gonna micromanage my cleaning now, Chef? Thought you had enough on your plate."

He snorted, the corner of his mouth twitching into something that wasn't quite a smile but close enough to make your pulse kick up. "Just sayin', if it's not perfect, it's not done."

You stepped closer, leaning one hip against the counter, close enough to catch the faint cedar-and-smoke scent of his cologne layered under the kitchen's grit. "Perfect, huh? That why you're still here at one a.m, chopping onions like it's a Michelin-star audition?"

Carmy's hands stilled, the knife hovering mid-slice. He looked at you, really looked, and for a moment, the weight of his stare made the room feel smaller, the air thicker. "Maybe I just like the company," he said, voice quieter now, rough around the edges like he wasn't used to saying things like that.

Your breath caught, but you played it cool, tilting your head. "Careful, Carm. That almost sounded like a compliment."

He huffed, shaking his head, but there was a spark in his eyes, something hungry, not just for food but for something else.

He set the knife down, wiping his hands on the towel slung over his shoulder, and stepped around the counter toward you. The space between you shrank, and suddenly, the kitchen felt too warm, too close.

"You're trouble, you know that?" he murmured, stopping just short of touching you. His voice was low, almost a growl, and the way his gaze dropped to your lips for a split second sent a shiver down your spine. "Makin' it real hard to focus."

You raised an eyebrow, heart pounding but refusing to back down. "And you're not? Standing there all intense, looking like you're about to eat me instead of those onions?"

Carmy's jaw tightened, and for a second, you thought he might close the gap, might let the tension spill over into something reckless. His hand twitched at his side like he was fighting the urge to reach out, to pull you in.

Instead, he leaned in just enough for you to feel the heat radiating off him, his breath brushing your ear as he spoke. "Keep talkin' like that," he said, voice thick with promise, "and I might just take you up on it."

He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes again, and the look he gave you was pure fire—restrained, but barely.

Then, like he'd caught himself, he stepped away, grabbing his knife again, the moment snapping like a taut wire. But the air still buzzed, and as you went back to cleaning, you could feel his eyes on you, stealing glances between every slice.

The Beef was a mess and probably always would be. But nights like this, with Carmy's quiet intensity and the unspoken things hanging between you? They were damn near perfect.

[springtyme]

For your autumn challenge (I have a lot of ideas 🥲)

- Sydney getting cold in the fall bc the temperatures drop unusually quickly, so reader gives Sydney her sweater & Sydney gets flustered about it

𝐁𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡 𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐒𝐰𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐫 ♡

Sydney Adamu x reader || Main masterlist || Sydney playlist

summary: On a cold October day in Chicago, you share a little of your warmth.

word count: 900

𝐎𝐜𝐭𝐨𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐠𝐞: 𝐃𝐚𝐲 𝟕) 𝐒𝐰𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐖𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫

The last whisper of summer has slipped through the cracks like a fast fading memory, leaving behind a chill in the air that feels like it has arrived much too early. As a brisk wind sweeps through the streets of Chicago, Sydney pulls her jacket tighter around her shoulders and quickens her pace toward the little café on the corner.

When she enters, the familiar aroma of freshly brewed coffee and freshly baked pastries wraps around her like a comforting embrace, and she spots you already seated at a cozy table near the window. You look up to greet her, and the chill in her bones melts away at the sight of your smile.

“Hey, you!” you call out, waving her over. Your eyes sparkle with warmth, and as she approaches, she can’t help but grin back at you, though she is still shivering slightly from the sudden drop in temperature.

“Hi,” she says, sliding into the chair across from you. As she settles in, she rubs her arms to stave off the cold.

“This is for you,” you say, reaching for the hot cocoa you have ordered for her. “It just felt so fitting for the weather. ” You slide it over, and Syd feels how her lips curl into a smile.

“Thank you,” she says, taking a sip and sighing contentedly. “This is just what I need, I’m freezing, I really didn’t expect it to be so chilly today.” She wraps her hands around the mug, smiling like the beverage has magically warmed her entire body, but it is clear that the cold air has seeped into her bones.

“Here,” you say instinctively, shrugging off your oversized sweater that you are wearing over your hoodie. It is a soft, knit piece, the type of sweater that feels like a warm hug when you wear it, and you drape it across the table toward her. “Put this on.”

Sydney’s eyes widen in surprise, her ears and cheeks tickling with warmth that has less to do with the cocoa and more to do with your gesture. “ Are you sure..? Won’t you be cold.”

“I’m fine. You look like you could use it more than I do,” you insist, a playful smile dancing on your lips. Your eyes are sparkling as you give her a reassuring nod.

“Seriously?” she asks, hesitating as she glances at the cozy garment, then back at your encouraging smile.

“Seriously. I think I’ll look good on you too,” you tease, wiggling your eyebrows as you prompt her to take it.

With a nervous giggle, she picks up the sweater and pulls it over her head, she can’t help but smile even wider as she folds her hands over the cuffs, letting the warmth envelop her. “God, this is so comfy! I’m stealing it,” she jokes.

You laugh. “Maybe you should. It looks better on you than on me,” you say, your demeanor shifting into something softer. 

Sydney feels her heart race slightly at that, her cheeks heating up again—not just from the snugness of your sweater. She can’t find the words, instead just sipping her cocoa again and looking down, a shy smile painting her lips.

“Well, I definitely don’t think that is true…” she begins, her tone suddenly quiet. “But it’s really sweet of you to give me this.”

“I wouldn’t do it for just anyone,” you reply, moving your hand slightly closer to hers on the table. “Only people I really care about.”

Her heart flutters, and she meets your gaze, her vulnerability mirrored in your eyes. “I uh… I care about you too,” she whispers, feeling giddy and flustered all at once.

A short moment of comfortable silence  falls between you, your eyes locked. It is a moment that feels both magical and nerve wracking. You smile at her, not your usual wide confident one, this one is more gentle and slightly bashful, almost shy, but it only takes a few seconds for you to find your family grin. 

The silence breaks and the conversation shifts to laughter and shared stories, the chill of the world outside forgotten in the cozy bubble that forms around you two. The way you  so easily offered your sweater, bone-deep warmth radiating through the wool that now envelops her, it feels deeper than just a simple gesture.

The café buzzes with life around you, but for Syd, it feels as if time stands still. The warmth of your sweater and your presence fills the space between you, and she feels something more than just the heat of your kind act; it is the warmth of budding affection and an exciting possibility—a sweet prelude to what is slowly blossoming between the two of you.

As the afternoon light begins to dim, painting the café in golden hues, Sydney catches glimpses of the world beyond the window, people bustling past, wrapped in their own narratives and lives. Yet, her attention is anchored solely on you. The way you laugh, how your eyes gleam in the warm light of the café as you talk, the way that you look at her… all of it envelops her like the sweater she now wears, each moment knit together with invisible threads of connection. And in this moment she can not help but wonder if your connection can be woven into something even more beautiful, that maybe you really have feelings like she has.

[heavenbarnes]

I’m no good on my own

Sydney Adamu x female reader

Warnings/contains: swearing, mentions of knives, syd is still an awkward-munch, dirty talk, praise kink, oral sex, fingering, syd is gentle when you cum, defiling carmy’s desk, blasphemy

Part one: Already better for knowing you

I’m so glad everyone wants to fuck Sydney as much as I do, means I get to write stuff like this. Maybe one day I won’t write her as an awkward-munch but today is not that day

Yeah, completely fucked.

Sydney is a good chef, a great chef even. She’s calm and methodical, balanced and driven. She’d even pride herself in her ability to teach.

But that was before the greatest challenge of her career.

You.

Carmy had been right to have that smarmy little grin on his face when he wished her luck with training her new little sous chef.

This was fucking torture.

If Sydney was good teacher, you were an even better student. Bright-eyed and attentive, eager and willing.

She could almost always find you right on her shoulder, watching her hands as they shifted around the kitchen bench. It was like a warm glow of sunlight, prickling over her skin and making the hairs on her arms stand up.

It should’ve been what she wanted. It shouldn’t be an issue. An attentive sous who followed her every word and was so quick to please?

To Sydney, that was nearly lethal.

“And that’s what it should look like plated.” Syd ran the corner of her cloth along the rim of the plate, sliding it in front of you.

Eagerly pulling the plate closer, you leant in to savour the aroma permeating from the dish. “God, Sydney.”

The way you spoke on the exhale, like her name was a sigh that you’d been holding in all day. It made her stand up straighter, the tips of her ears running hot.

Taking a spoon from the basket, you managed to scoop the perfect bite on your first go. Sydney braced for impact, the sounds and face you’d make when you tried her food.

Lips closing around the spoon, eyes shutting gently as you let all flavours roll across your tongue. Your eyes fluttered open as you swallowed the mouthful, immediately meeting Syd’s expectant gaze.

“I haven’t taste something this good since the institute days,” You hummed, corner of your mouth turning up. “Since you last cooked for me.”

Sydney couldn’t believe this was happening, that you were standing in the dingy little kitchen of her even dingier apartment.

It wasn’t as if you cared what her home looked like, you just looked so damn pleased to be there. You looked even happier as you glanced over at the pan she was handling.

“I don’t know why the rest of us try when there’s you, Syd.” You remarked over the lip of your glass.

She hadn’t let you lift a finger, even pouring your drink for you whilst she made you park up at the counter. You watched the way her cheeks rose gently at your comment before she straightened up.

“It’s not a competition you know?” Sydney snorted as she took the pan off the heat. “Besides, you’re a fantastic chef.”

It was your turn to feel a pit of shyness in your stomach, not all that common for you but coming from Sydney- that was something else.

By the time she’d plated up your meal, your mouth was borderline watering. Her whole apartment had filled with the scent and seeing it before you was enough to set your teeth on edge.

“Well, tell me what you think.”

She leaned on the counter in front of you, elbows propped up to rest her chin in her hands. She hadn’t even thought to fix herself a plate, as if her whole reason for cooking had been you.

And it had been.

As you ran the fork through the food, Sydney didn’t miss the way you’d managed to heap almost all the best parts of the dish. Bringing the fork to your bottom lip, you pressed against it gently to test the heat.

Eyes fixed straight on Syd’s, you took the bite and let it consume you. Heat rising in your chest and swelling throughout your whole body. She cooked like the act had been invented for her.

You didn’t mean to moan, honestly. You’d always thought it was a little weird when people did that but it was an honest autonomous response to the food.

“Jesus, Syd,” You tried your best to politely cover your mouth as you spoke. “I’ve never had anything like this before.”

And you hadn’t since. Not until that moment, not until it was as if you were back in your institute days and Sydney was pretending to know less than she did just as an excuse to talk to you longer.

“Do you remember when I asked you how to fillet a fish? I’d come to you with a bandaged finger and an apron covered in scales.”

Sydney had no idea why she’d said it, why she’d even spoken the memory into existence. The moment she saw your face light up, the sound of your laugh- she realised why.

“As if thee Sydney Adamu couldn’t fillet a fucking fish.” Your eyes crinkled in the corners as you relived the moment. “I ran the knife long enough for you to freak out and take over.”

Thinking back on the memory, Syd hadn’t even realised that you’d seen right through her. That’s how away with it she was. “You knew? Why didn’t you say anything?”

You couldn’t stop laughing and Sydney couldn’t stop drawing that sound out of you.

“And give up the opportunity to have you at my station? I don’t think so!”

Her heart was going to stop. Her heart was going to stop and you were going to have to give her CPR and maybe this would be a cute story for the grandkids one day but right now it was mortifying.

The mortifying ordeal of being known.

“You-“

“Wanted you as much as you wanted you? I thought I’d made that blindingly obvious?”

Could you imagine what would happen if Sydney got out of her own way?

It might look a lot like this, her moving stacks of paper off Carmy’s desk so she could sit you down on the edge of it. Her lips pressed so gently against yours, tongue just and only breaching your mouth.

“Syd,” You whined against her, hands reaching out for her hips. “I’m not going to break.”

Translates into, kiss me like you fucking mean it. With a please tacked on the end, she knows you well.

Slotting between your thighs, Syd pulled you in closer and finally allowed herself to have what she’d always wanted. Her teeth nipped at the flesh of your bottom lip, tongue forcing its way against yours.

It earned her a moan straight into her mouth, your fingers reaching under her chefs whites to press against her stomach. The heat of your hands on her bare skin nearly turned her inside out.

Sydney moved her own hands under your shirt, fingers reaching for the button of your trousers. One hand reaching for the side of her neck, the other sliding further up her chest, you lifted your hips to give her more access.

Still swilling around in her own head, Syd took your sudden movement to heart. “Are you okay? Did you want me to stop?”

Your eyes caught hers, pulling her face down a little more, bringing your lips millimetres from her own. “Sydney.”

“Y-yeah?”

One kiss. Firm, tongue pushing her mouth open and swiping along her lower teeth.

Another kiss. Hand moving up her to cup her chest, the other tightening behind her neck.

One more for good measure. Hips bucking into hers, rolling along the seam of her trousers.

“If I want you to stop, you’ll know.” Matter of fact, no questions asked. “Right now, I want you to fuck me.”

Sydney was good at doing what she was told, immediately dropping to her knees with a firm grip on the waistband of your pants.

They hung off one ankle, your other leg slung off her shoulders as she dragged you down the desk a little further. You felt paper shift underneath you as you leaned back on an elbow.

“Carmy will kill us if he finds out.” You snorted a laugh as you ran a soft hand across Syd’s face.

You saw her eyebrows raise, quick comment before her face disappeared between your thighs. “He’ll live.”

She stole another laugh out of you, replacing it with a gasped breath as you felt her tongue running up the seam of you.

Your hips immediately lifted towards her face, hand wrapping around the back her head to pull her even closer. Sydney was more than accepting, lips pursing around your clit as her tongue got to work.

Eyes rolling back, head dropping back between your shoulders as her mouth worked absolute magic. The sounds she drew from you were more than debauched.

“Fucking hell, Syd-“

She cut you off as her lips closed in, suckling against the sensitive bud as your hips picked up a steady rhythm rolling against her mouth.

Those skilled hands, the ones you’d spent days watching were now wrapped tightly around your thighs, pulling them to close around her head.

Sydney was trying to forget where you began and she ended.

You felt movement, like she was shuffling. Tilting your head, you caught a glimpse of how she was knelt, finding that she’d sat herself on the heel of her foot.

Sydney was getting herself off on the taste of you.

Your stomach was doing fucking flips, the fireworks that’d start off when you tasted a meal of hers were dialled up to 11.

You’d never had anything like this before.

The way your hips were grinding down, the heady moans and whines that were filling the tiny office, the firm grip on the edge of the desk. You took your hand off Syd’s head and closed it over one of her hands.

She released your thigh to intertwine her fingers with yours, palms pressed tight together as her tongue ran down to your entrance to breach inside.

Your back arched up, papers crinkling beneath you as you writhed under her touch. “Syd- you’re gonna’ make me cum.”

All of a sudden, everything was gone. Her hot mouth against your core disappeared. Her hands on you faded into nothing.

Just as you felt tears of frustration pricking your eyes, mouth dropping open to ask just what the fuck she thought she was doing- when everything went speeding back to life.

Two skilled fingers, skill you’d known for a very long time (just never like this) suddenly ran along the split of you.

Gathering wetness as she went, Sydney immediately slipped inside of you and crooked her fingertips up until they were right on that spot behind your mound.

Your hands flew up to grip the fabric of her whites, pulling her in until your lips were pressed back against hers.

You could taste yourself, hot and raw against your own tongue as Sydney worked her fingers into you. Hearing her mumble against your mouth, you pulled back to listen.

“I want to feel it- want to feel you when you cum.”

Rolling your hips into her hand, you gripped onto her tight as you buried your face in the crook of her neck. Your teeth gently nipped at the skin of her throat as she pressed the heel of her hand to your clit.

Your stomach was coiling tight, the added pressure was driving you straight to edge in screaming colour.

Over the sound of your blood rushing in your ears, you could hear the gentle little coos from Sydney, lips ghosting over the shell of your ear.

“Just like that.”

“There you go, sweet girl.”

“You’re doing so good for me.”

And that was enough.

From the moment you were paired together in the institute, just once- once was enough. All you’d ever wanted to hear from that point onwards was praise, Syd’s praise.

Your face firmly pressed into the crook of her shoulder, cunt clenching tight around Sydney’s fingers as you felt your orgasm pulling you under.

Fingers still working you through the waves, her other arm wrapped around your back and pulled you flush against her.

As your senses started to come back, you could feel her hand gently rubbing between your shoulder blades. Lips pressed to the top of your head as you felt yourself shaking gently against her.

You felt the emptiness of her hand moving from between your legs, eyes opening in time to see her lips close around her two glistening fingers.

There was an unmistakable heat in your cheeks, watching her eyes flutter shut and a groan work its wait out of her chest. For a moment, you knew how she felt when you taste her food.

As you reached out to get your hands on the waistband of her trousers, you felt a hand close around your wrist. Nearly, you could nearly argue but you felt yourself being gently pushed back to your earlier position.

“I wanna feel this one on my face,” Sydney instructed, getting back onto her knees. “I’ve only got 3 years and 8 months to make up for.”

[dmitriene]

Bear price when he wakes up dizzily and finds your belly a little swollen after his hibernation. his darling already in her 2 month or something 😵‍💫

cw: hybrids, pregnancy.

there's nothing else john could've ask for, waking up to his hibernation finally over, all the drowsiness leaving his brawny, fat thickened body slowly, the nature outside the cabin already awake, birds bringing a chirp soothing songs with the first, pale layers of sun, breaking through the loosely curtained window above the wooden headboard of the bed, golden glow highlighting your sleep curled body to warm your skin, soft as a fleece, blanket and furs rumpled, furling at your curved hips.

the bump of your tummy is unmistakable, round, with a barely noticeable, dark vertical line that runs down the center of your abdomen, a little bit hard under his calloused palm, as he smoothes his thumb tentatively over your skin, a deep, gravelly rumble reverberating through his throat, and you answer him even in your sleep, curling in at the feel of his touch, tucking yourself closer to the slope of his side, your palms coming to cup over his own.

you don't say anything when your eyes flutter open, bleary, mirroring the sleepy dizziness that reflects in john's own, tender blues, flicking over your tummy and face with sincere spoken awe and giddiness that makes the corners of his lips curve up, lifting his mutton chops beard, softening his features along the lingering, bed warmed contentment, his heavy, hair dappled hand curling over the line of your exposed hips, palm splaying at the small of your back, tugging you close in an embrace that replaces thousands of words, his face nuzzling against your smile gleaming one.

john and you both don't have to know for sure if there's something growing inside of you, it's obvious, from your pretty round tummy, to the gut deep possessiveness churning inside of him, overcoming his senses with gum aching need to claim, make sure you're safe and pliable with nothing to worry about in his grasp, his face lowering to nudge in the arching curve of your neck, sensitive to the touch of his scraping beard, making you shudder, and smelling mouth drooling good, all ripe and calling, as his sharp teeth nip down.

he makes sure to not overwhelm you, holding his basic instincts in tight grip so as not to pounce at you at any given moment, unable to not think about how good you would've feel around his cock, so sensitive and gorgeous, carrying his offspring while being pumped full of another load, but unfortunately, john has to get a grip, since pregnancy makes you a little bit fuzzy and sleepy, but it's doesn't means he can't get between your thighs and get a taste of your pussy, weeping honey sweet all for him.

main masterlist. quidelines.

[kruegerspillow]

simon riley who shares every single thing he has in his possession with you.

the weather's cold? oh, just wear his jacket. it's not like he'll freeze to death anyway, he'd been through worse.

you don't like your food? have his! he's a big bloke, he'd devour anything that you give him

you miss him? don't worry, he'd left some hoodies inside your closet. (bonus point, it smells like his cologne)

you ran out of socks? have a pair of his, he still has a lot anyway (he ended up not wearing socks throughout the whole day)

oof, you forgot to bring your umbrella? don't you worry, simon's there to save you. he doesn't mind being a little wet from the rain anyway. (proceeds to hug you so the both of you can be wet together)

argh your pick accidentally fell into the guitar? aaand before you knew it, he already had some extra picks in his jacket.

oh noo you accidentally booked a hotel with one bed, will simon be sleeping on the chair?

not a chance. you ended up sleeping together with simon with your legs tangled around his and arms all over each other.

you forgot to bring your water bottle during a morning run? he'll share his with you.

you didn't bring a hairtie? oh, he has lots of your hair ties inside his bag, don't worry.

you didn't bring your wallet? haha don't even think about paying.

did you leave your charger on your nightstand? oh, use his. if it doesn't fit, he'll buy you one. consider it an extra charger, just in case you forgot again.

simon is a gentleman, no matter how the military describe him. he's a completely different person outside of work. he's no longer the Ghost or Lt or El fantasma. he's simon riley with you.

kruegerspillow © 2024 — reblogs are greatly appreciated!

[spring-rol1]

back at it again with bear!price x fem!reader

John's dick is hung, like big big and h u n g.

First time taking him, had to be a proper setting where pillow under you for support and John even got extra bottle of lube just to be safe. Dont wanna risk hurting the missus.

"S'big...John.."

"I know lovie... Takin me well."

As you slightly writhe from the feeling of the stretch, you look up to him and asked "Is it almost all in?"

And John has to pause a bit before answering "Yep. Almost there luv..." He said as he looks down where the two of you are connected and his dick is still HALFWAY in you.

After a while tho, the blood, sweat and tears slick, were all worth it since your brain is now all mushy and your thoughts evaporated from the power of his thrusts and sounds of wet skin slapping continously.

"J-John! Fffuck!- John- Suu... much!-"

"Stay with me n-now luvie-"

John's hips sputters and increases in speed as his desperstion to cum comes to action (pun intended?)

No other words come out of your mouth except the name of your beloved again and again and again again. What was even your own name?

Your brain goes back and forth from reality and the only thing you could hear and feel was john's entire being, his heavy breathing, his skin slapping into yours, his calloused hands, his deep grunts, his hairy chest pressing onto you, his arms hairier than usual, his teeth sharper.

The only you could feel was john, john here, john there, john john john

"John! Jo-John! Im cumming!-" your high pitched moans werent ignored as John's hand comes down between you and him to rub circles around your clit, successfully tightening your body and your stomach tensing just the right amount to-

"John!" your arms desperetly grab onto his back and leaving red welts on its wake.

John deeply groans as he feels your cunt tightening and milking him dry as he spurts his cream in you. As the both of you catch your breath.

He didnt even realize, his body almost got turned into his bear form

[teddybeartoji]

18+ mdni; gn!reader

oral fixation but it's biting instead of sucking. toji has noticed that you like to gnaw on your lip a lot – when you're deep in thought, when you're watching tv, scrolling on your phone, in bed. it's cute. teeth sinking into the soft flesh, eyes blown wide as he works his mouth on you. he can't tear his gaze from you – you're biting down so hard, toji thinks you're going to draw blood. you're desperate, you're needy, and you need more.

he often finds you chewing on your on fingers, too. playing with the sharp canines in your mouth, toji holds back a groan before fixing himself through his pants. it's not his fault you look so good all the fucking time! and the fact that you're doing it unconsciously too, is making his head spin.

you do that in bed as well. toji has learned that you're not trying to hold back your moans – your teeth itch. you need more. he can see the marks you leave on your own skin, how you drool all over the finger that's lodged between your fangs. you bite down harder and harder with every thrust he makes and it has him wondering how much it hurts. do you like the pain? can you even feel it, or is it just pleasure in your head? he needs to know.

so, with one quick move, he pulls your hand from your mouth and pushes his own pointer finger past your lips instead. his hips never falter and he fucking adores the way you try to focus on what he's doing; you're fighting the urge to just let your eyes roll back inside your head but now that his heavy finger sits on top your tongue, you cannot allow them to do so.

your mouth is so warm and wet, and toji twitches inside you. his own lips part as he stares down at your confused expression. you close your mouth around his finger, thinking that he wants you to suck it but no, no...

"bite." his voice is more hushed than usual and the knot in your tummy tightens. "i know ya want to."

hesitation pools in your eyes but he washes it away by leaning forward and pressing a haste kiss to your cheek. it's sloppy, it leaves a stain and a whine bubbles up from your throat. he stays close, his lips brush over your jaw – and that's all it takes for you to obey.

the hiss he let's out is addicting; he pulls back from you in an instant, his mossy eyes glued to your mouth. it doesn't hurt, not really – it's perfect. the roll of his hips slows as he tries to slide his finger between your teeth (he wants it to hurt a little more), he loves the way sharp edges scratch st his already rough skin and he loves the way you're staring up at him right now. a little scared that he'll stop, that he'll tease you, but he won't. not when it feels this good.

you bite down even harder and his hips buck forward at the sensation. his own eyes grow wide, surprised by how much it's affecting him and he grumbles something under his breath before picking up the pace again. you're leaving dents in his skin and you're drooling, you're squirming and twitching. you're so fucking pretty and fucked out and cockdrunk and you keep whining around his fingers and he's going to pump you so full that you're going to taste his cum<33333

[suiana]

imagine living in the forest and you accidentally get a yandere! bear hybrid who's big and fluffy and huggable because why the hell not.

he comes to your backyard whenever he feels like it, breaks into your house, steals your food and makes himself at home.

you didn't even know who the heck this guy was.

"erm excuse me what the fræk."

"hur hur hur hur"

the worst part of it all is that he'll cling to you like a child. no matter how much you do, his warm burly arms will stay wrapped around your waist as he nuzzles into your neck.

you don't really care if he steals your food (you do) or if he takes up 90% of the space on your couch, what really ticks you off is when he clings to you like he's your boyfriend. like bro, stop it!!! sure you like the cuddles but he clings to you for hours at a time and you can't get anything done.

btw this bear is HUGE, like twice your size in both height and build because, he's a bear duh. you can't even fight back if you wanted to. he'd just sit down on you and you'd be incapacitated immediately.

"oi get ur fatass off me-"

"meow"

yeah, he can talk to. he just chooses not to and it really annoys you because why the hell does he just make random noises???

you even remember one time where he talked threatened to your best friend and it left them pissing their pants. like hello??? excuse me you can't just do that.

"leave my mate alone-"

"wtf did u just talk"

"...woof?"

at least he's nice to be around during the winter you guess😮‍💨 and he doesn't try anything other than invading your personal space and DRAINING all your food.

"fatass bear 😒"

"honk"

[brunettemarionette]

💜 pairing. Carmy Berzatto x Reader

🔮 summary. Closing up gets a little tense when you Carmy share a moment of teasing. What starts as playful banter turns into something heated and physical, hinting at unspoken desire between you both.

🌙 tw. mature suggestive content. explicit language. sexual tension

The kitchen's closed for the night, but the air still hums with the faint scent of caramelized onions and seared meat. You're leaning against the prep counter, arms crossed, watching Carmy as he scrubs down the stove.

His white t-shirt clings to his back, damp from sweat, sleeves rolled up to show those forearms corded with muscle and ink. He doesn't notice you staring, or maybe he does and just doesn't care. That's the thing with him—too focused, too wound up, until he's not.

"You gonna stand there all night or help me lock up?" Carmy's voice cuts through, low and rough, not even glancing your way. You grin, pushing off the counter, your sneakers squeaking against the tile.

"Didn't know you needed me to hold your hand, Chef." You draw out the title, teasing, and that's when he finally looks up. Blue eyes sharp, pinning you in place. There's a flicker there—something hot, something dangerous—and your stomach flips.

He drops the rag, wipes his hands on his apron, and steps closer. Too close. The kind of close where you can smell the smoke on him, the faint cedar of his cologne under it. "Keep talkin' like that," he mutters, voice dropping an octave, "and I'll find somethin' for that mouth to do."

Your breath catches, and he clocks it. He smirks just a little, that half-cocked thing he does when he knows he's got you.

You tilt your head, daring him. "Promises, promises."

Carmy doesn't bite right away. He's deliberate, always is. He reaches out slowly, fingers brushing your hip, thumb pressing into the skin just above your waistband. It's barely anything, but it lights you up like a live wire. He's watching you, gauging, like he's testing how far you'll let him take it.

You don't back down; you never do with him.

"Careful what you wish for," he says, and his hand slides up under your shirt, calloused palm rough against your ribs. Your lips part, but he's already moving, crowding you back against the counter, the edge biting into your spine.

His other hand grips your jaw, tilting your face up, and for a second, you think he's gonna kiss you. You want him to. But he hovers, breath warm against your mouth, teasing you instead.

"Fuck, you drive me crazy," he whispers, almost to himself, and there's a crack in that controlled exterior—raw, needy. You feel it too, the heat pooling low, the way your thighs press together when he shifts closer. His knee slots between your thighs, and you're done for—grabbing his shirt, pulling him in because you're not waiting anymore.

He groans into your mouth, finally kissing you, all teeth and tongue and pent-up frustration. It's messy, desperate, like he's been starving for this as long as you have. The kitchen fades away—prep lists, late nights, all of it until it's just him, you, and the promise of what's coming next.

[luveline]

Hi Jade ! I loove your sunshine!readers, could I request one for Carmy ? Maybe someone calls her to get to the restaurant when hes feeling anxious to calm him down idk if thats good lol love ya !

ty for requesting <3 fem, 1.4k

Is it The Beef or The Bear? In your head, despite the wishes of everyone who works there (except for Ebra, who seems to have mixed opinions), you always call it The Beef. But the sign brags otherwise, and when you push open the doors, nothing inside is left to remind you of the old restaurant. It was a total gut. 

“Hi, gorgeous,” says a familiar, warm voice. 

You almost walk straight into her table, distracted looking for brown curls through the kitchen door’s little window. “Hey, Tina.” You grin at your second favourite chef. Your most favourite Sous. “You taking a break?” 

She offers you a round butter cookie from a sleeve of them. Her cup of coffee billows with steam. “Uh-huh.” 

“Hiding from a meltdown?” you ask, taking a cookie, fingers oily with butter, sugar grains falling to the floor. 

“It’s not like that,” she says. 

Well, what is it like? you think. 

Richie’s text wasn’t exactly descriptive. Need ur help with the little Bitch, he’d said. Then, when you didn’t answer, ASAP!!!!

You figured it must’ve been another rant. He’s prone to these… episodes of anger where he doesn’t realise he’s spinning out and hurting people who really care about him. You try to bring him out of it, but he’s a Berzatto. They’re all the same, sort of. Everything that’s wrong with them has been stamped into them a long, long time ago. 

He’s been better since Nat steel armed him into AA, but still. You tilt your head to one side, sugar cookie between your fingers, listening for the goings on in the kitchen. “Sydney’s here?” you ask. “I thought she was sick.” 

“Sydney gets sick, but she doesn’t take sick days,” Tina says with a loving shrug. 

You smile at her in brief goodbye for now and make your way to the kitchen, where you push in quietly. All their ‘Behind!’ and ‘Corner!’ and ‘Hands!’ makes you laugh, and you can’t take it seriously so you don’t, but you’re not trying to be dangerous in there either. 

“Hello?” you ask. 

Sydney and Richie look up from a cramped notebook at the table nearest to the door. There are employees you're unsure of prepping vegetables along the wall, but Carmy isn’t anywhere to be seen. 

“Fucking finally,” Richie says, before rubbing his face regretfully. “I’m sorry, it’s just– I texted you an hour ago, babe, you’re letting me down.” 

You laugh. “Sorry, babe,” you tease. “I have a job, just like you.” Your hands are cold where you tuck them under each armpit, crossing your arms. “Hi, Sydney. You feeling okay?” 

“No. He’s stressing me out.” 

“Which one?” 

“Both of them.” She looks like she might rub her face too. “I need him to be in here right now, he should be doing this, but he keeps walking away and– and not saying where he’s going.” 

“He is stressful,” you agree, though usually Carmy’s stress tends to bounce right off of you, “I’m gonna find him and strap him down for you.” 

Sydney just frowns. 

“I’ll see what’s up,” you say more seriously. “In the office?” 

“Out the back,” Richie says. “Smoking like his mother. He’s a fucking steam train lately.” 

It’s like they want to worry you. You give them grateful nods, sorry nods, and start to make your way out of the main kitchen, past the dishwashers and the dessert station to one of the back doors. Carmy isn’t your responsibility. You don’t have to apologise for him, you don’t have to mother him, he should commit to his responsibilities all on his own, but… it’s hard. You like apologising for him because his behaviour isn’t always on purpose, and he struggles with commitment for similar reasons. There’s this aching, stagnated grief in him that’s reawakening, there’s the stress of the restaurant, his business, the scars of the last ten years, and before that. You know it isn’t your job to come here and make him feel better, but isn’t it? When you love someone, it’s half the deal. 

Carmy shouldn’t yell at his friends, or employees. He shouldn’t chain smoke, and he shouldn’t be sitting on the low wall by the dumpsters shaking so hard with his head so low that you can see the first notch of his spine in his shirt. 

“Carmy?” you ask. 

His head ducks further down. You can hear him breathing, not too hard as to alarm you, and yet unrelaxed. 

You smile without thinking. You hate seeing him like this, but looking after him is a pleasure. “Hey, Carmen. Can I sit with you?” 

He forces his face up. “What are you doing here?” he asks. 

Trying to make sure he doesn’t tear another chunk out of Richie. “It’s my lunch break.” 

You perch on the wall beside him and snap your nearly forgotten cookie into two pieces, one side bigger than the other, which you offer him. 

Carmy takes it. Looks at it without expression, though that slowly turns to a dry ire you’ve felt directed your way a hundred times. “What the fuck is this?” 

“Cookie.” 

“I don’t want this.” 

“Could you just eat it?” You put your own half in your mouth in its entirety, all aligned to your teeth. It shatters into sweet, soft crumbs between your teeth. You talk with a hand over your mouth, “It’s not gonna kill you.” 

Carmy looks at it for a long time before he eats it. 

You watch him. He’s more tan than you’d think, that Italian gene kicking in, skin clinging to whatever sunshine it finds. He spends enough time inside that you’re surprised it can muster the energy. He looks better with it though, his curls look gold toned under the sun, and his clenched jaw doesn’t seem so harsh. 

“What’s wrong?” you ask eventually. Almost conversationally. 

“Nothing.” His hand shakes on his thigh. He turns his palm down to clasp his knee. 

“You sure?” 

“No.” 

“That one’s my favourite.” 

“What?” 

You poke toward a tattoo on his hand. It’s a simple flower, same style as most of his tattoos. “I like it ‘cos it’s just a flower.” 

“My least pretentious,” he guesses. 

“Something like that.” 

He tips his head back. 

“Richie texted me. He thinks I’m gonna… like, I’m gonna calm you down, I guess.” 

“You always do,” he says. 

You give him a long, smiley look. “So you’re in love with me?” you ask warmly, pushing up into a knee to wrap your arm behind him, hugging him before he can move away. “You’re totally fucked for me, Berzatto, that’s fucking crazy.” 

“Fuck off,” he laughs. 

You rub his arm, his skin hot in your hold. He touches your waist very, very lightly. “What am I supposed to do, anyway? I can’t cook. You and Syd are on your own.” 

“You already… already did enough.” He grabs your waist where you wobble on the brick wall, grit biting your knees, his hand comparatively soft. 

“Such a crush on me,” you tease in a whisper, his hair crushed under your cheek. 

You’re tempted to kiss his temple, but affection with Carmy is like oil and water sometimes. You give him a last protective squeeze and sit yourself down again. 

“Carm,” you say, “you know you can call me, right? Like, if you don’t feel okay.” 

“Yeah. Yeah, I know.” 

“Or text me. If that’s easier. It’s hard to say hard things out loud.” 

He laughs again. “Sorry.” 

“I know, I don’t– I don’t seem like I know what you’re talking about, I get it, but I do understand. N’ even if I didn’t, I don’t mind listening. Or laughing at you.” 

“What’s that about?” 

“The laughing?” you ask. “You tell me.” 

His hand slides behind your back in half a hug. “Guess it’s funny.” 

“Can I change my mind about the tattoo?” 

“The flowers not your favourite?” 

“No. You know which one I like best?” 

His thumb rubs into your back. “The snail.” 

“Absolutely the snail. You’re so fucking silly sometimes, I’m supposed to take you seriously when you’re yelling and red in the face with a snail on your arm?” 

You can’t see his face with your cheek to his shoulder, won’t know that he’s smiling at you with a rare aura of peace. Can’t see the wanting, either. 

[heavenbarnes]

pretty please can you write some Sydney x reader comfort my job is absolutely killing me rn so definitely in need of some fluff 🩵

Love is in the sharing of the meal

Sydney Adamu x gn!reader

Warnings: no warnings! maybe sadness? and soup? syd makes it better though!

I’m sorry that things are stressful for you at the moment, wishing you all the best x

It was a quiet day at the restaurant- not something Sydney would say she was “used to.”

She was used to a fast paced kitchen with the occasional (often) swear word and customers right outside the window enjoying her creations.

Things were subject to change.

Sure, they’d had customers but it wasn’t bursting at the seams like maybe she or Carmy had hoped. It pulled a sigh of frustration from her chest as she tried to focus on preparing for the next day.

Sydney had managed to find a rhythm, find something to keep her busy when it was (as usual) Richie flying through the kitchen door to snap her attention.

She looked up at him, ready to roll her eyes at whatever shit was ready to come out his mouth. Instead, she found his face pulled up in something she thought might have been worry?

“You better come out here.”

Following him to the dining room with just a hint of confusion on her features, when he stepped aside, Sydney’s whole face fell the moment she saw-

You.

“Baby, what’s going on? What’s happened?” She didn’t know if it was the look on your face (exceptionally sad) or if it was the fact you were standing in her restaurant in the middle of the afternoon.

Sydney just knew something was wrong.

All you had to do was utter the word “work” and Syd was at your side, her arms wrapping around you to pull you into her chest.

“Shh shh it’s okay,” She cooed, strong hand rubbing circles between your shoulder blades. “I know, baby, I know.”

You felt your entire body relax into her, almost melting against her touch as she seemingly found the way to pluck the tension straight from your body.

Directing you towards a table, she sat you down in one of the seats before sliding in alongside you. Her arm went back around your shoulder, pulling you into her chest as she gently ran her fingers down the side of your face.

“What’s happened? Tell me what’s going on, how are we going to fix this?”

We.

The word nearly knocked the wind out of you. There was a we, a “you’re not doing this alone”, a “no matter how bad it gets there are people who love you enough to help you”, a “tell me everything bad thing that’s happening and watch me love you anyway.”

You felt the words just come tumbling from your mouth, filling Sydney in on the details and not sparing any. That was the thing about her, you could open up and let her look inside and just know that she was going to be fine with whatever she found.

Her arms around you, the soft kisses she was pressing to the top of your head, the beat of her heart under your ear. This was how it felt to be loved.

To be looked after.

You spoke for so long you found yourself running out of things to be sad about. Not so much because you were over it (this wasn’t something to just get over) but you just finally felt like you could get through it.

And you could do it with Syd.

Hearing a sound coming from beside you, you gently turned your head to see Carmy laying a bowl of soup on the table before you.

With two spoons.

“I’m sorry for whatever happened, yeah?” His hand came out to give your shoulder a reassuring nudge. “But you’re safe with this one.”

You looked back up to Syd with bright eyes, seeing her already looking back at you. Her face held a gaze of utter admiration, leaning down gently to press a kiss to your forehead.

“C’mon, sweetheart,” She sat you up, picking up a spoon. “Never met anything soup couldn’t fix.”

[ruinix]

hi i’m just here to drop in and mention how bad Quinn wants to leave marks on your body. he doesn’t care where or how he just needs to see him on you at all times ya know?

Halloo, love, my lovely moot😚. I’m sorry it took me long. I blame my two braincells. They got distracted. [Also... i totally didnt try to repost this (i did, but it didnt happen...😭 sorry)] Here it is...ummm.... i think i have veered off in a different path. Sorry...🧎🏻‍♀️

CW/TW: 18+ MDNI, Smut or smut(ish), Sloppy kisses and Marking, Slightest bit of choking, Quinn being a love sick fool 🙂‍↔️

Count: 1449 words | Masterlist

One. Two. Three. Hmmm, that’s not right. Quinn swears he left you four marks on your neck…Why the fuck are you bundled up after all the hard work he did?

He could feel his irritation bubble up his throat, but he swallows it down—crossing his arms, eyebrows drawn—as he tracks your movement across the apartment. You’re doing miscellaneous cleaning, dusting here and there, dancing along with whatever music blasting in your headphones.

You look cute, really. Pretty and cozy in your matching sweatpants and your crewneck sweater. The colors are soft and makes your skin glow. The fit is oversized. You demanded that size when you got him to buy it—he bought five sets for you, because you rarely request something. You are even wearing your comfy and grippy socks. Adorable, really. Really—Fuck. What the fuck? Are you covering him—his marks—up? Didn’t you say you love them last night?

Before he could spiral, you finally notice him. Whatever complaints he has disintegrated to nothing. Your smile with the twinkle in your eyes takes his breath away. When you squeal and run towards him, his arms instantly drop, spreading to give in your hug. You smell like fresh laundry. Home. You smell like home. His home.

Quinn melts into your touch, head dipping where your neck and shoulders meet. His eyes dart from one mark after the other. Where is the other one?

 “Quinn, you’re home! How’s your day? How’s practice?” you ramble on, pressing a soft kiss on his cheek.

“All good. I had fun,” he murmurs, slightly parting from you. “How’s yours?”

You happily recount your day—cleaning, work, watching a show, taking a good and satisfying bath. Quinn guesses that this day is for a nonlinear storytelling, which he has no complaints about. He could get lost in your voice, that’s like the soft patters of rain, like the soft breeze in summer, like the rustle of leaves, like soft chirps of birds. Your voice is like every calming tune of nature. Soothing. Nurturing. That’s what you do to his soul.

Mix that with how firmly your arms are wrapped around his torso, hands slipping into his shirt. They smoothen over his muscles, tracing his spine, causing shivers to run down his fucking soul. Oh, the effect you have on him, but that doesn’t appease him as it usually does. Not one bit—fine, maybe just slightly—because where the fuck is it?

While you talk about a grocery list, Quinn carefully rubs your arms and your shoulders. When he thumbs the column of your neck, you instantly pause, shuddering, breaths picking up. You look at him with wide eyes. The blush staining your cheeks deepens. Cute.

Quinn slips his thumb into your collar and tugs. He almost gets distracted with the goosebumps on your skin. Almost. Because there it is. The fourth mark. It’s just hiding under the edge. Still red and purple, the same shade as the other three. Still so beautiful on your skin. So fucking beautiful.

“Quinn?” you call, confusion etched in your face. “Did I lose you?”

Lose him? Never. You will never lose him. You’re stuck with him. He will chase you no matter where you go, stand beside you, hold your hands every step of the way.

You know that, but you’re still pouting. As second ticks, your confusion turns into annoyance. Your eyebrows furrow. You’re such a brat sometimes. It makes him want to kiss you, so he does. Your arms hook over his nape. The way your lips instantly part sends blood rushing down his groin. You’re always so eager, parting your thighs for his leg to step between.

“You ignored me,” you murmur, nipping at his lip. “You can’t ignore me.”

Fuck. That feels good.

“Not ignoring you. I heard everything you said,” Quinn whispers back in between kisses. “You know that, brat.”

He feels your smile, hears your giggle. He’s so fucked. Even that turns him on. With how your eyes shine, you know you had him in a chokehold. Well, he can have you in a chokehold too. Literally. So, he gives your neck a squeeze. A small whimper comes out your lips.

“Quinn.”

Your name spills out from his lips as a response.

You moan like he’s already fucking you, grinding your clothed cunt over his thigh. He pushes it up, letting you take all the friction you want.

When he goes for another kiss, your lips are already parted, tongue out, waiting for his. You beautiful siren. Quinn can’t hold in his growl as he meets it.

The kiss is sloppy, messy, and hungry. Your spits mixing. Your tongues lashing. Your teeth bumping and nipping each other’s lips. So different from the first one just a while ago. So different, yet utterly the same—full of love, lust, and devotion. So fucking good.

Quinn grinds his hard-on against you, raising his thigh to help you chase your high, but he stops. Not yet. You can’t come just yet. Your whines fill his ears as he parts from you. Tears threaten to spill as you try, try, and fucking try to get him to kiss you again. To get him to let you ride his thigh again. To get him to fuck himself on you.

You have to wait.

“Maybe,” he mutters against your lips, almost laughing when your tongue darts out to gaud him for another kiss. Little seductress. Quinn impatiently tugs on your sweatshirt. “Maybe you should get rid of this, yeah?”

He nearly preens when you nod—desperately and utterly wrecked. His hands shake as he helps you pull it off.

Fuck. You’re just wearing an almost-sheer crop top underneath. Your nipples are already taut, begging for him to touch, to kiss, to suck. Your low neckline showcases your beautiful skin littered with different shades of kiss marks. Some are old. Some are new. All his.

Yet. Not. Enough.

Not when there are still lots of blank spaces of skin to mark. Not when many of them are already fading. Not when you can still hide them. He doubts it will ever be enough. He just needs him on you.

His kiss marks.

Different from cum and spit which you—or he, depending on your mood—wash away.

Different from the occasional fingerprint bruises he leaves on your hips and thighs from holding you so tightly as he fucked you until you couldn’t stop cumming, until he’s left with watery cum or with nothing because your sweet pussy already sucked him dry.

Different because it shows the whole world how he worshipped you, your skin, your being.

Different but they always come one after another. He can’t have you all marked up with your pussy unsatisfied, can he? No. That’s not possible. An offence that he would rather die than commit.

“You’re so pretty,” he breathes, grazing his knuckles over your ribs. His other hand tenderly holds our hips, keeping them pressed against his, not letting you do anything else. “So pretty.”

He nearly chokes on those words. He relishes the feel of your hands on his shoulders, fingers casually tugging the tips of his hair—a demand for him to stop fucking around.

Well, can you blame him for taking his time? He just loves you so much.

Then, your little tugs turn more desperate, fingers wrapping around his locks. You tug on his hair like you want to rip it off, but you would ease and scratch his scalp effectively seducing him.

But first, he needs to remedy his problem. He grips your arms, holding them against the wall, as he partakes on your skin. The way you surrender—when he starts sucking and adding marks on your neck, even craning it to give him more access—almost made him fall to his knees. Oh, he is essentially on his knees, because you are his love, his law, his Goddess. He is always kneeling for you. His existence is nothing without you now. He can only beg that you always be with him—of course, he will ensure that.

But he can’t be on his knees right now. How can he reach your neck then? How can he hold you up when you are melting with every suck and lick and kiss then?

Later, he can be on his knees. Later, when he needs to mark up your belly, your hips, your thighs, the creases between them that leads to your pussy, and your beautiful fucking ass. Later.

Right now, he needs to mark up your neck to show everyone—honestly, just him, fuck everyone else—that you are his and his alone.

[cryptid-cave]

Currently thinking about a reader who, while having a full-time job and playing the part of a “real adult” pretty well for the most part, is still kind of lost and pathetic. It feels less like they’re living and more like they’re surviving, getting by on their own with just a cat for company.

Enter John Price, who’s currently on medical leave and just itching for a project. Maybe reader works at a store near his home that he shops at almost every other day, or works at the library where he goes when he needs to get out of the house. Either way, he spots this pretty little thing who clearly needs some love and guidance, preferably from a strong, gentle hand - and who better to do that than him?

Anyways, save me bossy and demanding Price with a savior complex, save me

[dmitriene]

cw: hybrids, breeding, glimpses of consented somnophilia.

bear hybrid john price gets you to hibernate with him, it's not that there's much choice, of course, you wouldn't be wandering around the house and outside much when your spouse is sleeping away, tucked in the warm bed with all the furs and copious pillows, all arranged around him with comfortable softness, yet, he misses the most important, you, and he won't be willing to start his hibernation until you join him.

sure, it's not an easy thing, to match his sleepiness while you're not used to go through such a thing as a human, but your bear spouse will get you all cozied against his side, cradled in a crushing, squishing embrace against the brawny, sculpted plains of his softened chest, dappled in curling, brown thick hairs, coating every ounce of john's skin, his huge pecs, bulky, meaty thighs, the roughened fingers, fluffy as fur, warming you like a furnace, mapping a trail to beneath his underbelly and down to the groin.

you keep the fridge and all the shelves stocked with a lots of food of all kinds, to freshly cooked to something quick to make, and even canned, meats, vegetables, fruits, john needs a good nourishment, and you're too, because he doesn't let's you leave the bed, not with how his heavy body brackets your's against the rumpled, cottony sheets, not a single cloth separating his scarred, supple skin from yours, kindled with suffocating, simmering warmth, holding you close tight, broad fingers sinking in the slopes and dips of your body.

john doesn't wakes up mid hibernation to eat, doesn't really needs it, just as the rest of his kind, no, he flutters his pretty blues groggily and rubs a calloused palm over his bearded, prickly face to get a taste of you, dozed in a light sleep beneath his draping hand, your face pillowed on his bicep, pretty lips pouty, cheeks warm and rounded, flattened against his arm, and your ripe, sweet body is all naked in it's glory, splayed along the linens beneath, relaxed and leaning in the closeness between you both, cunt hidden between the sacred gates of your supple thighs.

the hot, gummy insides of your cunt heavenly around the pulsing, restless girth of his fat cock, dragging in the engulfing tightness of your soppy hole, getting you stretched out and loose to accommodate the thickening length of him, filling you slow and deep, patient, almost lazily so, movements languid as he pushes his wide hips, body bowing and draping over your whole form, cozy and limbless, even though you moan out quiet and groggy when you feel it, the weight of his cock alongside your tender, inner walls.

kissing away each keen and breathy whimper, devouring them eagerly, leaving your lush, kissable lips to nip and suck over the tantalizing curve of your neck as your head tilts back, eyelashes fluttering with the heavy closing eyes, your nails scrabbling over the tensing, rippling lines of his back, seeking purchase, clawing and scratching with crescent dents, your trembling body chasing the withdrawing movements of his hips, the battering ram of his cock, coercing for more, feeling the delicious dizziness that comes from the burning feeling that swoops up the length of your bowing spine.

the curve of john's tip butting against your gummy spot, withdrawing, pressing back, relishing in the gripping clutch of your sloppy, loose hole, your sensitive skin a feverish garden of different marks and bruises, sharp teeth's that leave blood rushing indents up your neck and covering over the rapidly hammering pulse point, the rasp of his beard still tangible, making you shudder, whole body itchy from where he rubs over you, but you keep in place, singing pleasure honeyed sounds, coaxing john for more, so as to feel the way he'd breed you.

groping and pressing in every nook and cranny of your form, forcing you into the mattress, nails biting and almost tearing in your flesh, followed by each bestial, guttural groan and rasp he let's out, gravelly, seeming to shake the stuffy air around you both, your little sounds turning in the pitched, frequently repeating gasps, the saucers of john's pupils bewitching in their intensity, enraptured as they look at you with animalistic affection, right until he get's you full with spurt after spurt of his fertile seed.

john makes sure to keep you plugged full, sated just as he is, with his cum making your tummy feel bloated, pumped inside your gaping, still spasming pussy until his seed would stop gushing out in milky streaks around his softening cock, each drop cherished, oughting to see your belly grown round and full with little cubs by the end of the winter, and tucking you back to the side, where you both drown back beneath the veil of sleep, nuzzling in your forehead, he hopes it would take.

main masterlist. quidelines.

[folkloresthings]

thinking about carmen berzatto having the fattest crush of his life on the new waitress/hostess at the bear. natalie and richard had interviewed you, raving about your experience and sweet nature, but carmen had only half-paid attention. on your first day, though, as richie was showing you the ropes, he spotted you through the kitchen’s window.

“who’s that?” he asked nat, knife frozen mid—cut while he stared.

“the new waitress, i told you about her last week,” nat sighed, annoyed at her brother’s lack of attention until she catches that look in his eye. then, she just smiles.

he makes sydney swap work stations with him after that, so he doesn’t get distracted every time you walk past the kitchen door. it’s bad enough that he can’t focus on the dish he’s plating when he knows you’ll be so close to him when he calls for hands. once did his hand shake when he passed a plate to you, nearly dropping it if it weren’t for your reflexes. you had worn your hair differently that night, that’s why, stealing his conscience for a moment.

richie, god dammit, had seen it happen. and he took every single opportunity for the rest of the night — no, week, to tease carmy for it. it only riled the chef up more than usual, forcing him deeper into his shyness and silence around you. whenever he did have to speak to you, he falls over his words and loses that strict composure the kitchen taught him.

because, hell, you’re so pretty and you’re so sweet to him and all of the customers. they always leave notes about you in their reviews, so even at home when he’s reading through them he can’t escape you. you’re like an angel, he swears, and far too good for him. he wants you, needs you so close to him — so he can smell your perfume or brush your hand on purpose for once. but he’ll be the ruin of you, this perfect thing, and he can’t be the one to break you.