Anastasija

2007

[creepycombo]

Since I’ve decided Viltrumites purr here’s what each of them sound like-

Nolan - Like a sleeping beast. This deep drawn-out grumble that he makes every time he breathes out that’s both loud and can be felt from deep within him when contact with him is made.

Conquest - He sounds like a gravely old car engine. This loud and constant rumbling that would vibrate your entire body as if you were sat in the seat of an excavator.

Kregg - Like a mountain lion. Loud with every inhale but softer on every exhale. Just loud enough to be seductive/imposing up close but just silent enough to where it’s sweet and inviting from far away.

Lucan - House cat. This constant rising and falling rumble with the same cadance of someone who’s been running. Impossible for him to keep quiet much to his embarrassment. Can be heard from the next room over.

Anissa - Silent. But you can feel it in her abdomen when she’s close to you. This constant motorboat-like rumble from deep within her that you can only hear when her mouth and nose is near your ear.

Thula - High-pitched. A cat-like trill that punctuates every inhale, a noticeable gruffness in the noise that’s come at the price of her old age. Cannot stop herself when she’s making physical contact with someone she truly cares for.

Thragg - Kitten-like. Soft puttering barely audible coming from his mighty form, but it is there, and constant nonetheless.

Mark - White noise. Quiet and comforting like the wind from a rolling in storm. Only ever audible when you’re right up next to him, you can feel the reverberations in his chest when he breathes.

[pedrospascaled]

Jeffrey Dean Morgan Kiss Scenes → 31/?

Extant (Season 2, Episode 5)

[pedrospascaled]

Jeffrey Dean Morgan Kiss Scenes → 31/?

Extant (Season 2, Episode 5)

[ridgeflaw]

18+, MDNI

(cw: big ole age gap, slightly naive reader, size kink)

joel’s thumbs pressed into the shaft of his cock as it slowly glided along the wet spot on your panties.

‘goddamn, would you look at that.’

his cock was coming to kiss your navel every time his hips rocked forward, the thick head pink and glistening; pre-cum beginning to bead right in the center.

you stared at it, transfixed.

‘that’s how deep it’s gonna go.’

his cock. that’s how far his cock was gonna go when he pushed his way inside of you. your cunt pulsed, empty and aching at the promise of being filled so completely. but you were a smart girl and you slowly shook your head, mounting trepidation winning out against your arousal.

‘it’s not gonna fit,’ you said, rather obviously, you thought, because clearly he must have also realized this, ‘there’s not enough room.’

joel let out a soft laugh that was mostly breath, eyes alight with amusement and maybe something a little darker, more intense. ‘why don’t you let me worry about that, huh?’

a firmer press of his thumbs had the next pass of his cock sliding deliciously over your clit. you couldn’t help the gasp you let out, eyelashes fluttering.

‘you just lie there and let me take care of everything,’ joel continued, ‘let me stretch out this cute pussy real gentle and slow-like.’

your teeth sank into your bottom lip, angel and devil on your shoulder bickering as joel continued the slow rock of his hips. you’d been like this for the past ten minutes, laid out on your bed, hips yanked down to the edge so he could tease you between your legs. your underwear gone translucent where his cock pressed against your wet cunt, almost like he was trying to press the fabric inside, nudge it into your hole little by little.

he’d stripped you of your favorite pair of jeans, hands busy with the button and the zipper as he kissed your mouth tender. your fingers had hovered over your swollen lips as you were pushed back into the mattress by a palm to your chest. ‘lie back now,’ he’d told you like he wasn’t doing it for you, and, ‘there’s a good girl,’ when you’d said nothing in protest, head spinning.

you weren’t even sure how you’d gotten here. not here, here. you lived here, you’d only taken a few steps down the hall to your bedroom. but here, half-naked and spread open for your neighbor who was at least twice your age, who’d only come over at your behest to fix the burst pipe in your kitchen, water rapidly soaking the towels you’d scavenged from the hamper and shoved haphazardly at the mess.

maybe it was the boots, dusty workman’s boots that had been worn down on the sole where he always propped his weight, one knee to the floor, the other bent to accommodate the lean of his elbow, the angle of his flashlight into underside of your sink cabinet. or his hands when he fiddled so effortlessly with the hinges of the cabinet door, the tiny screws, the base of his palm pressing into the corner as his fingers curled around the edge, coming down so far it made your head swim. thoughts of what a grown man could do with hands like that.

or maybe it was just you, standing there with the mug of tea in your hands, the toenails on your left foot painted a soft sea-foam green and only the left foot because the water in the kitchen had interrupted you before you could start on the right. he’d stared down at them, unblinking, while you rambled on about how you didn’t know how something like this could’ve happened and how this house was so old and things were always breaking and it was such good timing that he’d answered the door at the first rap of your knuckles on the other side.

such good timing. as though he’d been waiting just behind, one foot already stepping past the threshold, hand outstretched. and the truth was less fortunate and more a lapse in judgment, one you’d not been aware of—still not, though maybe you would be soon—of the way joel had spent the past seven months since your arrival to jackson hyper-aware of your every move.

he knew he unsettled people, his eyes, the way he watched but rarely spoke. liked it that way, most times, liked to be left alone when he wasn’t needed, when he was needed also too and went off hunting on his own. just a rifle and a day’s worth of provisions. quiet. he didn’t understand why people always had to talk so much. there was rarely anything important to say. and even then, it could be said with less.

but then you’d shown up, been set up in the house across from his, sweet and young and with a naivety that tickled the back of joel’s brain, insistent, in the long hours between sunset and actual sleep, when he could watch you dance around your kitchen to songs he couldn’t hear, your bare legs cut at the calf by thick socks that let you spin and spin and spin. you’d waved to him when you caught him staring the first time and it made his breath catch in his chest and there was a whole lot of catching and being caught for a man his age, so he’d abruptly shut his blinds and gone off to bed.

but he kept on watching—just less obvious from then on. had become, over the years, good at being invisible and if not invisible then overlooked, a shadow, a shift of the leaves before the killing shot, the deer trussed up over his shoulder. there was something innately deer-like about you, as well, joel had come to realize in the weeks and months that passed. a softness to your features and a sweep of your lashes against your cheek. so it was only natural he couldn’t keep his eyes off you, only natural to want to pin you with just the weight of his gaze on your back.

but he was not so far removed from social niceties to know he shouldn’t do anything of the sort. he made sure to avoid you when any real chance at meeting occurred. kept his back up to the wall, an easy escape route, made sure the watching was just watching and the fantasy in his head of you looking up at him with those big, prey-like eyes was locked up tight, no key, just three layers deep of iron and steel.

seven months of watching and wanting and not touching and then, suddenly, all of you on his front porch, all of you in your barefoot, wet jean-hem glory, your hands smoothing back the frizzing of your hair at your temples, your mouth opening around his name and a please and a will you help me? and it turned out his choice of metal was only a choice and that he couldn’t help but choose different: once he was inside, once he could smell the candle you were burning and saw the shoes lined up neat by the doorway and watched you weave your way into the kitchen, head turned back every three seconds to make sure he was following. like he wouldn’t follow you right off a cliff if he’d thought you wanted him to.

so all of that and then also the way you’d looked at him while he worked, when he’d stripped his flannel and gotten down on his back and fixed the pipe with his flashlight between his teeth. when he’d stood up and you were right there, close enough to touch and he now had to live with the knowledge of your scent and the way your eyebrows weren’t perfectly symmetrical and how small you looked up close like this. and it meant his thumb was coming up to trace the curve of your cheekbone, meant he was watching those long eyelashes flutter, your soft mouth parting and a shaky breath escaping.

joel was a only a man. and not a very good one. he was leaning down and kissing you, big hands in your hair, on your waist. walking you back into your bedroom like he already knew where it was and maybe he did. maybe he knew everything about you. certainly touched you like that was the case, like he had a manual stashed away in his coat pocket of how to best push the buttons that made the pretty noises come out. flicking and pinching and rubbing and caressing. flat palm on your low back and the other at your jaw, holding you close, pressing his thigh between your legs until you whimpered, hot breath into his open mouth.

and then suddenly he had you on your back, no pants, his own unbuckled and his thick cock straining against his briefs. your mouth had gone dry when he pushed down the waistband, when you got to see the length of it hang heavy between his legs before he was pressing it against you, rubbing up against your sensitive cunt and driving you crazy.

‘i’ll be so sweet to her, baby. i promise. just let me inside.’

he talked a lot of filth for a man who’d never talked to you before. and wasn’t that interesting?

‘okay,’ you said, capitulating, your breath going uneven as his cock slid over your clit again, ‘okay, just really slow, please.’

‘so slow,’ joel agreed, curling his fingers into your panties and tugging them down your legs.

[lvulottie]

百合 ⋮⋮ What if viltrumites zinged?

What if when they laid they’re eyes on theyre one and only..they’re hearts froze in theyre chest before a bolt of sharp lightning shot through them.

Thats what happened with conquest. When he landed in your backyard and you came out in your panties and a long shirt with some movie on it just to check your mail—and there he was standing massively next to your garden. When your eyes locked..

He swore he almost collapsed. He’d never shown interest in love mostly because no one shown interest in him. But this feeling..it was tight, heavy and sharp like a dagger piercing his chest. And it was exhilarating he watched you glance around in confusion. Wondering why a massive man like him was in your garden. Before he flew up and disappeared.

You sighed, guessing it was a new super hero..but really it was your new little stalker..

He’d watch you after that day, flying over your house whenever you tended to your farm, or when you’d get ready, he’d watch it all from the window on your roof. When you’d read early in the mornings with hot green tea. Or when you’d snuggle with your cat right before bed.

It was all intoxicating. And he didn’t want this feeling to vanish. It was feeding a demon inside him he didn’t know had gone starving.

He didn’t know how to get your attention..so instead of courting you like a respectable viltrumites.. he flew through china and stole fourteen grates of raw green tea and dropped them on your doorstep.

Safe to safe you were fucking lost. Thankful..but lost. you did enjoy that tea, using it for another things and for compost since you couldn’t possibly use it all.

Conquest took that as a good sign. And appeared in your house at night, you were almost ready to piss yourself at the massive beast in your home—when you noticed how you cat meowed desperately for his attention— the same cat who just recently started warming up to you after having her for 3 years.

So maybe..you didn’t grab your double barrel and blow him through the window. (Which wouldn’t work much to your dismay)

And…thats how you got a. Husband..

Feel free to use this prompt i thought it was so cutie

[kill3ill]

cod men with fussy wives

cw. fluff, innuendo, cunnilingus, lovemaking, hurt-comfort, mom! reader in kyle's bit, female reader, reader is a bit insufferable but she means well. SMUT

synopsis. price, simon, kyle and johnny with very naggy wives who show them love and care they've never experienced before

john price

john is the typical gruff, stern guy who knows when to be serious, calm, or regulated, but around his wife, all he is is soft. he spends all day gritting his teeth during combat, pushing through with wounds the size of golf balls and scolding recruits when they fuck up, and so when he's on leave for a few days to see you, all he wants to do is relax, make love to you, eat your cooking, and maybe go fishing or do some home renovations. you, however, have a different plan. you're on his ass the second he gets home. not that he minds too much. you're too beautiful to be annoyed at.

he's sitting on the couch trying to eat a biscuit, and you gently pry it out of his hands mid bite. "john, did you take your omega-3s today?"

he signs, hand grazing your hip as you stand in front of him. "no, love. not today. but i used that nicotine patch you told me to use to help with the smokin'."

your eyes light up. "you're using them, darling?"

his heart thuds pridefully at your reaction, like it usually does when you call him darling in that dreamy little tone of voice.

"wore 'em everyday for ya, m'love," he murmurs, reaching for your hips so he can tug you gently to stand between his knees. "damn if i don't like a good smoke, but i like my woman's happiness a little more."

you giggle, nuzzling your nose into his hair, relishing in the pleasant, clean scent. "just a little?"

he laughs, bringing you into a sitting position on his knee. "a lot, love. y'said it's no good for m'lungs, and i wanna be around long enough to see our grandbabies. can't have that if 'm coughin' up ash everyday."

your lip wobbles. "oh john," you coo, lacing you arms around his neck tightly. you're so proud of him that you feel your eyes start to well up. you nuzzle your face into his neck to hide the way you're getting so emotional. you're so proud of him. "there there..." he bounces you in his lap a little to soothe you. "you're the sweetest lil' thing, aren't ya? takin' care of me so good. wouldn't know what to do without you."

you sniffle and snuggle into him so tight that you're nearly suffocating.

he tries to act like the fussing annoys him most times, but really, he relishes in it. he rarely smokes unless he's very stressed and isn't a heavy drinker. after all, you told him, "don't drink if you're looking for an escape from your problems, m'kay? 's what i'm here for."

his health's never been better.

what happens if he doesn't wanna be nagged one particular day?

he's been on edge all morning. one of the younger dogs knocked the sheep pen open early this morning and let half a dozen of them loose, and price has been running around like his head's on fire trying to corral them back inside and soothe the other distressed sheep. he just got back in all sweaty and stressed, drinking a large mug of coffee. then a second. third. on the fourth, you stepped in, suggesting that he might wanna slow down, and he snapped. "god's sake woman, d'you ever let up? i don't need a bloody nanny all the time. enough with the naggin' "

you shut up immediately, drawing your hand back with your brows scrunched.

slowly, you stop asking about his vitamins. stop shoveling extra greens on his plate. stop massaging rosemary oil into his hair at night. you stop. it's relieving for about fifteen minutes. then, he's disturbed. the silence brings him no peace whatsoever. he lasts until the evening of the same day, and he corners you while you're making dinner, hugging you from behind. "darlin'," he murmurs into your ear, mouthing at the lobe.

no answer. he huffs, dragging you against him and pressing soft, open mouthed kisses down your ear, along your jaw, to your throat, where he licks a broad stripe back up to your sweet spot. "c'mon darlin', 'm sorry. you know i get heated fast, hm?" his big hands travel along your body, his left now splaying on your breast, and the right squeezing your hip. "just had a terrible morning, nearly lost our sheep, had to run around like an idiot for an hour... 'n i lost my cool with you. 's not okay, i know."

"hate it when you raise your voice at me, john." you say softly, and his heart just about breaks. he didn't mean to, really. he loves when you're bossy with him. it shows you care and it's incredibly sexy. he'd just been very irate this particular morning. he's been with you years and hasn't complained seriously about the nagging ever, and he's not about to start now.

he squeezes your tit in his palm and kisses your cheek. "i know beautiful, i know. i love you s'much, hm? gonna make it up to you..."

he's on his knees behind you soon after, eating your pussy under your dress while you try to cook. his tongue laps at your soaked hole, causing his beard to get soaked with your juices. the thick hair scratches pleasantly against your folds while the spoon you're holding clatters onto the counter, your eyes fluttering shut and hands scrabbling forwards for something to hold - you settle on the heavy stand mixer ahead of you.

he's apologizing with a mouthful of your pussy, hands squeezing your ass and giving your thighs a little pinch any time you try to close 'em.

" 'm sorry. need you fussin', darling, alright? don't ever stop." your breath hilts each time his tongue drags upwards and flattens over your clit. his nose keeps nudging your ass because his big hands keep you spread wide for him.

you sway a little, thighs trembling with the overwhelming amount of pleasure he's inflicting on you, but all he does is grunt and pull you back against his face harder. "this what it takes t'get you talkin' to me again?" he rasps against your cunt. "fine, i'll eat this sweet fuckin’ pussy 'til you forgive me."

you gasp when he sucks on your clit and tips you forward so you're fully presented for him, tongue fucking in and out of your sloppy hole. the food you were tying to make is long forgotten at this point, but he doesn't care at all. all he wants to stuff his face with anyway is your sloppy cunt.

"john, mmh!" you cry out, thighs clamping around his head, but he smacks your ass hard and shoves your thighs wide once more.

"no, no, you'll take it," he grunts. "this is my apology, yeah? let me make it right an' show you how much i love your fussin'. "

you cream onto his face with a loud whine. grinding against his chin and into his mouth, and even then, he continues for a second round, mouthing at your folds and mumbling, "couple more, wife. apology's not done."

૮꒰ྀི ୨ ៸៸៸ ୧ ྀི꒱ა

johnny mactavish

johnny's a firecracker and a wildcard. he lives on the edge and likes the unknown that comes with being reckless and unprepared. but when he met, dated, and then married you, he did have to learn to exert some degree of control over himself and his life, because damn you're a very meticulous, bossy little thing. not that he minds. having his woman fuss over him and baby him and give him extra special treatment all day, every day doesn't really feel punishing. your fussing is basically foreplay for him.

you'll tell him, "johnny, you're not going on a run with a level 6 UV outside with no sunscreen on. cmere so i can put it all on you."

"...whatever tha' means."

you frown. "johnny, you're not funny. a level 6 is dangerous. cancerous without protection."

he chuckles. "you just want an excuse to rub y'lil hands all over me, ain' that right?"

"johnny!"

you literally have to tackle him onto the living room floor sometimes to rub sunscreen on his face, because he keeps dodging you and laughing. squirming like a kid while you try to get his ears and nose. "you won't wanna shag me if i've got white goo all over m'cheeks, lass, 'm not havin' it."

"you'll thank me when you don't have skin cancer in twenty years," you huff, massaging the liquid into his cheeks while you straddle him. it's the only way he'll ever sit still anyway. his hands reach up to paw at your hips, and he tilts his head, smiling up at you.

"y'look s'cute on top o' me, don't ya?" he coos, giving your ass a playful slap. you roll you eyes and squeeze his cheek in retaliation, and he laughs and continues. "do y'love me more now that i've been properly slathered?" he teases, raising his brows as you finish rubbing in the last bit of cream.

you kiss his forehead. "only a little."

he smiles. "hm. maybe i should scald myself in the sun so you can love me up more."

"johnny."

"…right, right. responsible. m'havin' a growth arc for m'wife,"

"are you?"

"…no. but m'health has improved dramatically since y'started bullyin' me into slatherin' my skin twice a day."

you lean in so your lips brush his "that's cause i want you around forever, dummy."

johnny smiles softer at your words, tugging you down so your forehead rests on his and his beefy arms wrap around you. "i know," he hums, kissing your lips softly. " 'm not goin' anywhere, bonnie. not if i can help it."

what happens if he doesn't wanna be nagged one particular day?

he'd got home only yesterday from being deployed for several weeks. he hadn't seen his loving wife in ages, and the distance didn't do to well on him mentally. he's really not in the mood for fussing. he just needs to eat, fill you up with his cum a few times tonight, and go to bed.

you, however, had been nagging him the minute he came home. needing a breather, he offered to go grab groceries and run errands, hoping that the little break would help him cool off so he didn't snap at you. he's never raised his voice at you, and he doesn't plan on it today.

but when he got back with a dark bottle of bourbon...

"baby? did you only offer to go so you could buy that nonsense? i told you i hate when you drink-"

he interrupts you. "for fuck's sake, can I breathe without you hoverin'? you're not my mum."

you glare at him. not the sweet glare when you're admiring him, or the shy one, or the deadpan one when he does something dumb and you pretend to be mad at him, the angry wife one. oh, he is not a big fan of this look.

weirdly, though, instead of telling him how rude that was and that he knows you're just trying to look out for him, you turn and walk away in an eerie, icy silence. fuck, this isn't good. "bonnie, c'mon. i didnae mean that. c'mere,"

you swat his hand away lightly, deciding you won't be "mothering" him anymore. and so in the following days, you don't tell him to put on sunscreen. you don't pout when he only sleeps four hours. you barely touch him or look at him.

he tries to charm you at first, knowing how much of a sucker you are for his flirting and pretty words, but it doesn't work this time. you don't bite or get on his case or boss him in the way that makes him hard as hell. no shoving his chest when he gets too close or mewling "johnny please," when he teases you. none of it.

you've been eerily polite, and it's driving him mental. on the second day of this, he tries to nuzzle into your neck while you're folding laundry, whispering, "miss you s'much baby, 'm gonna make it up to you properly tonight."

you pull away and hand him rolled up socks. "drawer." he watches you for a moment, hands slack by his sides, socks limp in his grip.

you're distant. johnny's not good with distance from you. the next day, he's extremely restless, wandering around you like a lost puppy in only a pair of sweats sitting low on his hips, hoping you'll come put that greasy spf you always fuss about all over him. he even lies out on the balcony chair for a full twenty minutes in the sun just to bait you, but you give him nothing. you do spare him a glance periodically through the glass door, but you say nothing. he ends up with a sunburn on his chest and the bridge of his nose.

that night, when you dont wiggle into his chest like normal or ask if he had a vitamin after he ate dinner, he turns to his side to face you, needing to put an end to your stonewalling. "bon."

you hum. he can't tell if it's acknowledgement or just the sound you make when you're falling asleep.

"c'mon," he murmurs, wrapping his arms around you and tugging you into his chest. "i wasn't nice to you, i know that. didn' mean to be a dick. just been so stressed 'n on edge 'n i spoke outta turn."

while you're deciding whether or not to believe him, he gets closer, forehead nudging yours. "i'll pour the bourbon down the sink tomorrow," he says quietly. "swear it."

your fingers toy with the hem of his sleep shirt. it's the first time in days you've touched him without pushing him away. "you can drink if you want to." you murmur, twisting the fabric in your hands. " 'm sorry if i'm being overbearing."

"y'not, baby." he kisses your cheek. "just wanna do whatever makes you happy. you're the boss, aren't you?"

you wake up the next morning with his head between your legs, slow and steady, taking his time kissing down your body, from your tummy, to your hip, down to your inner thigh, and then your tender core.

his big palms wrap around the backs of your thighs and pull them over his shoulders, locking you in place while his mouth sucks and works at your pussy. he's so focused that he's making pleased little groans, crotch rutting absentmindedly against the mattress. he's grateful to have you back in his arms and your pussy, dripping and sweet as nectar, accessible to him once more, but he needs to make you cum to really feel forgiven.

he's slow and paced, kissing on you like he's starved. the slow drag of his tongue through your folds and the way his lips close over your clit and suck just softly enough to make your thighs tremble is euphoric, and you find yourself blanking on why you were mad at him to begin with.

his arms are wrapped around your thighs so firm you can barely move. and every time you try to squirm, he groans low and pulls you right back down, nose buried, face flushed and mouth messy. you can feel his beard brushing you, scratchy and warm, and your fingers automatically slide into his hair. "that's it, baby," he mumbles between pussy kisses. "lemme say sorry proper."

you whimper, back arching when he flattens his tongue against your clit and gives it a slow, firm swirl. he just groans again with enjoyment when you close your thighs around his head. he loves being smothered. he doesn't even care if he breathes, as long as you're happy and in love with him. when your pleasure crests and you cum on his face, he licks at your folds firmer, dragging that orgasm out of you. he keeps his mouth on you, gentler now. just soft licks and little kisses, tongue soothing over your puffy folds while his big hands rub slow circles into your thighs.

he doesn't stop until your hand in his hair goes limp. you sigh, letting him kiss back up your body to give you a little break before he goes back for more. he rests on your chest, nuzzling into your flesh gently. "you're forgiven, johnny." you huff, a little tired.

he grins, mouth still wet, eyes gleaming with relief. "thank fuck. boss me all you want, love. swear it gets me hard, anyway."

૮꒰ྀི ୨ ៸៸៸ ୧ ྀི꒱ა

simon riley

simon riley is commanding. he’s the most domineering presence in any room he walks in. makes the greatest of men lower their gaze when he approaches. he's taken down large enemy groups all on his own, has killed men with his bare hands, and… he comes home to you telling him "you can't eat that, baby. it's got monosodium glutamate in it. that makes you sick, remember?" and listens every time.

"…right," he'll say after a pause. "forgot abou' that. what d’you want me to eat then?"

he'd drop the bag of crisps he picked up on his way home with the god forsaken MSG in it the second you mentioned it and would nod. "mm. wouldn' wan' to spoil my dinner anyway, right love?" while gently taking you into his arms and pressing his lips to yours.

you're not controlling, either. the fussing is very particular. typically just a soft, offhand reminder from the only person in the world who really knows and prioritizes him before anything else. you love him so much and this is part of the way you show it. how could he complain?

you know everything about him, which is huge, considering he is a man of few words and is dreadful at being vulnerable. you know what wrecks his stomach, what gives him headaches, how he gets irritable and loopy when he doesn't sleep at least six hours in the night. you know his favorite clothing fabric and how he just wants to hold you when he's upset.

your voice is so warm and quietly certain that he has to listen every time. once you advise him not to do something, everything in him short circuits. his brute force logic disappears. because you say no, or "you shouldn't si, take this instead," and it's a done deal.

you don't even realize what it does to him, how something as simple as your concern twists itself into a soft knot in his stomach, how it makes him ache, not because you're bossing him, but because you're taking car and watching over him in a way no one else does.

he often glares at you and raises a brow ever so slightly at the way you, a tiny thing with big, expressive eyes and pouty lips just told a tank of a man what to do and expected him to listen.

he does though. listens to your bossy ass every time. and for all his stoicism, the man melts under your fussing.

he's in the shower with you brought that annoying cleanser you insist he needs to use every night and wash it off after thirty seconds because he's got sensitive skin.

"love. this shit's greasy."

"it's hydrating, si. good for your skin. protects the barrier."

"don't wan' hydrating."

you rub into his cheekbones anyway while his eyes are locked on you and his breath comes out slow and heavy. you're standing between his legs in the steam, having him lower his head slightly so you can reach your hands into his short hair once you've finished with the cleanser. you're squinting up at him, so serious as you massage something into his scalp like you're not both bare, soaked, and pressed up against each other.

simon has both massive hands holding your waist while he backs you into a corner of the shower, letting you fuss about exfoliants and scalp health with your tits smushed against his body and your eyes fixed on his face and not his cock nudging against your body, aching and swollen from the sight of you. he's trying to focus but he's so distracted by your body, the way you smell, and how soft you are in his hands.

you tilt your head up, rub a little cream into his hair, mumbling, "gotta keep your scalp health up to par, si", and he loses it.

simon grabs your face in both hands and pushes his mouth against yours, catching you off guard. you squeak into his mouth, and he groans and takes the opportunity to slide his tongue into your mouth, water pouring down both of you, beard scratchy on your chin.

"god," he mutters hoarsely between kisses, "you fuss over me like I’m your bloody housepet."

you let out another noise in his mouth, not knowing if that means he hates it or not, but he nips your lower lip, trails his lips along your jaw and up to your ear. " 's a good thing, love. don't pout."

you moan softly, tilting your head to give him more access to your neck and jaw. the reassurance felt great, and you find yourself melting into his touch.

" 'm gonna fuck you," he mutters, voice cracked with need, hand already sliding down your back to grip your ass. "righ' now. can't take it anymore." you look up through your lashes, lashes wet, lip caught in your teeth.

"but you still have conditioner in," you stare up at him coyly.

"finish after. s'not like 'm goin' anywhere."

what happens if he doesn't wanna be nagged one particular day?

simon didn't mean to snap at you. the harsh tone came out by itself. it's just that he's so tired and sore, joints in his body stiff with exhaustion. all he needs is a breather for five minutes, but you're there by the kitchen counter when he gets home. "hi baby! why don't you start with some of the stir fry i made! dunno if drinking black tea on an empty stomach is the best idea."

normally, he'd melt for your nagging and let you tug the tea bag and mug out of his hands and shove a plate of the lunch you made and a cup of water in his hands instead, and then kiss you stupid for giving a shit, but today, he bristles.

"jesus christ, can i just eat what i want for once?" his voice comes out sharp and cold in a tone he's never used on you before.

you blink, lips parting as you stand frozen in place with the wooden spoon you were using to cook laying limply in your hand. your mouth opens and then closes, and you give him a faint little nod and turn away.

he immediately notices your silence. you're never silent like this, so when you give him a faint little nod and walk off, he knows he screwed up bad. he stews on his stupidity for hours, up until you're laying in bed beside him and not once have you reminded him to put on that charcoal mask you always insist "draws out toxins."

you're just sitting beside him. not even sulking, just indifferent. you know what you're doing, of course. and it's working. he stares at the ceiling for a while, grinding his molars, heart pounding in his chest. he clears his throat in hopes of getting your attention and fails.

"not g'na remind me about the mask tonight?"

you flip a page. "no. thought you didn't want to be nagged."

he winces.

"didn’ mean it like that, sweetheart."

"right." you're still not looking at him or touching him.

he can't survive without your fussing much longer. he doesn't have your eyes on him or your little giggles or your hands all over him and sweet night routines and it's making him crazy.

he sits up and breathes in deeply, before reaching for you quietly. you glance over with confusion just as he peels your book out of your hands. "what are you..?"

he's already tugging you across the bed, laying you down on the bed before peeling off your clothes. "simon! wh-what are you doing?" you glare up at him with confusion, squirming under him as he shimmies your panties down your legs and tossing it to the floor.

"apologizin' to m'wife."

he scoops you up and places you on his face with no warning, your pussy lined up with his mouth. he holds you there, palms spread over your ass, fingers sinking into your soft flesh, before diving in.

he groans like a starved man the second he licks into you. his tongue is slow at first, sliding between your folds, and lapping at your soft, juicy pussy. you're still half mad but you can't stop the way your head tips back as he sucks your clit into his mouth and holds it there. you squeal, bucking your hips to try and get away from the overwhelming amount of pleasure, but he doesn't let up, tilting you hips up a little so he can slip his tongue into your soaked hole.

he tongues your entrance and licks you open messily, making you squirm into his mouth. you pull at his hair and try to lift yourself off, whining. "s-simon... s'too much..!"

he slaps your ass. "you don't get to leave me like that, love. won't let you be mad at me."

૮꒰ྀི ୨ ៸៸៸ ୧ ྀི꒱ა

kyle garrick

kyle has a heart of gold and the patience of a saint with you. after years of coordinating teams, keeping his cool under pressure, and guiding others, that taking orders from his sweet little wife is a welcome adjustment to his life spent leading people.

he's good at letting people talk. and when that person is you, fussing over him with that soft, serious look on your face, he listens even harder because you care. and he has never, ever taken that for granted.

you notice everything about him. "ky, you skipped breakfast again."

he's halfway out the door tying his boots to take your child out to the lake for a morning swim when you catch him, arms crossed in the kitchen doorway. he bites back a smirk at the knowing look on your face, giving you a little once over in your sundress while your little one tugs at his hand impatiently. "sorry love, got all caught up this morning and this little lady hasn't given me a break since."

you sigh and tip your chin downward, unimpressed. he'd actually been too busy munching your pussy all morning to eat, having been pawing at you the entire time you'd been cooking and trying to have a bite yourself. your post partum body has driven him up the wall, and it's nearly impossible for him to keep his hands off you these days. then your kid came downstairs and wanted to go for a swim and he'd had no time to eat some real food aside from your cunt.

"you still need breakfast. especially if you're going to go swim, you'll have no energy otherwise."

he laughs at you, looking down at you as you approach him. "i had a liquid breakfast, honey. 's the same thing, really." he says cheekily, referring to him practically drinking the cum out of you and how he'd been downing some of your breastmilk earlier.

your face heats up and you waste no time in swatting him for his crude innuendo. "kyle!" you shriek as he bursts into more laughter.

"alright, alright. i'm coming back. don't get all worked up."

he tugs your child to sit with him at the table while you slide a plate toward him and lecture him about being gross, watching you move around the kitchen like a tiny commander giving orders.

"eat."

"yes, mrs. garrick." he grins at you, dimples indenting into his brown cheeks.

you narrow your eyes. "don't get cheeky." he grins around his fork and moans as a burst of flavour hits his tongue.

“tastes nearly as good as you.”

“kyle!”

truth is, he loves it.

all your little reminders, the way you tug his sleeves when he forgets water, how you adjust the collar of his jacket before he goes out and remind him to get at least eight hours of sleep every night to keep his brain sharp. all your worrying about him makes warmth settle in his chest every time you do it.

no one’s ever looked after him the way you do., so he lets you baby him to death if it’s what’ll make you happy.

“you’re turning me into a well-maintained man,” he once joked while you tried to force him to take vitamins.

“yeah, and you need me to.”

“of course i do, hon. would be lost entirely without you.”

what happens if he doesn't wanna be nagged one particular day?

sometimes he’s tired. it’s been a rough week filled with long calls, endless radio chatter, things that didn’t go right that landed all on him as he'd been in charge of a whole squad today. he walks through the door after fourteen hours on the road with no sleep and no breaks because he'd wanted to come straight home to you, his kid, and his bed. he kicks off his shoes with his shoulders tight and exhaustion written all over his face, and you’re there immediately.

"ky! you're home already! we've been waiting for you. oh, you look so tired, sweetie. did you eat enough today? don't tell me you drove here the whole time without a break, you know that's not safe to do without a full belly and a decent night of sleep-"

“sweetheart, please.”

the words come out sharper than he means it to. a nicer way of telling you to shut up and lay off him for a minute. he just wants you and his child in his arms for a few minutes so he can decompress and realign himself with the feeling of being at home safe. the scents, the feel of your body against his, the meals after eating soggy MRE's all week, but you'd come at him immediately with your fussing.

you stop mid-sentence.

“i’m fine,” he says, rubbing his forehead. “can we not do the checklist routine right now? where's my child?”

you blink, hands dropping slowly to your sides. you don't even want to hug him right now. you try to understand his exhaustion, but you thought he'd at least be a little excited to see you and understand why you're so worried about him. just a little reassurance would have been lovely to hear, but it felt like he silenced you. "up in their room, kyle. i'm sure they'll be very happy to see you."

he sighs and shakes his head softly, seeing that you'll be a little adverse to touch right now. so he just kicks off his boots and drops his kit, making his way upstairs to see his sleeping toddler while your face scrunches up with the effort to hold back tears.

it takes kyle a few minutes of playing with his little one and tucking them in to realize he screwed up. he goes downstairs to apologize and give you a million kisses, but you're gone, having left the table set for him to have dinner on his own tonight. he sighs and trudges back upstairs, finding you in your shared bed with the blanket over your head.

"hi baby." he says softly, sitting beside you. "can i see your face?"

he watches you shake your head under the duvet and lightly peels back the covers anyway, his heart breaking when he sees your eyes, puffy and red from crying. your lip wobbles as he stares at you too long.

"oh baby..." he croons, tugging you out from under the covers and onto his lap instead as you start crying again. he bounces you on him soothingly, rubbing firm circles on your back while his other hand cradles your head. "i'm so sorry. i didn't mean to get short with you, you know that, don't you? it wasn't fair to you. i know you're just looking after me."

he holds you close and lets you cry into his neck. "i know you worry, love. you just want to make sure i'm okay. it's my favorite. makes me feel like i'm the most loved man in the world. i just got ahead of myself down there, is all. didn't mean to snap at you."

you hiccup, pressing your face into him and inhaling his scent. that, and the feel of his body and hands on you lulls you back into a calm frighteningly quick. "i just… i want to take care of you, ky. i don't want you to hurt yourself."

"i know, sweetheart. i know." he whispers, tilting your chin up so he can look into your eyes. "and i love that you care. but i gotta look after myself sometimes as well, hm? or i'll get all caught up and not know what to do with myself when im off on duty without you. and i want to take care of you sometimes too."

you sniffle and nod against him, finally letting some of the tension drain out of your body. kyle leans his forehead against yours, breathing deep and letting the quiet fill the room. "gonna take care of you right now."

he starts with placing soft kiss to your throat, then more as he starts to brush his lips down your soft skin, reaching the valley of your breasts before easing you onto your back into the soft mattress, undressing you quickly with those skilled hands of his.

kyle makes you come on his fingers and tongue three times before shrugging off his trousers and his boxers, his thick cock hitting his toned stomach before he grabs it in his fist with a soft groan, trying not to lose his cool with how fucked out you look already. he rubs his tip along your puffy folds

he takes his time rubbing the swollen head of his cock against you, feeling the juices oozing out of you coat him and mix with his pre-cum, creating a mess between you. leaning over you, he presses a gentle kiss to your mouth, sliding into you simultaneously.

as he slides into you, he does so with excruciating gentleness, inch by hard, throbbing inch. your walls stretch around him, molding to the shape of his cock. it's as if you're made for him.

he moves with deep, slow thrusts, rolling his hips into yours and bottoming out each thrust. "you feel better, sweetheart?" he says softly to you, brushing some sweat off your forehead as he fucks into you gently. you nod quickly, so overcome from pleasure that you can't muster words right now.

with each push of his cock into you, he grinds his pelvis against yours, stimulating your clit in a way that sets off sparks behind your eyes.

his hand traces the curve of your hip, squeezing the soft flesh appreciatively. your slick walls begin fluttering and clenching as your pleasure builds, your pussy drawing him in deeper and milking him each time he pulls back. "fuck..." he curses, moaning into your mouth. he kisses you between words, "you keep sucking me in like that and i'll give you another baby. you want that?"

with a final, deep push of his hips, he pushes you over the edge, burying himself to the hilt as your orgasm crashes through you at the same time as him. with a final, shuddering thrust, he lets go, painting your insides with thick ropes of his hot, sticky cum.

you can't find it in yourself to remember why you were mad at him.

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[honey-moon-13]

Your Needs, My Needs

pairing: husband!Joel Miller × f!reader summary: The worst part about injuring his hand isn’t the pain. It’s having to take off his wedding ring—and being unable to jerk off properly. Luckily, Joel has a wife who’s more than happy to lend him a hand. a/n: I’ve had a really rough few weeks, so this is pretty much unedited! A little Joel never hurts when you’re trying to pull yourself out of a slump, I guess ❤️‍🩹 warnings: smut, established relationship, implied age-gap, husband!joel, male masturbation, shower handjob, praise kink, “good boy” used two times, dirty talk, teasing (kinda), male orgasm, mild injury and pain, mentions of urgent care and painkillers, caretaking, aftercare and a lot of love! wc: 5634 k

I’d love to know what you thought, so please don’t be shy and leave me a little comment. Hearing from you truly means so much to me .⋆❀°

The shower had been running long enough for you to read the same paragraph three times.

Joel had claimed the heat might help his hand, although the doctor had prescribed ice, elevation and several days without gripping anything. The X-ray had shown no fracture. Joel had treated that information like permission to ignore the rest, trying to open the truck door with his injured hand before you had even left urgent care. By dinner, the bruising had spread in deep violet shadows across his knuckles, and you had needed soap to ease his wedding band over the swelling.

That had bothered him more than the pain.

He had watched you work the ring slowly over his knuckle, his mouth set in a hard line, and when it finally slipped free into your palm, his thumb had rubbed once over the pale indentation it left behind.

“Only for a few days, honey,” you had told him.

“I know, I know.”

But he continued staring at his empty finger until you placed the band on the bedside table beside your own things, safely within view.

You opened his painkillers, replaced his bandage and left him to shower while you climbed into bed with your book. But the water continued to run and you had retained nothing from the page before you.

You closed the book.

“Joel?”

No answer.

You glanced at the clock, set the book aside and crossed the bedroom.

Steam rolled through the bathroom when you opened the door. His discarded bandage lay damp beside the sink, his clothes gathered in a careless heap near the hamper. The mirror had fogged completely, but through the glass of the shower you could make out the broad, blurred shape of him standing beneath the water.

“Joel?” you called again.

No answer came, though beneath the steady rush you heard the faint scrape of skin against tile, followed by a low curse that was unmistakably his.

You undressed and stepped inside quietly, drawing a breath when the hot water struck your shoulder.

Joel stood with his back to you.

He had his head bowed and his right arm braced against the wall from elbow to wrist, protecting the swollen hand from bearing his weight. Even in the softened light, you could see the mottled bruising across his knuckles, his fingers held stiff and slightly apart. His left palm rested lower on the tile. His broad shoulders were drawn tight, every muscle along his back rigid beneath the water as it streamed through the silver beginning to thread the dark curls at the nape of his neck. It followed the shallow groove of his spine, split around the soft fullness above his hips and disappeared between his legs.

For several seconds, you simply watched him.

His left arm moved, but the motion lacked the steady, practiced rhythm you knew, his fist travelling over his cock with an awkwardness that seemed to frustrate him more each time. He adjusted his grip, tried again and shifted his hips forward, chasing a sensation his other hand could not quite give him. His shoulders tightened. A harsher curse slipped from him when his injured fingers flexed instinctively against the tile.

The sight sent heat through you with such sudden force that your breath caught.

Joel touching himself would always affect you—the thick length of him flushed dark in his fist, water shining over the soft curve of his stomach and the wet hair beneath his navel—but it was the vulnerability of the moment that drew you closer. This was the man who noticed when your shoulders hurt before you complained, who left water on your bedside table every night because you always woke thirsty, who could read the smallest change in your breathing beneath his hands and know whether you needed more, less, faster, slower. He had spent years learning every language your body spoke.

Yet he stood alone beneath the water, unable to give himself what he needed, too proud to call for you and too stubborn to stop trying.

You stepped closer without speaking.

He was so absorbed in the effort that he did not hear the shower door close behind you. He did not notice the water shift when your body interrupted its path or the quiet whisper of your bare feet against the tile. It was only when you placed your mouth between his shoulder blades, lips pressing softly to the center of his wet back, that his entire body jolted.

“Jesus!”

His head turned sharply. Pain flashed across his face when his injured fingers contracted against the wall, and he forced them open again with a hiss.

“Didn’t hear you, darlin’.”

“I noticed, baby.”

Your lips moved over his back once more, slower this time. Water ran between your mouth and his skin, tasting faintly of soap. Up close, the heat of him felt different from the heat surrounding you, deeper and alive, held taut beneath skin that shivered when you kissed the raised ridge of an old scar near his shoulder.

“What’re you doin’ in here?” he asked.

“Checking on my handsome husband.”

You rested your chin against him and looked down the length of his body. His left hand had gone still, the grip around himself loosening now that he knew you were watching. Embarrassment was not something Joel wore easily; on him, it appeared as a stubborn tilt of his chin and a refusal to look directly at you.

“Looks like I was right to worry.”

“Ain’t anythin’ to worry about.”

“You’ve been in here twenty minutes.”

“Lost track.”

“That so?”

Your palms settled at his waist and moved around him, spreading over the curve of his belly. He had grown softer through the middle over the years, his body shaped by long workdays, evening beers and all the second helpings he accepted after insisting he was full. You loved the weight of him, the solid breadth of his chest, the coarse hair flattened beneath your fingers. You loved the familiar scars and the places age had begun touching him. You loved that you could stand behind him with your eyes closed and know precisely where your hands rested.

“Seems like you’re hurting yourself because you’d rather wrestle with the wrong hand than call your wife,” you murmured.

“Wasn’t hurtin’ myself, sweetheart.”

“No?”

Your nails travelled upward through the hair on his stomach before descending again, leaving pale trails across his flushed skin. Joel’s breath changed when your fingertips passed beneath his navel.

“That hand doesn’t seem to be accomplishing much either.”

His jaw tightened, but his hips shifted subtly into his fist.

You closed the remaining distance between you and pressed your naked body to his back. The instant your breasts touched him, his breath caught. Your mouth found the side of his neck while one hand remained spread over his stomach and the other followed the dark line beneath his navel.

“Couldn’t get it right?” you asked softly.

“Left hand don’t feel like mine.”

There was so much quiet frustration in the admission that your teasing softened.

“You could’ve called me.”

“Didn’t wanna bother you, baby.”

You lifted your head. “Joel Miller, I don’t care if I’m reading, sleeping or halfway through the best dream of my life. Asking me to touch you is never going to bother me.”

“Ain’t exactly somethin’ you should have to—”

“No.” You kissed the back of his shoulder as your hand slipped lower, fingertips barely grazing the coarse hair at the base of his cock. “You take care of me so often that half the time I don’t notice you’re doing it until it’s already done. So let me have my turn.”

The rigid set of his shoulders loosened by a fraction.

His left hand opened around himself, although surrendering even that unsatisfying contact made his hips follow your hovering fingers.

“Need a hand, don’t you, cowboy?” you teased, catching the edge of his ear gently between your teeth.

A strained breath left him, somewhere between a groan and a protest.

“You gonna help or keep makin’ fun of me?”

“I haven’t decided yet.” You clicked your tongue. “You do look awfully pretty struggling, baby.”

“Christ, woman.”

“Although…” Your hand settled over his left wrist and guided it away from his cock. He allowed you to place his palm on the tile, but his body remained tense, caught somewhere between wanting what you offered and resisting the act of receiving it. “I suppose I could lend my favorite cowboy a hand. If he asks nicely.”

Joel lowered his forehead to the wall.

Water slipped through the grey in his beard and fell from his jaw. Pride held him silent for another moment. You could almost feel the struggle taking place inside him—the same man who would carry too many grocery bags rather than make a second trip, who would work through a fever and insist he was only tired, who treated being needed as though it were the simplest form of love but had never learned how to need someone without apology.

You spread your palm over his bare ring finger.

The touch made him look down.

His gaze rested on your hand covering his, your wedding band shining through the water while his finger remained pale and empty beneath it. His thumb moved once against the tile, reaching for yours before remembering the awkward angle.

Then his weight shifted back into you.

“Need you,” he admitted quietly.

You waited with your lips resting against his shoulder, though the answer had already travelled through you. Joel asked for so little that sometimes you resented him for it. He would mention that his boots needed replacing only after the soles had begun admitting water, would say he was hungry once you had already placed a plate before him, would carry an ache for days until you noticed the careful way he avoided turning his neck. Even now, naked and hard between your arms, he had tried to make the request smaller than it was. Need you. Two words offered in place of everything his body had already confessed, as though wanting something from you was still harder than enduring without it.

His breath left him slowly. His empty ring finger shifted beneath your palm. When you still did not move, his hips pressed back against you before rolling forward, his cock brushing heavily against the hand you kept just beyond his reach.

“Please,” he said, whatever remained of his pride finally yielding to the need roughening his voice. “Put your hand on my cock. Stroke me. Been tryin’ to come for so goddamn long, and I can’t—I need you to do it for me.”

Joel had trusted you with his home, his daughter, the parts of his past he still struggled to name. He had stood before everyone you loved and placed a ring on your finger with hands that had trembled more than his voice. Yet this small surrender seemed to cost him something too.

You kissed the pale place where his wedding band belonged.

“Good boy.”

Joel went utterly still.

His breathing stopped for one suspended second, his stomach turning rigid beneath your forearm and his left palm pressing flat against the tile. His cock pulsed before you had even closed your fingers around him.

Slowly, he looked back at you.

Steam had gathered in his lashes. His dark eyes found yours over his shoulder, surprise exposed there before he could conceal it, followed by a heat so immediate that your thighs drew together behind him. A flush travelled higher along his throat. He appeared almost offended by the force of his own reaction, as though his body had answered you before his pride could intervene.

“What’d you call me?”

“You heard me, baby.”

His gaze dropped to your mouth. “Say it again.”

A smile touched your lips, but you did not laugh at him. There was something too open in his expression, too uncertain beneath the want.

“Later,” you promised. “Face the wall and lean back against me. Let your wife take care of you, big boy.”

Joel held your gaze for another moment before looking forward again. His forehead settled against the tile as his shoulders gradually loosened beneath your arms. He moved back until the curve of his ass pressed firmly against your lower stomach, giving you more of his weight than before.

You kissed the center of his back and slid your right hand down.

This time, you did not stop.

Your fingers curled around the base of his cock, and Joel’s entire body answered.

His abdomen contracted beneath your forearm. His left palm slipped before flattening against the wall again. A sound left him—low, involuntary, pulled from somewhere beneath the frustration he had carried into the shower—and the thick length of him hardened further in your grip.

You held him without moving at first, letting him feel the fit of your hand around him although your fingers could not quite meet. Heat pulsed beneath the slick skin, his heartbeat fast and heavy against your palm. You adjusted the showerhead until the strongest part of the spray struck his back rather than your joined hands, then tightened your grip. Another broken breath warmed your cheek.

“There,” you murmured. “Better?”

“Fuck, yes—”

“I thought so.” You stroked him slowly from base to tip, watching his stomach pull tight beneath your arm. “Next time you need my hand around your cock, come put it there.”

Joel’s hips followed your fist as it descended. “Knew you’d enjoy this.”

“You knew correctly.”

Your thumb swept over the broad head before your fist travelled down again. At the base, you loosened your grip and slipped your free hand beneath him. Joel groaned when your palm cupped his balls, the swollen, heavy weight of them filling your hand while the other continued moving slowly along his cock.

“Oh, baby...” You rolled them gently beneath your fingers, and his hips pressed forward as though even that small touch had reached somewhere deeper than he expected. “No wonder you were getting so frustrated. These are awfully full.”

“Don’t start.”

The words lacked any real warning. They came roughened by the careful twist of your wrist, Joel’s breath catching when you tightened your fist beneath the head. You smiled against his shoulder and gave him another long stroke, refusing the faster pace his body was beginning to seek.

“I’ve already started.” Your lips followed a rivulet of water toward the sensitive place behind his ear. “You should’ve seen yourself, hiding in here with all of this aching for relief.”

“Enjoyin’ yourself?”

“Very much.” You squeezed the weight in your palm once more, tender enough to make his thighs tense. “I’ve got my handsome husband naked in my arms, getting harder every time I tease him. I can feel how badly he needs to come, and he’s making the prettiest noises while I take my time giving him exactly what he asked for.” Your thumb gathered the slickness from the tip and spread it beneath the head. “What’s not to enjoy?”

“Mean woman.”

The complaint dissolved into a groan when your fingers tightened around him. His hips followed your hand instinctively, cock sliding through your wet fist while you maintained the slow rhythm already wearing away his restraint.

“Mm. And you love me.”

“Yeah.” His answer came without hesitation, broken slightly by the next stroke. “More than anythin’.”

The words entered you with the familiar weight of truth. Joel could spend ten uninterrupted minutes complaining about traffic, Tommy or the price of lumber, but anything that mattered was pared down until only its simplest form remained. More than anythin’ was extravagance from a man like him, offered with his forehead resting against the shower wall, his injured hand held carefully before him and his body surrounded by yours.

You kissed him behind the ear and released the heavy weight beneath his cock, bringing your free arm around his middle. Your palm spread over his stomach as you drew him more securely against you.

“Good,” you murmured. “Then be sweet and let me take my time with you.”

You kept the first strokes long and measured, your fist gliding over every thick inch before closing more firmly on the descent. Joel attempted to follow you, but impatience made his hips arrive too early. You adjusted without comment, refusing to hurry; the next time he thrust forward, you slowed near the head and held him snugly in your palm until a strained breath escaped through his teeth.

Water ran over his shoulders and divided around your arms, gathering briefly in the dark hair beneath his navel before disappearing between your joined bodies. The shower could not conceal the low sounds he made whenever your grip changed or the unconscious contraction of his stomach beneath your palm. You understood what he wanted—the shallow movement of his hips asking for more speed, his left hand spreading against the tile to brace for the pressure he preferred—but kept him at that patient rhythm a little longer. By the time you tightened your fist, frustration no longer held his shoulders rigid. He was waiting for you, and his cock pulsed heavily against your palm.

“That’s it,” you whispered, your mouth close to his ear. “You can move with me now.”

Joel released a deep, uneven breath and rolled his hips forward. You met him, your fist descending as he pushed into it and closing more firmly when he reached the base. On his retreat, you stroked upward, letting the swollen head drag through the circle of your fingers before guiding him into the next movement. He followed more carefully this time, the rhythm hesitant only for the first few strokes before pleasure taught him what you wanted.

“There you go, baby.”

“God—feels so damn good.”

You held him close and let the rhythm develop between you. Each thrust grew deeper, Joel’s ass pressing into your lower stomach when he drew back before he drove forward again. Your fist worked over him in time with the motion, no longer making him wait, though you retained enough control to keep his impatience from carrying him too quickly toward the edge.

The change reached his breathing first. Those deep, measured pulls of air began catching halfway into his lungs, his mouth opening against the tile to release the low sounds he had tried to suppress when you entered. Soon he no longer seemed aware of them. His attention had narrowed to your fingers around his cock, your palm against his stomach and the body supporting him from behind.

You kissed the wet slope of his shoulder.

Joel had touched you in darkness and sunlight, slowly and with desperate hunger, had learned your body so thoroughly that sometimes a single adjustment of his hand could make you fall apart. Yet this felt different from simply returning the pleasure he had given you over the years. Tonight, he could not reach back and distract you with your own need. He could not turn, gather you against him and assume the responsibility of taking care of both of you. All he could do was remain inside your embrace and trust that being wanted did not depend upon what he could offer in return.

Your grip tightened. Joel groaned and drove forward with enough force to push the air from your lungs. You widened your stance and continued meeting him as the movement grew rougher, each thrust dragging his cock rapidly through your closed fingers before your hand followed him back to the base. Wet skin moved against wet skin beneath the shower, punctuated by his heavier breathing and a broken curse whenever you changed the angle of your wrist.

You pressed your mouth beneath his ear.

“Take it, baby,” you murmured. “Use my hand exactly how you need.”

Joel stopped trying to follow each movement you gave him and began taking the friction for himself, thrusting through your fist with all the force he had been restraining. You let him, your hand closed and steady around him while your other arm held him against you—until his injured fingers curled instinctively against the tile. The hiss that left him cut through the pleasure. You caught his wrist at once and drew his arm away from the wall without slowing the motion between his legs.

“Give me this one.”

Joel allowed you to fold his arm across his chest. You tucked the bruised hand against his opposite shoulder and covered it with your own, your forearm securing it safely in place.

“Ain’t bad,” he managed.

“Shh.”

You kissed the uninjured edge of his wrist. Your fist continued working steadily over his cock as though caring for one hurting part of him required no sacrifice from the rest.

Joel’s chest rose beneath your arm. His bruised fingers gradually relaxed against his shoulder, and his left hand left the tile to cover yours where it held him. His thumb searched through the water until it found the smooth band around your finger and rested there.

You turned your face and kissed his cheek.

Joel leaned into it for a fleeting second before the next stroke pulled a groan from him. His thumb remained pressed over your wedding band as he settled farther back, giving you more of his weight without looking to see whether you could hold it. You planted your feet, tightened your arm around his chest and did.

He was letting you have all of his need now: his injured hand held safely beneath yours, his balance entrusted to your body, his pleasure naked in every sound he could no longer contain. When your fist moved faster, his hips answered immediately. The rhythm that had belonged to both of you began to unravel as he pushed forward too soon and retreated only far enough to thrust again, each movement shorter and rougher than the last.

You adapted without breaking pace, concentrating the friction where his body responded most strongly. A rough curse left him when you repeated it, his cock almost painfully rigid within your fist, the pulse against your palm heavier and more insistent. His thighs began to tremble as the measured roll of his hips disappeared altogether. He was no longer fucking your hand with any discernible rhythm; he was chasing it, moving on instinct whenever your grip reached the sensitive head.

Your own breathing quickened against his back. Heat gathered low in your stomach as you watched the man who could reduce you to pleading with the smallest movement lose himself in your arms. You pressed your thighs together, but every sound he made travelled directly through you, every desperate thrust sending another pulse of want between your legs. None of it made you want to turn his attention toward you. Tonight, his pleasure was enough.

Your mouth found the place beneath his ear that always made his shoulders rise.

“Look at you,” you whispered, affection wrapped around the teasing words. “You were so determined to handle this yourself, and now you can barely keep those legs steady.”

Joel tried to answer, but your fist tightened and the words collapsed into a hoarse moan. You smiled against his skin.

“No clever answer for me?”

“Hard to—” He broke off, thrusting roughly into your grip. “Hard to fuckin’ think.”

“That’s all right, baby. You don’t need to.”

You increased the pace until the movement became relentless, your slick fist closing around him as quickly as his hips could push forward. Joel’s forehead pressed against the tile, shoulders drawing tight as pleasure gathered beyond his control. His breathing fractured into rough, shallow pulls, each ending in a sound he no longer attempted to swallow.

His left hand abandoned yours and flattened against the wall, fingers splayed wide for purchase. Your wedding ring remained warm beneath the place his thumb had pressed it. He drove into your fist once, twice, then faltered, the next thrust arriving shorter as his cock throbbed heavily in your palm. You felt the approaching release before he spoke—in the sudden rigidity of his stomach, the way his thighs locked as if bracing might delay what your hand was already pulling from him, the helpless twitch that travelled through his cock whenever your grip reached the head.

“Baby—” His voice cracked around the word.

You kissed his jaw. “I know.”

“Close—”

The admission came through clenched teeth, barely louder than the water. You kept your fist moving at the same firm pace, refusing to startle his body with any sudden change.

“How close?”

“Real fuckin’—close.”

Joel attempted another thrust, but the rhythm had abandoned him entirely. His hips jerked into your hand and stopped, leaving you to carry the movement while he trembled within your arms. His weight tipped backward. You accepted all of it, your forearm held securely across his chest and his injured hand protected beneath yours.

“Please,” he rasped. “Don’t slow down—”

“I won’t, baby.”

Your fist travelled over him in fast, complete strokes, drawing the tension tighter with each pass. His cock pulsed violently against your palm, so close now that every movement seemed to pull a broken sound from the deepest part of his chest.

You caught his earlobe gently between your teeth.

“Every drop for me?”

“All yours.” The answer came instantly, stripped of breath and pride. His head dropped as his hips gave one final, desperate drive through your fist. “Every fuckin’ drop.”

A tender satisfaction spread beneath the heat in your chest. You tightened your embrace, lips brushing the shell of his ear while your hand gave him the exact rhythm his body had been seeking from the moment you entered the shower.

“That’s my good boy,” you whispered. “Give it to me.”

The praise undid him.

Joel came with a sound so raw it seemed torn from the center of him.

His entire body locked in your arms. His cock jerked hard in your fist, the first hot pulse spilling over your fingers before the shower could carry it away. His hips punched forward with the next one, wrenching a broken groan from his throat as another thick streak struck the tile beneath him.

You kept your hand moving, drawing every stroke from base to tip while release continued to pulse from him. Each one seized a different part of his body—his stomach clenching beneath your arm, his thighs jumping, his shoulders drawing taut beneath your mouth. You felt the force of it pass through him until there was nothing left with which he could hold himself upright.

His knees buckled.

You caught his full weight before either of you could fall.

Your chest pressed tightly to his back, your arm banded across his ribs and your palm protecting the swollen knuckles tucked against his shoulder. Joel trembled through every aftershock, forehead resting heavily against the wall. His cock gave one final, helpless pulse into your slowing hand.

“Fuck,” he choked. “Baby—”

“Easy. I’ve got you.”

You continued moving until the last throb softened beneath your palm. Only then did you loosen your fingers, careful of the sensitivity that made his hips flinch when your thumb grazed the head. The water washed your hand clean, carrying the evidence of his release toward the drain.

Joel remained folded against the wall, his breathing coming in ragged pulls. You kept him gathered within your arms, lips moving over his shoulder and along the nape of his neck while the final tremors passed through him.

“Take your time, baby,” you murmured. “I’m not going anywhere.”

His left hand covered your forearm where it crossed his chest. His thumb rubbed slowly over your skin, Joel still searching for some way to touch you even while you bore most of his weight.

Eventually, he lifted his head.

“Need to turn around.”

“You steady?”

“With you holdin’ me? Yeah.”

You helped him move carefully, keeping his injured hand against his chest until his back met the wall. The moment he faced you, his left arm came around your waist and pulled you against him.

Joel kissed you before you could speak.

The kiss held none of the frantic hunger that had taken him apart moments earlier. It was slow and open, his lips moving over yours with an exhausted tenderness that left you more exposed than anything he had said. His damp beard scraped gently across your chin as he kissed you again, lingering this time, breathing you in as though the release had stripped him down to the simplest things he knew.

Your hands settled against his chest.

He rested his forehead against yours.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

“You never have to thank me for touching you. Your needs are my needs too.”

“Ain’t only that.”

His hand moved slowly up your back, keeping you close.

“Been meanin’ everything else.”

You traced the wet line of his jaw with your thumb. “Joel…”

He watched you, something tired and unguarded in his eyes.

“You’d do the same for me,” you said.

“In a heartbeat.”

“Then quit acting like it only works one way, my love.”

The corner of his mouth lifted before he kissed you again. His hand travelled down your arm until his fingers found yours, and he raised your left hand between you. His thumb passed over your wedding band with quiet concentration.

“Feels strange not havin’ mine on.”

“I know.”

“Kept reachin’ for it all night.”

“I noticed that too.”

You guided his injured hand closer and pressed your lips to the bare place where his ring belonged.

“Still all mine without it.”

His eyes softened. “Always.”

You stayed beneath the water until his breathing settled, holding each other in the humid quiet. When you finally turned off the shower, Joel allowed you to dry him, although he complained when you knelt to run the towel down his legs.

“Can dry my own damn feet, darlin’.”

“With which hand?”

His mouth closed.

“That’s what I thought.”

You wrapped the towel around his waist and guided him into the bedroom with your palm resting at the base of his spine.

The wedding band remained exactly where you had left it.

Joel looked at it while you sat him on the edge of the mattress and knelt between his knees with fresh gauze. You worked carefully around each bruised knuckle, smoothing the bandage without pulling it too tightly. He watched your hands throughout, quiet and heavy-limbed, his left palm resting warmly against the back of your neck.

When you finished, you raised his injured hand and kissed the pale indentation once more.

His gaze moved from his bare finger to the ring on the table.

Then he reached for it with his left hand.

“Joel, you can’t put it back on yet.”

“I know, baby, but I was thinkin’…” He picked up the band and held it toward you. “You still got that chain in your jewelry box? The one you don’t wear?”

Your heart gave a small, painful pull.

“I do.”

You retrieved the thin chain and sat beside him. Joel placed the ring in your palm, trusting you with it as he had trusted you with everything else that night. You threaded the chain through the band before fastening it carefully around his neck.

The ring settled against the damp hair on his chest.

Joel looked down and touched it with two fingers. His thumb passed slowly over the familiar curve before he closed his hand around it, holding it against his sternum. The tension that had lingered in his face since you removed it finally eased; his shoulders dropped, and the breath he released sounded deeper than any he had taken since leaving urgent care.

“Better?” you asked.

“Yeah.” His eyes lifted to yours, tired and unmistakably relieved. He gave the ring another small squeeze but did not release it. “Much better.”

You covered his closed hand with yours. “You really hated having it off.”

Joel glanced down at the pale indentation around his finger. “Kept feelin’ for it.” His thumb rubbed over the empty place as though demonstrating a habit his body had not yet learned to abandon. “Every time I looked at my hand, somethin’ felt wrong. Like I’d left part of myself sittin’ on that table.”

The quiet confession tightened your throat. It was only a circle of gold, small enough to disappear inside his broad palm, but Joel had worn it through years of work, sleep, arguments, dinners and mornings when neither of you had anything more important to say than asking who had finished the coffee. He had grown so accustomed to carrying the visible proof of your life together that its absence had left his hand feeling unfamiliar to him.

You curled your fingers around his, pressing the ring gently against his chest. “It was never going anywhere.”

“Know that.” His gaze returned to yours. “Still didn’t like bein’ without it.”

You leaned forward and kissed the crease between his brows, lingering until it softened beneath your mouth.

“Come here,” you murmured, drawing back the covers. “Let me hold you, my love.”

He lay down without argument, his injured hand elevated safely on the pillow. When you settled beside him, Joel rested his head against your chest and curved his left arm around your waist. The ring lay cool between his skin and yours, warming slowly where your bodies met.

His thumb found your wedding band once more.

“Mine safe, sweetheart?” he asked, already half asleep.

You covered the ring resting over his heart.

“Right here, baby.”

Joel released one final, tired breath against your skin. His entire body softened into the mattress, giving you its full and familiar weight.

This time, when you held him, he did not try to hold you up in return.

taglist: @mcthsman, @madisonauroraxx, @pattwtf

[warmfrequency]

hinge

captain john price x fem!reader

summary: the lads make john a hinge profile against his will, and to everyone’s surprise, he matches with you within ninety seconds

cw: mdni, fem!reader, age gap (30/43), idk how hinge actually works tbh, john price the feminist, alcohol, insecurities, fluff, smut, oral f rec, piv (14.4k)

John has been irritable for months and it's getting worse.

He knows it the way you know a tooth is starting to rot from the inside, tongue prodding at it every hour. 

On Wednesday, he reamed Johnny out for being three minutes late to the briefing. It was the kind of reaming that had everyone's eyes turned down into their coffees and files while Johnny stood in front at attention, toes squared, ears hot.

John went on and on, red-faced, telling him that his 'admin's a disgrace', and that he'd better 'get a fuckin' grip before you're explaining your timings to your old CO'.

Somewhere in the middle of it — around ‘disgrace’ — John heard himself.

He finished the dress-down anyway. Ending on a firm threat of a year-long inventory assignment.

It was rough enough to watch that when the room cleared out, Simon hung back. He stayed in his seat, leaning back with his arms folded, eyes following John as he aggressively organized his paperwork at the front of the room,squaring stacks that were already square.

"You need somethin', Riley?" John asked, never looking up.

Simon's mouth was twisted beneath his balaclava as he weighed his options. He wasn't especially eager to be John's second victim of the day, but it'd been miserable for weeks with no stop in sight. In the end, he decided to be straight—

"Y'need'a get laid, boss."

John's hands immediately froze.

That unyielding anger came up his chest right on schedule — insubordinate, out of line — and then couldn't quite find his footing in it because the truth was a trapdoor just under him.

His eyes flicked up and across the room, ears warming up just like Johnny's had an hour ago.

"Bloody ornery, you are," Simon went on. "'ave been."

Simon wasn't wrong, John knew that.

The work winds them all too tight — adrenaline that can't be spent, images that don't erase, choices made under duress that keep them questioning at three in the morning. And everyone's got a valve that lets the steam out. Johnny shouts his out at the football. Kyle has somewhere to be lately that he's cagey about, and Simon has whatever Simon has, no one asks.

And John drives home, shuts the door, and the house is quiet, his walls holding all the built-up pressure.

Ten months since his usual I'm-Home-Hookup found herself a steady bloke and stopped answering his calls. He'd told himself the whole time it was casual right up until it ended, when he learned it had actually been load-bearing.

And was that affecting his mood? Maybe.

His eyes narrowed on Simon and his jaw ticked at the hinge. He threw his chin toward the open door.

"Fuck off out've my briefin' room, Lieutenant."

Simon's chair scraped across the linoleum when he stood, sighing through the cloth over his face.

"I jus' think—"

"OUT."

The door clicked shut behind him, and John stood in the silence for a moment.

Then he squared the stacks again.

——

Johnny never volunteers to bring the beer, yet here he is at half seven with a box of glass bottles rattling on his shoulder, grinning under the porch light. Behind him, the headcount runs long by one. Three men when John only agreed to two. Kyle with a canvas bag full of crisps. Simon at the back, hands sunk in his pockets.

"Thought it was just you and Garrick?"

"Aye, well." Johnny shoulders past him into the hall, close enough that their shirts drag. "Simon heard there was football."

"Simon doesn't care about football," John retorts as the rest of them push their way inside.

"I care 'bout football," Simon lies through a simper no one can see, wiping his boots on the mat.

Unfortunately for John, his team is undoubtedly adept at what they've trained in and he doesn’t always catch when there’s fuckery afoot.

Under his nose, in his very own home, Johnny distracts him with talk about the match while Kyle lifts his phone from the side table just beside his elbow. Simon waits an appropriate amount of time before slipping away to the kitchen to guess the passcode, which he manages in one go.

"Gonna have to talk to him 'bout that…" Kyle mumbles as he swipes to the App Store.

"He textin' anyone?" Simon cranes his neck over Kyle's shoulder. "He used t’see tha’ one bird… wot was her name…?"

"Leah," Kyle answers flatly. "Laura?" he second-guesses as he thumbs in the passcode again to approve the install: Hinge Dating App. "M'not lookin' at his texts, mate. Be lucky he doesn't RTU us just for this. Plus, I think he said she started seeing some—"

"—y'know, Cap," Johnny's voice cuts through, a warning for the men in the kitchen. "I can get ye another beer, y'don't have…"

Simon and Kyle glance up from where they've leaned against the counter and freeze when John appears in the doorway, face screwed with suspicion. His eyes flick between the phone in Kyle's grasp and the faces lit behind it.

His initial thought is that the phone's got a nice, durable case, proper practical. His second thought is to start patting down his pockets with his free hand — which all turn up empty.

The room's gone still, a collective held breath to see which way the tension'll break.

"That's my phone."

"It is," Kyle agrees carefully.

Johnny appears at John's shoulder, squeezing past into the kitchen. "Cap, before you start—"

"When'd you nick it?" His eyes accurately settle on Kyle, the slickest of the bunch.

"Doesn't matter when, sir. We just—"

"It matters to me." John puts his empty beer bottle on the table and uses both hands now to pat down his pockets a second time, not quite believing his own team got the drop on him. "Professionally speakin',” he mumbles. 

"Wot really needs addressin' is your passcode," Simon grumbles. "0-0-0-6?"

"Christ," Johnny snickers.

John chooses to ignore them and holds his hand out, palm up. But Kyle doesn't fork it over. Instead, he looks back at the screen and watches the progress ring around the icon close in on itself.

"What're we doin' right now?" John presses, stepping closer.

"Jus' take a seat, boss," Simon suggests, gesturing to the kitchen table just as Johnny yanks a chair out, beaming something mischievous.

John looks at the chair, then looks at Johnny.

"Think I'll stand."

"Suit yourself," Johnny spins the chair around and drops into it, arms folding over the back.

Kyle checks the screen one more time before turning it around. A new little white icon sits on John's home screen, Kyle points at it. John squints to read the little letters beneath it.

"What's Hinge?"

"It's a dating app," Kyle answers and places the phone on the table.

A dating app….

Grown adults sorting through each other like they're shopping. Swipe, tap, Add to Cart. He's heard the lads chat about it for years — the 'ghosting', the games — and always thought: thank god that's not me.

Under the simmering contempt, the idea of typing hello to a stranger who might simply never reply (left on read, whatever ungodly hour of the soul that phrase was invented in) shoots something cold through him.

There's a beat of hesitation before his eyes snap to Simon, the scowl on his face carrying the weight of Wednesday's interaction.

"This is you, then?"

"Team effort," Simon corrects without a flicker of shame.

"It's no' the dodgy kind of app, it's for relationships," Johnny explains. "Says so in their slogan: 'designed to be deleted'. You make a profile, upload a few pics, answer some—"

"I know how online dating works, MacTavish."

Johnny squints. "Do ye, though?"

"You've been rank for months, sir." Kyle tells it plainly. "Whole teams sayin' it."

John feels like he’s been put on a rinse cycle in the wash. His nostrils flare as he snuffs his irritation back down his chest lest he prove them right in his own kitchen. 

"So that's what all this is? A Friday night welfare check?"

"It's no' a welfare check," Johnny defends poorly, voice cracking at a pitch too high.

"It's a bit of a welfare check," Kyle shrugs.

"Right." John reaches for his phone. "Well, thanks for the concern, lads. Truly. Warms the heart."

Kyle slides it just out of reach. "Just give it a shot, sir," he implores. "Try it for the weekend. If you still hate it, I'll delete it and we'll never bring it up again."

John's chin tucks to his chest and he glowers at him from under his deeply furrowed brow. "You'll delete it now," he orders, except these men have never listened to him off the field.

"I could," he agrees, wrestling a smirk. "And you can keep spending your Friday nights with us."

It's meant as a joke. It doesn't land as one.

Because John looks around at the three of them and knows in a few hours their engines will fade down the street and that hulking quiet will pour back in, the one he keeps calling peace. 

So… he pulls out a chair.

Simon pushes off the counter and Johnny's grin pulls wider.

"Go on," John surrenders, falling into the seat with a sigh. He does not look at any of their faces because whatever's on them’s going to make him cross. 

Chairs scrape and Kyle settles down at John’s arm, Simon looms over them from behind, all crowded around the one screen.

The basics go quick — name, age, pronouns. Kyle finds his rhythm working through the questions.

"Drinks? Socially. Smokes…?" Kyle seesaws his head a bit. "We'll say no."

"I smoke cigars," John protests.

"That's a personality trait, not a habit." Kyle scrolls. "Height?"

"Six-two," Johnny says immediately.

"He's six-foot," Simon corrects.

"Aye, and on the app he's six-two."

Kyle selects 6'. "Occupation?"

That one hangs in the air a bit longer than the rest, and John doesn't quite know why. His hands turn palm-up on the table with the question.

"Consultant," Simon offers.

"Civil servant," Kyle tries.

"Military," John answers irritably off the edge of a scoff.

Three sets of eyes come up off the phone — Johnny's eyebrows go high, Kyle's mouth opens to argue, Simon tilts his head just enough, as if to say: if you say so.

"It's not a state secret that I serve," John says, eyebrows pulling close with confusion.

Kyle types it despite whatever he's got hanging on the tip of his tongue. And in the little silence afterward, the obvious question finally comes to mind.

"What've you lot got on yours, then?"

The simple question sends a tidal wave of overlapping chatter and excuses over the table.

"Ah, well—" Johnny starts.

"I actually—" Kyle says, at the same time.

"Different app," Simon adds, under both of them.

"—see, it depends," Johnny goes on, trying to gain volume over the others, "I like to keep the profile fresh. Rotate the pics, the bio—"

"—don't have one," Kyle is saying over the top of him, "because me and Amara are— well, it's not official-official, but it's a thing, so—"

"Been usin' Feeld," Simon finishes.

When the wave recedes, the full picture comes into view: Johnny reinvents himself on a cycle, Kyle has Amara, mentioned now for the first time ever. And Simon—

"What's Feeld?" John asks.

"No," Kyle says before the question has its punctuation, quick and stern, head whipping back and forth. “Absolutely not. We'll talk about that another time."

"It's not for you," Simon adds.

"Right," he mumbles, taking a pull of his beer, settling back against the chair. He inhales and looks off at the window. "M'glad it's amateurs running my love life."

"Enthusiasts," Johnny corrects.

The rest goes quicker.

"What kind of connection?" Kyle reads. "Options are: Long-term. Short-term. Short-term, open to long. Long-term, open to short."

"Short, open to long," John answers without hesitation.

Johnny opens his mouth but Simon glares at him just as quickly through his ragged eyeholes, and he closes it without a word.

His profile photos have to come off the lads' phones since John's camera roll offers nothing but screenshots of maps, car parts, and three random pictures of the K9, Xena, from another unit on base (he’s been trying to snatch her for his own team for months).

He watches the photos of himself go by and it's a strange census, seeing a year of himself entirely through other people's eyes. Makes him queasy, so he takes another bitter gulp to wash the feeling out. 

There's a short argument about the proper order the pictures should be presented, Johnny wins.

After, Kyle starts explaining what a good prompt does, how to choose one. He hardly gets any words out before John's holding his hand out the same way he did half an hour ago.

"I'll do these myself."

This time, Kyle hands the phone over.

The lads drift to the far end of the table to finally give John the space they've neglected to all night. 

Fresh beers are cracked open and a bag of crisps demolished as they fold into their own conversations. The match they’ve been ignoring comes first, then Amara, whom Kyle spends five minutes refusing to elaborate on, and somewhere in there Simon mentions an oddities shop he’s been meaning to stop by.

John sits with his reading glasses on, typing slowly, brows low in concentration.

When he finally sets the phone down, all three of them quickly move behind him.

"So, their profile comes up on screen," Kyle reaches over to demonstrate. "Have a look, read the bio. If you wanna chat to her, tap the heart. If you don't, hit the X, and you'll never see her again. Simple."

The first woman is on a beach holding a cocktail the size of a fishbowl. X.

"Okaay," Kyle drawls, mouth pulling straight. "Sure. Was there a reason, or…"

"No."

The next woman is at a festival covered in glitter and feathers. X.

So is the one after. X.

A woman in her work scrubs. X.

A woman holding a child. X.

A woman in a bikini on a lake (his eyes linger). X.

It's not that they're not lovely. Some of them probably are. But every picture is a performance — arms out, teeth out, look how much fun I am. Advertisements.

"The fish," Johnny mourns as another goes down, a woman on a small boat holding a big trout up. "Cap, she was fishin'. You love fishin'!"

"Wasn't her fish," he grumbles under his breath.

"Whose fish d'you reckon, then?"

"Bloke she cropped out," Simon says, and John tips the neck of his beer toward him.

"Give me criteria," Kyle pleads, both hands on the back of John's chair, gripping with restraint. "I can work with criteria."

"He's calibratin'," Simon says. "Let 'im work it out."

Simon's giving him too much credit. He's not calibrating. He's not reading these women, he's not even really looking at them. Each X is just the whole premise being declined, proof accumulating that he was right about the app all along, and if the profiles run out, well, he tried. Right? The lads witnessed it. He can get back to his peace with a clear—

His thumb stops and hovers, then pulls back to the outer edge of the phone case.

Huh. 

There you are.

Up a trail somewhere, hills of green grass rolling behind you, hood half-blown off, one hand trying to catch it. You're laughing at whoever's taking the picture, smile wide.

John's not sure he's ever seen eyes twinkle before, but that must be what yours are doing, shimmering even under overcast.

You're very pretty.

For the first time, John taps the profile open.

30. Executive Assistant. 4 Miles Away. Short-Term, Open to Long-Term.

Executive Assistant, so you likely work too much. That's familiar to him, something he understands inside-out. 

There's a photo of you in office clothes at what looks like a retirement party, smile an edge more saccharine than the one on the hill.

Another of you criss-cross on the floor, a black and caramel cat stretched out and content in your lap, belly-up. Shirt low cut, cleavage to feast on. He is sixty percent gentleman about how long he looks at it.

And at the bottom:

The best way to ask me out is by: using words.

I recently discovered that: I'm better in person than I am on here.

John huffs an amusement through his nose. He spent more time on his profile than he thinks you spent on yours. Seems like you're tired of the same things he's already tired of, one night in.

Behind him, the lads have gone silent, holding their breath.

John taps the heart and his screen goes bright with a wash of confetti, both your photos ringed together:

IT'S A MATCH!

"Oh, shit, she already matched with you," Kyle cranes his neck closer to inspect.

"Gimme that." Johnny plucks the phone from John's hand. "No way," he scoffs. "Fuckin' fit. A bit young for you, Cap, aye?" He looks at John, then back at the screen like the two won't reconcile in his brain.

"Careful," John warns mildly.

Johnny hands the phone back, muttering something in Scots only Simon could translate.

John doesn't hear much of it anyway. He's already looking at your photo again.

Better in person.

Yeah. He'd bet you are.

"Right, sir," Kyle says. "Now we wait. Midday tomorrow the earliest. Message her any sooner and it reads keen."

"It'd be accurate," he deadpans.

"There's rules, Cap," Johnny says. "No messagin' straight away, no double-textin', keep a wee bit of mystery."

John turns in his chair with a scowl to look up at the three of them.

"So, you're tellin' me a woman says she's interested in you and you… make her wait?"

Silence.

"I mean, when you put it like that…"

"Yeah, s'a bit fuckin' rude, innit?" John derides, turning back around.

He's already typing, screen tipped away.

"Sir," Kyle pleads. "At least let us read it."

"This is a two person conversation, not a five piece."

He presses send and quickly pockets the phone.

——

Four miles away, a phone lights up…

——

Your windows are open to the last of a long evening, warm air breezing through the sheer curtains. You’re finally on the couch. Shower taken, its heat still damp in your skin. A glass of off-dry riesling teeters precariously on the arm, cold from the fridge and sweating through its stemless glass.

Twix is a puddled tortoiseshell furnace against your thigh, one paw twitching through a dream, her purr winding down as she drops deeper. And on the telly, Last Christmas is on. You've seen it a dozen times, that's why you leave it — it's mindless.

The second glass goes down easier than the first, tart on your tongue, blooming warm in your belly and over your cheeks.

Somewhere in the lull, your thumb opens Hinge, a reflex to being bored. You don't really expect anything from it anymore. 

A man holding a fish, sunglasses on. X.

A man whose photos are all group shots. X.

A man who is 6'2" and it's his entire personality. X.

Your thumb knows the rhythm without you.

The next profile slides into view and you pause, thumb hovering.

He's handsome in that sort of rugged, classic way. His beard is salted at the edges, lines beside his eyes creased deep, cheeks faintly rosy. He's mid-laugh at what looks like a Christmas party, red and green tinsel drooping off the beams behind him; head slightly tipped, one heavy hand flat on the table. He's not cackling, you can tell it's more reserved, but it's probably still more than he usually offers.

John. 43. Military. Four miles away. Short-Term, Open to Long-Term.

The one thing you should know about me is: I'm gone a lot for work. But when I'm home, I'm home.

Most men bury the catch in the fine print, but he's leading with it.

You don't know yet whether that's honesty or efficiency. You suspect that with him they might be the same thing.

His second photo is of him on the tailgate of some enormous vehicle, fatigues taut over his thighs, thumbs hooked through his bulky khaki plate carrier, looking up from under the brim of his hat.

Two truths and a lie: I've never seen Star Wars. I have a lie-in every Sunday. I've had tea with a warlord.

The sky is pink with the morning in his third picture. He's thigh-deep in a lake, turned away from the camera entirely. (You're noticing it's a common theme that he does not look at the camera for any photo.) The sunlight catches the breadth of his back and shoulders, cotton molded around muscle.

Don't hate me if I: call instead of text. It's quicker.

You giggle just enough that Twix's ear rotates toward you in reproach.

It's kinda cute when older men put more effort into their profiles.

But the alarm is already going off somewhere in the back of your skull — too good, probably old photos, probably has a wife — it has never once failed to ring. But you're two glasses in, and the heart really costs nothing even if the conversation seems off.

You tap it, and put the phone facedown on your thigh.

On the telly, Emilia Clarke is busy falling for a man you happen to know has been dead the entire film. You mouth one of his lines along with him, not really invested, wine warm in your chest, Twix breathing slow against your leg.

Then your phone buzzes against you once, and you ignore it, because you have rules about lunging for male attention. But then it buzzes again, and, well, you just turn it over to have a look. Maybe it's your mum, you don't know!

HINGE: You and John matched!

HINGE: 1 New Message

You open it.

Evening. Not much good at using the app, but I really wanted to chat to you. How's your Friday night?

You hum to yourself curiously. Not an innuendo or emoji in sight.

i actually volunteer helping the elderly with technology, happy to walk you through it.

friday's been average. wine and a movie on the couch. how's yours?

You put the phone back down and focus on the film, but his reply comes within the minute.

Ouch. Friday's alright. The lads invited themselves round for the match. Still here, unfortunately.

you're messaging me with guests in the house? terrible host.

They invited themselves. Hosting rules don't apply.

What movie are you watching?

You glance at the telly where a dead man is mid-song and weigh lying about it.

You could be watching anything. You could pick something more interesting, something with a deep lesson, educational, historical, something niche to come off cool and worldly.

you're not allowed to judge me.

Judging is sort of my life's work, but I'll do my best.

You snort. Twix relocates to the far cushion in protest.

it's called 'last christmas'. i don't know why it's on in july, but i've probably seen it twelve times. it's good background noise.

The reply takes slightly longer this time. You picture him all big hands, small phone, and then stop picturing him, because that's how it starts.

Twelve times? Must be decent.

it's objectively not. the love interest is dead the entire film lol

Dead?

it's a twist. it's festive!

You and I have very different definitions for "festive". I've got a few questions. But I'll save them.

You smile.

so, your lake photo. did you catch anything that day?

Not a thing.

hours in freezing water for zero fish?!

The fish aren't the point.

do tell, what's the point?

The mist off the water. The quiet. The no one expecting anything from you.

It's the first real answer a man has given you on this app in, like, six months. 

You feel oddly like you've been handed something and should keep your hands still so it doesn't spook.

that actually sounds really peaceful.

i've never been fishing, but i do love nature in the mornings. i have a trail by me that i like to trek early on weekends.

That the trail from your photo?

it is! my best friend actually made me go that day, i wasn't in the mood. complained the whole way.

Doesn't show.

Good photo of you.

Beautiful, actually.

You stare at the screen and feel warmth tickling your nape, sliding lower, molten and slow. 

Every instinct you have reaches for deflection.

oh! thank you. the wind did most of the work lol

No it didn't.

— and he just takes the deflection off you, like being returned something you've dropped. You press the cool curve of the wine glass against your cheek and remind yourself, sternly, that this is a stranger on the internet.

well, for the record your photo's not bad either. handsome smile.

Somewhere past ten, you notice the conversation keeps not ending. 

how long have you been on hinge?

It's my first night, actually.

first night???

Profile's about two hours old.

yikes, so i'm just the practice woman then, huh?

Practice implies I'm planning to do this again.

——

John's still at the kitchen table, reading glasses pushed up into his hair now, beer gone warm at his elbow. The lads have migrated to the living room doorway — close enough to monitor, far enough to pretend they aren't.

He knows they're watching, and he's been watched by better.

What he can't seem to manage is his fuckin' face — it keeps doing things beyond his control, and every time your reply comes he has to reel it back to neutral, and he can tell by the quality of the silence behind him that he's not reeling nearly fast enough.

"He's smilin' again," Johnny murmurs, elbowing Simon in the ribs.

"Shameless," John mumbles, without looking up. "All of you."

He's typing when the floor creaks jus to his left. When he glances up, Johnny has drifted to his shoulder under the pretense of collecting empties.

"Need another, Cap?"

"I need you three feet back, MacTavish," he replies, thumbs tapping away.

A minute later it's Kyle from the doorway, "If she asks about hobbies, don't lead with the cigars. They poll badly amongst females."

"'Females'?" John grimaces, face down, thumbs still at it. "Say it with me Garrick, 'women'."

Then Simon, who hasn't moved or spoken in twenty minutes, asks, "Wot's she sayin', then?"

John rolls his eyes and sets the phone face-down, pushing himself up out of the chair.

"Time to go, lads," he says with an obviously fake smile, gesturing his arm out towards his front door. "Goodnight."

"It's no' even eleven oclock!" Johnny complains.

"Then the night's still young. Go on, fuck off."

They go — bottles gathered, snacks cleaned up, Simon herding Johnny down the hall as he’s still negotiating.

Then their engines fade down the street, and the quiet pours back in, right on schedule. Except tonight it arrives and there's a phone lit on his kitchen table with your name on it, and the quiet — for the first time in a long while — has to wait.

He locks up, kills the TV, then drops into his armchair with the phone already unlocked.

did the football finish? who won?

He glances at the dead telly. Hasn't a clue. 

Couldn't tell you.

omg lol you had ONE reason for guests tonight!

I got distracted.

by what? 😇

I think you know by what.

Nothing comes back for a minute. He pictures you on your couch, that cat beside you, deciding what to do with it — and it occurs to him, mildly horrifying, that he's enjoying this. The wait. The little emoji with the halo, transparently unrepentant. He finds himself smiling at the ceiling like there's something written on it.

anyway!

Anyway.

He'll allow it: retreat granted. There's no rush.

The cat in your photo. Yours?

yes! that’s twix. she's a menace.

Good name.

she prefers men that ignore her.

Then we'd get on fine. I'm very good at ignoring cats.

It goes on just like that: easy.

You ask if he's a morning person and learn he's up at five most days by choice; he learns you consider five the middle of the night.

He talks about the Brecon Beacons — the actual Beacons, the ones he loves, not the ones that nearly killed him at twenty-two. You tell him you've always wanted to go, and he catches himself already planning the route he'd take you. Then quickly chastises himself. 

How's the average Friday held up?

certainly improved

Mine too.

He puts the phone on the arm of the chair and sits in his quiet house, and for once it doesn’t feel so desolate.

——

The following morning he's up at five. He starts drinking his coffee at the counter, looking out the window over the sink, the sorbet summer sky bleeding morning.

He thinks of you before he can stop himself. Asleep, presumably, five being the middle of the night and all. Then he takes the coffee out to his back step for some fresh air.

He wonders if he was any good with the messaging last night. It's the longest he's ever sat with his phone in his hand, period. Let alone chatting with someone. There's no debrief for it, that's the trouble. No one to tell him whether ‘I got distracted.’ read as charming or desperate.

He runs the entire two-hour exchange back over and over and finds no actionable errors, but remains unconvinced.

He goes for his run at six. The route climbs uphill around klick seven, and somewhere on the hill he thinks about your photo, your smile, your mouth. He wonders what you smell like, what you sound like when you're being sarcastic. 

By noon he's under the Land Rover draining the old oil, and he catches himself pondering what you might do on a Saturday. Whether you slept in properly. Whether the cat allows it; he grew up with one himself and knows how demanding they can be when they're ready for a feeding.

He hasn't messaged yet and neither have you.

He couldn't say exactly why he's held off. Something the lads said about being keen, and rules, and mystery lodged somewhere he can't reach to dig it out. He's not normally a man that takes doctrine from Johnny MacTavish, and yet… here he is. 

It's a stupid fuckin' rule.

The afternoon goes long and gets quiet in the old way.

The house at four o'clock has a particular acoustic he knows down to the plumbing, and today, for the first time, he notices himself noticing it. It never used to be so obvious. Years of Saturdays like this one and it took his phone going quiet for half a day to show him the loneliness so plainly.

By the evening he's got Chinese takeaway at the kitchen table, eating it straight from the carton, chopsticks shoveling fried noodles down his gullet while he does the crossword from the morning paper in his head.

That's when his phone lights up for the first time all day, buzzing three times in succession — he absolutely hates how quickly it's in his hand.

spent six hours wedding dress shopping with my best friend. i need a glass of wine and a lie down.

thought of you on the tube home

He reads the second message again.

Thought of you. 

He’d been drafting the same admission since noon and something in his chest going catastrophically hot.

are you still up? i know sundown is bedtime for your generation.

And there's the sarcasm. 

Outside the window, the sun is — he checks — still up. Barely. He's got that going for him, at least.

Just in time. Was about to take my dentures out.

Thought about you as well.

He types the second line fast before he can be a coward about it. If you can say it, he can say it. Fair's fair.

I do have a question now though. It's not your wedding we're shopping for, is it? That'd be proper inconvenient for me.

lol no! maid of honor. today was purely supervisory.

don't really see myself getting married anyway.

the dresses were stunning though!

He’s picking up on a pattern. Three messages arriving like one exhale — the vulnerable thing said flanked with distraction. 

Nothing wrong with that.

Successful trip then? Or is there another six hours coming?

successful! she found it. there were tears and champagne.

what about you, how was your saturday?

He’s had a day spent purposefully not doing the one thing he wanted to do.

Quiet. Nothing worth typing.

hm. sounds like you should ring me then…

He looks at that one for a moment and blinks, the inside of his cheek finds itself between his teeth.

For all their blabbering, the lads did not warn him about this bit. Not that he can't speak on the phone, he prefers it. You're essentially quoting his profile back at him. But he's been thinking about something since roughly the fourth time you crossed his mind today, and a phone call isn't the ask he's been building up to.

Could do.

Truthfully, though. I was just working up the courage to ask you for a drink.

Courage. He's used that word in citations, for men who ran toward gunfire, heroes. Now he’s using it to describe the act of asking a woman on a date, and the genuinely undignified part is that it's regrettably accurate.

Your reply takes a minute. He watches the dots start and stop, and start again. God, he's been shot at with less suspense.

Then your message comes through and it's just a number. Ten digits. It buzzes in his hand once more.

for logistics.

He stares at it for a beat and then he's up out of his seat. Takeaway abandoned, at the fridge with his phone still in one hand, snapping the cap off a beer on the lip of the counter, and then he's out the back door into the garden where the evening's gone navy and the air’s still warm from the day.

He saves your number first. Then he stands there a moment, beer sweating in one hand, thumb over the call button in the other.

——

You’ve just tipped the bottle over your glass when the phone starts buzzing against the counter.

Unknown Number. Local.

“John?”

“Evenin’.”

Fuck. 

His voice lands an octave lower than you were braced for. A honeyed gravel that seeps into your ear and slides thick over your spine, pooling somewhere behind your ribs.

You set the bottle down before you drop it.

“So you actually do ring,” you manage.

“Said so on the profile, I think.”

“I half thought it was a bit.”

“I don’t really do bits.”

“No,” you say through a grin, picking up your glass and drifting toward the couch. You drop your voice into a gravelly impression of him: “You’re a very serious man.”

The laugh that comes down the line is quiet — more breath than sound, warm at the bottom of it, like you’ve caught him somewhere he doesn’t usually go.

“That meant to be me?”

“It’s uncanny, I know.”

The line goes quiet a moment — the good kind, neither of you rushing to fill it — and in it you catch the sounds of his side: a whirl of breeze, the faint ring of a glass set down on iron. He’s outside. You picture a tidy yard with tall dark hedges, a big man pacing slowly with a beer.

“Am I interruptin’ the wine?”

“The wine and I are happy to share the time.”

“Good.” There's a pause that you can hear his smile in. “I have a beer out here. Seemed only fair we’re both suffering the same.”

“Are we having our drink right now? Is this it?”

“No,” he says immediately, unamused even — which is very amusing for you. “This one doesn’t count.”

The speed of his reply sends something fizzing under your sternum. You tuck your feet up under yourself and take a slow sip.

“No?” you tease.

“I had imagined I’d see your face.”

“Been imagining, have you?”

You are very glad he cannot see your face right now. Cheeks warm and strained, you press the cool of the wine glass briefly against them in turns

“Nothin’ mucky if that’s what you’re gettin’ at.”

“Mm, no, 'course not. You’ve been a proper gentleman. Haven’t even thrown me a cheeky pick-up line.”

“I could workshop somethin’ for you if you’d like.”

“No thanks,” you giggle into your glass. “It was a relief when I opened your first message and it wasn’t a riddles-three about your dick.”

You can hear his scoff and recoil on the other end.

“Is that what it’s come to?”

“Unfortunately.”

There’s a short silence you’d swear is him coming to terms with the modern world, and you bite down on a smile.

“Right,” he says, and there's a controlled shift in his voice. “My question...”

Your stomach does a free-fall, nauseating and fluttery, fifteen again on the Detonator at Thorpe Park.

“Mm?” you hum around a sip, deeply casual, a woman entirely unbothered, curled so tight around the phone that Twix doesn’t have a leg to lie on.

“There’s a pub about halfway between us, Lamb & Flag. I’d like to take you for that drink tomorrow. Will you come?”

Then you remember what tomorrow is and sigh, immediately irritated with your whole family.

“Ugh, I want to say yes,” you sulk. “But I’ve got Sunday dinner with my family tomorrow. My mum would hunt me for sport if I flaked.”

“Fair. Wouldn’t want that on my conscience.”

“I could do a weeknight? After work?”

There’s a pause on his end.

“I’d rather not promise you a weeknight,” he admits. “I rarely get away on time, and I’m not startin’ this by standin' you up.”

You go quiet for a beat, you were ready for the usual ‘ahh, well, we’ll figure something out’. But instead got a man mindful of your time; a unicorn, really.

“Also fair. And— and thoughtful.”

“Friday, then?” he tries hopefully, you catch the small lean in his voice.

“Friday’s perfect,” you agree. “It’s a date!”

“It is,” he agrees, smiling.

The conversation should end there but it doesn't.

You learn things no profile has a field for; that he talks slower than he types, that he hm's real low in his throat when he’s considering something, that when you make him laugh it rumbles, so rough at the bottom that you feel at the back of your knees.

Somewhere past the hour mark you stop scrutinizing the call for red flags and just talk, and you only notice you’ve stopped when Twix jumps onto the couch and you realize you’ve been lying down for a while, phone balanced on your ear like you’re seventeen.

Eventually, you yawn.

“Right,” he says, and you can hear him moving, standing up by the way he tries to muffle a stiff groan. “That’s my cue.”

“Aw, no! I’m fine, really.”

“It’s late, love. And you’ve got your family tomorrow.”

“True. And you’ve got… whatever it is old men do on Sundays.”

“Lie-in, according to my profile.”

“Ha!” you bark, vindicated alone in your living room, having forgot about his little 'two truths and a lie'. “That’s the lie, I bet. I don’t think you’ve ever had a lie-in in your life.”

A low sound of amusement rolls down the line. “Goodnight,” he says, declining to confirm.

“Night, John.”

You sit a minute in the amber shine of your lamp after the line goes dead, phone loose in your hand.

——

Sunday morning, you text him at 8:12 AM.

good morning. how was the lie-in?

Wouldn’t know. Been up since five.

the lie confirmed!

He doesn’t dignify it. You don’t expect him to. You grin at your phone while you wait for the kettle to boil.

Your mum will later describe you, over dinner, as ‘suspiciously cheerful’.

The day swallows you — the drive, the roast, your mum’s questions, your brother’s kids. It’s near ten when you’re finally home, shoes off, replying to the last thing he’d sent that morning.

survived. my mum sends her regards to whoever put me in a good mood. her words.

Regards received. Sleep well.

——

Monday morning, John’s at his desk with his coffee going cold because somewhere between the canteen and the walk to his office, his phone buzzed, and it was you and he hasn’t stopped looking at it. 

good morning :) big meeting today. does this say “promote me” or “she tried”?

[ PHOTO ATTACHMENT ]

You, in your hallway mirror — chin tipped, black short-sleeve blouse with a wide collar exposing the smooth skin of your upper chest and collar, grey pencil skirt stretched over the curve of your hips and thighs, one knee bent like you’d just been lowering your foot from fitting on your heel.

His eyes are stuck on the soft-looking flesh just above and between your knees when a rap lands on his door and forces a cough from his throat.

Johnny eases it open with Kyle behind him holding a folder, Simon's behind them both, holding nothing, not even a pretense.

His phone goes face-down on the desk at a compromising speed, shifting to sit up straigher.

Simon’s eyes go to John’s hand over the phone, then to his face before he leans in the doorway with his arms folded.

“Mornin’, Cap. Good weekend?” Johnny asks, falling into the side chair in front of the desk with a theatrical groan.

“Fine.”

“Aye? Do anythin'?” He smiles, waggling his eyebrows. “Anyone?”

“You’ve got thirty seconds to develop a work reason for being in my office, Sergeant.”

It's an empty threat and everyone in the room knows it.

Kyle sets the (empty) folder down and steps back behind Johnny. “How’s it going, sir? Did you have any luck with Hinge?”

John could make them work for it. He’d planned to. But all three of them are standing in front of him trying so hard to look casual it’s a wonder none of them have pulled something.

"Have a date Friday. Drinks."

Johnny is ready to blast out of his seat, but Kyle shoves him back down by the shoulders, digging his fingers into the pressure points on either side of his neck until he relents with a hiss.

"That's great. Same woman or…?"

"The same."

“Good, good, good,” Johnny says, and means it — John can hear that he means it, he can also hear the restraint he's keeping from unloading shite advice.

“We'll stop buy Saturday for the debrief,” Simon says, already turning around, and Kyle picks the folder back up like it had a purpose all along, and they file out the way they came.

"I'm not debriefing you on my date. Don't come!" John calls to them half-heartedly, but the door's already shutting on top of his words. 

He turns the phone back over.

Promote you, he types.

You look lovely.

Your reply comes before he’s picked his pen back up.

well now the meeting feels easy. thank you x

He gets on with his morning, but by noon he suspects he's looked at that damn photo a dozen times.

——

The rest of the week goes standard. Your Tuesday runs long and his Wednesday runs longer, and the messages carry throughout it all. His texts arrive before your morning alarm even sounds, your replies go mid-commute — nothing heavy, just remaining in each other's orbit of interest as Friday chugs slowly into view.

Thursday night, near nine, he rings you, having first texted to ask if he could, which you’re beginning to understand is just how he’s built. It’s a short call by your new standards with him. He only wanted to confirm you’re still on for the pub, but he had you grinning into your pillow until you fell asleep.

———

You leave work at five on the dot, and you’re in front of your open wardrobe by six.

The little black dress comes off the rail first. Goes back. Comes off again. Back. The floral one gets as far as your shoulders before you pull it off over your head and drop it on the bed, where Twix immediately sits on it.

The silky baby blue halter’s been hanging on the door since you bought it. You put it on like you hadn’t already decided and do the tie at the back of your neck twice before the bow sits flat and neat. You pull on some jeans and rummage the closet for your chunky heels. 

You press some strawberry perfume to your throat in the mirror and try to comfort the nerve-ridden woman in the reflection.

“It’s just a pub,” you tell her. 

She doesn’t seem convinced. 

———

The pub is exactly the kind of place you imagine he'd frequent — quiet, all old mahogany and low brass lamps, no telly anywhere. You claim a stool, hook your heel over the rung, and decide not to order anything yet simply because it just feels polite to wait.

You're fifteen minutes early which means you're left alone with your anxieties. 

The last of the sun lies across the bar top in warm stripes, and you trace one with a finger while you wait. 

You’ve done this before, and it almost never goes how the phone promises. There was the guy whose photos were six years out of date. The one who spent both drinks talking about his ex and then sent a payment request for half the tab. The one who, two hours in, hadn’t asked you a single question about yourself. And John has been too good to be true for a week, and you know how that saying ends. Tonight is where you find out how, find out he really is just a man between deployments looking for entertainment and a shag.

It felt good, though. All week. Being excited about something. You’d forgotten the feeling. 

You pick at the hangnail on your thumb until it stings.

You don’t have to wait much longer for him. 

He casts a shadow when he comes through the door. Broad. Tall. Smart olive polo fighting for its stitching across his chest and where it grips into his biceps. He’s tidied his beard in comparison to his photos, hair less kempt in a purposeful way.

He scans the whole room before he finds you and stops looking anywhere else. He smiles tight and restrained, pleasant, but like he’s pacing himself, and by the time he crosses to you, your tongue has gone dry and whatever you’d planned to open with has shriveled away.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hi,” you smile.

He smells clean, a bit like pine and amber, and faintly like there’s tobacco somewhere on his collar.

“You’re early,” he adds, almost pleased.

“So are you.”

“I’m always early.” His eyes drop to the empty bar top in front of you, then come back. “You haven’t ordered?”

You shake your head once, legs shifting to cross. “I wanted— I was waiting for you.”

The lines beside his eyes deepen and he holds out his hand, says your name for the first time, and his hand swallows yours — big and dry and calloused across the palm where yours is soft — and you hold on a beat too long. He doesn’t mention it. You add that to the list of things you like about him, which is getting embarrassing for something four minutes old.

“What’ll you have?”

“Uhm, whatever you’re having,” you decide.

He signals the bartender with two fingers and opens his mouth — and there’s a brief second where he looks at you first, and you notice for the first time that his eyes are blue, and you get stuck, and it seems so does he. By the time he looks back, he’s lost the name of the beer he’s drunk here a dozen times.

“Two of the, uh— the local,” he manages.

You pretend not to notice. He knows you did.

He pulls out the stool beside you, and more of his cologne wafts around you as he sits, turned to face you, legs spread, one knee pointing between yours.

The pints arrive wet from the tap, and for a second neither of you says anything at all. You trace a bead of condensation down your glass.

“Funny, isn’t it,” you offer, sheepish. “We’ve talked every day for a week, and the second we’re actually in front of each other…” You trail off, cheeks warming, eyes fixed on the fizz jumping over the rim of your beer.

“You’re nervous?” he asks, a cheeky lilt on it.

“A bit, yeah. Aren’t you?”

“Not at all.”

You squint at him. “I don’t know if I buy that.”

“Hm.” He takes a sip that lasts a little too long, and the tips of his ears have gone pink.

Your cheeks are doing about the same. You drink your beer — cold, hop-bitter, helping — and let him have his lie. It’s a generous lie anyway. It’s a lie shaped like a man trying, and you’ve been handed far worse shapes.

“So,” you start. “I haven’t asked why you’re even on Hinge. You don’t seem the type.”

“I’m not,” he chuckles, and offers nothing beyond it.

You wait. He just sips his beer. You hike a brow.

“That’s it? That’s your answer?”

“Well, it wasn’t my idea. The lads put me on it.”

“The lads — your guys from work?”

“Yeah.”

“They what, talked you into it?”

“No.” He turns his glass a degree. “They nicked my phone and made the profile behind my back.”

“And what made them do that?”

He takes a moment with that one. He could give you a cover story — you can almost watch him weigh one — but then he doesn’t.

“Their assessment,” he laughs to himself, “was that I’d been… cranky. Needed gettin’ out of the house.”

“Cranky?” you repeat, delighted.

“Their exact words were a bit different.”

“Hm.” You look at him — at ease, half a smile living in his beard, one arm resting along the bar. “You don’t seem cranky to me.”

“Yeah, well. Guess they were right, then.”

Your neck goes hot and you have to look away from him. “Well,” you manage. “They do good work, your committee.”

He huffs into his pint, and lets you recover.

“Okay, next one, then. Military.” You tip your glass toward him. “What do you actually do?”

He sets his beer down and you can see him carefully choosing which door to open. “What d’you want to know?”

“I don’t know. What’s your day look like?”

“Depends on the day. Paperwork, mostly. Meetings.” A beat. “Sometimes we go away.”

“Away?”

“Away.”

“For how long?”

“As long as it takes.”

“Doing…?”

“Whatever they need me to,” he says easily. “S’not me being mysterious. I’d tell you if I could.”

“That must be so strange, though. Having this whole— like, most of your life you can’t talk about.”

“You get used to it.” Then, because you’re still looking at him expectantly, not filling the space the way people usually do: “There’s loads I can say. Ask me what six weeks of rain in a jungle smells like. Or what a month in the desert does to your skin.”

“What’s a month in the desert do to your skin?”

“Nothing good, love,” he answers, shifting to face you better. “The beard’s load-bearing.”

You laugh into your beer, and it makes the next one easier to ask.

“Do you like it? Like, the whole life of it?”

He goes quiet on that one. Longer than he’s gone quiet on anything else you’ve asked. You can see him thinking on it. 

“It’s what I’m best at,” he says finally. And then, mostly to his glass: “It’s all I’ve known, really. Been doin’ it since sixteen.”

You turn that over. There’s a whole life folded up in that sentence and you notice you want to ask about all of it, which is not a thing you’ve wanted to do with a man in a very long time.

The second beers arrive, and the conversation stops keeping to lanes — his lads and your best friend, the wedding in October, the neighbor whose bins are apparently a whole saga. You’re midway through the story of your work feud when a birthday party arrives loud and glittering behind you, and John, without so much as glancing down, reaches down and hooks his hand under the edge of your stool, and pulls.

The whole thing drags six inches across the floor with you on it, your knee sliding neatly between his, close enough now that his voice drops to match the new distance. You’re looking up at him, pulse tapping somewhere that has your thighs pressing together. 

“Go on,” he encourages. “She said what?”

It takes you a moment to find your place, but you go on.

The bar only gets louder from there, the birthday table multiplying, and when a booth opens up in the back corner, John tips his chin at it.

“Go grab that,” he says, turning back to the bar. “I’ll get another round. Want the same?”

“Actually—” and you hesitate out of nothing but habit, out of years of a man’s face going tight when you complicate an order, “—could I do a vodka cranberry this time? I could get the round—”

His brows furrow with something akin to bafflement, brief and genuine. “You can have whatever you’d like,” he says, and suddenly you feel silly, your hand crossing to grip your elbow.

“No—I know. I just—”

“Whatever you’d like,” he repeats, gentler. “And—” he grimaces, like what he’s about to say pains him deeply. “Don’t ever offer to pay on a date with me again. Properly wind me up, that will.”

“S-sorry,” you shake your head, like you can rattle the habit loose.

“None of that either,” his eyes have gone crinkled at the corners, warm all the way through, and he raps two knuckles soft on the bar top like the matter’s settled. “Vodka cranberry. Go, sit.”

“Actually— I’m gonna go freshen up quickly. Two minutes.”

And you go, biting down on a smile, ears hot — embarrassed and looked after all at once, which is apparently a combination that works on you.

The bathroom is cooler than the bar and a quiet that leaves your ears ringing. You reapply some lipgloss and wash your hands and look at yourself in the dirty mirror, buzzing warm at the collarbones, eyes shiny, mouth half-curved.

It’s going well.

It’s going suspiciously well.

And every time it’s gone well before, this is exactly when you started hunting for the catch. So you dry your hands on the rough paper towel and leave before you can start.

He’s in the booth when you come back, settled against the wall side, the last of the evening gone from the windows and the lamp above him glowing gold over the table. Your drink is waiting — pink, iced, a lime wedged on the rim — set neatly across the table at the seat opposite.

You look at the seat opposite.

Then you slide in beside him instead. Your thigh a heated inch from his, reaching across to relocate your drink.

You don’t look at him, but you can tell John’s a bit curious of the arrangement. His arm comes up and settles along the back of the booth behind you, and it oddly feels like it was always going to end up here, his thumb grazing the bare skin of your shoulder. He picks up his beer with the other hand.

“Comfortable?” he asks, low, and with entirely too much satisfaction.

“I am,” you say, and the first sip of the vodka cranberry is cold and tart and sweet all the way down, blooming behind your sternum right where his voice has been landing all night.

The booth is easier than the bar, somehow — closer, quieter, the birthday party more muted — and the talk drifts wherever it wants, his low laugh arriving against your shoulder through the arm behind you. At some point the lull comes; ice softening in your glass, his thumb resting an inch from your shoulder. And maybe it’s the vodka, or the arm, or the running list of things you like about him that you’d need both hands to count now—

“How long ago was your last relationship? Like a real one.”

He takes a deep breath before answering. “Honest answer?”

“Preferably,” you giggle softly, and he smiles — most of it lost in the beard, enough that you wonder if there are dimples under there.

“Longer than what sounds good out loud,” he admits through the pull of it. 

“Say it out loud anyway.”

“I was thirty-two. So, almost ten years ago.”

“Ten.”

“Mm.”

“A whole decade.”

“You can stop countin’ the years to me at any time, love.”

“Sorry, sorry.” You’re grinning. He is too. “It’s just, quite the gap in romance.”

“It went quick,” he says, and it’s a joke, and it’s also not. “What about you?”

“Ended about a year ago, we were together four.”

“Mm.”

“It was fine. Amicable— mostly,” you shrug. 

“Mostly,” he repeats — not pushing, just setting the word down where you can see he heard it.

“Mostly,” you confirm, and leave it there.

The ice ticks in your glass. And the next question’s been sitting in your chest, so you take it out while you’re brave.

“Can I ask something and you not be offended?”

“Startin’ well,” he says, nodding on for you to continue. 

You settle further into the booth and your shoulders press against his warm arm behind you, his fingers brushing over your shoulder. You lean your head back, turned to his face. 

“What’s changed? Between thirty-two and now that you’re trying dating?” You mean just to ask the question, but you find yourself rambling on. “Because if the honest answer is nothing, and this is just— a-a hookup with, like, really good manners, that’s fine. Genuinely. I’d just rather know now.”

“Fair,” he says. “Asked myself the same thing this week.”

“Yeah? And what was the answer?”

“I’m tired of the quiet,” he starts, pausing as his eyes drift away in thought. They come back to you just as quick. “Used to come home to it like a reward. Now it just feels… empty.”

Something in your chest slides sideways.

“So, no. Not a hookup,” he continues with a breath. “But I can’t promise you’d be happy with the alternative either. I can be gone longer than I’m home.” His thumb brushes along your shoulder, once, like an apology.

“Guess I wouldn’t know unless I gave it a go.”

You say it lightly, and the exhale he lets out has a smile riding on it — and something in his shoulders comes down, some held thing you didn’t notice until it let go.

“No,” he agrees, low. “You wouldn’t.”

You’re suddenly aware of the distance between you — or the lack of it. Somewhere between sitting down and the vodka you’ve ended up awfully close: near enough to count the grey threaded through his beard, to catch the beer on his breath, near enough that the light between you has stopped reaching the space. Near enough that you can feel the heat coming off him, and your heartrate has picked up on it before the rest of you has.

His eyes flick down to your mouth. Quick — half a second, there and back — but you catch it, and it lands low in your stomach and stays.

Neither of you leans back.

And the pub carries on behind you — glasses clinking, the birthday table shouting, a till drawer slamming — all of it arriving from somewhere far off and dreamlike.

You move closer. Barely. Imperceptible. Your pulse is in your ears now, drumming out the last of your sense—

“You know,” you say, quiet, pitched for the six inches between you and nobody else, “you can kiss me. If you’d like.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Mhm,” you grin.

“Well,” he says, matching your volume, low enough that it lands somewhere below hearing, “I was going to be a gentleman about it. Wait til I walked you out.” His gaze drops to your mouth again, slower this time, no secret. “But if you’d rather have it here in the booth, I won’t argue.”

“I suppose I could be patient.”

“Mm,” he says, and doesn’t move.

Somewhere in the world, presumably, time is passing.

His jaw shifts. 

“I’ll go pay the tab,” he decides.

And you’re both up and out of the booth quick, and you watch him stand at the bar with his back to you, shoulders set, and you press one cool knuckle to your own cheek and find it burning.

You two make it out the door.

The night’s gone hazy and July-thick, and you get maybe four steps down the side of the pub with his hand a light at the small of your back before you glance up at him and he glances down.

Whatever was left of patient dies right there on the pavement.

He moves you.

One hand finding your hip, the other your jaw, and then your back meets brick, warm through the thin of your blouse and against your bare shoulders, and his mouth is on yours.

Whatever mindful version he’d planned for the end of his gentlemanly walk out must have been spent in the booth — this is the interest. The kiss opens on a low rumble out of his chest, one you feel travel through his ribs into yours, and his tongue slides against yours, all beer and him, and you grip the front of his shirt with both fists just incase the wall behind you vanishes.

He kisses you thoroughly, his beard catching along your chin, a chafe you know you’ll feel tomorrow. A thigh slots half between yours, not pushing, not touching, but it’s not any less inviting. You could bare down on it, get the friction your body is craving, he’d let you, but you restrain yourself. His thumb strokes a slow line along your jaw in obscene contrast to what his mouth is doing — and it blooms down through you, fervid, liquescent.

He pulls back just far enough to breathe — forehead near yours, both of you loud with catching your breath — and when you open your eyes his are dark.

“Very gentlemanly,” you croon.

“I walked you out first, yeah?” he says, unrepentant.

You giggle against his mouth, and he claims it for himself with one more gentle kiss, and then he steps back a seemly distance, hand smoothing once down over his beard, shoulders resetting, breath evening out, everything going back in its place except his eyes.

“Walk me home?” you ask.

“I drove. I’ll give you a lift.”

You look up at him, all vodka-warm and enjoying yourself. “Well, just so you know, I share my location with my best friend and she knows exactly what pub I’m at, and has your name and photo, so—”

“Good,” he replies, no hesitation. “Smart girl. Keep it that way.” He finds his keys, fishing them out of his pocket. “I’m taking you straight home. You have my word.”

He draws an X over his heart, your lipgloss shining at the corner of his crooked mouth. 

——

The car smells like-new — clean upholstery and faintly of engine oil, everything squared away, nothing rolling around in the footwells.

The drive is short. The radio murmurs. His hand rests easy on the gearstick a few inches from your knee — close enough that you spend two full streets aware of nothing else — and the streetlights slide over him in slow bars, catching the grey at his temple and the small satisfied set of his mouth. 

The kiss is still thrumming under your skin like a struck glass, low in your belly, at the back of your knees — and you catch yourself doing the thing you swore off doing: imagining forward. Him in your doorway. Him in your kitchen on the weekend. Him coming home from wherever away is and it being your door he— 

You look out the window. Four miles has never taken so long.

He pulls up outside your building and sets the handbrake, and the engine idles, and neither of you move.

The dashboard glow makes everything blue. 

You want to ask him up. That's not the question; that got settled somewhere around the second kiss in the alley, possibly earlier, possibly around the moment he walked into the pub, or whatever. But there's the other thing you can't evict from your head: do you really want to sleep with him on the first date?

"So," you say.

"So…”

You look at him — streetlight in the grey of his beard, arm along the wheel, he’s in absolutely no hurry to resolve you.

"Did you have a good time tonight?"

His head turns. There's a beat where he just looks at you, and you watch him physically decide not to make a joke of it.

"Yes. Best night I've had in a while," he says. 

"Would you—" and god, you're thirty years old and your heart is doing this anyway, "—want to see me again? Like this?"

"Was already plannin' to ask you to dinner." A small crease starts at the corner of his eye. "Was workin' out whether to do it now or ring you tomorrow, so I didn't seem overly—"

"Keen?"

"Keen," he confirms, gravely, like the word's been a burden to him all week.

And that lands warm and the relief does something reckless to your mouth, which is that it stops guarding it.

"Okay. Then I'm going to say something, but you can't look at me while I say it."

“Right.” He scrubs a hand over his twitching lips and looks out the windshield, obedient.

"I want to ask you up."

"Mm."

"And I'm having a whole debate about it."

"I can hear it," he says. "Been losin' to the engine for about a minute now."

"Just—,” you sigh, “—shut up." But you're smiling at the dashboard. "It's just— I spent all week wondering if this was a hookup thing for you. And you answered that, and I believe you, I do. But there's this small, paranoid part of me that's like, well, that's exactly what a man would say at the pub, isn't it? And then there's this other, stupider part that thinks if you come up, you'll—" you take a deep breath, your fingers hooking into each other on your lap, and make yourself finish it, "—think less of me. First date and all."

He's quiet for a second, lips pursing. 

“Can I look at you now?” he tries.

“Yeah.”

"You want to know where I'm actually at?"

"Truly just desperate for a man to be honest so I know what headspace to put myself in."

“Alright.” He shifts to face you, wrist still hanging over the wheel. “I want to come up. Badly, if you want some extra honesty.”

The badly goes straight between your thighs.

“Okay,” you manage. “Noted.”

“I haven’t lied to you once tonight. And I’m takin’ you to dinner whether I come up or not.”

“And, like— you wouldn’t think—”

“Think less of you?” He frowns, like the math’s not mathing. “For doin’ the same thing I’d be doing? Together?”

“When you put it like that…”

“For what it’s worth, I’m sat here havin’ a version of the same debate. Been out of this a long time. Didn’t want you thinkin’ that’s all I came for. So if you’d rather I kiss you at the door and drive home, I’ll do that and consider it a perfect evening.”

And maybe it’s the ease of him, the total absence of pressure you’re always braced for on nights like this, that settles it for you. 

“Would you like to come up?”

——

The stairwell smells of somebody's late dinner and warm dust, the day's heat still trapped in it, and you take the stairs ahead of him to the second floor.

John is a gentleman.

John has been a gentleman all night.

John gives himself the length of one flight of stairs off the clock — the sway of you in those jeans, the shift and give of you with every step, the smooth line of your bare shoulders under the halter's little bow — and by the landing he's a gentleman again, and if you felt his eyes like a brand on you, and by the half-smirk you throw over your shoulder you did, neither of you says a word about it.

Your flat smells like you — the perfume he got to know at the pub, but underneath it, clean laundry, a candle burned down sometime this week — and a blur of black-and-caramel bolts across the living room and vanishes down the hall before he can so much as get a look at her.

"That was Twix," you say, her paws still pattering away. "She'll start her background check and circle back."

"Sensible."

And then the two of you are standing in your living room with the whole car’s worth of honesty sitting in the middle of the floor, and you look at him, and look at the kitchen, and say:

"Do you want a drink? I have wine. Or, um. Tea? I might have a beer from—"

"I'm alright," his mouth pulls at one side. 

"Water? I'm gonna have water."

"Then I'll have water," he says like he’s surrendering. 

He watches you go — and he could laugh, not at you, but because he knows exactly what he’s looking at. The two of you agreed in plain English on why he’s standing here, and now you’re in your kitchen filling glasses neither of you want, and wiping down a counter that, from where he’s stood, was already clean. 

So he gives you room. Settles against the arm of the couch, takes a slow lap of your shelf with his eyes — you and a woman he guesses is the October bride, you on a hike somewhere sunny, you and Twix bravely on the balcony — and he wants you the whole time, low and patient, in his back teeth, but doesn’t move on it.

 Your pace. Your move.

You come back with the waters, and hand him his, and hold your own in both hands like you might drop it. He takes a sip, looks at you over the rim of it.

“You’re nervous,” he says.

“Not at all.”

“Mm.” He nods slowly, deeply unconvinced and taking a page from your own book. “Don’t know if I buy that.”

He watches it land, watches the laugh come up out of you before you can stop it, head tipping back, throat bare, and half your nerves seem to leave with it.

He likes that. 

He sets his glass down. Then, gently, he takes yours out of your mid-fidget hands and sets it down too — he tips your chin up with one knuckle, and kisses you.

Easy-like, cold from the water, cranberry still faint on your tongue, your breath catches once against his mouth and then lets go. Your hands slide flat up his chest and stop over his heart — which is going quicker than he’d care to admit, and he feels the exact moment you find it out, the little hum of discovery you make.

When you pull back to look at him, whatever nerves were left in you are gone from your eyes, and they’re twinkly a lot like the first photo he ever saw of you. 

You take his hand off your waist, lace it through yours, and guide him backward toward the short hall.

In your bedroom he finds the tie of your halter at the back of your neck and pauses with the ends between his fingers, silk warm from your body. One pull and it gives, the fabric sighing loose, and he follows it slide down with his eyes first, then his mouth — the slope of your throat, over your shoulder, then the soft skin below your ear that tastes of strawberry perfume and salt. His beard drags over your neck and a shiver flows through you so he does it again, slower. You shiver harder, fingers curling into the front of his polo.

Good.

You tug the hem of his shirt up and he reaches back, pulls it off over his head one-handed, and drops it somewhere he’ll look for later. He unhooks your bra just as easily, and when your palms spread into the coarse hair over his bare chest and down his toned stomach, the muscle jumps under your fingertips, he hears his own breath go rough.

“Okay,” you say, a little wonder in it. “Wow, yeah, that’s….”

“Mm?”

“Nothing. Just— I knew military, just didn’t realize… this much military.”

“Lodging a complaint?” he askes, amused.

“Definitely not.”

The rest goes gradually — his belt, your jeans peeled down warm thighs with his calloused palms flat against your skin the whole way, a hop and a giggle when the denim catches your ankle and he steadies you by the elbow — and then you’re bare in front of him, lamplight pooling gold along your shoulder, your hip, the soft curve of your stomach. He stops with his hands at your waist and looks.

“Say something,” you murmur, half a laugh, shy at last under the attention. “You’re oggling.”

“I am.” His thumbs press slow arcs into your hips. “Give me a minute. Been picturin’ this since Tuesday and I did you no justice.”

You pull him down onto the bed by way of an answer, and the mattress sinks with a soft complaint, and then it’s just skin — so much warm skin, soft everywhere he’s hard, giving under his hands, smelling of perfume and the clean sweat July dampens into everyone.

He stretches out alongside you, one heavy thigh over yours, and takes his time. The curve of your waist. The full weight of your breast, thumb dragging over your nipple until it peaks and your breath stutters. The inside of your thigh, where the skin is finest and the heat pools. You move under his touch the whole time, restless and rising, fingers in his hair, at his shoulders, and the small sounds you make land somewhere at the base of his neck and prickle there.

Then he shifts down the bed, kisses the soft of your stomach, the plush crease of your hip, and looks up the length of you.

“Can I?”

“You— yes,” you breathe, trembling feebly. “Yes, obviously, you don’t have to a—”

His mouth is on you before the sentence ends.

You’re sweet and slick against his tongue, already so wet the first slow lick slides easy, and the sound you make is high and caught somewhere low, thigh twitching against his ear, one hand flying to his hair. He hums — feels you feel it — and settles in. No rush. Long soft strokes of his tongue until your hips learn the rhythm and rise to meet it, then his lips close warm around your clit, sucking gently, and your whole body pulls tight.

“Oh my god— okay— okay—”

“Mm.”

“Don’t be smug—” and your voice climbs off the end of the sentence as he slides two thick fingers into you, curling them, tongue still working, and whatever the rest of that scolding was, he never learns it.

“Could do this all night, sweetheart,” he murmurs against you, and feels the words land in a shudder. Your breathing changes. Your thighs start trembling, your hand fists in the sheets — and he keeps the pace exactly the same until you’re pulling at him. Hair, arm, anything you can reach.

“John— John— come— I want you. Now,” you whine, “Please.”

He comes up the length of you slow, mouth mapping stomach and sternum and throat on the way, and settles over you on one forearm—

"I should've said this in the car," he starts, eyes on yours. "I don't have a condom. Wasn't assuming tonight would end up here."

"I don't have any either. I actually checked the drawer before I left tonight." You push his dampening hair back off his forehead. "I'm on the pill, and I trust you. But I'd still feel better if you pull out. Is that okay?"

He nods assuredly. "Then I'll pull out," he says flat and plain. "You have my word."

"You and your word—" but you're smiling, and then you're not smiling, because he's already moved and taken himself in hand and dragged the head of his cock through your folds, coating himself in you, and notched against your entrance, and the smile falls open into something much, much better.

He pushes in slow, watches your face the entire way — he couldn't look elsewhere if a grenade went off — your brows drawing up, your lips parting around a breath that doesn't finish, your nails biting little crescents into his forearms — and fuck, the feel of you: scalding, soaked, tight enough that he has to stop twice, jaw clenched, sweat sliding at his temple, feeding you his cock an inch at a time and pulling back, then giving you more; the slick easy give of you around him unspooling something in his stomach.

"Talk to me," he murmurs, gravel-low. "Alright?"

"Yes." Your voice has gone breathless and small and blissed. "You're— god—"

"Christ, you’re snug," he exhales shakily, eyes finding yours. “Relax for me, baby. Breathe.”

"I am breath—oh. Oh—shhit—"

John’s seated all the way, hips flush to your backside, and both of you go quiet — a shared beat of stillness, you fluttering around him hot and full, his body coming down, forehead dropping to yours, ten months of silence pulling a sound up out of his chest that he couldn't have stopped if he knew it was coming.

Then you shift your hips, experimental, a slow grind up against him, and that stillness is over.

He moves slowly; long level strokes dragging all the way out so you both feel every hot stretch of the return, your breasts pressing soft against his hairy chest. Your heels slide up the back of his thighs and he budges his hips closer, holding deep and pressing the head of his cock into your furthest wall. Your hands squeeze the meat between his shoulders and his neck as he pushes a small squeal out of you. 

"Right there—right there—right there, don't—"

"I won’t," he murmurs against your jaw. “I won’t move.”

"—okay maybe move a little—"

He breathes something restrained through a smile. "Make your mind up, darling," he grunts. 

“It’s hard to— mmm—think like this,” you half-moan against his cheek. 

“Don’t think, then.”

It’s all your talking that undoes him more than anything, he realizes distantly. He’d forgotten there was a version of this with laughing in it; a version with a woman eagerly gripping him and grinning against his cheek in the second before a moan carries her voice away — and every time you say his name, breathed and broken, something in his chest cinches another notch tighter.

He draws back and drives home again, and whatever you’d been about to answer with comes out as a punched huff.

You don’t think.

He feels the difference in you immediately — your body dropping the manners, hips rising to meet him harder than he’s giving it, heels dragging him in by the thighs on every stroke, a low frustrated sound building in your throat when he keeps the same controlled pace. You’re not asking for anything. You’re taking it in inches, greedy and unaware of yourself, nails dragging down the small of his back, pulling—

“Harder?” he asks against your ear. 

"Yes, please."

He hooks your knee up over his hip and opens you wider—“So polite.”—and gives it to you deeper, his weight behind it, your headboard cracking against the wall. You go loud and lovely underneath him, clutching, slick heat and plush skin and your nails scoring lines down his back that he hopes, viciously, will last long enough to admire.

He works a hand between your bodies, thumb finding your clit, riding the motion you’ve bkth created.

"That's— John— You’re gonna make me come," you sob. 

"I know. I feel you. Squeezin' me like— Christ. Go on—fuck."

He watches it arrive before you do, a shiver running ahead of the wave; your spine arches up off the bed, your cunt clenches around him in long pulsing, aching, waves —  it takes you under, and you pull him with you.  

He holds you, murmuring filth and praise in equal measure against your ear—

How good—

How gorgeous—

You’re mine now, you know that? Hm?—

It’s watching you eagerly nod along with his babbling that finishes him. He lasts maybe ten more strokes on borrowed time, heat gathering alacritous and irrevocable at the base of his groin — and he rears back onto his knees, pulling out of you with a growl that tumbles from his throat, fist working his cock over, soaked with you, spilling hot across your stomach and hip in thick ropes, head hanging, shoulders heaving, your thighs still bracketing his knees.

When he lifts his head, you’re already looking at him.

Glowing down to your chest, lips parted and kiss-swollen, wearing him low on your stomach — and neither of you says anything. Neither of you looks away either. His chest is still heaving. Your knee presses in against his side, and the corner of your mouth starts to curl, and his does too, helpless about it.

He comes down on his side, careful of the mess he’s made of you, one arm heavy across the pillow above your head. The curtain breathes at the window beside the bed and the night comes in and cools the sweat on his back, and he can see your heartbeat going hard at your throat, the rise and fall of your stomach not yet settled. He gently fits his thumb against your pulse, just to feel it going. 

He kisses you, your mouth lazy under his, and then your temple, and the crown of your head, and you make a low, boneless sound and turn your face into his hot neck, and the two of you just lie there breathing each other in, tangled and settling, your finger drawing slow shapes on his forearm.

"John?" Small, against his throat.

"Mm?"

"Would you mind grabbing me a cloth? Bathroom's just across the hall."

He's up before the sentence finishes, annoyed at his own carcass the whole three steps to the door, ten months out of practice and it shows, he used to know this part, the part where he takes care of you before you have to ask.

You bathroom is small and smells of your shampoo, fruity, herbal. He runs a flannel under the warm tap, wrings it out, catches his own eyes in the mirror over the sink — wrecked hair, beard ruined and shiny with your lipgloss. He turns, craning his neck spotting a blooming red scratch coming up nicely at his shoulder.

He comes back and cleans you up properly, kneeling on the edge of the bed, one hand steady at your hip while the warm cloth moves over your stomach — thorough about it, frowning slightly the way he does when he’s concentrating — and you watch him do it propped up on your elbows with an expression he can't quite read and doesn't need to. It's warm, whatever it is. And it’s aimed at him, so.

"You're staring," he says, not looking up. 

"You're tidying me."

"Should've done it before you asked." He folds the cloth, sets it on the nightstand, and stretches out beside you again, this time gathering you into his chest. "Out of practice."

"I'll allow it," you say, magnanimous, settling your cheek against his pec. "The rest was very in-practice."

He huffs into your hair.

Your fingers trail idle through the hair on his chest, down over old pinked scars, and you ask him about them — whether the jagged line at his shoulder hurt, what caused the puckered one under his ribs — and he answers more honestly than he means to, your weight settling heavier against him as the adrenaline drains.

There's a soft thump from the hallway, then, and a moment later a small shape appears in the doorway — sits, tail wrapping her feet, and surveys the wreckage: the trail of clothes, the stranger man in the bed, you draped over his ribs.

She stares at John.

John stares back.

"We have an audience," he says.

You look over him to see your cat, "Twix, John. John, Twix."

Twix holds his gaze a moment longer, supremely unimpressed, then steps delicately over his discarded shirt and exits the way she came and he feels you giggling before he hears it, the shake of it against his chest.

"That went well," you say, overly pleased. 

“Yeah?”

“Mhm.”

"Well, consider me chuffed."

Some comfortable minutes later he feels you surface a little out of the drowse, feels your breathing change, going careful; feels your face arrange itself against his skin before you speak. 

"You don't have to stay, by the way." Light. Smooth as eroded stone, polished by use, he imagines. "If you'd sleep better in your own bed. No pressure either way."

And there it is — the same maneuver from your texts, the honest thing dressed up so you can't be caught caring — except this time he can feel your heartbeat while you run it, quick against his ribs, betraying the whole performance from inside. 

He keeps his hand moving on your arm, slow, so you know nothing's landed wrong.

"I'll head home," he says. "Not because I want to," he clarifies.

“No?” you ask. 

"Believe me. This is about the last place I want to leave." His hand doesn't stop, slow up, slow down, steadying you through it. "I'd like at least one proper dinner between us before I go makin' a habit of your bed."

You lift your head off his chest and look at him — hair wrecked, eyes searching his face for the trick — and he lets you look as long as you need to because there's no trick to be found. He meant it. 

“Alright," you agree. 

“Yeah?”

“Yes. Dinner sounds nice.”

"Mm," he hums, contented. He presses a kiss into your hair and untangles himself, face scrunched with visible reluctance, and dresses while you watch from the bed with the sheet gathered loose around you.

At the door he stops. 

"C'mere."

You come to him in the sheet, and he kisses you properly, one hand cupping your face, thumb at your cheek. You go languid against him. He takes his time. Long past politeness. Long enough that leaving starts to look renegotiable, and he breaks away before he starts. 

"G’night," he says, low, still holding your face.

"Goodnight."

"I'll ring you about dinner tomorrow."

——

The flat is quiet. But it's a different quiet than the one you left this morning and you stand in the middle of it grinning.

Twix reappears at the edge of the counter and stares. 

“I don’t need the lecture, I’m grown,” you tell her and start walking back to the bedroom, you hear her little jump to the floor and her feather steps catching up with you, “I can have sex. I deserve it, even.” You drop into your bed with a sigh. “You’d understand if you still had ovaries.”

[eyecandyeoz]

Hear me out, Conquest seeing you bathing and you beckoning him to join you. Slight problem he’s in fact a BIG man, so he’s not sure he’ll fit in the damn tub he never even uses. But seeing that cute little pout? Who is he to deny his pet? So he climbs in behind, water spills out over the edge and it’s a tangle of limbs and cramped. But at least you’re close together.

This is the idea of ideas. Oh, Nonny, thank you so much for choosing me to be the writer of this ask. Excuse me as I melt away at the thought of this kay byeeeeeeeeeeee. 🫠🥴

Little Bird🕊️

Pairing: Conquest x F!Reader Warnings: (18+) smut. domestic bliss, fluff, established relationship, bath sex, blood kink, biting, choking, creampie Summary: Conquest catches you at a bad time, but it does not deter him. It just makes things interesting.

Read on ao3 - 4.5k words

Invincible Masterlist - Main Writing Masterlist

It’s silent on the ship. So vast and empty. You’re dressed in nothing but a soft towel wrapped around your silhouette, tucked in just under your arms. You toss a handful of dried flowers onto the surface of the water before pouring a drizzle of aromatic soap from a glass vial into the still flowing faucet. 

An immediate froth of suds forms and propels a cloud of freshness upwards with the steam. It’s a scent within the same classification as mint, or maybe pine from your world. It’s not as sweet as the likes of rosemary or even licorice root, but it’s nowhere near as bitter as hemlock with its earthy vegetation. It lies in an unnamable and foreign classification, reviving to your senses. You’re grateful he managed to find an aromatic blend that didn’t smell like it would singe your eyebrows off. He had to be careful in his selection, making certain to avoid herbs that could prove toxic to humans.

You step into the tub after turning the faucet off, allowing your legs to adjust to the temperature before slowly easing yourself to sitting. The warmth climbs up your form, acclimating to the welcoming cradle of the basin. You’re able to finally breathe your stress away. It’s sometimes hard to be away from home in a strange land with no one to even know your name, let alone your precarious origins. When everything out here is fighting for a chance to kill you at all times, quiet moments like this are deeply cherished.

You sink further past the surface until the water reaches the small portion of your face between your upper lip and nose. The nape of your neck begins to soak in nearby suds as moisture climbs up your scalp. While exhaling deeply again, you push the swirling bubbles away from your face with the subtle current when a voice from across the room brings you to open your eyes.

“Didn’t take long for you to make yourself at home.” Conquest announces while sporting an array of deep-tissue wounds from head to toe, his uniform half shredded off. “You look like a little bird preening her feathers.

“You told me to help myself.” You try to hide the fact he startled you, but the audible splash of movement was clearly too hard to hide. “So I did. Besides, don’t you always call me kitten?”

“I remember.” Conquest is smiling his crooked smile at you and you watch his line of sight break away from your eyes, shifting lower and lower until he starts imagining what lies beyond the suds. “And I do.”

“You look like you need this more than me though.” You mention, acknowledging his filthy appearance. From shoulder to shoulder, he spans nearly the full breadth of the door frame. The sheer broadness of his stature raises your heartrate, surprising you every time you witness him for yourself.

“I can always hose myself down with the pressure washer in the bay.” He jokes, but you can tell he’s serious. He dares not to ruin something so pure.

“Don’t be stupid.” You won’t take no for an answer, scooting forward as if to make room for him. “Get in here.”

Conquest examines himself, finding that he is a bit worse for wear than he thought. His cuts, ruptures and lacerations are still leaking while alien blood stains what’s left of his uniform. Hues of green and blue flow like watercolors into Conquest’s red. “You sure?”

You don’t respond, instead choosing to give him a look he knows well. He nods in reciprocation, regarding your word as final. With a slow seal of his gaze, he chuckles under his breath before regaining eye contact. He holds it as he floats into the room, leaving footprints after settling himself back on the floor. He stares at you seductively as he peels the uniform from the one shoulder it’s still adhered, letting it drop to his feet.

Thankfully a good amount of the grime is left behind when he sheds the layer, and your eyes are soon drawn to his massive package now revealed. As he approaches, you shimmy forward, nearly putting your knees to your chest so that he can fit. By the way he towers over you, it is clear this is going to be a tight squeeze. 

He awkwardly lifts his leg over the side of the tub and steps in. His second leg follows and the level rises significantly. He steadies himself with both hands on the edge at either side of you, proceeding to slide in. Water starts spilling as it splashes over the edge. There go your pretty flowers, now scattered to the surrounding floor. The scent of death lingers on him, melded with the fragrant bath suds. His brows are knit together as it pains him to spoil your good time, but the grin on your face assures him that there’s no other place you’d want him to be.

There’s no hiding the presence of his package at your back. You can feel it pressed up against your spine as he gathers you into his clutches. You lean into him, using his spanning abdomen and chest as a comfortable bed of sorts as he encompasses you fully. With a bite of your lip, you rest your cheek on his forearm, getting a little bit of his blood on your face. “You’re hurt.”

“A papercut.” His rumbling voice is felt within your own torso, as if that sensation is stemming from within your own ribcage. “All healed in a day’s time.”

“I should see the other guys, right?” This is a line you both have shared often as his gory homecomings happen on a regular basis. You cup some water in your palm and splash it on his skin to cleanse it.

“Isn’t that how the saying goes?” He answers your question with one of his own while dragging his mustache up the length of your neck, ticking you with his stray hairs, hot breath flowing about your face.

“You only know that saying because of me.” You add, taking credit for his adoption of your lingo.

“It’s a good one.” He kisses your cheek first before nibbling on your earlobe to hear you sweetly whine for him. “That’s something we don’t have on Viltrum.”

“What’s that?” You ask, sensing the answer to this query but wanting to hear him say it.

“Jokes.” He shrugs. “Humor.”

“Your people laugh, don’t they?” You turn your head to look him in the eye. “Everyone laughs.”

“That very well may be true, but it’s what we laugh at that doesn’t align.” His clarification is made clear when your eyes become fixed on the murky water, now clouded with blood and silt.

“Oh.” You are reminded of the brutality of his race and why he is feared, right down to the kind of person he is in front of others when you’re with him. “That’s right.”

Conquest senses you sort of shut down, slumping forward in his arms. You notice he treats you differently when you are in public. He’s a bit colder. His soft side concealed. He cannot risk giving anyone ammunition against you, deciding the best way to overcome that is to be so devoutly and aggressively defensive of you that no one dares to test him.

“I scare you at times.” Conquest beats you to the punch he thinks you’re preparing. “You can say it.”

“It’s true, you’re scary.” You agree flatly. “But I am not scared of you.”

“How does that work?” Conquest is unable to see the correlation, requiring an explanation.

“Your strength. Your anger. The way people cower when they hear you speak.” You begin listing things, feeling Conquest’s posture fail him with every mention. “That is, in itself, objectively scary. But that’s your intent, isn’t it? To frighten others.”

“Mmm…” He listens, hearing all the things he tells himself but finding they sound differently coming from your mouth.

“I know you never have the intent to frighten me, though.” You enlighten him, making the distinction clear for even him to see.  “I can tell the difference.”

“How does it make you feel when I, for instance…” He pauses, taking the time to properly gather his thoughts “Kill in the name of protecting what’s mine.”

“Oh, you mean like when you punched the head off the bartender that tried to slip drugs into my cocktail last week?”

“Yeah.” Conquest grins, prideful for the move. “That.”

“I think it’s pretty hot.” You swiftly turn around to straddle his waist, rubbing yourself against him. His gargantuan hands settle at your hips and the breadth of his palm could nearly serve as a full-fledged belt.

He’s stiff as can be. You’re as wet as the day is long. He can feel the slick variation in the presence of your slippery juices and the surrounding water. Conquest ruts upward and his cock collides with your swollen clit, shifting it with much pressure. A jolt of sensation travels through you like an electric zap. You want more, feeding into the friction by continuously grinding against his exposed shaft.

“Is that right?” Conquest asks in a quieter tone, just above a whisper. There’s a slight rasp in his typical speaking voice that grows thicker when he talks so softly. It sends tingles down your spine as he anchors your hips to him, pushing you down harder on his cock. He still has not breached inside yet, enjoying this time he’s sliding you back and forth. 

You moan and whimper, all weight of responsibility removed as you’re able to just sit there and let him shift you. You surrender to his hold as he flexes his cock. You feel it pulsate between your thighs so you arch your back into it, tucking your face beneath his chin to kiss the stubble on his Adam’s apple all the way up to his jawline.

He lifts his mechanical limb, some suds clinging to the plates of metal as it shines. The blots of bubbles drip from his arm into your hair as he cups your face, lifting your chin so he can press his mouth to yours. His wiry mustache pokes your upper lip upon the initial touch, and you revel in the sharpness; like a thorn on a rose. His mouth is scarred and the taste of blood lingers on his tongue when it slips past your teeth.

He breaks the kiss first, pulling away to watch as you lick your lips. Conquest sees a smear of red making it look like lipstick and his expression takes on an apologetic appearance as he swipes his thumb against your mouth to try and collect it. Though instead, you catch him unexpectedly by opening your chops to suck on the digit, biting it fiercely. His jagged teeth flash at you and he resembles a shark with that pointed maw of his, bearing down on his own lip. He shoots a coy sneer at you, playful while knowing better than to second guess your pursuits.

You hold onto his hand while sucking his thumb, dragging the digit in and out of your mouth like sucking his cock. Your teeth rake harshly against it as you pull it out with a loud pop, savoring the powerful notes of iron. “Yeah, that’s right.”

He becomes lost in thought while admiring and examining you. After a few moments, you feel his eyes stray and descend along with the swift disappearance of his smile. You begin to wonder what’s going on in that head of his, cupping it to trace the tail end of his scar that rests at the apple of his cheek. You gaze into the eye with the fogged out iris, then back to his black and strained pupil. “What is it?”

“This.” His answer is simple but it holds immeasurable weight.

“The tub?” You play around, meeting his declaration with a rhetorical suggestion.

“No.” He chuckles dryly. “Any old trough could serve us just as well.”

“What makes this unique then?”

He picks off a couple waterlogged petals from your shoulder and drops them into the bath. “You.”

You bashfully grin at him, able to decipher that he’s going to say more. He’s left his mouth ajar like he’s thinking of what to mention next, but he doesn’t let the words leave. He seems distracted so you grind against him to get his attention. With an acquiescing groan, his eyes land back on you.

“Where’d you just go?” You ask, wanting to know where his thoughts have wandered.

Mental images flash through his perspective. With you as close as you are, they flicker back to his vanquished enemies. Your proximity reminds Conquest of how he would hold them close before breaking their necks, impaling their torso, or the taste of blood in his mouth after he’s just sprayed himself with viscera. He’s not defeated by his memories from mere moments ago, let alone through the many millennia he’s suffered this routine. He is able to decipher the contrast between then and the present. Contrarily, his heart and mind cannot fathom how he can find normalcy in this devilish dichotomy of being soft and gentle with you here and yet mercilessly brutal out there. “Nowhere important.”

“I can’t believe it either.” You know what is going through his mind, opting to carry the weight for him. 

“I have lived for centuries.” He starts with a scoff. “It isn’t until now that I am finally  starting to understand why you earthlings are able to make the most of your inconceivably short lives.”

“Oh yeah?” You pry, wanting to know his perspective on this touching secret. “And how do you figure that?”

“There’s no time to lose. Not a second.” Conquest shakes his head from side to side, defeated in coming up with loopholes or deviations in this harsh truth. “You choose to fill it with laughter and joy, meaningless commodities in my culture.”

“Not just that.” You trace his scar again, fluttering your eyelids closed to kiss his lips before reopening your eyes. “We do it for love.”

“Love.” He repeats the word as if he never thought he would recite it himself. “I wish that was all it took.”

“But it is.” You reason astutely. “The lie that hate could ever outweigh it is as old as time.”

“I don’t think there’s any hope in getting my people to come to terms with their whole identity being a lie.” He finds humor in the darkness, smirking with a shrug of his wide shoulders.

“What about you?” You ask, wanting his perspective now.

“Hm?” He’s unsure what you’re getting at.

“Do you believe love is all it takes?” 

He pauses for a couple seconds and softens. You see his pupil grow in size with a subtle glisten appearing  at his water line before his eyes meet yours. “I do now.” 

Neither of you can wait any longer. As you wrap your arms around his neck, he lifts you up by the hips and seats you directly on his cock. The heat of the bath is no match for your scorching entrance and he groans loudly at that first thrust. He’s nowhere close to being all the way in yet as his head is barely pushed past your internal threshold. You cry out loudly into his ear, already so full and wanting more.

He thrusts upwards and moves you down at the same time. Thinking this is the perfect opportunity, you begin to bite his neck, breathing heavily while sucking on the sweet spot where his jawline meets his jugular. With each thrust, you arch into it again. As a result, your clit drags against his pubic wreath and his bushy hair adds delicious friction.

Feeling confident you want to show him what you’re made of, you use the force of your weight to begin thrusting down onto him, almost slamming against his pelvis though painfully lagged down by the bath. Wave after wave sloshes out, but neither of you care anymore. 

In dire need of air, you pull back to look Conquest in the face as you fuck him. You support yourself with both palms to his chest, staring into his open mouth to watch his tongue flex and curl as he grunts. You want to be bitten by those teeth. Licked by that tongue. But first…

You take his mechanical fist from where it lies on your hip and move it to your neck whispering, “Choke me.”

Conquest promptly clamps that hand around your throat. He affords you enough ability to still breathe through being squeezed. He adjusts his hold with intermittent tightness so he can hear you gasp and go silent. You’re getting pinched by the plates moving against each other, like little fires igniting on your skin. His expressions tell all, that no matter how often this happens, you’re star struck by his handsomeness and that fierce soul of his. Not to mention the sheer fact he chose you.

He yanks you towards him by the throat, his battered and beaten face barely an inch in front of yours. He studies your expressions as he impales you on his cock. The breath of your exasperation falls on his skin and he inhales it like smoke before being overcome with obsession for you and driving his tongue into your open mouth. It swirls around sloppily and savagely parts from you with a rough kiss, but before he could recede completely, you chomp on his lip. He retracts it through the pain, allowing you to clench your jaws harder as it snaps back into his face.

Conquest releases your neck but doesn’t fully let go, speaking words into your mouth for you to swallow up. “Watch out. This kitten bites.”

“I bet you bite harder.” You challenge, sultry with your words.

“I’m willing to test it.” He accepts your proposal, moving his hand up to hold your head and expose your neck. He hums to himself as he admires your heartbeat thrumming beneath the surface of your skin. With a widening of his mouth, you suddenly are made aware of every distinct tooth, its angle and sharpness as each one has you in its vice. He clenches his jaw, then releases it but only slightly, repetitively meeting your flesh with the sting of his initial bite, reviving all the nerves he’s set aflame. He could easily chew your throat right out of your neck, esophagus and all, yet he treats you with the perfect measure of force and restraint, never pushing you into the danger zone.

As his rakes and nibbles move down, he starts to explore your chest, testing the waters by switching his attention to your nipples. He moves his head between both breasts as he attempts to sample both at the same time, realizing the attempts are futile. The solution he comes up with is to cup both from the bottom and smoosh them to his face.

“Hnnnngh…” You vocalize when the cool wind hits the saliva he’s slathered all over you. When he pulls away, you get a wave of chills. Your nipples stiffen even more, and it becomes difficult to disguise your goosebumps. “Don’t stop… It’s cold.”

“We can’t be having that, can’t we?” Conquest’s grin spreads across his face as he smiles at you. You’re so precious to him. He finds honor in providing you with comfort, especially knowing he’s lacked so much in his lifetime.

While it’s also about time to change location, he bestows you with a parting bite. However, with his cock still driven into you and his mouth still latched to a breast, he levitates out of the tub. A surge of bath water splatters to the floor with the disruption as he gives you a few thrusts in midair. You partly feel like you’re levitating while also are made astutely aware of just how exactly he’s holding you up.

Your eyes scan your surroundings as they move past you with Conquest still lazily rutting as you emit a bemused giggle or two. He flies you into the next room where you both soak the nearest bed. He lets go of his hold on your breasts with his mouth to rest you on the warm sheets atop the plush mattress. He sets you down gently on your back so that he may climb over you, casting his shadow with the dimmed overhead light. There is still some spittle present on his lip from his exploration of your body just now and he can see that you want to taste it. “I know just what you need.”

“I need you.” You pull his face closer by grabbing his head in your hands. As he dips lower to fulfill your wish with zealous kisses, he is slamming into your pussy until his veiny length has fully vanished into you. 

Your legs are suspended in the air and while Conquest is still tastefully crushing you with his weight, he takes both by the back of the knees and dexterously folds you in half, unexpectedly pushing all air out of your lungs. You exclaim with every thrust, high-pitched and continuous despite not being able to take in a proper lungful. “Oh! Fuck! Yes! Harder!”

Conquest straightens his posture and watches his girth get swallowed up by your entrance. He rears back to completely exit you before slamming at full force. You are able to feel every inch as it drags against your walls and the flex of his cock when it involuntarily twitches before he does it again. You go from stark empty to an unfathomable wholeness over and over and over. Before long, it appears that you are getting cock dumb, unsure if you can hold out for any longer before exploding, but he’s not through yet.

“You know that’s my favorite part.” He tosses your right leg to the side and helps adjust you to turning along with it. While sitting on his knees, he’s holding your left leg and hugging it to his torso. This different position makes you feel his cock from a new angle, hitting parts you didn’t feel before. The elating sensations cause you to grab fistfuls of bedding, burying your face into the covers absentmindedly. Your muffled screams are interrupted when you feel his flesh hand scale your scalp to get a grip on your hair so that he can yanks you upward and listen to you scream. “All the pretty noises you make.”

You begin to fully embrace your exclamations, no longer holding back or restraining yourself. You are able to relax a bit on your side as he takes the globe of your ass, jostling, jiggling and slapping it with his mechanical hand to watch the fiery welts spread across your cheeks. It stings like hell, burning like you’re being hit with a paddle, but he does it again, then a third time before upping the ante.

He moves you with ease as you weigh nothing in his arms. He does not wait for your brain to catch up to his actions. Instead, he puts you exactly where he wants you by knocking your other leg over so that he can take you up by the hips and prop you on your knees. You’re on your stomach now with spread legs again. He grabs himself by the base of his cock, tapping your clit by using the head as a wand to make you come on it. A few methodical swipes on your blushing bulb were all it took and you’re gushing more slick; more than enough lubricant to finish things off. “That’s it. Nice and juicy.”

He pushes himself inside and pauses to watch you take it when you whine. Your tightness clenches around him as he goes deeper. Conquest keeps one hand tangled in your hair with your head turned to the side and shoved into the sheets. He uses the mattress’ natural bounce to fuck you to completion. He is obsessed with the way this feels. After wanting to spread you wider, he carefully scoots your knees more apart until you’re practically performing the splits on his cock.

Conquest loves your enthusiasm. He’s overwhelmed by it, falling forward with a free hand keeping him upright as it rests beside your head. His pace increases and he’s thrusting with more force. To prepare for his end, you arch as far as you can, feeling scorpioned with your ass practically lapsed over tea kettle. “Does my… unf…kitten like that?”

You cannot enunciate, reduced to letting out a series of ‘uh-huhs’ in hopes that suffices as a response. It all gets caught in your throat when you feel his tongue along your spine before some encouraging bites bloom on your shoulder. He does not remove his mouth, holding himself there with a hand still tangled in your hair. His stature is growing sloppy and faltering. He grunts as he bites harder and the pain of his maw enhances the bliss inside.

His cock is punching you just right. Conquest is expressive and loud in your ear. Your walls constrict around him, pushing him over the edge. He’s truly made a mess of you and it’s about to get worse. “Ughhh….”

“Blazing heat spills out of you as he keeps thrusting. Just as the remnants of the bath seep into the sheets, you allow his release to soak the bed beneath you. What’s another dampened surface across the rest? You both are riding the high long after the fact to the point both of you still feel like you’re coming. It is a dazzling relief, and you almost wish it would never end. All friction is lost as he is slip-sliding with no resistance whatsoever, giving you a few more pumps for good measure before pulling out. It’s like a cork was just unplugged as his come streams out of your gaping hole and down your thighs. You’re bashful, hiding your face in covers again while still on your knees with legs spread, afraid to look. “It’s getting everywhere, isn’t it?”

“Exactly where it should be.” He jokes, laying himself across your back to kiss your temple. Conquest has let go of his hold on your hair so that he may sit up, allowing you to slump into a puddle on the bed with the rest of the dampness. He can tell you’re tired by the way you collapse and roll over, joining you by lying next to your spot to catch his breath while staring up at the ceiling. “I wish it could be like this all the time. I miss you so terribly when I am gone.”

“Why can’t it?” You ask, ears perked at his confession.

“You know why.” He answers rhetorically, slight disappointment in his tone.

You rest in silence when the elephant in the room finally is finally present and you think up something to say on the spot. “Do you think one day we could make that happen?”

“Maybe not now, but in the future, I will make it so.” Conquest breaks his gaze from the ceiling and sets his sights on you, communicating this covenant by pushing a tuft of hair behind your ear. “I promise.”

If he says it, then it will be. You have no requirement of anything more. You know he means true. To set this promise in stone, you climb on top of him this time, and to his surprise, do everything over again with no care for the mess.

∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆

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[mosstheartist]

Conquest x f! Plus size reader: conquest knows a lot about fighting and everything about being a Viltrumite, that's a very obvious fact, but he knows nothing about Earth's traditions. Imagine how awkward it must be for him to have to figure out how to seduce Reader for intimacy for the first time (it's Reader's first time in general). He knows that if he asks directly, Reader might say yes, but he wants everything to be perfect (NSFW). I'll leave you with this thought and hope you have a wonderful day.

Oh my god I'm foaming at the mouth this is an amazing idea thank you for this.

Romance Troubles; Conquest x Plus Size F! Reader

4.8k words 18+/NSFW.

Warnings; Fluffy sweet sex/Hinted dacryphilia/Literally soft and steamy smut. Not proofread, I literally wrote this at midnight like a madwoman.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

“What the…? What am I even looking at? This can't be how humans do this… that's so… stupid.” The groan that fell from Conquest's lips was muffled by his hands, the ones currently trying to rub the frustration from his features, failing miserably to alleviate the ache in his skull. One search had led him to another, and another, and deeper down a rabbit hole he found himself wanting to claw right back out of. This shouldn't be so complicated, he was finding out quick just how convoluted humans really are, so many social rules and ‘swooning’ tricks that it makes his stomach churn.

How did this all start? Well, at least that's a simple answer, one that was currently leaving him to drown in human nuances. Conquest wanted to have sex with his girlfriend, his sweet little woman, but he'd been too awkward to just ask her. Well, that, and the fact he wanted to do it like a human man would.

He wasn't completely in the dark about sex, gods no, he's lived too long to not know about it. It's a core part of Viltrumite identity, reproduce as much as possible, have as many kids as you physically can till you're either dead or incapable. When it came to his kind, sex was just another duty to complete, and often times it was with a less than willing partner. Conquest grimaced to himself at the thought, he'd never taken part in that kind of duty himself, he'd always been too busy wiping civilizations off maps to bother with repopulating the race.

Besides, the thought of just taking what he wanted left him with a bone deep discomfort, she deserved better than him taking her like some feral beast. So, long story short, that's why he's sitting in the dark with his eyes glued to a computer screen watching pornos.

Conquest's face showed nothing but pure exasperation, pausing the video before he had to listen to more obnoxious noises, his sanity dropping with every second he exposed himself to this torture. “I'm getting nowhere with this pathetic garbage, what kind of measly worm seduces a woman with a pizza? There wasn't even a pizza, just his dick in a box, that's not seductive at all.” He grumbled and let his head fall back, staring up at the ceiling like it would hold the answers to his problems, it in fact did not.

How do humans make it look so easy to do this? He's seen all the mushy scenes from the romance movies she loves, a shared drink and sweet words that lead to a kiss, one kiss turning into many before the act just comes naturally. He wasn't suave or romantic, not even close, he was a conqueror. All he's ever done is take things because he could, destroying things he touched, not holding something close and swooning them.

Yet with you, he wanted to do that, he wanted to make it perfect. Conquest didn't want to ask flat out, he was worried he'd come off too strong, that you'd tell him no. He felt clumsy when it came to being gentle, half of the time he was too straight forward, his voice loud and harsh instead of sweet and smooth. The fact he was even researching this was huge, the old him would've just flat out asked her for sex, not caring for all these little rules.

Closing the tab with an irritated huff, he clicked on the tab that held all of his notes, looking over the collection of information he'd gathered so far. A list of romance movies you love, check, a few song choices to set the mood after a successful acceptance of his offer, check, types of drinks humans like to help ease anxiety, check. Conquest was treating this with the efficiency of a mission, it sure felt like one anyways, it was just as complicated to plan.

Tomorrow night. That would be when he'd set this plan into action. One day to prepare for this.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The moment you'd left for work that morning, he was putting his plan into motion, determined to make this flawless. It all started with a trip to the local grocery store, wandering the aisles and ignoring the occasional stares, a list in one hand and a basket in the other. A bag of your favorite chocolates, check, a bottle of red wine he thought you'd enjoy, check, little cheeses and meats to put on a board? Check.

After debating fighting some old lady who looked at him a little too long, thankfully choosing not to, Conquest had the bag secured as he returned home with his spoils. If there was anything he hated the most, it was stores, nothing but chaotic noise and people who didn't know how to act like they had a brain.

Back in the secluded comfort of the empty house, the older man got to work, not wanting to waste a moment of precious time. He spent a good hour cutting up cheese and meat into manageable bite sizes, it wasn't the prettiest, but it would have to do. Those slices got layered on one of the cutting boards, tucked away in the fridge with the wine and chocolate, before he moved onto the next step. A good outfit.

Conquest found himself staring at his closet in contemplation, mulling over his different options, while also trying to remember what you like to see him in. He couldn't wear his usual shirt and jeans combo, that was too plain, you saw him in that every day. Maybe one of those turtlenecks you got him? Nah, too hot out for that, plus it'd be a pain to get off mid action. Why was this so difficult? Viltrum would have a stroke at something so tedious, this was the definition of inefficiency, how could fabric help with this?

“Ah, this one will have to work…” He muttered to himself, reaching out to grab a red button up he never wore, grabbing the black slacks next to it as well. You'd gotten this for him for ‘fancy’ activities, he never wore it calling it ‘stupid’, who knew it'd end up coming to save him in his struggle?

Now we were getting somewhere.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Work had been complete torture, like usual, another long day of meaningless paperwork and bureaucratic headaches. It'd be so much more soul crushing if you were returning to an empty home, that had been your life before, not anymore thankfully. You had your adorable old man to come home to, probably moping around like he usually did when you were gone, he was like a big puppy with separation anxiety at times.

Although, lately he seemed a little distant, at least for him anyway. Conquest was usually in your skin all the time, at your hip with no sense of boundaries, that was the norm. The past few nights though he'd spent a lot of time on the computer, for what reason you had no idea, but it had definitely settled in the back of your mind. What had him so distracted? It wasn't anywhere near your birthday, nor was there any holiday coming up in the near future, so you wondered what he spent his time researching.

Stepping out of your car after a moment to gather your scattered mind, the warm night air blanketed you in humidity, clinging to your skin as you walked up the path to the door. The moment you walked through the door the scent of candles hit you, wrapping you in their sweet embrace like a hug, a flicker of curious confusion going through your chest. What the…?

You didn't have long to question it before you felt a hand wrap around your waist, the door shutting behind you, meeting the sight greeting you. Deep maroon satin stretched across a broad chest, buttons guiding your gaze upward, tilting your head back to the familiar face waiting. Conquest looked both confident and nervous at the same time, red flushing his ears in a heat of embarrassment, his usually messy hair brushed out in soft, fluffy tufts around the crown of his head.

“Hey there, pretty girl, how was work?” He asked in a murmur with a boyish smile, pulling you close to his chest as he leaned down to kiss your forehead, admiring your beautiful features close up. That earned him a flustered little noise from you, a giggle followed by a sheepish smile, your hands resting on his chest. “It was okay, Con, just the usual stuff…” You paused to look to the side at the rest of the house, the dimmed lights and a movie cued up, candles spread out across the house giving it a comfortable glow. “... What's all this, big guy? Did you… did you do this for me?”

Conquest wanted to huff and roll his eye at the question, wasn't it obvious he did this for you? But he knew better than that, you were clearly surprised by this, that was your way of showing it. He reached up with his gauntlet, gently grasping your chin to run his thumb over your bottom lip, his gaze roving over you with a mix of self conscious clumsiness and genuine desire. “Mhm, I sure did, kitten. Why don't you go get into something comfortable? I'll pour us a drink.”

Who stole your dorky old man and replaced him with this one? Blinking in surprise, you playfully patted his chest, pulling away from his touch. “Okay, yeah, that sounds perfect, honey.” Offering him a sweet smile you made your way to the bedroom, face red as a tomato the moment you were alone, heart racing in your chest. Where did this come from? Was he trying to swoon her? It was definitely working, albeit a little strange to see him act like this, but damn if it didn't leave you brimming with anticipation.

‘Fuck. She definitely hates it. What am I doing? I look ridiculous right now. Is it hot in here or is it just me?’ Conquest's inner critic was getting harsh, his hand trembling just a fraction as he poured the wine, if he wasn't a strong willed man he would've crumbled by now. He just wanted to make something perfect for you, this was singlehandedly the most important moment in his whole life, of course he wanted it to be special for you. ‘Just stick to the plan, the worst that can happen is she says no, how hard can this be? I'm not some lowly beast.’

Your returning steps snapped him out of his thoughts, turning his head to the hallway, his heart stopping in his chest at what he was greeted with. A skin tight little black dress, one you rarely wore because it always ‘showed too much’, hugging every soft curve and plush roll. It took every fiber of his being just to keep his jaw off the floor, his amber eye locked on your figure, looking at you like you were the only beautiful thing in the entire universe.

“What do you think, baby? I think it goes perfectly with your outfit…” Conquest swallowed thickly at your question, the wine forgotten as he set the bottle on the counter, crossing the kitchen to stand in front of you. Tentatively, he reached out with both hands to hold your hips, guiding you closer so he could admire you. Hair down and free of the ponytail, radiant as a supernova in the low light, your eyes looking up at him with a gaze that mirrored his own. “You look… absolutely… breathtaking. I think you're right, it is the perfect choice.”

The way the words fell from his lips, the raw adoration and devotion in his good eye, you couldn't help but feel so loved. Heat rolled over you in waves, biting your lip as you wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him so close only a whisper separated your lips. When you first got with Conquest, you would've never guessed this is how he'd ask you for this, you never thought he'd want something like this. But now? Seeing just how much thought he put into this? It was the most romantic thing a man has ever done for you.

“You look very dashing, my love. What's the occasion, hm?” You cooed in a coy whisper against his lips, fingers lightly scratching at the nape of his neck affectionately, feeling him tense for a second before he melted into your touch. A low groan rumbled deep in his chest, his hands moving to your lower back to pin you against his body, his eyes fluttering shut with a sigh. “I'm… trying to be romantic. I wanted to ask you… but… I wanted it to be special, yknow.” Conquest admitted in a quiet mutter, his cheeks flushed in embarrassment, opening his eyes to meet your loving expression.

Oh your heart has never melted faster, he went out of his comfort zone to do this? Pressing your forehead against his, your hands moved to gently cup his face in your palms, running your thumbs soothingly over the lines of his jaw. “Oh honey… I'm flattered you did this for me, I love it. But you know you could've just asked, right? Did you think I would say no?” The silence from him was a clear answer, that was exactly why he'd gone to these lengths, the one thing that kept him from just coming to you about it. “...I didn't want to take it… I wanted to earn it.”

You silenced him with a sweet kiss, closing the final distance between you two, your lips meeting his in a gesture of tender love. Conquest melted like hot lead in a forge, returning your kiss with the same slow devotion, wanting to completely memorize the taste of you. His hands roamed hesitantly at first, when you arched into his touch he gained more confidence, one hand getting a handful of your round ass while the other cradled the back of your head.

“Are you sure, kitten? We don't have to if you don't… want to. There's one of your cheesy love movies and snacks if you…” He murmured against your lips, searching your face for any hint of the rejection he was expecting. You teased the edge of his mustache, twirling the gray hairs around your finger. “I'm sure, Con, if I wasn't I'd tell you.”

A squeak of surprise devolved into excited giggles when Conquest swept you into his arms, throwing you over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, leaving you to dangle there. You couldn't even get a witty retort out before his bionic hand playfully swatted your ass, at least you had your arrogant old man back, right? Carrying you off to the bedroom, he could feel his heart racing with anticipation, a year of patiently waiting had finally paid off.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The bedroom was heavy with tension on the crest of breaking, soft music hummed in the background but neither of you were paying any attention to it, too busy getting each other out of your clothes. His hands were all over every inch of your skin he could get, pulling the black fabric down your body, while you were eagerly unbuttoning his shirt. Goosebumps flushed across your body when your dress slid off, pooling around your feet on the floor, leaving you in nothing but black lace underneath.

That got a growl from Conquest as his eye landed on your exposed skin, looking over your body like it was the first time, in this context it was the first time he was seeing you like this. When you undid the last button on his shirt he shrugged the maroon fabric off, letting it fall to the floor, revealing his defined muscles dusted in coarse gray hair. You couldn't keep your eyes off him either, his pecs were practically begging for your attention, leaning in to press a kiss between the firm muscles.

“You're killin’ me, kitten… I don't know how to be gentle…” You looked up at him through your lashes, a grin mirroring his own on your lips, getting up on your tippy toes to press a coy kiss to his throat. “It's okay, baby, I don't mind. This is our chance to find our own pace.” That was all he needed to hear. Conquest pulled you into a sloppy, needy kiss, backing you up until the back of your knees hit the edge of the mattress.

A soft moan got swallowed up by his greedy kiss when his hands guided you down, his body settling over yours in a mountain of warm, unmoveable muscle. Tongue slipping into your mouth to explore every corner, Conquest eagerly fumbled with your bra first, struggling with the clip for a second before he got it. The moment your breasts were freed he pulled away from the kiss, his lips not leaving your skin for long, trailing wet kisses and nips down your throat. You reached out to hold onto his shoulders, back arching up into his kisses as he moved to your chest.

“Gods… look at you, pretty girl. So perfect…” he murmured against your skin, taking both mounds into his hands, thumbs teasing over your stiffened nipples. That earned him a needy little noise, stoking the fire building in his blood, he'd never been this aroused in his long life. Taking a nipple into his mouth, his tongue worked the bud as he nipped and nibbled, leaving marks from his crooked teeth behind before he swapped over to the neglected one.

“Oh Con… please…” You whined when he laved your breasts in worship, feeling warmth pooling in your gut so intense it stole your breath, leaving you a panting mess beneath him. The weight of his body on top of yours was the only thing keeping you grounded, an ocean of pent up desire threatening to swallow you whole, how had you gone this long without this? A sudden absence of his lips on your chest caught your attention, you opened your mouth to ask if he was okay, but the words caught in your throat when your eyes met his.

The amber in his eye looked almost molten with heat, looking up at you between your thick thighs, his hot breaths ghosting over the damp fabric of your panties. “Relax, let me make you feel good first…” Conquest purred in a gravely huff, pressing a hot kiss to the soft flesh of your inner thigh, before taking the lace between his teeth. Your pupils were blown wide as you watched with rapt attention, that had to be the most exotic sight ever, watching as he slid the panties free from your body. The moment they were off his face was buried in the apex of your thighs, inhaling the sweet, musky scent of your arousal.

His prosthetic hand trailed up to grab a handful of your belly, the other throwing one of your legs over his shoulder, keeping it pinned there in an iron tight grip. A loud, unashamed groan vibrated against your slick folds as he dove in, his tongue sliding through the wet warmth that greeted him. Your hands darted down to the back of his head, your own head thrown back against the messy sheets, moans swelling up in your chest. Conquest was eating like a man who'd starved his whole life, sucking and licking up the juices that flowed freely, his noises of enjoyment muffled by your cunt.

“Fuck, you taste so damn good… so wet for me, kitten.” The words were lost in the obscene sounds of his enjoyment, his mouth latching around your sensitive clit, swirling his tongue around the bud just to get more whimpers from you. Letting go of your leg he slipped his hand between your thighs, teasing around your entrance, grinning against you when he felt your hips buck into his touch. “Good girl…” he murmured, slowly pushing his index finger into your tight walls, feeling the suction pulling him in. You felt like heaven itself, a beautiful benediction, something so perfect that he didn't know if he deserved it.

How had he turned you into a squirming, moaning mess already? As he worked your velvet walls open, sucking your clit like his life depended on it, you felt like you were melting. “Oh fuck- that feels so good… ohhhh my god-!” You mewled as the pleasure built up in your gut, feeling like a raging furnace under your skin, making your heart race against your ribs. Gasping when another one of his thick fingers pushed into you, your hips squirmed against his face, toes curling when he started massaging your g-spot. “Con, please, I'm… I'm gonna…”

“Come on, baby girl, cum for me. You can do it…” Conquest encouraged through ragged breaths, feeling your pussy clenching tight around his fingers, quivering in anticipation of the release. Returning his mouth to your clit to slurp the throbbing bundle of nerves, his fingers crooked up to the sweet spot, massaging your walls with a steady friction. The groan that left him when you came was nothing short of animalistic, eagerly lapping up the juices that coated his chin in abundance, not wanting to let a single drop go to waste. You had barely come down enough to catch your breath when his weight settled on top of you again, his lips crashing against yours so you could taste your own arousal, stealing your breath away.

You don't know when he'd ditched his slacks, but you sure found out when you felt him against your thigh, his hips slotting between your spread legs. Your eyes snapped open in disbelief, pulling away from the kiss to try and catch your breath, hands resting on his chest when you met his gaze. “Holy shit, baby… are you sure that will even fit?” Conquest snorted a laugh at that, pressing a reassuring kiss to your temple, rolling his hips so you could feel every thick inch of his cock. “Mmm, of course it will, princess. You were made just for me after all, besides, I think that pretty pussy of yours is begging for it…”

Swallowing your whimper with another kiss, he reached down to spread your legs as wide as they'd go, his prosthetic keeping one leg pinned open while he grasped his cock in the other. Letting out a soft hiss against your lips as he pumped his length in his fist, Conquest glided the head through the sticky juices coating your fat cunt, his ego inflating when you squirmed beneath him. “Just breathe, baby girl, you can take it…” he cooed when he began pushing the tip into your tight walls, sliding his hand under your hips to tilt them upwards, slowly working his girthy length inside.

The stretch was the most intense, intimate thing you'd ever felt in your whole life. Tears involuntarily welled up in your eyes, wrapping your arms around his neck to instinctively cling to him, your lips parted in a silent cry as he stuffed you with his cock. When he buried himself to the base your breath returned to you, a choked sob coming out as you felt him pull you into a bear hug, cradling you against his massive torso and shushing you softly. “That's it sweetheart, you are doing so good, taking me so perfectly… I told you it'd fit.”

“Con- holy fuck…” You managed to squeak out through gasps, shaking like a leaf under him as your body adjusted to being so full, clinging to him for dear life. You knew he was a big ass man, of course he'd have a monster dick to go with that body of his, no wonder his ego is so massive. Burying your face in the crook of his neck, you ran your fingers through his hair, gently scratching his nape. “Fuck… okay. I'm okay. I think… you can move now, please.”

Giving you a shit eating grin, like the cocky bastard he is, Conquest slowly pulled his length out before driving back in. He took pride in stealing your breath, the way you clung to him so desperately, your nails digging against his invulnerable skin, it was intoxicating. His hips moved with a slow, deep rhythm, taking his sweet time stirring his cock in your warm heat. You were babbling a stream of moans while he marked your skin, kissing and sucking marks into your throat and collarbone, he wanted the whole universe to know who you belonged to.

“Yeah, fuck, that's it kitten. Take my cock, have every inch of me. You're mine, mine to pleasure, mine to fill.” Conquest snarled against your skin, the rhythm shifting as he started to pick up the pace, his heavy balls hitting your ass in wet slaps while he pounded your pussy raw. Moving to grab your legs under the knees, he pushed them up towards your chest, nearly folding you in half. His eye was glued to your swollen folds, how his cock slid in and out of your clenching walls, your juices coating him in a sticky, white cream. “Ughhh… look at you, princess. She's so hungry for my cock, isn't she? Swallowing me right up…”

The sudden angle change and his filthy words made you sob in bliss, slapping your hands over your face in flustered embarrassment, heat flushing your skin like a wild fever. His cock felt like it was in your guts, punishing every sweet spot in you with his heavy thrusts, melting your brain into a puddle of mush. “Yes, oh god yes-! Please baby, fuckkkk, it's so much!” The words came out before you could even think of them, flowing out with the waterfall of keening cries, the room thick with the sounds of your coupling.

That made him pick up his pace, growls of your name filling the air as he watched you start to shatter, it was the most beautiful sight. Conquest leaned in using his chest to press your knees to your chest, folding you completely, leaving you vulnerable beneath him. His free hand grabbed a fist full of your hair, pulling you into a messy kiss, keeping his ruthless rhythm as your body locked up under his. He felt the fist tight grip of your cunt clenching down, the juices squirting out around his cock to coat his thighs, and the silent scream currently being swallowed up.

That's when he let himself go, burying balls deep in your quivering pussy with a soul shattering groan, pumping his thick, hot seed into you. For a long time Conquest stayed like that, pressed against you in the warm afterglow of his orgasm, clinging to you as he nuzzled his face into the crook of your neck.

“Mnghh… Con, I'm gonna get a cramppp…” You mumbled and half-heartedly pushed his shoulders, a pointless effort considering he was as immovable as a mountain, but it was the effort that counts right? He grumbled something before sitting up, letting your legs fall back onto the bed, leaving you a sprawled, fucked out mess. Conquest couldn't help but smirk with pride at his work, you were covered in blooming hickies and a sheen of sweat, his cum leaking from your abused pussy when he pulled his limp cock out.

“Oh you poor thing, I couldn't let you get a cramp now could I? That'd be cruel.” You shot him a playful glare at his comment, sighing when he scooped you up into a bridal style, carrying you off to the master bathroom. “You're a jerk, you know that, right? You're lucky I love you, old man.” Conquest narrowed his eye at the old man insult, baring his teeth in a wolfish grin, setting you on the counter and boxing you in with his body.

“Old man? I might be old, but I'm not weak, kitten. Keep talking and I'll remind you of that fact.” You audibly gulped despite your own cheeky grin, getting a second wind of confidence, leaning in to whisper in the most bratty tone you could muster. “Don't threaten me with a good time, old man.”

You did not get that bath like planned. You ended up with your face buried in the sheets again, except this time he wasn't being Mr Romantic, it's a good thing you don't have neighbors.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

“So, still think I'm an old man, princess?” Conquest asked smugly as he ran his fingers through your hair, soaping up your scalp as you leaned into his touch, savoring the warm water and comfort of his body cushioning yours. You blinked blearily and tilted your head back to meet his gaze, an exhausted, deadpan expression painting your sleepy features. “... Nope… definitely not.” Conquest cackled, pressing a kiss to your forehead, tilting your head forward so he could continue bathing you. “Good answer, kitten.”

[vrystx]

Hi omg I love your work!! I’m a little new to Tumblr, but I was wondering if you could make some more Conquest x Reader head-canons!

Conquest Headcanons!

Some headcanons about Conquest x gn!human!reader in a relationship on earth!

Note: He is a certified dad-joke-enjoyer. Also, I love him. Anyways, enjoy!!

Firstly, Conquest has some issues with controlling his own strength at first. Sometimes he grips your wrist too tightly and it bruises, other times he headbutts you on accident while trying to romantically lean down to your height for a kiss. He’s still getting used to moving around in a gentler environment, especially with the intention of trying to be cute.

His body’s temperature adjust according to the season and weather, somehow. Whenever it’s cold, raining and gloomy, his skin gets as hot as a furnace. Perfect to cuddle up with or to take his hands and move his palms under your shirt to warm you up. It’s hot as a devil’s ass outside with the sun beaming down? Conquest’s body naturally cools down and his skin becomes the perfect temperature to lean against and soak in the cool.

At first, Conquest tries to impress you by bringing gifts and offerings. Suddenly there was a Cherry Blossom tree in your yard, freshly picked in Japan, he seems to be very proud to show off. One time, after you mentioned being fond of kittens and felines, there is a whole tiger he wrestles in the kitchen with over a slab of meat. You’re anxiously waiting for a package after ordering online? Conquest finds someone random Amazon order and hands it to you. It’s not your package? Uhhhh… at least it’s the thought that counts?

Finding clothes for him is incredibly hard. Conquest doesn’t mind or care what article of clothing he’s wearing, it’s finding something that fits him that is the hard part. Also, when you try to steal a shirt or button up of his, you can literally style it like a dress.

People on the street often strike up a conversation with your alien partner. Especially grandmas, for some reason “Are you a wrestler?” “What kind of supplements do you take, dude?” “Oh, what a sweetie you are. If only my husband were half as strong as you!” “Cool moustache.” … and so much more. Conquest adores it! People are noticing and acknowledging him (even if it’s harder to not literally see the mountain blocking their sun) and talking to him about his moustache! No one really noticed his efforts to groom himself properly! Folk are even thanking him for lifting a little crate! This planet is awesome!

The next one is based on the new Battelbeast Comic #11 that recently came out.

Conquest surprisingly adjusts quickly to human slang. You don’t know where he learned it, how he managed to understand AND use it appropriately in certain situations. His favourite things to say are “Hell yeah.” and “dude”. Don’t let him discover the brainrot terms plaguing the internet. In fact, don’t introduce him to the internet at all.

He’s such an annoying teaser. If you’re ticklish, Conquest will be sneaking up on you and tickling you relentlessly until you either escape, squirm away or find out where he is ticklish. He eggs you on when you catch your tongue or stumble over a word until you slap him against the arm or threaten to withdraw your hugs (mean!). Conquest will joke and sneak in some puns into his speech, grinning from ear to ear and checking if you realise what he is done, holding back a laugh like a child. Conquest is the happiest whenever he gets to tease you, which is all day every day.

[rk000rooo]

conquest hcs!

a/n: look im on the agenda that conquest doesn't fuck and i mean this bcs he's so touch starved and all he wants is to be loved

♡⋆⭒˚｡⋆ Conquest fears everything he’s ever felt. The loneliness he feels is foreign to Viltrumites. Conquest fears his affections for you. It’s a weakness that’ll get him killed if the Empire found out. Until then Conquest holds you with all the gentleness his bulky frame can muster.  

♡⋆⭒˚｡⋆ Conquest’s hands are calloused. Too rough and bloody to hold you he thinks. But too in love that he has to squeeze your hand whenever he holds it. It’s a firm and tight grip as if to remind himself that you are real. Hugs with him are suffocating. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath with every hug. He breathes your scent in comforted all ready, then he listens to your heart beat the calm rhythm wiping away his stress. He opens his eyes, truly observing you. He sees how you’re pressed against him, the flutter of your eyelashes, and finally places the sweetest kiss on your lips.  

♡⋆⭒˚｡⋆ Conquest never rushes to feel you. Never tugs you this or that way during sex and never leaves marks on you. He loves you too much to bruise you. He’d need convincing to be rough in bed or to leave things like hickeys. He doesn’t understand what pleasure you could get from him being rough with you. He’s rough with everybody but never you.  

♡⋆⭒˚｡⋆ Conquest who’s first time ends in tears. The biggest most feared men in the Empire weeps as he’s touched. It’s everything he never thought he could have. You direct him in every way, assure him, and give praise and all of it is too sweet. He simply can’t handle it.  

♡⋆⭒˚｡⋆ Conquest always lets you set the pace. Whether you want to fuck yourself on him or take your time trailing kisses along his body the choice is yours. Although he wouldn’t be rough or deny your orgasm, he goes crazy when you do it to him. He’s definitely a masochist and loves the feeling of you taking charge of him.  

♡⋆⭒˚｡⋆ Conquest who enjoys your period. It’s the best thing he’s tasted and would spend hours and hours if he could licking you up. 

♡⋆⭒˚｡⋆ Conquest who’s entire day is thrown off if you have an argument. He worships the ground you walk on and is desperate to make amends.  

♡⋆⭒˚｡⋆ Conquest who’s insecure and never believed he could have such sweet things. His biggest fear is that you’ll end up scared of him. That one day he’ll ruin it all.   

♡⋆⭒˚｡⋆ Conquest who’s ready to fight and die for you his entire existence belongs to you.  

[im-not-a-pleeb]

John Price Masterlist

[My Masterpost]

COD/141 Masterlist

Simon "Ghost" Riley Masterlist

Nikolai Masterlist

♡ = 18+

Minifics

After Midnight (Fake Boyfriend):

After Midnight • Maybe it's the Moonlight • Everything Good ♡

Crimson Lilies (Skyrim Vampire AU):

Blood And Silver • Beyond Death • Sanguinare Vampiris ♡ • Dawnbreaker

Oranges And Lemons (Babysitter!Reader):

My Darling Clementine • Maids in White Aprons • Give a Dog a Bone

Bright Young Things (FBI Profiler!Reader):

Well Aquainted With A Tile Floor • Target Locked

Father Figure (Dad's Best Friend):

An Unfortunate Landing • Culture Shock

Full Works

When Calls The Deep (Mermaid!Reader):

Preview • Index

John's Exodus • Soul of the Damned • Phantasmagoria • East Winds Blow • 'Till A Mermaid Drags You Under • What Strange Creature • A Star To Sail Her By • Even As I Sleep • Sailors Delight • When Calls The Deep • This Wretched World • Red Sky At Morning • When The Tide Goes Out • Beyond The Sea

Oneshots and Drabbles

Mafia Price

Daily Horoscope

Daddy Price ♡

Vanilla Lavender

CEO Price • John Pork Calling • Work Trip • With a View • Staff Party • Blackout • Workplace Harassment

Daddy Issues

Late Night

Fuck it, we paintball

Gargoyle!Price x Angel!Reader

I Dare You ♡

In With The Mud

Cabin Fever ♡

Father's Day Blurb ♡

Ao3

My Fav Recs

[im-not-a-pleeb]

After Midnight Pt. 3

Everything Good

John Price x Fem!Reader

You run into John again, weeks after that night in the club and you end up inviting him back to your place... for tea.

cw: Slight stalker-ish behaviour by Price, Age gap, Reader loses her dog but it's perfectly fine, SMUT, Fingering, Cunnilingus, Unprotected P in V sex, Spanking, Aftercare

4.4k words

A03

"Do you want to come back to my place?" You blurt out all of a sudden.

John blinks. An eyebrow cocks as amusement and mild surprise merge into a small smirk. Would he ever.

"For tea." You clarify, cheeks warm. "As a thank you."

Previous Part

Masterlist

Since getting you home safe and sound that night, John had gone out of his way to keep an eye on you. Not in a creepy way, of course. Just keeping tabs on you in case that ex of yours came back to bother you again. The prick seemed like the type of guy to try his luck again in a few days, maybe show up to your place with a box of cheap chocolates and a half-assed apology. Price would be damned if he let the guy anywhere near you again. 

If that meant spending the occasional night parked across from your place, so be it. Even if his back was aching and stiff the next morning from sitting in his car all hours. Even if it made him feel just on the wrong side of predatory. He knew it was crossing a line. It was a huge breach of privacy and a colossal risk of catching flack from his team if they found out about his late night excursions. It was a foolish risk, plain and simple. Especially for a girl he'd met once in a club.

Normally he hated places like that.

The only reason he was there that night in the first place was because Gaz had convinced him he needed to get laid. And having you pressed up against him like you were starving? Fuck, maybe his Sergeant was right. He'd almost taken you right then and there, but you deserved better than a quick, desperate fumble in a public hallway.

Besides, you'd been drunk. He didn't want to be the guy you regretted in the morning when you'd sobered up. Beer goggles were a real thing, and based on your ex's techbro, clean shaven appearance? John wasn't your type. Not even close. He needed to give up this obsession and move on. Maybe he'd even agree to go on one of those blind dates that Johnny has been raring to set him up with.

A crease nestles between his eyebrows and the faint jingle of dog tags startles him back to the world. The sun was shining too brightly on the pond in front of him, glittering and catching on the surface. A group of collage kids not much younger than you were playing their music across the way. Someone dressed in all neon spandex jogs by on the path, and somewhere nearby in the park a baby cries.

John spots the source of the jingle easily; A small black and white frenchie trots past, happy as can be.  It was carrying a large stick between its teeth, tail wagging and leash dragging behind it. Christ, the universe was teasing him. Everything was reminding him of you. Reminding him that he couldn't—that he really shouldn't—have you... and that dog had looked just like yours. Almost identical. In fact, upon a second look, he was pretty sure that was your dog.

Without you.

The familiar surge of adrenaline floods his systems and he's on his feet before he's conscious of the action. From his dubious surveilling habits, he knew you weren't the kind of owner to let your dog run off without you. Something must have happened for him to get away from you like this. Shit, what if something was really wrong? What if something had happened to you and there wasn't anyone around to see it? 

He curses under his breath, rushing back to the front gates and keeping his eyes peeled for any hint of unrest. But there was absolutely nothing out of the ordinary. No concerned crowds, no sirens in the air, nothing. The fact that nothing seemed amiss didn't sit well in his stomach. He knew better than most just how quickly one could get abducted. Professionals could nab someone in three seconds flat and be off, never to be heard from again. No witnesses, no trace. Fuck, if someone had taken you... 

He stalks out onto the sidewalk, consumed by images of worst case scenarios and already planning how to track you down when someone stumbles directly into his chest. A surprised 'oomph-' is drawn from their lungs and he instinctively grabs their waist, angling them away from the street traffic. 

"Oh-!" You gasp, stumbling back once you've found your footing. "I'm so sorry, I didn't- John?"

He doesn't let go of your elbow, almost needing that anchor so he doesn't crash to his knees with relief.

It's you. 

Alive. 

Un-abducted.

Your eyes were red rimmed and watery and your teeth sunk into your bottom lip, worrying the tender flesh. You looked properly upset but most importantly to John, you looked unharmed. He tucks his chin down to make sure you don't have any actual injuries, but thankfully he finds none. You were just a little shaken up.

"Hiya, dove." He places himself between you and the road, guiding you to the far side of the sidewalk. "Fancy running into you. You alright?" He thumbs your cheek, hoping to soothe you somewhat from your obvious distress.

"Ye- no." You warble, on the verge of tears. "Vinny—my dog—he got excited when he recognized where we were and slipped away from me when I was trying to tie my shoe and I don't know where he went. I tucked his leash under my foot but he just took off." 

"S'alright. Hey, take a deep breath for me, hm?" John prompts you to slow down, squeezing your arm. "There you go, just like that. Good. I saw him off in the park." He keeps his voice steady and calm while you breathe.

"Oh. Is he okay?" You ask after a moment, eyes glimmering with trust. In him. He only wishes he could be worthy of it. 

"Perfectly fine." He assures you. "Come on, I'll help you find him, yeah?" 

"Yeah." You sniff, letting him lead you by the elbow into the park.

Together, you hurry along down the path, surveying the lawns and squash courts for any glimpse of a certain mischievous pup. You pay extra attention to the bushes in case he had decided to make friends with a squirrel or worse—a fox—and followed them into their den. He'd tried that before with a skunk. It hadn't gone well.

"Vinny!? Vin!?" You call out, clearly desperate to find him. "Oh god, I never meant for him to get away." Your voice trembles and you suck in an anxious breath. "I'm so irresponsible, I feel terrible. What if something happens to him? And it's all my fault-"

"Hey." He stops you, smoothing a hand up your arm and squeezing. "It's not your fault, alright? These things happen, love. We'll find him. He's probably having the time of his life right now, I saw him run by with a stick the size of him. He's going to be just fine."

Thankfully you giggle at that, swiping your sleeve beneath your nose. "Really? That sounds like Vinny." You sniff, attention refocused. "Maybe we should try calling for Diesel instead. Or D. Sometimes he responds to that too..." You trail off, nibbling at your nail beds.

John gently pulls your fingers from your teeth and rubs circles on the back of your hand. He watches as you blink like you hadn't quite realized you'd been biting. A nervous habit, he supposed.

"Vin Diesel?" He asks, raising an amused eyebrow.

"Yeah." You laugh softly, wiping your blurry eyes again. He was just glad to see you laugh. "It's a long story."

"Well then. When we've got the time you're going to tell me all about it. But first, let's find your little lad."

The two of you make it another half way around the park, both calling out various nicknames for your dog before movement in the far off trees catches your eye. 

"There!" You cry.

The frenchie was laying in the middle of the group of collage kids John had spotted earlier, belly up and enjoying an abundance of scratches and praise. Upside-down on a picnic blanket, Vinny's tongue lolled happily out the side of his mouth and one of his back legs was kicking enthusiastically. 

"He yours?" One of the students calls over the song they've got playing.

"Yes!! Vinny, Come here boy. Come here Vin!" You crouch down and snap your fingers to get the dogs attention. At the sound of his owner, Vinny scrabbles to his feet and bounds over to you across the lawn. He graces you with a sniff and some tail wags, licks your hand once, and then scrabbles at John's legs. They were always much more interested in the strangers, weren't they? John huffs and hoists him up, holding the squiggling little furball securely to his chest.

"There you are, you bastard." He chuckles, dodging kisses left and right. "Gave your mum the fright of her life, you did." He reprimands Vinny as if the dog were one of his most troublesome recruits, but gives him a pat on the head all the same.

You quickly snatch up the dangling leash, calling a thank you to the kids. John gives them a respectful nod before returning attention to you. "Told you he'd be alright, didn't I?"

"You did." You breathe, weak with relief. Adrenaline crash most likely, with how panicked you'd been over losing him. A hand braces on his bicep to steady yourself while you lean up to pet your troublesome dog. "Thank you."

"F'course. Anyone would've done it." He shrugs, setting Vinny down carefully. Then he shoves his hands in his pockets. The look you give him very much says 'you know that's not true' but you don't push it.

"Still. You've saved me twice now." You speak instead. The breeze ruffles your loose hair, strands dancing about your head like they did the night he drove you home. "That's not nothing."

In that moment, John is struck by how much you look like you belong in the world. Like you are a part of everything no matter where you go. You'd looked completely in your element beneath the neon lights of the club, makeup thick and a little smudged, but still gorgeous. The music seemed to sync to your heartbeat then, and here it's much the same. The trees are bending towards you, daffodils gazing upwards. The sun graces you and you alone, leaving freckles in place of kisses and highlighting the glow your eyes. It reminded him of a distant place he once found comfort in. Of dust particles dancing above rafters and stained glass windows of a cathedral staining the pews with colour.

"Do you want to come back to my place?" You blurt out. 

He blinks. An eyebrow cocks as amusement and mild surprise merge into a small smirk beneath his whiskers. Would he ever.

"For tea." You clarify, cheeks warm. "As a thank you."

"For tea." He hums in agreement, placing a hand on your lower back and nudging you to start walking again. "I'd love that, sweetheart, thank you."

John leans against your kitchen counter and you like the look of him among your things. As out of place as he appears with the tiny teacup nestled between big hands, or the way his boots he'd taken off at the door hung over the edge of the shoe mat, he still fits into your space like he was meant to. His presence had lingered in the flat long after he'd left the first time. You'd caught his scent in the air a few times over the next couple of days and found his finger prints on one of your windows. He must have closed it for you before he'd gone. 

"So. Why 'Vin Diesel' then?" He asks leisurely, blowing at his freshly brewed tea.

"It's stupid, really." You sigh, hopping up on the counter across from him. "My ex got him from a friend of his who'd named him 'Car' because, and I quote, 'he was really fast.' I mean, who other than a five year old names an animal 'Car'!?"

"Dunno love." John chuckles. "Sounds bloody ridiculous."

"Yeah, it was. So obviously we had to change that." You continue, nudging Vinny with a socked toe when he saunters through the kitchen on his way to the couch. "We had Fast and Furious on the TV one night and this little guy was tearing the place up with his zoomies. Running from one end of the house to the other and bouncing off the furniture. We were joking that he was faster than Vin Diesel's character and could beat him in a race, and there you go."

"So you named him after a man who drives cars for a living." John hums, watching Vinny turn in circles on the sofa until he finds just the right spot to curl up in. "And his name was Car."

"Funny how that works out, isn't it?" You take a sip from your own mug of tea.

"Hm." He agrees. "Just like it's funny how this worked out." He gestures between you. "Running into you again. I'd been thinking about you, y'know."

"Really?"

"Really. Couldn't seem to help myself." John's knuckles tighten around his drink until they turn white. "The way you-" He clears his throat, cutting himself off. "Sorry." He sets his teacup in the sink and rolls his shoulders.

"Why?" You ask. "I was thinking about you too."

He shakes his head at that, grinning a humourless grin and fixing you with a stare you can't quite get out of. 

"I was!" You exclaim, misreading his reaction. "I was thankful that it was you who took me home and not someone else. A worse man would have- well. He wouldn't have left me water and pills, would he?" You say dryly, letting a heel bump against the cabinets. 

"A better man would've had his tea and left, no reason to linger." John closes the distance between you two, drawing up so that his thighs press into your knees. "A better man would trust himself right now."

"Why don't you trust yourself?" You breathe, letting him lift your still warm tea from your hands and set it aside. His eyes flick to your neck, surely noting how your pulse was beginning to pick up. "What don't you trust, John?"

A muscle in his jaw clenches, warring with some internal beast. Then, something deceptively calm washes over him. A decision made. He plants his hands on either side of your hips, gripping the counter and leaning in. You wet your lips, tilting your head up expectantly.

"I don't trust," he starts, voice dropped lower by an octave, "that I can touch you and walk away. I don't trust myself when it comes to one time things, love. I'm not the kind of man to leave well enough alone. I can't walk away after one night... I want everything."

"Everything?"

"Mm." He hums, brushing his lips along yours. Barely even a touch. "You gonna be able to handle that?"

"Yeah." You whisper, breath caught in your throat. "Please, I-"

The rest of your words are swallowed by his hungry mouth against yours. Strong hands find your hips and tug them to the edge of the counter where you feel how hard he already is through his jeans. Groaning, you rub your hips up against his bulge, the drag making you both delerious with need.

Your fingers tangle in his shirt, tugging and pulling until he breaks the kiss to pull it over his head for you. You're only separated for a moment before he's slanting his lips over yours, nudging them open so he can lick at your teeth. He slips his warm, rough fingers inside your top, squeezing and cupping your breasts. You gasp in response and he hums, lips twitching when he feels you fumbling at his belt.

"Not yet." He murmurs against your skin. "Gotta be patient. Said I'd give you everything, didn't I?" His pelvis rocks into yours.

"Uh huh." You breathe, feeling that sticky warmth gathering between your thighs and you lock your ankles behind his waist to bring him even closer.

"Mm, and I'll will. Just gotta warm you up first, yeah? Lift."

When you wrap your arms around his neck and lift up from the counter, he tugs your bottoms down just enough to display the wet spot on your underwear. He grins like a cat who got the cream and smooths a thumb along your covered slit.

"I'm warmed up." You beg him, eager to be filled. You'd thought about it more than a few times since the night he'd pinned you to the wall in the club. And now that he was here in your kitchen, between your legs, you didn't want to wait any longer.

"I can see that, love." He draws out his words. Steady, as if you couldn't see the pulse that was throbbing frantically at his neck. "All hot and bothered f'me."

John's thumb travels to your clit, giving it a few languid circles before tugging the fabric aside. "There she is." He croons, dipping two fingers between your folds and gathering slick to swirl around your engorged bundle of nerves. "Did you get this wet for me before? When you were rubbing up on me in that hallway?"

"Yeah." You moan. "Yeah, I did."

"Good girl." He praises, sinking a single finger inside you. "Knew you were needy— could smell it on you." He curls his knuckles, stroking your velvety walls to coax out more of your slick. You settle back on your hands, spine arching when he adds a second. Slowly, they pump in and out of you, working you open and the noise that fills your kitchen is debased.

"I wanted this." You groan, squeezing around the digits.

"I know, sweetheart. But you've got me now, yeah? Not leaving this pretty cunt aching and empty anymore." With that, he pulls out and takes a step back. You don't even have time to mourn the loss of his fingers before he's on his knees in front of you, pulling your bottoms all the way off and throwing a leg over his shoulder.

"John-!" You flush, unsure if you would rather push him away or pull him in.

"Mm?" He trails hot, open mouthed kisses up your thigh, spreading your lower lips apart with his thumbs to watch your holes flutter.

"I- are you sure?"

"Yeah dovie. Certain. You getting shy on me now?"

You shake your head, chest heaving.

"No? Gonna show me the girl from the club? Where's the girl who was grinding on me like she needed it, hm?" He licks from your entrance up to your clit, tongue pressed flat. He seals his mouth around the bud and laps at you until you can't keep your hips from bucking. "Yeahhh, there she is."

When he goes back down to circle your pussy, your thighs tighten around his head. He watches as you lose yourself in contentment, one hand pressed to your fluttering stomach and the other kneeding the fat of your hip. John eats you out for your pleasure as much as his own, nose nudging at your clit and making your toes curl.

"Oh, god..." Your fingers tangle in his hair, tugging him closer and you can't help grinding against his face. Not that he seems to mind, though. The way his hips snap forward against your cabinets is evidence of that. His tongue nudges inside of you and you both moan in tandem. The vibrations from his lips against yours are too good, and you feel your pleasure cresting.

It's as if he senses it the same time that you do, because he doubles his efforts, picking up speed. A thumb returns to your clit and works you expertly towards your orgasm. You come undone easily, humping against his nose and probably smothering the poor man with your thighs. But he works you through it, lapping up your juices until you push him away at the beginnings of overstimulation.

You're left gasping, a lazy grin on your face when John looks up. His chin is glistening and he's licking his lips like he's greedy for more.

"Could drown in a cunt this sweet." He rasps as he heaves himself to his feet and nudges your knees apart once more. "So good. You're so good." He frames your cheeks with his hands and kisses you. Hard. You lean into it, running your fingers through his hair until it's messed up in the sexiest way. He licks into your mouth again, ensuring that he shares your taste with you and that it lingers.

He pulls your ruined underwear back into place and pats your mound, satisfied with himself, but still craving his own release. "Here, or bedroom? Which do you prefer?"

"For what?" You ask, brushing your lips along his jawline while you catch your breath from your high.

"Gonna fuck you dumb, love." He growls. "Gotta fill you up proper now."

"Here." It's an easy descicion. You helped him take off your top and he wastes no time tugging down the cups of your bra until your tits spill out of it.

"Good girl." He draws a pert nipple into his mouth and scrapes his teeth over it, making you squeal. "Can you stand? Doesn't matter, I'll hold you up."

John doesn't waste time with waiting for an answer. Instead, he lifts you off the counter and spins you around to bend you over until your front is pressed against the surface. Your legs are shakey and definitely not strong enough to support your full weight, but this position is a remedy to that. The arm he has supporting your middle also keeps you upright enough.

"Can we do it in the bedroom next?" You stick out your ass, glancing over your shoulder at him. He reguards you with hooded eyes, hands working his belt.

"I'll have you in every room of this flat, don't you worry."

Buckle dealt with, he pops open his jeans and shoves them down just enough to pull out his straining erection. His cock is impressive—leaking and flushed at the mushroom tip. John gives himself a few slow pumps, squeezing the base and you feel a fresh wave of arousal flood into your core.

"Promise?"

"I swear." He rips the last scrap of cloth covering you, letting the underwear fall about your ankles. His palms smooth over the globes of your naked ass, pulling them apart and using your hips as leverage. "Tell me if it hurts."

John aligns his tip with your fluttering hole. It was already dripping again, letting him slip in easily just by an inch. The stretch burns a little, but not as much as you had expected from his size. Slowly, he works you open, thrusting a little deeper every time until he's fully sheathed inside of your clutching pussy.

"Fuck." He strains, clawing at your ass. A sharp smack lands across one of your cheeks and he jerks inside of you. He's nudging a spot deeper than anyone's ever found before and your jaw goes slack. "Fuck, you good?"

You nod. His palm cracks down on your other cheek, harder this time.

"Words, pretty."

"Yes." You cry, wiggling back against him. "Please."

"Shh, sh. Settle." He rolls his hips and your legs give out entirely. "I've got you."

He begins a slow rhythm, his hips jerking sporadically like he was close already. To tease him, you clench down around his dick and he hisses, dropping his forehead to your shoulder.

"Cheeky cunt." He bites the curve of your neck and pulls out, rubbing his length along your clit instead. Precum smears your belly with every faux thrust and your pussy ripples each time his hips snap against yours.

"M'sorry." You tremble, feeling too empty now.

"I bet you are." He chuckles, the deep sound makes you clench around nothing. But still, he doesn't press back inside. He just keeps teasing you, dragging his cock through your folds.

"M'sorry, I won't do it again." You lament, close to tears.

"Promise?" He repeats your earlier words and you shiver.

"I swear." You echo his response.

"I'll let you off easy for now." He huffs, smoothing your hair over your shoulder and pressing a kiss to where he bit down. "Can't bloody hold off any longer." And with that, he surges back into your weeping pussy. This time it's not slow. It's hard. Fast. Desperate. John ruts into you until you can barely breathe, snaking a hand around to your front when he gets close.

"Gonna flood your tight little cunt. Fuck, you feel so good dove. Gonna cum with me? Come on." He presses two fingers to your clit and rubs quick, frantic circles. "Yeah, that's it. Show me how good you feel. Give it to me-" he grunts, hips stuttering. With two more brutal thrusts, he buries himself inside you at the same time as your own orgasm hits.

Your walls mold to his cock, sucking in all his spend as you go rigid around him your gummy walls work him through his pleasure and you realize you'd drooled all over the counter. Half heartedly, you try to swipe the evidence away before he can tease you about it.

"Good fuckin' girl." He pets your hair, your back, your hips while you both come down together. "You alright?"

"Yeah." You nod, remembering to answer verbally this time. You were more than alright. His cock gives one last valiant twitch inside you before he slides out. A gush of your mixed fluids follows suit and you groan, feeling it ooze down your thigh. His thumb sweeps through the mess as if he was imagining stuffing it all back inside you before gathering his shirt from the floor.

John takes care to clean you up, and somehow that feels even more intimate than anything you just did together.

"You were so perfect for me. Sure you didn't have that in mind when you offered me here for tea?" He tucks himself away, helping you back up onto the kitchen counter so you don't have to use your wobbly legs to stand. You click your tongue in false dismay and kick at him, blushing.

"No I did not." You cross your arms, biting back a giggle.

"Happy accident, then?" He catches your ankle and slides his palm along your calf.

"Something like that." You smile, pulling him in for another kiss. A very happy accident indeed.

There was lowkey divine intervention had while writing this, and thank god because it was a struggle 😭. Kinda blacked out for the second half ngl. I didn't know how to end it off exactly, so hopefully this workss. And also hopefully there are no spelling errors (I know there's probably grammar errors but idc) and everything looks good. I did do the final editing of this past my bedtime so that's what I get for that.

BUT AFTER MANY MOONS THE THRID AND FINAL PART IS DROPPED. This is actually the first time in history I've completed a full series/work in it's entirety and not given up halfway (like I wanted to). So let's hear it for that 🔥🫶🗣

[eyecandyeoz]

Hear me out, Conquest seeing you bathing and you beckoning him to join you. Slight problem he’s in fact a BIG man, so he’s not sure he’ll fit in the damn tub he never even uses. But seeing that cute little pout? Who is he to deny his pet? So he climbs in behind, water spills out over the edge and it’s a tangle of limbs and cramped. But at least you’re close together.

This is the idea of ideas. Oh, Nonny, thank you so much for choosing me to be the writer of this ask. Excuse me as I melt away at the thought of this kay byeeeeeeeeeeee. 🫠🥴

Little Bird🕊️

Pairing: Conquest x F!Reader Warnings: (18+) smut. domestic bliss, fluff, established relationship, bath sex, blood kink, biting, choking, creampie Summary: Conquest catches you at a bad time, but it does not deter him. It just makes things interesting.

Read on ao3 - 4.5k words

Invincible Masterlist - Main Writing Masterlist

It’s silent on the ship. So vast and empty. You’re dressed in nothing but a soft towel wrapped around your silhouette, tucked in just under your arms. You toss a handful of dried flowers onto the surface of the water before pouring a drizzle of aromatic soap from a glass vial into the still flowing faucet. 

An immediate froth of suds forms and propels a cloud of freshness upwards with the steam. It’s a scent within the same classification as mint, or maybe pine from your world. It’s not as sweet as the likes of rosemary or even licorice root, but it’s nowhere near as bitter as hemlock with its earthy vegetation. It lies in an unnamable and foreign classification, reviving to your senses. You’re grateful he managed to find an aromatic blend that didn’t smell like it would singe your eyebrows off. He had to be careful in his selection, making certain to avoid herbs that could prove toxic to humans.

You step into the tub after turning the faucet off, allowing your legs to adjust to the temperature before slowly easing yourself to sitting. The warmth climbs up your form, acclimating to the welcoming cradle of the basin. You’re able to finally breathe your stress away. It’s sometimes hard to be away from home in a strange land with no one to even know your name, let alone your precarious origins. When everything out here is fighting for a chance to kill you at all times, quiet moments like this are deeply cherished.

You sink further past the surface until the water reaches the small portion of your face between your upper lip and nose. The nape of your neck begins to soak in nearby suds as moisture climbs up your scalp. While exhaling deeply again, you push the swirling bubbles away from your face with the subtle current when a voice from across the room brings you to open your eyes.

“Didn’t take long for you to make yourself at home.” Conquest announces while sporting an array of deep-tissue wounds from head to toe, his uniform half shredded off. “You look like a little bird preening her feathers.

“You told me to help myself.” You try to hide the fact he startled you, but the audible splash of movement was clearly too hard to hide. “So I did. Besides, don’t you always call me kitten?”

“I remember.” Conquest is smiling his crooked smile at you and you watch his line of sight break away from your eyes, shifting lower and lower until he starts imagining what lies beyond the suds. “And I do.”

“You look like you need this more than me though.” You mention, acknowledging his filthy appearance. From shoulder to shoulder, he spans nearly the full breadth of the door frame. The sheer broadness of his stature raises your heartrate, surprising you every time you witness him for yourself.

“I can always hose myself down with the pressure washer in the bay.” He jokes, but you can tell he’s serious. He dares not to ruin something so pure.

“Don’t be stupid.” You won’t take no for an answer, scooting forward as if to make room for him. “Get in here.”

Conquest examines himself, finding that he is a bit worse for wear than he thought. His cuts, ruptures and lacerations are still leaking while alien blood stains what’s left of his uniform. Hues of green and blue flow like watercolors into Conquest’s red. “You sure?”

You don’t respond, instead choosing to give him a look he knows well. He nods in reciprocation, regarding your word as final. With a slow seal of his gaze, he chuckles under his breath before regaining eye contact. He holds it as he floats into the room, leaving footprints after settling himself back on the floor. He stares at you seductively as he peels the uniform from the one shoulder it’s still adhered, letting it drop to his feet.

Thankfully a good amount of the grime is left behind when he sheds the layer, and your eyes are soon drawn to his massive package now revealed. As he approaches, you shimmy forward, nearly putting your knees to your chest so that he can fit. By the way he towers over you, it is clear this is going to be a tight squeeze. 

He awkwardly lifts his leg over the side of the tub and steps in. His second leg follows and the level rises significantly. He steadies himself with both hands on the edge at either side of you, proceeding to slide in. Water starts spilling as it splashes over the edge. There go your pretty flowers, now scattered to the surrounding floor. The scent of death lingers on him, melded with the fragrant bath suds. His brows are knit together as it pains him to spoil your good time, but the grin on your face assures him that there’s no other place you’d want him to be.

There’s no hiding the presence of his package at your back. You can feel it pressed up against your spine as he gathers you into his clutches. You lean into him, using his spanning abdomen and chest as a comfortable bed of sorts as he encompasses you fully. With a bite of your lip, you rest your cheek on his forearm, getting a little bit of his blood on your face. “You’re hurt.”

“A papercut.” His rumbling voice is felt within your own torso, as if that sensation is stemming from within your own ribcage. “All healed in a day’s time.”

“I should see the other guys, right?” This is a line you both have shared often as his gory homecomings happen on a regular basis. You cup some water in your palm and splash it on his skin to cleanse it.

“Isn’t that how the saying goes?” He answers your question with one of his own while dragging his mustache up the length of your neck, ticking you with his stray hairs, hot breath flowing about your face.

“You only know that saying because of me.” You add, taking credit for his adoption of your lingo.

“It’s a good one.” He kisses your cheek first before nibbling on your earlobe to hear you sweetly whine for him. “That’s something we don’t have on Viltrum.”

“What’s that?” You ask, sensing the answer to this query but wanting to hear him say it.

“Jokes.” He shrugs. “Humor.”

“Your people laugh, don’t they?” You turn your head to look him in the eye. “Everyone laughs.”

“That very well may be true, but it’s what we laugh at that doesn’t align.” His clarification is made clear when your eyes become fixed on the murky water, now clouded with blood and silt.

“Oh.” You are reminded of the brutality of his race and why he is feared, right down to the kind of person he is in front of others when you’re with him. “That’s right.”

Conquest senses you sort of shut down, slumping forward in his arms. You notice he treats you differently when you are in public. He’s a bit colder. His soft side concealed. He cannot risk giving anyone ammunition against you, deciding the best way to overcome that is to be so devoutly and aggressively defensive of you that no one dares to test him.

“I scare you at times.” Conquest beats you to the punch he thinks you’re preparing. “You can say it.”

“It’s true, you’re scary.” You agree flatly. “But I am not scared of you.”

“How does that work?” Conquest is unable to see the correlation, requiring an explanation.

“Your strength. Your anger. The way people cower when they hear you speak.” You begin listing things, feeling Conquest’s posture fail him with every mention. “That is, in itself, objectively scary. But that’s your intent, isn’t it? To frighten others.”

“Mmm…” He listens, hearing all the things he tells himself but finding they sound differently coming from your mouth.

“I know you never have the intent to frighten me, though.” You enlighten him, making the distinction clear for even him to see.  “I can tell the difference.”

“How does it make you feel when I, for instance…” He pauses, taking the time to properly gather his thoughts “Kill in the name of protecting what’s mine.”

“Oh, you mean like when you punched the head off the bartender that tried to slip drugs into my cocktail last week?”

“Yeah.” Conquest grins, prideful for the move. “That.”

“I think it’s pretty hot.” You swiftly turn around to straddle his waist, rubbing yourself against him. His gargantuan hands settle at your hips and the breadth of his palm could nearly serve as a full-fledged belt.

He’s stiff as can be. You’re as wet as the day is long. He can feel the slick variation in the presence of your slippery juices and the surrounding water. Conquest ruts upward and his cock collides with your swollen clit, shifting it with much pressure. A jolt of sensation travels through you like an electric zap. You want more, feeding into the friction by continuously grinding against his exposed shaft.

“Is that right?” Conquest asks in a quieter tone, just above a whisper. There’s a slight rasp in his typical speaking voice that grows thicker when he talks so softly. It sends tingles down your spine as he anchors your hips to him, pushing you down harder on his cock. He still has not breached inside yet, enjoying this time he’s sliding you back and forth. 

You moan and whimper, all weight of responsibility removed as you’re able to just sit there and let him shift you. You surrender to his hold as he flexes his cock. You feel it pulsate between your thighs so you arch your back into it, tucking your face beneath his chin to kiss the stubble on his Adam’s apple all the way up to his jawline.

He lifts his mechanical limb, some suds clinging to the plates of metal as it shines. The blots of bubbles drip from his arm into your hair as he cups your face, lifting your chin so he can press his mouth to yours. His wiry mustache pokes your upper lip upon the initial touch, and you revel in the sharpness; like a thorn on a rose. His mouth is scarred and the taste of blood lingers on his tongue when it slips past your teeth.

He breaks the kiss first, pulling away to watch as you lick your lips. Conquest sees a smear of red making it look like lipstick and his expression takes on an apologetic appearance as he swipes his thumb against your mouth to try and collect it. Though instead, you catch him unexpectedly by opening your chops to suck on the digit, biting it fiercely. His jagged teeth flash at you and he resembles a shark with that pointed maw of his, bearing down on his own lip. He shoots a coy sneer at you, playful while knowing better than to second guess your pursuits.

You hold onto his hand while sucking his thumb, dragging the digit in and out of your mouth like sucking his cock. Your teeth rake harshly against it as you pull it out with a loud pop, savoring the powerful notes of iron. “Yeah, that’s right.”

He becomes lost in thought while admiring and examining you. After a few moments, you feel his eyes stray and descend along with the swift disappearance of his smile. You begin to wonder what’s going on in that head of his, cupping it to trace the tail end of his scar that rests at the apple of his cheek. You gaze into the eye with the fogged out iris, then back to his black and strained pupil. “What is it?”

“This.” His answer is simple but it holds immeasurable weight.

“The tub?” You play around, meeting his declaration with a rhetorical suggestion.

“No.” He chuckles dryly. “Any old trough could serve us just as well.”

“What makes this unique then?”

He picks off a couple waterlogged petals from your shoulder and drops them into the bath. “You.”

You bashfully grin at him, able to decipher that he’s going to say more. He’s left his mouth ajar like he’s thinking of what to mention next, but he doesn’t let the words leave. He seems distracted so you grind against him to get his attention. With an acquiescing groan, his eyes land back on you.

“Where’d you just go?” You ask, wanting to know where his thoughts have wandered.

Mental images flash through his perspective. With you as close as you are, they flicker back to his vanquished enemies. Your proximity reminds Conquest of how he would hold them close before breaking their necks, impaling their torso, or the taste of blood in his mouth after he’s just sprayed himself with viscera. He’s not defeated by his memories from mere moments ago, let alone through the many millennia he’s suffered this routine. He is able to decipher the contrast between then and the present. Contrarily, his heart and mind cannot fathom how he can find normalcy in this devilish dichotomy of being soft and gentle with you here and yet mercilessly brutal out there. “Nowhere important.”

“I can’t believe it either.” You know what is going through his mind, opting to carry the weight for him. 

“I have lived for centuries.” He starts with a scoff. “It isn’t until now that I am finally  starting to understand why you earthlings are able to make the most of your inconceivably short lives.”

“Oh yeah?” You pry, wanting to know his perspective on this touching secret. “And how do you figure that?”

“There’s no time to lose. Not a second.” Conquest shakes his head from side to side, defeated in coming up with loopholes or deviations in this harsh truth. “You choose to fill it with laughter and joy, meaningless commodities in my culture.”

“Not just that.” You trace his scar again, fluttering your eyelids closed to kiss his lips before reopening your eyes. “We do it for love.”

“Love.” He repeats the word as if he never thought he would recite it himself. “I wish that was all it took.”

“But it is.” You reason astutely. “The lie that hate could ever outweigh it is as old as time.”

“I don’t think there’s any hope in getting my people to come to terms with their whole identity being a lie.” He finds humor in the darkness, smirking with a shrug of his wide shoulders.

“What about you?” You ask, wanting his perspective now.

“Hm?” He’s unsure what you’re getting at.

“Do you believe love is all it takes?” 

He pauses for a couple seconds and softens. You see his pupil grow in size with a subtle glisten appearing  at his water line before his eyes meet yours. “I do now.” 

Neither of you can wait any longer. As you wrap your arms around his neck, he lifts you up by the hips and seats you directly on his cock. The heat of the bath is no match for your scorching entrance and he groans loudly at that first thrust. He’s nowhere close to being all the way in yet as his head is barely pushed past your internal threshold. You cry out loudly into his ear, already so full and wanting more.

He thrusts upwards and moves you down at the same time. Thinking this is the perfect opportunity, you begin to bite his neck, breathing heavily while sucking on the sweet spot where his jawline meets his jugular. With each thrust, you arch into it again. As a result, your clit drags against his pubic wreath and his bushy hair adds delicious friction.

Feeling confident you want to show him what you’re made of, you use the force of your weight to begin thrusting down onto him, almost slamming against his pelvis though painfully lagged down by the bath. Wave after wave sloshes out, but neither of you care anymore. 

In dire need of air, you pull back to look Conquest in the face as you fuck him. You support yourself with both palms to his chest, staring into his open mouth to watch his tongue flex and curl as he grunts. You want to be bitten by those teeth. Licked by that tongue. But first…

You take his mechanical fist from where it lies on your hip and move it to your neck whispering, “Choke me.”

Conquest promptly clamps that hand around your throat. He affords you enough ability to still breathe through being squeezed. He adjusts his hold with intermittent tightness so he can hear you gasp and go silent. You’re getting pinched by the plates moving against each other, like little fires igniting on your skin. His expressions tell all, that no matter how often this happens, you’re star struck by his handsomeness and that fierce soul of his. Not to mention the sheer fact he chose you.

He yanks you towards him by the throat, his battered and beaten face barely an inch in front of yours. He studies your expressions as he impales you on his cock. The breath of your exasperation falls on his skin and he inhales it like smoke before being overcome with obsession for you and driving his tongue into your open mouth. It swirls around sloppily and savagely parts from you with a rough kiss, but before he could recede completely, you chomp on his lip. He retracts it through the pain, allowing you to clench your jaws harder as it snaps back into his face.

Conquest releases your neck but doesn’t fully let go, speaking words into your mouth for you to swallow up. “Watch out. This kitten bites.”

“I bet you bite harder.” You challenge, sultry with your words.

“I’m willing to test it.” He accepts your proposal, moving his hand up to hold your head and expose your neck. He hums to himself as he admires your heartbeat thrumming beneath the surface of your skin. With a widening of his mouth, you suddenly are made aware of every distinct tooth, its angle and sharpness as each one has you in its vice. He clenches his jaw, then releases it but only slightly, repetitively meeting your flesh with the sting of his initial bite, reviving all the nerves he’s set aflame. He could easily chew your throat right out of your neck, esophagus and all, yet he treats you with the perfect measure of force and restraint, never pushing you into the danger zone.

As his rakes and nibbles move down, he starts to explore your chest, testing the waters by switching his attention to your nipples. He moves his head between both breasts as he attempts to sample both at the same time, realizing the attempts are futile. The solution he comes up with is to cup both from the bottom and smoosh them to his face.

“Hnnnngh…” You vocalize when the cool wind hits the saliva he’s slathered all over you. When he pulls away, you get a wave of chills. Your nipples stiffen even more, and it becomes difficult to disguise your goosebumps. “Don’t stop… It’s cold.”

“We can’t be having that, can’t we?” Conquest’s grin spreads across his face as he smiles at you. You’re so precious to him. He finds honor in providing you with comfort, especially knowing he’s lacked so much in his lifetime.

While it’s also about time to change location, he bestows you with a parting bite. However, with his cock still driven into you and his mouth still latched to a breast, he levitates out of the tub. A surge of bath water splatters to the floor with the disruption as he gives you a few thrusts in midair. You partly feel like you’re levitating while also are made astutely aware of just how exactly he’s holding you up.

Your eyes scan your surroundings as they move past you with Conquest still lazily rutting as you emit a bemused giggle or two. He flies you into the next room where you both soak the nearest bed. He lets go of his hold on your breasts with his mouth to rest you on the warm sheets atop the plush mattress. He sets you down gently on your back so that he may climb over you, casting his shadow with the dimmed overhead light. There is still some spittle present on his lip from his exploration of your body just now and he can see that you want to taste it. “I know just what you need.”

“I need you.” You pull his face closer by grabbing his head in your hands. As he dips lower to fulfill your wish with zealous kisses, he is slamming into your pussy until his veiny length has fully vanished into you. 

Your legs are suspended in the air and while Conquest is still tastefully crushing you with his weight, he takes both by the back of the knees and dexterously folds you in half, unexpectedly pushing all air out of your lungs. You exclaim with every thrust, high-pitched and continuous despite not being able to take in a proper lungful. “Oh! Fuck! Yes! Harder!”

Conquest straightens his posture and watches his girth get swallowed up by your entrance. He rears back to completely exit you before slamming at full force. You are able to feel every inch as it drags against your walls and the flex of his cock when it involuntarily twitches before he does it again. You go from stark empty to an unfathomable wholeness over and over and over. Before long, it appears that you are getting cock dumb, unsure if you can hold out for any longer before exploding, but he’s not through yet.

“You know that’s my favorite part.” He tosses your right leg to the side and helps adjust you to turning along with it. While sitting on his knees, he’s holding your left leg and hugging it to his torso. This different position makes you feel his cock from a new angle, hitting parts you didn’t feel before. The elating sensations cause you to grab fistfuls of bedding, burying your face into the covers absentmindedly. Your muffled screams are interrupted when you feel his flesh hand scale your scalp to get a grip on your hair so that he can yanks you upward and listen to you scream. “All the pretty noises you make.”

You begin to fully embrace your exclamations, no longer holding back or restraining yourself. You are able to relax a bit on your side as he takes the globe of your ass, jostling, jiggling and slapping it with his mechanical hand to watch the fiery welts spread across your cheeks. It stings like hell, burning like you’re being hit with a paddle, but he does it again, then a third time before upping the ante.

He moves you with ease as you weigh nothing in his arms. He does not wait for your brain to catch up to his actions. Instead, he puts you exactly where he wants you by knocking your other leg over so that he can take you up by the hips and prop you on your knees. You’re on your stomach now with spread legs again. He grabs himself by the base of his cock, tapping your clit by using the head as a wand to make you come on it. A few methodical swipes on your blushing bulb were all it took and you’re gushing more slick; more than enough lubricant to finish things off. “That’s it. Nice and juicy.”

He pushes himself inside and pauses to watch you take it when you whine. Your tightness clenches around him as he goes deeper. Conquest keeps one hand tangled in your hair with your head turned to the side and shoved into the sheets. He uses the mattress’ natural bounce to fuck you to completion. He is obsessed with the way this feels. After wanting to spread you wider, he carefully scoots your knees more apart until you’re practically performing the splits on his cock.

Conquest loves your enthusiasm. He’s overwhelmed by it, falling forward with a free hand keeping him upright as it rests beside your head. His pace increases and he’s thrusting with more force. To prepare for his end, you arch as far as you can, feeling scorpioned with your ass practically lapsed over tea kettle. “Does my… unf…kitten like that?”

You cannot enunciate, reduced to letting out a series of ‘uh-huhs’ in hopes that suffices as a response. It all gets caught in your throat when you feel his tongue along your spine before some encouraging bites bloom on your shoulder. He does not remove his mouth, holding himself there with a hand still tangled in your hair. His stature is growing sloppy and faltering. He grunts as he bites harder and the pain of his maw enhances the bliss inside.

His cock is punching you just right. Conquest is expressive and loud in your ear. Your walls constrict around him, pushing him over the edge. He’s truly made a mess of you and it’s about to get worse. “Ughhh….”

“Blazing heat spills out of you as he keeps thrusting. Just as the remnants of the bath seep into the sheets, you allow his release to soak the bed beneath you. What’s another dampened surface across the rest? You both are riding the high long after the fact to the point both of you still feel like you’re coming. It is a dazzling relief, and you almost wish it would never end. All friction is lost as he is slip-sliding with no resistance whatsoever, giving you a few more pumps for good measure before pulling out. It’s like a cork was just unplugged as his come streams out of your gaping hole and down your thighs. You’re bashful, hiding your face in covers again while still on your knees with legs spread, afraid to look. “It’s getting everywhere, isn’t it?”

“Exactly where it should be.” He jokes, laying himself across your back to kiss your temple. Conquest has let go of his hold on your hair so that he may sit up, allowing you to slump into a puddle on the bed with the rest of the dampness. He can tell you’re tired by the way you collapse and roll over, joining you by lying next to your spot to catch his breath while staring up at the ceiling. “I wish it could be like this all the time. I miss you so terribly when I am gone.”

“Why can’t it?” You ask, ears perked at his confession.

“You know why.” He answers rhetorically, slight disappointment in his tone.

You rest in silence when the elephant in the room finally is finally present and you think up something to say on the spot. “Do you think one day we could make that happen?”

“Maybe not now, but in the future, I will make it so.” Conquest breaks his gaze from the ceiling and sets his sights on you, communicating this covenant by pushing a tuft of hair behind your ear. “I promise.”

If he says it, then it will be. You have no requirement of anything more. You know he means true. To set this promise in stone, you climb on top of him this time, and to his surprise, do everything over again with no care for the mess.

∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆

Taglist: @captxin-rex @gospelofme @fangirl-goes-nova @romanoffs-gf @sstarwarsss @r2d2staser @nahoney22 @ashotofspotchka @eclec-tech @art-of-the-twistedstitcher @only-a-simp-deals-in-absolutes @justalittletomato @twiggoblin @xsherryberryx @kriffclone @deewithani @tinker-tech @megafrost4 @freesia-writes @boontaeveboba @ahoeformando @arctrooper69 @taz-107 @lizzowinkyface @chad-something @nobody-expects-the-inquisitorius @merkitty49 @nonsenseandm3mes @id-rather-be-a-druid @storm89 @techs-stitches @the-chains-are-the-easy-part @succulent-momma @virtualexpertanchor @padawancat97 @hurtbywhisperedmuses @misogirl828 @seriowan @plushymiku-blog @the-dathomirian-jedi @ladykatakuri @mysticalgalaxysalad @talesfrommedinastation @dukeoftheblackstar @littlecrowtime

[vetckkie]

girl get off that c.ai and embrace the 'x reader'

[munsonstorm]

For Cryin’ Out Loud

pairing: post-outbreak! joel miller x fem!reader

how to help the palestinians and what it means to write for the last of us characters

word count: 7.9k

description: living with joel is complicated, especially when you can’t sleep due to nightmares. when you find yourself in his bed, you can’t help yourself. but joel sure can. give him a day to mull it over.

warnings: pretty slow burn, kinda forced proximity, kinda angsty, unspecified age gap (don’t like it, don’t read it), joel gives you tons of nicknames (darlin’, kiddo, etc.), discussions of nightmares and possible mental illnesses, some fluff, reader isn’t really described, joel is kinda a gaslighter, he’s also a bit pervy, unprotected p in v (wrap it y’all), oral (f! receiving), dirty talk, joel like worships you!!!!!, joel licks his fingers clean, giving genitalia pronouns, joel’s a big boy. think that’s it. lemme know what I missed!

author’s note: I really enjoyed writing this. the idea is pretty simple but I love domestic jackson!joel. I promise i’ll try to switch it up soon and write something that isn’t jackson!era lol. support your fav fics by reblogging and commenting!! thanks love ya <3

For some reason, you always find yourself standing at the threshold of the front door when you cannot sleep. 

The air was especially brisk tonight. You wrapped yourself in a gray chunky sweater you found in the lost and found in Jackson’s thrift store, hoping to regain some warmth. Your bed may have been comfortable, but it was the place where nightmares usually plagued you. 

It was too late to be awake, and you knew that if you were caught, you would hear it from Joel. He always reprimanded you. Every time he caught you up late, it was like your father woke up and found your hand in the cookie jar. 

The dynamic between you two had changed since arriving in Jackson, and you almost resented him for it. When it was just you, him, and Ellie, you were managing a family unit. Joel was always the protective father, you being the mom or the voice of reason, and Ellie being chaos. 

When Ellie and Joel’s relationship shifted, he took on a fatherly role for you. It bothered you. A lot. 

In a moment of contemplation, you hear footsteps coming down the steps behind you. 

He’s wearing flannel pajama pants and no shirt, his hairy tummy something you did not see often. 

“What are you doing awake?” He questions, his voice groggy with a twinge of annoyance. 

You do not feel like explaining yourself, but you knew you wouldn’t be able to get out of this situation without a justification. 

You huff, leaning your back against the door frame so you can get a full look at the broad man. “Can’t sleep. Thought staring into the darkness would help.”

He grunts, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. “How’s that workin’ for you, sweetheart?”

You could not close your eyes without the haunting dreams that seemed lively and so real. Every night, you had the same recurring ones. You were being chased, hunted, or murdered. Or all of the above. You would wake in a cold sweat, not wanting to shut your eyelids ever again. 

“Hm,” You say, staring back outside for a brief moment, “‘Was better when you weren’t looking over my shoulder.”

He chuckles, “Get back to bed.”

“I can’t, Joel.”

“You can and will. You’re no good when you’re tired.”

“If I close my eyes, Joel, I will just have the same goddamn nightmares I have every night. And I will end up doing what I’m doing now, which is trying to get some fresh air to forget them.”

“You’re not gonna forget ‘em with some fresh air. You just need to… get over them.”

The breeze picks up as soon as he says it, almost like the world knew the tension would have to be broken with some frigid air. You retort with, “And how do you get over yours?”

"I just accept them," he says, a hint of defensiveness in his tone. "I don't have time to dwell on them. There's always more important things to worry about."

"I'm more tired in the morning when I just endure them." You explain, trying not to cry about it. But you are so sick of them. The same thing every night.

“I get it. One day they will subside, I’m sure of it. But for now, you gotta-”

You just want him to shut up. At the same time, your mind is trying to remember the last time you did not have a nightmare. The memory makes your stomach churn. “You remember that one time we were forced to share that sleeping bag? Back in Pittsburgh?”

“Yeah,” His tone was wary, “What about it?”

"That was the first night I didn't have it." You explain, your voice a bit shaking at the insinuation. You don’t want to face the fact that Joel, the man that you have known for going on 10 years, kept your nightmares at bay. The same man who continuously rejected you and told you that he was old enough to be your dad. The same man that told you no, I don’t like you like that. I never will. That Joel. 

“And? Why are you bringing this up now?”

"Because every night I go to my bed and I'm forced to face them alone. When you were there... they didn't even bother holding my mind hostage.”

He took another step closer, closing some of the distance between you two. He towers over you and you can’t help but stare up at him in awe. Joel has always been a complicated part of your life. You consider him your sexual awakening, honestly, but he will never ever know that. Over the years, he’s only gotten more handsome. 

But now, he has a curious expression written all over his face.

"Are you saying you want to share a bed with me?" he asks, his voice gruff and low.

You suck in a deep breath, not wanting to answer. You knew that was stepping over a boundary for Joel. He liked his space. He didn’t like you impeding on that space, especially. Your bedroom was the furthest away from his for a reason.

"I don't know." You manage to say.

Joel's gaze darkened, his expression was completely unreadable. You wish you could read his mind, but you should be grateful you can not. 

Because in Joel’s mind, he’s trying to formulate a way to convince you to stay away from him altogether. The wall he has built over the last decade was intentional. He did not want to hurt you any further. He already knew you had feelings for him, but he was an old man. He did not want to drag you into his mess, all the baggage he carried. He looked after you, he shared a home with you, and that’s it. Strictly platonic. 

He shifted on his feet a little, unable to tear his eyes away from you. You shook like a little leaf.

"You don't know?" he repeated, his voice a low rumble.

You nod, "I don't know if I want that."

You do want that. But you want more, too. You knew you would be playing with fire. You would just be disappointed. 

Joel’s temptations are buried deep but they still fester every now and again. Some days he would catch a glance at you getting dressed in the crack of your door and have to take a cold shower. As soon as he felt those emotions bubble in his chest, he would try to distract himself. Maybe he would take a longer patrol. Maybe he would go to the Tipsy Bison and try to find a woman to take home. That one never really worked. 

“Well, what do you want then? Because standin’ at the door and letting all the cold air in ain’t gonna work for me or you.”

You look down at your picked-over fingernails and contemplate your next sentence. You don't want to be heartbroken in the morning when you wake up and he's there sleeping peacefully next to you and you're not... his.

"I want to sleep with you."

Joel was not expecting such a blunt response from you, but he appreciated you not beating around the bush about it. He gestures for you to step out of the doorway so he can shut the door, which you do. 

He looked down at you, his eyes raking over your face, taking in the exhaustion and uncertainty. 

"You sure?" he asked, his voice a gruff whisper.

You just nod as he locks the front door. You couldn’t believe you were doing this. 

Joel couldn’t believe it either. Maybe it was the tiredness or the instincts he felt to protect you, but he was not mad at the idea of sharing his bed with you. 

You signal for him to go upstairs, “You lead the way.”

-

Joel’s room was always off-limits to you. So when you step into his small little world, you take it all in. 

The artwork around the room was mainly nature landscapes. He had a big dresser right at the room's entrance with picture frames of Sarah, Ellie, and other family members. You were even included in one photo—a picture of you and him on some horses from last year. 

A shirt littered one side of the bed, so you took that as it was probably his side. Unfortunately for you, it was the right side. You felt a pang of guilt realizing you would probably end up restlessly lying in Joel’s bed if you were stuck on the left. 

Before he can pull back the blanket for himself, you stop him. 

“Uh, can I sleep on that side?”

He completely halts in his motions, turning his head towards you with a blank expression. “My side? Why?”

You lick your lips, already regretting this whole thing. 

“Because I have had this superstition since I was a kid that I could only sleep on the right side of the bed."

Joel wants to laugh, but he doesn’t. He can tell you are at war in your head about the question, your expression practically anticipating his rejection. 

"Superstitions, huh?" he said, a hint of a smirk playing on his lips."You and your weird beliefs."

You watch as he crosses to the other side of the bed and lifts the blanket. Is he actually letting you have his side? Maybe he doesn’t hate you. 

“You could also call it a compulsion, but superstitions seem more fun and less like a mental illness.”

He laughs this time, his deep chuckle making you feel a bit more relaxed about the situation. You did not feel like a burden as much. You walk to the right side and pull back his navy blue sheets and blanket. The spot looks warm and inviting so when you crawl in next to Joel, you start to realize that you’re back in the same situation you were in years ago in that sleeping bag. He was so close and warm and you wanted nothing more but for him to hold you and keep you comfortable.

But then another thing came to mind before you could imagine his arms around you. 

You usually sleep on your right side or back, but now you don't know what to do because you didn't know how Joel slept.

"Do you sleep on your side or back?"

Joel studies you as you fidget beside him, your uncertainty causing him to smirk slightly. It was almost endearing, seeing you be completely out of control of your surroundings. He remembers back when you were traveling with him you had an obsessive need to straighten up everything before you fell asleep. You had to roll yourself up in your sleeping bag the same way every night. 

"Usually on my back," he said finally. "But I can sleep on my side, too."

You swallow, trying to picture yourself sleeping. For some reason you felt the urge to have control of the situation, dictating exactly how he has to sleep, too. "Can I... I'll sleep on my side if you can sleep on your back? Is that okay?"

Joel had to suppress a smirk at your request. You knew he was trying to hold back a snarky remark. Instead, he surprises you.

"Sure, you can sleep on your side," he agreed, shifting his body weight onto his back, "’n I'll sleep on my back. No big deal."

You turn to face him, tucking the pillow further under your head. You can tell his eyes are heavy from exhaustion. You know it's time to shut up, to go to sleep, but you feel the need to say something else to him. Sometimes your brain concocts questions and statements and you know you shouldn’t say them, but your mouth betrays you.  

"When was the last time you had a girl in your bed?"

Why the fuck would you ask that? You think to yourself. It fell out of your mouth like drool.

Joel's eyes widened at your blunt question, surprise and a hint of embarrassment coloring his expression. You knew he was probably just expecting you to lay here next to him, maybe roll around a bit, then sleep. But instead, it’s an interrogation.

He took a deep breath, his mind rattling around as he tried to think of a response. He didn't want to admit what his genuine answer was to you, but he too could not help himself.

"Why do you want to know that?" he asks, his voice steely.

You hate that he even responded because now you needed to defend yourself.

"I uh, don't know. I don't know why it matters."

Joel chuckled softly, noting that you probably just had a case of word vomit. You always told him you were infamous for putting your foot in your mouth, especially in awkward situations.

"Curiosity got the better of you, huh?" he asks, rubbing his face with his hands. “You just can’t help yourself, sweetheart.”

He shifted slightly, rolling onto his side to face you, his gaze studying your expression.

You smirk, grateful that he's letting it slide. When he turns onto his side and he's at eye level with you, your face drops a bit. He is ruining the vision in your head. He’s throwing a wrench in your plans.

"You're supposed to be on your back, sir."

Joel couldn't help but chuckle softly at your comment. He knew he was supposed to be on his back, but the new angle allowed him to see you better in the faint moonlight.

"Don't worry," he said, a hint of humor in his voice. "I'll turn back over in a minute. Just... enjoying the view for a bit."

You roll your eyes, lifting your hands from under the covers and lightly hitting his arm. You knew he was just fucking with you now. 

"Okay, for that, I want to know the answer to my stupid question."

Joel let out a low laugh, the sound rumbling deep in his chest. He shook his head, amused by your persistence. You start to think about it and you have never really seen him bring anyone home. Maybe it had been a very long time and he was embarrassed. 

"Alright, alright," he said, a hint of resignation in his voice. "Last time I had a girl in my bed..."

He paused for a moment, his eyes dropping to the covers, his mind racing to find the right words.

"Go on..."

Joel took another deep breath, his voice dropping even lower as he spoke.

"It's been a long time, kiddo," he admitted, his voice pierced with a bit of shame. "Almost ten years, if I'm being honest."

Your eyes widen in surprise. "No way... You've never just... got it on with someone in bed?"

Joel's face flushed with embarrassment at your blunt question, a mix of shock and slight irritation flashing across his eyes.

"Jesus, you really don't hold back, do ya?" he muttered. He shifts a bit, trying to get comfortable in a different way. He hadn't expected the conversation to turn so personal, so quickly and he did not want to face you anymore. He was mortified. 

You mentally slap yourself in the face.

"I'm sorry, I am just tired and delusional. Uh, you don't have to answer that."

Joel could practically feel the humiliation radiating off you and he too felt the exact same way. You knew how to add to an already awkward situation.

"No, no, it's fine," he reassured you, his voice a bit gentler now. "I get it. You're tired, and your filter has taken a backseat."

"Yeah, exactly..."

He shifted on the bed, turning onto his back again, his gaze shifting to the ceiling, avoiding your curious stare.

You could not help but stare at his side profile. A prominent straight nose. His downturned lips are surrounded by some fine lines that show his age. He was a beautiful man now, but you can’t help but imagine him back in his 20s. He had to have been a hit with the ladies back then.

Joel could feel your gaze on him, studying his face. And while you were not scrutinizing him, he felt like a commodity in a museum or something.  He forced himself to keep his gaze on the ceiling, refusing to meet your eyes.

"So… ten years and no sex?”

You could seriously, not help yourself.

"Correct.” He grumbles, still not meeting your stare.

"Damn, Joel." You mutter, adjusting a bit to sit up a little more on your pillow. "I seriously thought you were sleeping around the whole time we have been in Jackson.”

He finally turns your way, a bit of offense on his face. “Why would you think that?”

You shrug, not wanting to insult him. But that’s how you formulated your grudge towards him. It was easy to just chalk everything up to problems with random women you have seen around town. 

“You just give off the energy…”

“What?”

You huff, laying back on the pillow. “I don’t know, Joel! I feel like when I’m around you all the ladies think you’re handsome. They stare.”

“They are staring because you’re always following me around and we aren’t married or… together. They think we are odd.” 

You had never heard such things around Jackson, but it does sort of make sense. Everyone was probably just confused because you two lived together but were not a couple. You can admit it is bizarre, but it just did not feel like an option any other way, in your mind. So Tommy gave you two a bigger house and you set up separate rooms. 

But in actuality, Joel secretly told Tommy that he did not want you too far from him. So when Tommy couldn’t give you any other houses nearby, Joel just told him that you two would be roommates.

“Well fuck ‘em.” You mutter, trying not to sound too offended by the thought of people gossiping about you two.

Joel just nods. You settle by tucking your arm under your pillow. You yawn, the exhaustion now taking over your body. You watch Joel grab a pair of reading glasses from the side table and a book. You decide not to bother him, especially because he probably wanted to just read himself to sleep instead of being interrogated by you any further.

You close your eyes and eventually fall asleep. The deeper you get, Joel notices how your breathing pattern changes. When he’s finally ready to get some shut-eye as well, he watches as your body crawls closer to him. Your arm swings over his stomach and rests on his forearm. He is so shocked he does not move a muscle. 

You adjust some more, not knowing what you are doing. Your leg creeps up and tucks right between his. You snuggle your face right into his chest. The only movement Joel decides to make is slinging his arm over your shoulders to pull you in tighter. 

It’s the first time in years that you two slept soundly, with no interruptions. No nightmares, no sudden intrusions, nothing. Silence and snores fill the room and that’s it.

-

When you wake up, it’s slow and gradual. Your brain hardly computes that you’re laying on top of Joel’s shirtless frame, until your hand runs across his warm tummy. 

You crook your neck up, looking at the handsome man you are spreading across. 

His lips are slightly ajar, letting out hardly-there snores. They are so pretty and pink and you cannot help but touch them with feather-like fingertips. You would feel so guilty waking him up-

His eyes slowly open taking notice of your actions even though you tried not to stir him. Your eyes fly open in shock, but he does not seem very annoyed. He smiles. 

“Mornin’ darlin’,” He says in a deep sleep-laced voice. You smile back at him, loving that he decided to call you the nickname you always got giddy over. You press your fingers into his chest before replying.

“I didn’t have a nightmare.”

His hand comes up from your shoulders and tucks some hair behind your ear as he stares down at you, “That’s good kiddo. I’m glad you slept well.”

The intimacy is almost too much. The way this is how it would be if you woke up to Joel every morning. It sends your brain into overdrive and you force yourself to ruin it a bit.

“Woulda slept even better if you didn’t talk so much in your sleep.”

Joel froze for a moment, his cheeks immediately flushing pink with embarrassment. He sits up a bit more, adjusting to the brighter lighting in his room. He knew he had a problem with talking in his sleep. Ellie used to talk about it all the time. He dreaded hearing what he was saying while curled up next to you.

"Uh... what did I say?" he asked, trying to maintain his composure.

"Something about it felt so good to be pressed up against someone, I don't know..." 

You could not help yourself and started to laugh. You knew you were going to get a rise out of him. 

Joel's face flushed an even deeper shade of pink as you started to laugh, clearly amused by your joke. He could feel his heart racing in his chest, his mind racing as he tried to come up with an excuse. He was just dreaming, it was not about you. 

"W-what?" he spluttered out instead of making an excuse. "I didn't... I didn't say anything like that."

You have a shit-eating grin on your face and you press your hands on his chest to prop yourself up. You enjoyed watching him squirm.

Joel's eyes flickered down to your hands on his chest. He sickly thought they felt so right placed there. He imagined what you would look like fully mounting him. 

He tried to keep his expression neutral, but you could see through his stone-cold exterior.

"You're messing with me, aren't you?" he grumbled, a hint of suspicion in his voice.

"Fully fuckin' with you." You giggle, hoping he is not really that mad at you. 

“You’re a brat.”

You move your foot slightly, running it up his leg. It sends shockwaves up his body, having you so close and moving around so seamlessly. 

"No, you said something about how beautiful, alluring, and incredible I am. Said I was the girl of your dreams…"

"Yeah, right," he said, a hint of playful sarcasm in his voice. "You expect me to believe that?"

"So, you don't believe me?"

"No, I don't believe you," he says, his voice stern but playful. "I think you're a dirty little liar, trying to play me for a fool."

"A dirty little liar, huh? Well, it's good to know that you don't think I'm beautiful, alluring, and incredible." You giggle at his acknowledgment, knowing he caught you red-handed.

"Oh, I never said that," he smirked, a hint of teasing in his voice. "You are all of those things, darlin’. But you're also a dirty little liar who likes to play games."

"So you think I'm beautiful?" You crack, the biggest smile painted on your face. You don’t even care that he’s calling you a liar because it does not matter. Joel thinks you are beautiful. 

“‘Course I do.”

You push yourself up onto your butt, sitting crisscross next to him. He secretly wishes you were still curled up on top of him. 

“You always this nice in the morning?” You ponder, your fingertips starting to toy with the hair on his stomach. He tries not to pay mind to it, letting you have full access to touch him. 

But it’s driving him insane. The way you look freshly woken up, completely enamored with the idea of him calling you beautiful. You have some puffiness under your eyes and your lips are more swollen than usual.

“I am always nice to you.”

You let out a scoff, “No, you’re not.”

He notices the shift in your tone and starts to get defensive, “Now you’re just lyin’.” 

Joel always loved to gaslight you in these situations. You knew better than to let him get away with it, especially now. “No there was that one time you told me you did not like me and that you would never like me. How you are old enough to be my dad-”

“Because I am!”

And there’s the wall. The only constant in you two’s relationship. He was so good at throwing it up when feelings were being expressed. When vulnerability was presented, Joel could not help but reject it. 

“And the world’s fuckin’ ended, Joel! Big deal!” You almost yell, moving your hands from him. 

Why does he already miss your hands?

He huffs, crossing his arms over his soft chest. “We have had this conversation for the last 10 years.’M not sure why we keep rehashing it.”

“And every time you turn me down it’s another fuckin’ stab in the heart.”

“You know why we can’t,” He practically growls. You can not stand to even look at him anymore with your bitterness and irritation taking over. 

“Whatever, Joel.” 

As soon as you say it, you’re already leaving his room and heading to your own. When you slam the door, you hope you have made your point. You want to scream and punch a hole in the wall, but instead you just furiously stomp around the room and grab your clothes. You had patrol at noon, so you needed to get to the mess hall before breakfast was over. You try not to cry as you strip down and get dressed.

Joel sits in bed, reeling. He hates that it has become a conversation every six months. He hated that rejecting you always sent you into a spiral of hating him for extended periods. It’s not that he did not want you, it was simply just not in the cards. He was too old to be in love. He was too old to play house with you. He just could not submit to the idea of leading you on, especially because you had so much more life to live. 

He finally works up the courage to get out of bed and put on some clothes. He opts for putting on his typical jeans and thick flannel. It was getting colder and he knew by the end of the winter, you would end up with half his flannels anyway, so he had to enjoy them while he had them. 

You storm downstairs, going to the back door for your boots when you spot him in the kitchen. 

“You got pat-”

“Yes.” You respond quickly, shoving your foot into your shoes. He stands behind you with a mug full of tea, watching your every move. 

“Who are you-”

“Jesse.”

He was asking his usual questions, which you were not in the mood to answer. 

“Hey, can you-”

You snap your head back at him, giving him the glare you gave him as a warning usually. By now, he takes it as a hint and backs off. But not this time. 

“Can I what?”

He rolls his eyes, “Can you fuckin’ not be a brat about this?”

You wish your glare came with knives. If that were the case, Joel Miller would be dead on his kitchen floor. 

You are so thrown off by the question that you just watch him get angrier when you do not respond. 

“Are you serious, right now?” You press, keeping your voice from cracking. 

He brings the mug up to his mouth, taking an obnoxious sip. When he pulls the mug away, you notice how steaming it is. “You always pull this shit-”

“No, you do! You do this shit to me every fuckin’ time, Joel. You sweet talk me, make me feel comfortable, have me lapping everything up in the palm of your hands, and then you snatch it away. Then have the audacity to get mad at me!”

You are yelling now and it is throwing him off. Joel knows better than to interrupt you like you do to him. You were the kind of person who would calm down if you felt heard. 

The way he knew you down to your core made this all so painful. Because if he was not so stubborn and true to his convictions, he would have fucked you the moment you touched his lips this morning. 

“I ain’t tryin’ to make this harder than-” “Too fuckin’ late.”

You think back to the moment last night when you knew you were going to hurt your own feelings by sleeping with him. You knew better, yet here you are, still blaming him for your stupidity.

He stands there, still holding his mug, staring you down like a wounded doe who got pierced with an arrow. He feels guilty like he misled you. Before he can say anything, you are lacing up your boots and leaving out the front door without another word. 

-

All day long, Joel wanders around the house trying to get rid of the pit in his stomach. Nothing works. A shower. Reading a book. Cutting wood. As soon as he tried to use laundry as a distraction, he reached into his hamper and found one of your t-shirts. He held it close and smelled it, trying to wrap his head around how he got here. 

You spend all day, silently fuming on horseback with Jesse. When he tries to get you to open up, you ice him out and tell him to focus on the trail in front of him. 

You get back by sundown, the sun setting making it a lot chiller than you expected. You decide to take the long way home, wanting to avoid being home for as long as possible. You were not ready to face Joel, let alone share a space with him. But unfortunately, during your patrol, you fell into some mud and needed a shower. The more time it spent on your clothes and body, the grosser you felt. 

You open the front door, announcing that you are home. It was a habit you and Joel developed after you both pulled guns on each other during late-night arrivals. 

You hear Joel mumble something from the living room, but you do not stop to listen and continue on your way upstairs to the bathroom. 

You strip down as soon as the door is closed, tossing your muddy clothing into a hamper in the corner. You would get them washed and hung as soon as you shower off. 

You hear Joel’s footsteps creaking around the upstairs hallway as you scrub your body with homemade soap and warm water. 

When you start to dry yourself off, you hear Joel grunting something in the hallway. You wrap yourself in a towel and peek your head out the door. He’s on his hands and knees wiping something off the hardwood. “What’s goin’ on?”

He looks up at you, your body only covered in a bleach-stained blue towel. It makes his head spin. He can’t even be mad that you tracked in mud. 

He swallows, gripping the cloth he’s using tighter. “You got mud everywhere.”

You step out, not even really thinking about the fact that you are not properly dressed in front of Joel. You were still mad at him, anyway. Who cares what he thinks?

“Sorry, I could’ve cleaned it up.”

He returns to wiping the wood, “It’s fine, I got it, kiddo.”

You accept his response and move on to your room, but the draft you leave behind drifts to Joel’s nostrils. Your soap smells like lavender and it always sends his mind racing when you are fresh from a shower. He clears his throat, trying to get through the emotions filling his chest. 

But it’s been like this all day. You’re all around him even when you’re not physically here. How can he get away from you? Why is he trying to run in the first place?

He’s on his knees in your hallway, cleaning up your mess, sniffing the air you leave behind because he’s fucking in love with you and he cannot help himself anymore. 

Joel starts to think about how peaceful he felt having you next to him last night and how he would love to feel that way every night. For once he’s not thinking about what everyone else would think. For once he’s thinking selfishly and caving into every desire he has ever pondered about you. How would you feel under him? How would your lips feel pressed against his pulse point? 

His body was on fire, thinking about you. 

You are fiddling with some clothes in your dresser after you flick on the overhead light. You do not hear him come into your room behind you. 

You are so wrapped up in your own thoughts that when he clears his throat to announce he’s in your room, you scream. Loud. 

“For cryin’ out loud, woman!” 

You grip your towel tighter when you turn and see him standing at your mercy. 

“Joel, what the fuck?” You yell, gesturing to the fact that you are practically naked. He does not care, of course, and his ears are ringing from your piercing scream. He gathers himself as you shift back, trying to create some distance from him.

He is trying not to gawk at the fact that your grip on the towel against your chest is only pushing up your cleavage. He’s biting back everything. “Can we talk?”

“Talk about what? The fact you crept into my room when I was trying to change? Are we past boundaries now?” 

You are pissed, trying not to rattle off another million things to discuss with him. He’s only really talking about one thing. 

He scoffs at your last statement. “Boundaries were already out the window when you crawled into bed with me last night.”

Silence fills the room as you completely stop breathing. The anger you originally felt dissipates. 

“Joel-“

“I ain’t doin’ this back and forth anymore,” He starts shifting in his spot, unsure if he really should be doing this. “I can’t live how I've been livin’. Somethin’s gotta give.”

You furrow your eyebrows, confused. 

“You are the one who won’t give, Joel.”

As soon as you say it, he practically drags himself over to you. Completely destitute. You have never seen him look so desperate before. You can tell that he’s been at war with himself ever since you left this morning. His eyes never lied.

His hand creeps up your bare arm, leaving goosebumps in his wake. 

But then you remember his words from this morning. You start feeling like this is just a moment of weakness for him and that he will regret it later. You had to stop it before it was too late. You did not want to deal with the consequences. 

“Joel, you said we can’t-”

“Fuck what I said,” He cuts you off, “Do you want this?”

You stare into those brown eyes, searching for a sign of hesitance. You cannot believe Joel is being this vulnerable with you. 

But, you do want him. God, you have wanted him so badly for so long. You have searched for him in every man you have ever been with since knowing him. 

Your mouth opens but nothing comes out. He takes note of your parted lips, every word failing you at that moment.

“Darlin’-”

“Yes,” You finally manage. “Yes, I do want this.”

It’s all he needs. He closes the gap between you two by wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you into his space. His lips crash onto yours, not wasting another breath of air waiting to indulge in his sickest fantasies. 

You are all Joel ever dreamed about. He knew that once he caved and physically gave in, his world would be shot and everything would revolve around you. For years it had been a teetering object on a cliff, one nudge would have him falling. He always managed. But now, he was falling head first. 

His lips move so perfectly with your own. Your hand released your towel and found the tufts of his curls at the base of his head. You did not care that the article pooled around your feet, leaving you completely bare in front of Joel. You have wanted this all along. To be uncovered, to be stripped down to the rawest form. He broke the kiss briefly just to scan your naked body, his forehead pressed against your own. 

“Fuck, you are so beautiful.”

Your heart stutters as his hand traces your stomach down to your hips, all the way down to your ass. He stops there, grabbing a handful. 

“I need you,” You choke out before pressing your lips to his over and over again. “Right now.”

He mumbles “jump” into your mouth and you do so, his hands working quickly to hike you up onto his waist. He carries you to your bed, wasting no time dropping you onto your back. 

He cannot get enough of your soft, swollen lips. Every time he pulls away slightly, he dives in again even more aggressively than the last time. 

You are so hypnotized by the way he feels on top of you. In the light, he seems so much broader than he was last night. He’s still fully clothed, to your dismay. You start to tug at his shirt, motioning him to remove the articles that are in your way. 

He throws off his shirt before he stands up at the edge of the bed and pushes down his jeans. 

“Joel… I-“

He just shuts you up with another passionate kiss. It’s all tongue and teeth like he’s trying to melt into your mouth. Your hands trail up his back, gripping onto his shoulders, holding him down so he is pressing against your nude body. 

“God, I have wanted this for so long,” He sputters, trying not to sound too desperate. “Been wanting this.”

That’s when his hand reaches down between your thighs and gathers the wetness your slit has to offer. His fingers dance across it, starting from the top all the way to your spongy entrance. 

“Please, Joel.”

He loves the lust-laced tone you speak with when you say his name. It almost makes him cum there and then. 

You watch as he makes his way down your body, peppering kisses from your shoulder to your hip. When he parts your legs, you feel quite exposed. The adrenaline of being so spread for him manifests into a moan. 

“You are divine, baby.”

The use of that adjective is so-not-Joel that it makes you giggle. He notes your reaction and decides to sink down into you. When his mouth gets close to your core, it’s no longer a laughing matter. 

He uses his fingers again, using them to spread open your pussy lips. He cannot keep his eyes away from how dripping you are. “This all for me?”

“Y-yes, Joel.”

“God, I was a fuckin’ fool for so long. Could’ve had her earlier and I never fuckin’ caved. Such an idiot.”

Him giving your cunt pronouns was enough to have you throwing your head back and shuttering. His touch was magnetic like he knew exactly what buttons to push as he rubbed his fingers and palm over your core. 

“Yeah, you’ve been missin’ out. Every night…” You swallow before looking down at the man that is enamored with your pussy, “E-every night I would lay in this bed, fuckin’ myself just thinkin’ about you.”

He growls at the statement, before teasingly kissing your clit. “Every night, hm, kiddo?”

“God, yes.”

Your eyes squeeze shut as he leans forward more and dives in. His nose is pressed firmly against the top of your pussy, nudging forward every time his tongue enters your hole. When that motion became consistent, you began to note the rumblings in the pit of your stomach. A familiar build-up that you managed to get when you were playing with yourself. 

His fingers move in tandem with his lips and tongue. While his middle and pointer finger slide in and out of you, his lips wrap around your clit. It’s overwhelming and all-consuming. 

You do not know where to center yourself, so your hands grip the bed sheets you were completely soaking as Joel pulls the first orgasm out of you. 

“That’s it, baby, she’s cryin’ for me, hm?”

You hardly make a noise, the orgasm is so earth-shattering that you just writhe on the mattress. 

“Oh my god…” You groan, finally able to catch your breath. When Joel removes his fingers from you, you watch as he slowly brings them up to his lips.

When he inserts them in his mouth, you gawk at him, unsure how to react. He watches your expression and chuckles darkly.

“Mm, never seen a man enjoy the taste of ya?”

You shake your head. “Never expected to hear those words leave your mouth, either.”

“Wait ‘til you hear what else I got to say.”

He stands up beside the bed, grabs your hips, and brings them to the edge. He is tossing you around with ease, bringing your lower body flush with his. He yanks down his briefs, revealing himself to you. You instantly take notice of how well-endowed he is. You never thought you would ever be close to his cock, let alone have it lining up at your entrance. 

“Joel…“ You stop him with your small voice, but still welcoming him in with your legs opened wide, “I don’t know if it will fit.”

He grins, “It will, baby. Just relax for me, okay?”

You watch him slide his member along your center, the feeling so blissfully overstimulating. You whine a bit, raising your hips to his. 

But Joel continues his torture, enjoying the way you’re squirming under him. The way your eyebrows are knitted together, your eyes shut as you grind up into him. It’s the prettiest sight. 

“Ready?”

Your eyes fly open as you watch him ease his way into your core, the sound of squelching filling the room. You don’t think you have ever been this wet for someone. 

“Oh my fuckin’ god, Joel…”

He smiles as he inches in, “Squeezin’ my cock so good, darlin’.”

When he’s fully sheathed inside, he tests the waters by drawing out slowly. You roll your hips in a circle, trying to feel out every inch of him. He fits, but you know once he starts to move faster, the stretch will become overwhelming. 

He’s trying to focus and not blow his load immediately. You look so beautiful below him, your tits slowly shifting back and forth every time he draws back and forth. He reaches out, wanting to feel the flesh between his fingers. God, he craved every inch of you, he realizes. 

You open your legs as far as you can, letting him hit you at a different angle. The movement allows him to slip in a bit more seamlessly, so when he speeds up his thrusts, you don’t feel like you will completely split in half. 

He brings your leg up to hips, and feeling your soft delicate skin against him makes him lose all sense. His hips snap faster the more you moan out for him. 

“Fuckin’ Christ, girl. I can’t believe I was missin’ out on this cunt,” He babbles, “Need this cunt every day from now on. Gonna have you all to myself every night.”

You are too fucked out of your mind to read into those implications.

“‘M all yours, Joel.”

He smiles, slowing down a bit. “Keep talkin’ like that and ‘ll finish a lot sooner than you.”

You sit up a bit, your eyes flickering over his entire body. He notices you checking out his nude frame, which makes him feel a bit more bold. He leans down, capturing your lips in a hungry kiss. You love the way his tongue slips into your mouth so effortlessly. When he opens his mouth, his facial hair tickles your nose a bit which makes you smile. When his hips pick back up to a quicker pace, it sends you gasping into his mouth.

“Please, Joel,” You whine, that familiar build starts up but this time it’s like a freight train. Moving so quickly down every nerve ending in your body. “I’m gonna cum.”

“‘M with you, darlin’. Soak this dick. I’m right behind ya.”

His dirty talk causes the crash. Your body practically lifts off the mattress. You cry out so loud you are sure a neighbor could hear you. You try to gain your bearings, but you are panting like you just ran a mile. 

Joel fucks you through it, but the restriction your pussy is putting on his cock sends him over the edge. His hips stutter into yours, his seed emptying into your spent hole. He just keeps repeating your name as his thrusts slow down.

He has never had such a visceral orgasm in his life. His knees are weak and can hardly keep up his weight. He practically falls on top of you, which does not offend you at all. His warm sweaty body on top of you is almost reassuring. 

“You okay, kiddo?” He finally mutters as his hot breath fans the nape of your neck. You just nod, bringing your hand up to his salt and pepper hair. You tug lightly, smiling to yourself. 

“I’m more than okay.”

He finally sits up, his cock spilling out of you as he adjusts his position. Your hole drips a mixture of cum onto your newly clean sheets, but you could care less. It’s just another thing to hand wash tonight.

Joel stumbles to the middle of the room, picking up your bath towel. He uses it to wipe himself up before coming over to you. Your legs are still slightly apart so he decides to clean you up a bit. He’s gentle, knowing that you are probably still sensitive.

Once he finishes up, he crawls next to you as you continue to recover. Your bones felt like jello so standing up to adjust yourself was not an option.

So instead of facing him, you stare up at your ceiling fan as his eyes lock onto every detail of your profile. It brings him back to one night you two shared under the stars a couple of years ago. It was his turn to keep watch so you curled up in your sleeping bag by the fire. He admired you from across the flames, the orange hues lit up every angle of your face. It was at that moment that Joel realized that he could not picture his life without you. You had weaseled your way into every facet of his life and he used to resent the impact you had on him. You were younger, more patient but still stubborn like him. You made him laugh, like genuinely laugh, for the first time since the infection. While you may have been a bit impulsive with your emotions, he envied the way you could say exactly what you were thinking. 

Joel did not want to love you, but it was impossible not to. 

You finally look over at him, noticing the softness in his gaze.

“Are you okay?” You pose, scrunching your nose. 

He gives you a toothless smile, his eyes crinkling a bit. “I just can’t wait to sleep next to you for the rest of my life.”

tags of people I love and who may wanna read (no pressure I just love u) (some of u did ask tho) : @ashleyfilm @hockeyhughes @pedrospookie @guiltyasdave @amanitacowboy @myownwholewildworld

[simpingforjoel]

oh my oh my!!! this stubborn joel finally caving in and giving into his desires is so YUMMYYY!!! 🫠🥵❤️‍🔥