💌 helloooooo awesome people! it’s age gap april!!!
yes—i’m dedicating this month to age gaps because… why not >o< i feel like i don’t explore that dynamic enough and i’ve been wanting to for a while now!
not all of wyatt's characters will necessarily be aged up, i do have some fics planned with an aged-up reader 👀
Ი𐑼 masterlists
𓏲 ⋆ . kinktober 2025
˚. ⋆ to be added to taglist
currently working on:
long term -> request fills
short term -> my own ideas
requests: open / closed-only for now!
a/n: idk why i’m soooo obsessed w/ angst when it comes to true… but like. i won’t apologize for it !! part 2 w/ smut???
400 words
gif creds @topherfoxtrot
The truck was quiet.
Your legs were crossed toward the window, arms folded. True had one hand on the wheel and the other resting on the gearshift like he wasn’t still fuming from twenty minutes ago. You were both annoyed, both too stubborn to give in.
You couldn’t even remember how it started. Something petty. Something like the way he dismissed your opinion, or the way you brought up something he swore he didn’t want to talk about.
The event was non-negotiable. Friends were expecting you. Pictures would be taken. You were both supposed to be the fun couple—everyone always said so.
“Maybe when we get there,” you muttered, staring out the window, “you’ll remember how to talk to me without sounding like you’re… correcting me.”
True's jaw shifted, but he didn’t say anything. Just stared ahead.
“Jesus,” he exhaled under his breath. And then... he rolled his eyes.
You blinked. “Did you just roll your eyes at me?”
“No.”
“Yes, you did.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“I literally saw it—”
“You think you saw it,” he cut in, dry, “because you’re already mad, so you saw what you wanted.”
You scoffed. “You’re a terrible liar. You rolled your damn eyes.”
He took a hard turn, tires squealing just enough to make a point. “I didn’t. But if I did, maybe it’s because you’re running your mouth again.”
“Oh, so now you did?”
“I’m saying if I had, it’d be because you earned it.” He clarified like he was talking to a kid.
You scoffed. “God, you’re such an ass.”
He huffed out a quiet laugh. “Yeah? And you’re—what—easy?”
You turned fully to him. “So I’m difficult now too?”
He just gripped the wheel tighter. “I never said that. We’re almost there. Drop it.”
“No. You rolled your eyes and then lied about it, and now you’re pissed that I noticed?”
“I didn’t roll my eyes.”
“You did.”
He didn’t answer. You leaned back into your seat, arms crossed again, seething.
The rest of the drive was silent.
Neither of you looked at the other as the truck pulled into the lot, the sound of music from inside the building filled the air. People laughing. Talking. Normal.
True parked, shoved the keys into his pocket, and muttered, “Fix your face before we go in.”
You laughed under your breath. “Roll your eyes again and see what happens.”
He didn’t respond. He didn’t have to.
You both got out of the truck, walking side by side—but not together. And not talking. Still fighting. Just quieter now.
𐙚 a/n: lee shaw debut !!! with some suggestive fluff woohoo XD
𐙚 w.c. 450+
gif creds @stereoversion
𓂃 ˖ ࣪ ⊹
Lee has a specific kind of kiss he only gives you when he’s been gone too long. You can always tell.
He walks in, barely says anything, just looks at you for a second—really looks—and then he’s already reaching for you.
“C’mere,” he mutters. Hand firm on your jaw, tilting your face up—and his mouth crashes into yours.
It’s rough, a little messy because he couldn’t wait another second. He kisses you hard, then again, not letting you catch your breath, like he’s making up for every day he was gone all at once.
“Missed you,” he says, low and quick—
—and then he’s kissing you again before you can even react.
His hand stays on your face, thumb brushing your cheek, holding you exactly where he wants you. His other hand slides to your neck, just holding firmly.
And the second he tilts your head back—
the kiss gets deeper... slower.
He pays attention to everything. The way you react, the little sounds you make, how fast you start to melt into him. Every time you do, he just… leans into it more.
You can’t keep up. Your cheeks heat up fast, your chest tight, your hands grabbing onto him because it’s too much too quick—and he feels it. Of course he does.
Lee pulls back just enough to look at you, still holding your face, thumb pressing lightly into your cheek.
“You’re blushing,” he murmurs, voice low, a little smug.
That only makes it worse.
You try to say something, but the second your lips part, he kisses you again. So you kiss him back—just as hard. Your hands move without thinking—grabbing at his jacket, his shirt, trying to pull something off him.
“Easy,” he mutters, amused, but he doesn’t stop you. If anything, Lee leans into it.
You shake your head, already fumbling with his shirt, clumsy and impatient.
“I’m helping,” you mumble. “You just got back—you should be comfortable—”
He lets out a quiet laugh, warm and low, and it turns into another kiss.
“Yeah?” he murmurs against your lips. “That what this is?”
You nod anyway, even though your face is burning.
His hands slide down to your waist, steadying you when you stumble into him, still trying to kiss him and get his clothes off at the same time.
“C’mere,” he says again.
And then he starts moving.
Still kissing you. Still not giving you more than a second to breathe—but now he’s guiding you both down the hall in slow, torturous steps.
You’re half focused on his mouth, half on his shirt, still tugging at it, still flushed and a little overwhelmed—and Lee just lets you.
By the time you reach the bedroom, you’re already breathless, cheeks hot—
and he’s still kissing you like he just walked in the door.
🏷️ | sorry for the long wait on getting Lee onboard! ── ⟡ ˙🌱 ̟
@witchygagirl @walkerofshield @yeetaliano @novfr @archangelswing @xojadeelizabethox @bartonsparrow25 @hesaidgirlyoubetterhavefun @ghost-ina-tree @katieandersstark-blog @theloverofstuff @reedusw1fe @inafieldoflilies @bizarrescribblez @pixiedustbomb @ethanhoewke @begginghands-bleedinghearts
babysitter au... ray is a bit rough (yum) | 2.3k words mwah
gif creds @mrsducky
“You’re getting ahead of yourself. That's enough.”
You step closer, eyes burning, voice trembling between hurt and anger, and Ray doesn’t flinch. Ray's gaze locks with yours, steady, unreadable—but you can feel it, heavy and sharp, watching your every little move.
“You want to fire me,” you say, each word low and vicious. “Because… what? Because you can’t admit that you want me just as much as I want you?”
Ray doesn’t answer. His jaw tightens, chest rising and falling slowly and the fire in his eyes keeps you rooted. You press on, letting your words hang in the space between you.
“Stop pretending like you don’t feel it,” you continue, voice rising, raw and biting. “Stop acting like you can just push this away. I see you. I feel you. Every time you look at me, I know.”
His gaze turns into heavy, warning glare but it doesn’t waver you and it makes your words sting even more. “You think hiding behind that perfect, disciplined act makes you better?” you scoff, stepping even closer, forcing him to either move or take it. “It doesn’t. It just makes you a coward.”
Silence.
“God, you’re stubborn,” you add, quieter. “Still won’t admit it?”
That’s when something in him finally snaps.
His hand comes up fast, gripping your jaw firmly, shutting you up mid-breath. Your lips press together under his fingers, your pulse jumping at the contact alone.
“You don’t know when to stop,” he mutters, voice low, rougher than you’ve ever heard it. “Always pushing.”
He leans in just enough that you feel his breath, his thumb brushing along your cheek. You don't miss heat in the way he looks at you...
“Such a brat.”
His hand slides from your jaw to your neck, fingers wrapping there, putting just enough pressure to make your breath catch, to make you feel it... His thumb presses in slightly too, a quiet warning, a grounding weight that keeps you right where he wants you.
And then he pulls you in.
His mouth hits yours hard, demanding, and you’re crushed against him before you even realize it. His lips part yours, teeth brushing briefly, tongue slipping in hot and fast, claiming and taking all you in. Your hands shoot up on their own, fists tangling in his shirt, trying to pull him closer even though he’s already pressed against you.
Every ounce of hurt, every flicker of anger, every suppressed desire between you two ignites in that single, consuming moment.
You barely have time to react before he deepens it, tilting your head just right, his grip at your neck keeping you exactly where he wants you...
And the heat of it—that ache between want and wrong—hits you hard.
You gasp against him.
His grip at your neck tightens just a fraction, enough to tilt your head back more, to control the angle, to keep you there when your body instinctively leans closer instead of away. It sends a sharp rush through you, something that makes your fingers clutch at him without thinking.
It tastes like tension. Like something you weren’t supposed to have.
When he pulls back just enough to breathe, his forehead rests against yours, eyes never leaving yours. “And don’t think your little confession lets you get away with being mouthy, kid.” he murmurs, voice low, teasing, dangerous.
His mouth crashes back onto yours, harder this time, a collision of teeth and heat and pent‑up want. Your back hits the wall with a quiet thud, but his body is already there, pinning you in place.
His thigh forces its way between yours, dragging up, slotting you open. The pressure makes your breath stutter briefly, makes your heart hammer in your ears. His lips follow your jaw, brushing along your cheeks, over your mouth, slow and teasing, then urgent.
Your hands fly to his chest, clutching at his shirt. He growls against your lips, before clamping one hand on your wrist, pinning it above your head. The other follows, trapping you completely.
“Of course you wanted this,” he mutters against your jaw, teeth scraping your skin. “You’ve been begging for it with your eyes every damn day.”
You try to speak, something snappy, something smug, of course. But your words catch in your throat, stifled by the way his thigh presses into you, slow and punishing. Breath hitches into a soft gasp. His mouth curls into a cruel, satisfied smirk against your throat, eyes never leaving yours.
He releases your hands only long enough to yank your shirt up over your chest, baring you to the cool air and his hot stare. His palm lands immediately on your breast, thumb dragging over your nipple, the sound you make is filthy and he stifles a groan in response. His jaw flexes, grip tightening, fingers digging slightly into your sides.
You press closer to him, grinding down, forehead almost brushing his chest. Helpless, needy, your words tremble out: “Please… Ray,” you gasp. “I’ve wanted you… please—Ray, I—”
His hand clamps over your mouth, tilting your head back just enough that you can’t pull away. Fingers dig into your cheek, thumb brushing over your jaw.
“Shut up.” His voice is low, dark, feral, locking you in place. “I know.”
He drags you from the wall and turns you around, bending you over the nearest surface—the console table, your hands splayed, breath shaking. His palm slides down your back, before he shoves your pants down with one rough motion.
Then he hunches slightly, leans close and spits on his fingers, slickening them deliberately. One hand cups your slit, the pads rough against your wet folds as he slides his fingers back and forth, teasing every sensitive inch.
“You’re soaking already,” he murmurs, voice low, cooing. “So needy… have you always been so ready for me like this?”
His thumb presses into your clit, rubbing tight, insistent circles that make your hips jerk, your breath stutter, a squeaky whine escaping your lips.
You hear the sound of his zipper, feel him step in behind you, feel the heat of his cock pressing against your slick pussy.
“You don’t get sweet,” he mutters, voice gravelled, like he’s talking to himself as much as to you. “Not after talking to me like that.”
His hand tangles in your hair, pulling your head back just enough that you feel his breath on your ear.
“You wanted me show you how I feel about you.” he rasps. “Here it is.”
Then he pushes in, deep, brutal, a single thrust that knocks the wind out of you. Your cry flips instantly into a moan as every nerve ignites. His grip in your hair tightens, pulling you flush against him, while his other hand digs into your hip, keeping you exactly where he wants, while he sinks all the way in, slow only to savor every inch, every slick, warm friction.
“Fuck,” he groans, hips rolling against you, grinding deep. “You feel—God—” He cuts himself off with a harsh exhale, pulling back just slightly before slamming back in, harder this time. The table creaks under your weight, your nails clawing at the edge as heat and pressure curl tight in your stomach.
He keeps dragging you back onto him, controlling you, using your body like he’s been holding himself back from this tormenting tease for months.
“This what you pushed for?” he snarls, breath hot in your ear as he pounds into you. “This what you wanted so bad you had to corner me? Run your mouth?”
“Yes—Ray, yes—” you gasp, broken, trembling.
He yanks your head back again, bending you perfectly, his cock driving relentlessly into you. Every thrust fills you completely, messy and urgent, a rough rhythm that leaves your thighs shaking.
“Look at you,” he grits out, low and guttural. “Taking it. Wanting it.”
Heat coils up your spine, your pussy tightening around him, already embarrassing close. He hears it, in your shuddering breath, the little gasps that leak past your lips.
“Oh… you’re there,” he murmurs, proud, rough, he snickers a laugh, “Already?”
His pace shifts, harder, deeper, angled perfectly to hit every nerve. One of his hands drops between your legs, fingers rubbin in messy, perfect circles against your clit. Slick slides under his fingers, warm and wet, gasp sharp from your mouth as your cry chokes out.
“Ray—please—” you sob, arching into him.
“Go on,” he growls into your ear, hips smashing into you, hard, deliberate. “Cum for me. You wanted this—so cum.”
Your orgasm rips through you like lightning, violent, uncontrollable. Whole body trembles, hips jerking against him, cries muffled against your arm. He groans, deep and guttural, every thrust messy and desperate as he rides your spasms, feeling you clench around him.
“Fuck—” he gasps, gripping you tighter, then slowly pulls out, hissing at the tightness that has your body still quivering. The sudden emptiness makes your pussy ache, feeling needy and raw. His hands wrap around your waist, tugging you down and back to the couch. You stumble a little, haze of your orgasm still fogging your mind, before he sits and pulls you to straddle his lap.
“Put it in,” he murmurs, voice low, teasing but coated with that soft dominating insistence.
You shake your head, dazed, half-laughing, half-breathless. “No… you put it in,” you retort, your words shaky and needy.
He smirks, sharp and feral, eyes glinting in that dangerous, cooing way he has. “This… this is your cock now, right?” he says, voice teasing, sharp, hands gripping your hips to steady you.
You whimper, heat pooling low, overwhelmed by how commanding yet intimate he is.
“So… you put it in,” he confirms, pressing you gently but firmly against him. His hands guide your hips, steadying your balance.
You lean forward, one hand bracing against his chest, heart hammering, grabbing his cock and lining him up. Fuck—if his cock doesn’t feel impossibly hot and impossibly solid in your hand. Every vein, thick and needy. You bite your lip, hesitant for only a second, before slowly sliding down. The angle, the size, the stretch—everything presses right into that ache still raw from your last orgasm.
Heat burns through you, delicious and sharp. His hands tighten on your hips, thumbs brushing over the sensitive skin at your sides, murmuring low praise, cooing, rough and tender all at once. “That’s it… good girl. Take it… all of it,” he groans, chest rising and falling.
Every inch as you sink down is a mix of ache and pleasure. You grind just slightly, tasting yourself on him, feeling your wetness pull against your thighs and he hums low, like he’s memorizing every shiver, every gasp, every tight clench of your pussy around him.
You find a rhythm—slow, teasing at first then deliberate, driving yourself down onto him just right. The way your pussy wraps around his cock, slick and hot, has him groaning low in his throat, eyes rolling back, jaw tightening, head tilting.
His hands come up, curling around the nape of your neck, cradling the back of your head from below him, anchoring you in place. The heat of his palms presses into your scalp as you keep moving, bouncing down, grinding back, rocking just the way he likes. Every motion sends a ripple of friction through your slick, needy pussy, and you feel every inch of him inside you.
You clutch at his hands, fingers digging into his skin, holding on as his groans roll through him, “That’s it, baby… so good for me,” he rasps, voice rough.
You whimper, squeaky and desperate, trying not to shake from the burn in your thighs and stomach from yet another orgasm threatening to tear through you. His eyes follow every inch of your slick folds swallowing him, the way your pussy tightens around his cock, needy and greedy, and he groans again, deeper this time.
“Such a good girl… yes, just like that,” he murmurs, hands still cradling your head, thumbs brushing your cheek. “You feel so good around me. oh my God… Atta girl.”
You bite your lip, grinding down harder, letting your hips find every angle that makes him groan, curse, throat tight, eyes rolling back. The slick, wet sounds of your bodies sliding together fill the room, punctuated by your squeaky “yeah”s, each one making his chest tighten, hips jerk.
He leans up just enough to press a rough, lingering kiss to your jaw, teeth grazing softly, and the heat in his eyes melts into something darker, needier. Then it hits—another orgasm, sudden and violent, ripping through your body again. Your thighs tremble, pussy clenching hard around him, every spasm pulling a guttural groan from deep in his chest.
The sight of you cumming again, trembling and dripping over him, hits him like a jolt. His cock twitches painfully, hot and hard, every nerve screaming, and he cant hold back—he cums too, harsh, unsteady, spilling in you. The intensity catches him off guard; he hisses and groans, pulling you off his lap mid-orgasm, both of you sweaty, shivering, your breaths ragged and mingling in the heat of it.
You stifle a laugh at the guttural sound he makes, the way his body jerks against yours as he fights to keep control as his cock pulses, spitting out the last ropes of cum. “I didn't wanna cum inside you but I—ruined it,” he hisses, voice rough, eyes dark but wild with arousal.
You shrug lazily, smirk tugging at your lips. “I’m on the pill anyway,” you murmur, teasing, catching your breath. “Does that mean… I’m not fired?” You get up on shaky legs and walk away, hips swaying, leaving him filthy and twitching on the couch, watching you with awe and that mix of frustration and admiration written all over his face.
“Oh, you’re not fired,” he mutters near your ear, almost laughing, voice ragged and breathless. “Not after that.”
Before you can even recover fully, he’s on his feet, following you to the bedroom. Fingers dart out, brushing against your sides, ribcage, stomach, tickling lightly as you squeal and try to twist away.
a/n: true likes to give his biggest supporters a little smooch every now and then...
w.c. 700+
gif creds @brandywinehartford
⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆
The stands are already buzzing before the ride even starts.
Girls packed shoulder to shoulder along the railings, leaning over the bars in their denim shorts and boots, phones out, hoping to catch a look at him before he heads for the chute. It happens every time. Everyone knows it.
True Brandywine always draws a crowd.
You’re wedged in there with them, pressed up against the railing like you usually are because this is your spot. It has been for months. Maybe longer. You come to almost every show, every event within driving distance and after a while he started recognizing your face in the crowd.
Enough to nod sometimes... enough to tip his hat your way once or twice when he spots you in the stands.
Enough that when he walks by today—hat low, vest on, smelling faintly like leather, dust, and a little bit of beer—his eyes flick over the crowd and land right on you.
Your stomach does that stupid little flip it always does when he looks your way.
“True!” one of the girls behind you squeals, waving her phone. “Over here!”
Another one whistles loud enough to turn heads.
He grins a little at that, loose and cocky in that way riders get when the adrenaline and the pre-show drinks mix together. His gaze drifts back across the railing again and lands on you a second time. You’re smiling already without meaning to.
And maybe it’s the drinks.
Maybe it’s the noise.
Maybe it’s the fact that you’ve been showing up to these things long enough that he recognizes you as one of the regulars.
Or maybe it’s just because you’re cute.
Whatever the reason, something in his expression shifts. Like a thought just crossed his mind.
“Hang on,” he says to nobody in particular, stepping closer to the railing.
The girls around you start losing it immediately:
“Oh my god—”
“He’s coming over—”
“TRUE!”
Your heart is suddenly hammering in your chest as he walks right up to where you’re standing, boots scuffing the dirt, sunlight catching the edge of his hat brim.
Up close he’s even bigger than he looks from the stands...and he’s looking right at you.
“You again,” he says with an amused little drawl, like he’s pleased he recognizes you. “You been followin me around?”
The girls around you erupt in laughter.
Your face goes hot instantly. “I— I just come to the shows—”
“Yeah, I know.”
He says it easy, casual. Like of course he knows.
Then, before your brain can catch up to what’s happening, he reaches up and cups your face in both hands. They’re big. Warm and rough from reins and rope, completely surrounding your cheeks so your head tilts slightly in his grip. The girls around you SHRIEK instantly.
“Oh my GOD!”
“NO WAY—”
Your brain short circuits completely.
And then he leans forward and kisses you... right on the lips.
It’s quick, playful, not anything deep—just a spur-of-the-moment press of his mouth against yours like it’s the most natural thing in the world. The crowd noise around you spikes immediately, whistles and cheering echoing through the stands. Someone behind you literally screams.
True pulls back a second later, grin spreading across his face as the girls lose their minds.
“Gotta give the fans somethin” he says lightly.
Then, as if the moment wasn’t already enough to make your brain melt, he dips back in and plants a sweet little kiss on your cheek.
The gesture is softer this time. Almost teasing.
You’re frozen in place, eyes wide, absolutely stunned.
He pats your cheek once with those big hands before letting go.
“Wish me luck,” he says with a wink.
Then he tips his hat, turns on his heel, and heads off toward the chutes like he didn’t just detonate the entire section of the stands.
The girls around you explode, hands grab your shoulders immediately.
“OH MY GOD!”
“DID THAT JUST HAPPEN?!”
“You KISSED TRUE BRANDYWINE—”
Someone is literally shaking you by the arms while the rest of them squeal and laugh and fan themselves like they just witnessed the greatest moment of their lives.
Meanwhile you’re still staring after him as he walks away across the dirt. Completely awe-struck, cheeks burning, heart racing.
And somewhere down by the chute, True glances back over his shoulder once with that same crooked grin before disappearing into the crowd of riders preparing for the next bronc.
🏷️ ─── ‧₊ ᵎᵎ 🍒 i'd be at every single show ⋅ ˚✮
@witchygagirl @walkerofshield @yeetaliano @novfr @archangelswing @xojadeelizabethox @bartonsparrow25 @hesaidgirlyoubetterhavefun @ghost-ina-tree @katieandersstark-blog @theloverofstuff @reedusw1fe @inafieldoflilies @bizarrescribblez @pixiedustbomb @begginghands-bleedinghearts
hey guys! i’m now officially writing for lee shaw from monarch: legacy of monsters
this is the last character i’m adding to my roster, so after april i’ll be taking requests again. start thinking of some ideas for our boy lee—he’s just waiting for chaos, tension, and drama.
a/n: hey yall... sorry for the inactivity this past week. my dog's in the hospital (shes got heart failure) and ugh i think i might d!e of a broken heart :/
anyways! dis fic based on da gif... ugh! no one has ever made the floor look so good... i want a big slice of that pie grr
sorry if its rushed ! <3
gif creds @bellamysgriffin
500 words mwah
Dud wakes up with his face pressed into carpet he’s never seen before.
His head throbs like someone rang a church bell inside it. His mouth tastes like stale beer and bad decisions. He shifts, groaning, only to realize the blanket tangled around his lower half is the only piece of fabric on his body.
He’s naked.
On someone’s floor.
In someone’s living room.
He bolts upright far too fast, vision tilting, panic rushing in.
Where—
Who—
What the hell even happened?
He digs through the fog of last night, trying to grasp the memories: the bar, the laughing, drinks with coworkers, drinks with that girl he’d been flirting with for weeks—the one he was supposed to go home with.
His phone suddenly vibrates wildly against the carpet.
He scrambles for it, flipping it open with a shaky hand.
“H-hello?” he croaks.
“You ditched me,” the woman snaps. The one from last night. The one who is not here. The one who is, apparently, pissed.
Dud feels his blood run cold.
If she’s on the phone…
Then whose house is he naked in?
“Uh—I—I can explain—” he lies, because he absolutely cannot.
He stares around the room with growing dread. He doesn’t see anything prominent yet—just a jacket he vaguely recognizes, a shoe he thinks he seen before, and the beer bottle he distinctly remembers knocking over while laughing with someone stumbling around—
Footsteps.
Soft. Bare. Close.
He freezes like a statue.
And then he sees you.
You walk in from the hallway wearing nothing but an oversized shirt, eyes squinted shut against the morning light, hair sticking out in sleepy directions as you beeline toward the kitchen. You don’t even notice him at first. You’re too groggy, too distracted, too… pantsless.
Dud nearly dies on the spot. His heart stops, his breath freezes—and somehow his body decides that the best possible reaction is to stand up.
“Dud? Dud? Are you even listening?” the girl on the phone snaps.
He slams the flip-phone shut so fast it echoes like a gunshot.
CLACK.
You jerk at the sound, spinning around.
Your sleepy confusion evaporates instantly when you see him—naked, disheveled, clutching a sheet like a hostage negotiator, staring at you with the pure horror of a man who has absolutely no idea how he got here.
You scream. Your glass drops from your hand and orange juice splashes everywhere.
“SHIT!” you screech, stumbling backward.
He throws his hands up, sheet nearly falling again.
“NO—WAIT—wait—please don’t freak out—I can explain—I think—kind of—maybe—oh god—”
“WHY ARE YOU NAKED,” you shout back, voice breaking, “AND WHY ARE YOU IN MY FREAKING HOUSE?!”
He looks like a cartoon character caught mid-crime—eyes wide, shoulders hunched, guilt radiating off him in waves.
You glance at the pile of sheets on the floor.
His jeans.
Your shoes.
The trail of clothing leading toward your bedroom door.
Your brain flashes:
You laughing into his shoulder.
Him saying he’d walk you home.
You grabbing his shirt.
The door slamming behind you.
His mouth dangerously close to yours.
Anders pauses in the doorway when he spots you all curled up in bed. The light’s dim, soft shadows casting over the room, and there you are — tucked against your stuffed teddy, nose buried in its worn fur like it’s the comfiest thing in the world.
You don’t even notice him at first. But he sure notices you.
“Hey,” he mutters, voice low and a little rough from how long he’s been on shift. “What’s this, huh?”
You peek up sleepily, cheek still squished against the bear. “what?”
He shifts his weight from one boot to the other, huffing under his breath. “Ya cuddlin him instead’a me.” he's not angry... he's pouty. This is the kind of quiet, grumbly complaint that comes from someone too soft to ever make it a real argument.
“He’s been here longer,” you tease, squeezing the bear just to watch his reaction.
“Yeah, well…” he shuffles closer, kneeling onto the bed with a dramatic little huff. “i’m here now. and I’m bigger. warmer too.”
You start to laugh but then he lets out the smallest, most pathetic whine in the back of his throat — the kind that makes your heart go all gooey.
“Baby,” he mumbles, already reaching for the bear. “Gimme him. i’ll do a better job.”
“Are you jealous of a stuffed animal?”
“...No,” he grumbles immediately, even though his bottom lip is sticking out and he’s now trying to wrestle the bear out of your arms. “Just don’t like sharin”
You let him win because he’s pouting so hard it’s almost funny. The bear ends up at the foot of the bed, and Anders immediately scoots in behind you, wrapping you up in his arms like he has to make up for lost time.
His chin tucks over your shoulder, breath warm against your neck as he mumbles, “See? Way better.”
“You’re ridiculous,” you whisper but you’re smiling into the pillow.
He gives a soft little mmph — content now — and snuggles even closer. “Yeah but I’m your ridiculous.”
🏷️ ─── ‧˚꒰🧸꒱ anders would blush here ngl ₊ ˚ ⋆
@witchygagirl @walkerofshield @yeetaliano @novfr @archangelswing @xojadeelizabethox @bartonsparrow25 @hesaidgirlyoubetterhavefun @ghost-ina-tree @katieandersstark-blog @theloverofstuff @reedusw1fe @inafieldoflilies @bizarrescribblez @kc-readsss @pixiedustbomb
a/n: yes i used the middle picture^ as reference ૮₍ ˃̵ࡇ˂̵ ₎ა
You’re stretched out over Zook’s lap, switch console in hand, tapping away at your game with your legs tucked up. His laptop rests steady on your back, angled just enough so he can keep half an eye on whatever football game’s playing tonight.
His hand? It’s resting over your panties, thumb tracing slow, lazy circles like it’s muscle memory — like touching you doesn’t even interrupt his focus. Like you’re just another part of his comfort zone.
You shift your hips slightly, the game slipping out of sync with your fingers.
“You good?” he asks, voice casual, eyes still on the screen.
“Mhm.” You try to keep your tone neutral, game face on, but the tension’s showing in your grip — your timing’s off, fingers fumbling. His thumb drags lower, more deliberate, and your breath catches just as your character takes a hit.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” he mutters, a grin tugging at his mouth.
You exhale hard, pause the game, and let the switch drop to the blanket beside you.
Zook doesn’t even glance your way.
“Why’d you stop playin?” he asks, all easy innocence — even as his thumb presses firmer, teasing exactly where you need it. That smirk’s growing, smug and satisfied. “Gettin hard to multitask, huh?”
You bury your face in your arm, hips tipping just enough to get a little more friction, chasing the next slow grind of his hand. You’re warm all over now — flushed and aching, thighs twitching open as the teasing circles stay steady, unrelenting.
He still hasn’t looked away from the screen. But his breathing’s heavier now. Slower.
You start to move. Soft at first — a slow roll of your hips against his palm, eyes fluttering shut, trying to keep quiet. But it builds fast. Need pooling low and tight, toes curling, heat coiling in your belly. His thumb is slick with you now, gliding over your clothed clit with just enough pressure to make your whole body tense.
You grind down again. And again.
Zook still hasn’t said a word — but he’s watching you now. You can feel it.
The weight of his stare burns hotter than the game playing behind you.
You lift your head just barely, dazed and breathless, hips rocking harder now. "Zook," you whisper, a warning, a plea.
He hums. Low. Like he’s acknowledging it. Like he knew this was coming.
His thumb pushes in slow and smooth against your mound — just right. “Uh huh.”
It’s not even a full sentence but it hits you like one. Like permission. Like keep going.
So you do.
You roll your hips with more intent, panting into the crook of your elbow, helpless under the weight of his hand and the look he’s giving you — half-lidded, jaw tight, chest rising slower now like he’s trying not to show how worked up he really is.
He leans back just a little, watching the way you’re grinding against him, letting you use him, letting you fall apart. His other hand slides down the curve of your back, gentle, grounding.
You’re close. Too close.
“Zook,” you gasp again, voice breaking.
That’s when he finally shifts — finally leans in, hand tightening on your waist.
“Go ahead,” he murmurs, voice low and thick. “Let me see it.”
Your whole body jerks at the sound of his voice — and that’s it.
You cum hard against his hand, mouth open in a silent moan, thighs shaking as he keeps working you through it, watching every twitch and breath like it’s his favorite show.
You don’t even hear the crowd on the TV cheering. Just your pulse, his breath, and the slow drag of his thumb as he brings you down, inch by inch.
And when you finally still, legs limp, chest rising and falling fast?
Zook shifts the laptop off your back and leans in to kiss your spine, soft and warm.
“Didn’t even make it to halftime,” he says with a smirk.
💌 i know we're half way into march but oh whale !
i'm still tryin to get back in the groove of things... feeling a bit rusty honestly. my irl job is still hectic but luckily this summer i'll be more active !!! and i have so many ideas!
...speaking of ideas, i read somewhere that next month is "age gap" april... how are we feelin about that? 👀
Ი𐑼 masterlists
𓏲 ⋆ . kinktober 2025
˚. ⋆ to be added to taglist
currently working on:
long term -> request fills
short term -> my own ideas
requests: open / closed -only for now!
teddy loves to make you try tiktok challenges with him...
gif creds x / @topherfoxtrot
He swears he’s got this.
Teddy leans back against the couch, shoulders squared, jaw set in that stubborn, competitive way you know so well. Both of his arms are lifted straight above his head, elbows locked, hands lightly touching against the wall behind him.
“Rules are simple” he reminds you, voice already a little shaky with anticipation. “You kiss me. I keep my arms up. I don’t touch you. I don’t move. You try to make me… uh, melt.”
You raise a brow and move toward the couch, sitting down beside him , knees gently grazing his.
“Try?”
His mouth twitches. “You’re not gonna break me that easy.”
You don’t reply. You just put your hands on his thighs—slow, deliberate—and feel the way his muscles tense under your touch. His breath catches immediately.
“Arms up,” you murmur.
“They are up.” he mutters back but his voice is already softer.
You lean in, close enough that your lips hover just a breath away from his. You let it linger there, teasing, not quite touching. He exhales through his nose, controlled… trying to keep it together.
Then you kiss him.
Soft at first. Just a brush of your lips against his... testing. He stays still, barely—his fingers flexing into a light fist against the wall behind him.
You kiss him again, deeper this time, letting your mouth move slow and warm against his. You peeked at the way his chest rises, the way his thighs tense under your palms.
“Don’t… move,” you whisper against his mouth.
“I’m not—” he starts but it cuts off into a quiet breath when you drag your lips down the corner of his mouth to his jaw.
You take your time there, kissing along the line of his jaw, just barely grazing with your teeth, your tongue flicking over the spot that always makes him shiver. And he does shiver—his shoulders tightening, his arms wavering just slightly above his head.
You hum softly, pleased. “That was a wobble.”
“Was not,” he says but it’s breathless now.
Your hands slide up his chest slowly, fingertips dragging over his shirt, feeling his heartbeat thudding under your palm. Then without breaking the closeness, you shift your weight on the couch.
First one knee... then the other.
You start climbing into his lap.
The movement is slow enough that he realizes what you're doing halfway through it. His head tips forward again, eyes widening a little as you settle there, your knees on either side of his hips.
“You’re cheating,” he blurts immediately, voice already strained.
You smile against his mouth. “Am I?”
“You can’t just—” he exhales sharply when you settle your weight fully over him. “That’s not fair.”
“You said melt challenge,” you remind him softly. “You didn’t say I had limits.”
His jaw tightens, trying to keep his composure. His arms are still up but his shoulders tense hard now.
“This is ridiculous,” he mutters even though he’s clearly fighting a losing battle.
You kiss him again...deeper, slower, more insistent.
This time he can’t help it—he leans into you.
His arms don’t come down, not yet but his body definitely moves, chasing your mouth, trying to get closer.
“Careful,” you tease against his lips, pulling back just enough to make him follow you.
“Don’t—don’t do that,” he groans, eyes half-lidded.
“Do what?” you ask innocently, and then you kiss him again—harder this time, your lips parting, your tongue brushing his.
That’s what does it.
His control cracks in a visible, delicious way—his shoulders drop an inch, his elbows bend just slightly as if his body wants to wrap around you even though he’s trying not to.
You smile into the kiss. “You’re melting.”
“I am not,” he insists but it comes out as a low, shaky exhale against your mouth.
You shift a little closer in his lap, pressing your body against his more firmly.
Then your hips move.
Slow at first, just a small, deliberate roll against him.
Teddy's breath stutters.
You do it again—pressing down and moving your hips over his, slow and steady, the motion impossible for him to ignore.
That’s the moment he finally breaks. Or, more like, melts.
His arms drop instantly, hands grabbing your hips like he can’t stop himself anymore.
“Okay—nope,” he breathes out, half laughing, half groaning as he pulls you tighter against him. “That’s not fair at all.”
You grin, leaning close to his mouth. “You melted!”
He exhales, forehead dropping against yours for a second as his hands stay firmly on your hips.
“…worth it,” he mutters.
Then he pulls you down into another kiss—this time with his hands all over you, no rules left, completely and thoroughly melted.
🏷️ ─── ‧˚꒰🧸꒱ teddy, we love you so, so much ₊ ˚ ⋆
@witchygagirl @walkerofshield @yeetaliano @novfr @archangelswing @xojadeelizabethox @bartonsparrow25 @hesaidgirlyoubetterhavefun @ghost-ina-tree @katieandersstark-blog @theloverofstuff @reedusw1fe @inafieldoflilies @bizarrescribblez @kc-readsss
One second he’s spilling inside you with that raw, broken groan—shoulders shaking, breath stuttering, his whole body going tight as he buries his face in your neck—and the next, he’s slumping down on top of you, chest heaving, letting out a long, shaky “ho—ly shit…”
You’re still whimpering quietly beneath him, watching the aftershocks ripple through his muscles.
“Easy, cowboy…” you murmur, stroking his hair. “You okay?”
He huffs out a breath, exhausted and blissed to hell, and gives your hip the laziest little rub with his thumb. His smile is all dazed pride and disbelief at how hard he came.
Then he winces lightly when he starts pulling back.
“S’too sensitive,” he mutters, still breathless. “Just—lemme—”
But the second you feel him trying to leave, your legs lock around his waist. Your arms hook behind his shoulders. You drag him right back down into you—into the warm, soaked pulse of your cunt.
True jolts.
“B—baby—?” he rasps.
Then you whisper it against his cheek, soft and need-drunk:
“Don’t pull out.”
Everything in him stutters.
His hips jerk forward on instinct, pushing his half-hard cock deeper into you. His breath breaks on a quiet, strangled whimper, one hand gripping your hip like he’s trying to brace himself against the wave of overstimulation that crashes over him.
“Oh fuck,” he hisses through his teeth. “Oh—fuck, honey—”
He isn’t angry at you—he’s angry at the way your pussy can undo him, rip the breath from his lungs, make him lose his damn mind even when he’s too sensitive to think straight. It’s a helpless, frustrated groan, the kind a man lets out when he’s being pushed past every limit he thought he had.
You kiss the corner of his mouth, sweet and coaxing. “Stay with me… just like this.”
True lets out a shuddering breath, forehead dropping to yours.
“Damn, baby…” he whispers, voice rough and war-torn. “You’re gonna kill me.”
But he shifts, settles between your legs again, fitting himself closer—deeper—because you want him there. Because you’re holding him there.
And after a long, trembling moment, he starts moving.
Barely-there thrusts. Shallow. Slow. Careful. But enough to make him gasp into your mouth.
“You don’t… want me to pull out?” he murmurs, like he’s losing his grip just saying it.
You shake your head, tightening your legs around him.
And True breathes out a desperate, reverent:
“…okay.”
🏷️ ─── ‧ ˚ ꒰💌꒱ true will always give you what you want... ₊ ˚ ⋆
@witchygagirl @walkerofshield @yeetaliano @novfr @archangelswing @xojadeelizabethox @bartonsparrow25 @hesaidgirlyoubetterhavefun @ghost-ina-tree @katieandersstark-blog @theloverofstuff @reedusw1fe @inafieldoflilies @bizarrescribblez @kc-readsss
best friend! zook who talks you through giving him head bc you've never done it before and you trust him, but it feels way to good and he keeps losing himself when you're just looking up at him with wide, curious eyes and following his every instruction and ahh
Ი︵𐑼 a/n: this one is doing a lot to me actually. best friend zook has my heart!
۶ৎ 1.2k words mwah !!
ʕ·͡ᴥ·ʔ
The air in Zook’s living room feels heavy—charged with the kind of electricity that exists only before a storm, or right before you do something you can’t undo. You’re sitting beside him on the couch, close enough that your thighs brush. Denim drags softly against the thin fabric of his basketball shorts, a friction that feels louder than it should.
The conversation has been circling this point for twenty minutes now. Lazy teasing. Half-joking confessions. Your lack of experience set against his easy, practiced confidence. You feel the moment tipping, the atmosphere shifting like a weight settling into your chest.
“You really haven’t?” Zook asks. There’s no judgment in his voice—just curiosity, softening the sharp edges of his usual manic energy. He tilts his head, eyes searching your face with an intensity that makes your skin prickle. “Like… never?”
“Never.” you admit, barely louder than a whisper.
You trust him. Somehow, impossibly, you feel safe with someone who thrives on chaos. Zook has always been protective of you in his own way.
“Okay,” he breathes, a small smile tugging at his mouth. “Okay. We can fix that.”
The implication hangs thick and hot between you. You don’t miss the way his shorts have begun to tent, fabric pulled tight. He’s half-hard already—just from talking, just from the idea of showing you. The realization sends heat straight through your chest.
Zook shifts, lifting his hips and pushing his shorts and briefs down in one smooth motion. He frees himself, and your breath catches hard in your throat. He wraps a hand around his cock and strokes slowly, almost sheepish. It’s vulnerable in a way you’ve never seen from him—bravado stripped away, replaced with quiet want.
“Is this okay?” he murmurs, eyes flicking up to meet yours.
You nod, unable to look away. You’ve seen him shirtless a hundred times, but this is different. You’re really looking at him now. At the way his breath hitches when he notices your stare. At how fully hard he’s become, flushed and heavy in his hand, moving with a lazy rhythm that makes your heart slam against your ribs.
You slip off the couch and lower yourself between his legs, knees pressing into the carpet, its roughness keeping you anchored. When you reach out, your fingers tremble as they wrap around the base of his cock. He’s hot and solid in your palm, pulsing faintly.
Zook’s gaze flicks between your face and your hand, dark and unfocused. He grabs the hem of his t-shirt and bunches it up against his chest to keep it out of the way, exposing the happy trail down his stomach. His muscles tighten when you give him an experimental stroke.
“Fuck,” he groans, low and helpless.
You stroke him again, tentative, worried about doing something wrong.
“You can squeeze me harder,” he breathes. “You won’t break me. I promise.”
You tighten your grip just slightly and drag your hand up his length. His hips jerk off the couch, a guttural sound tearing from his throat before he swallows it back. You heard it. You felt it. The reaction sends a rush of confidence through you—heady and intoxicating.
You lean in and drag your tongue slowly up the underside of his shaft, tasting salt and skin. When you wrap your lips around the tip and suck gently, his reaction is immediate. His face scrunches, eyes squeezing shut as his hips buck, thrusting deeper into your mouth.
You pull back with a wet pop, giggling as you glance up at him. “I saw that in a video once.”
Zook lets out a breathless laugh, face flushing pink. He looks embarrassed by how his body betrayed him, but his eyes are warm, soft. “That was… really good,” he admits. “You’re a natural.”
Encouraged, you lean back in. This time you take him properly, movements unsteady but eager. You bob your head, awkward at first, then finding a rhythm. You hollow your cheeks and suck harder—and Zook’s smile vanishes instantly.
His head drops back against the couch, eyes rolling until they disappear. His breathing turns ragged, lips parting on shallow gasps. His hands twitch at his sides, lifting like he wants to grab you, guide you, take control—but he stops himself. His fists clench into the cushions instead.
He’s letting you lead. Letting you explore without rushing you, even as tension coils visibly through his body. That restraint—the care—keeps you going.
It starts to overwhelm him. You feel it in the way his thighs tense beneath your hands, muscles jumping. The heat of your mouth, the novelty of you kneeling here for him—it’s too much. His hand finally leaves the couch and settles at the back of your head, fingers threading into your hair. Not forcing. Just guiding.
“Relax your jaw,” he murmurs, voice strained. “Easy… just take it.”
He’s unraveling. The cool composure he usually wears is slipping, piece by piece. Every time you glance up at him—wide-eyed, intent—he loses another shred of control.
“Use your hand,” he grits out, hips twitching despite himself. “The part you can’t take. Stroke it.”
You follow his lead without hesitation. Your hand tightens around his base, slick and warm with your spit, syncing with the slow pull of your mouth. The motion clicks into place—almost instinctive—and his breath breaks into an unrestrained gasp.
Something in you shifts. The innocence melts into focus, hunger sharpening your gaze. You feed off every shiver, every sound he makes.
Zook watches your face closely—the flush in your cheeks, the way you’re clearly getting off on this. On him. That’s what breaks him.
“F—fuck!” he gasps.
His legs tense, shaking. His chest heaves, stomach tightening as he fights for air. He’s in awe, staring down at you like he can’t believe this is real.
“I’m close,” he warns, voice cracking. “I’m gonna cum—”
You don’t stop. Your grip tightens, strokes slowing and deepening. He shakes his head frantically, trying to say something—maybe that he can’t hold it back, or that he’s about to ruin you in the most sinful way—but when you shake your head no stubbornly , his eyes widen.
“Shit.”
The tension snaps. His whole body goes rigid as he cums, groaning brokenly. You slow but don’t pull away, mouth still wrapped around him as he spills. You feel every pulse, every twitch, thick ropes of his seed filling your mouth.
His hips jerk, pushing deeper, and you whimper softly. The vibration sends him spiraling, groaning louder until he finally nods, desperate, begging you to stop.
You slide off him slowly, swallowing. Zook just stares at you, chest heaving—completely wrecked, and suddenly more nervous than you’ve ever seen him. His fingers twitch at his sides, like he doesn’t know where to put them, eyes flicking everywhere but your face.
He lifts a shaky thumbs up. “You did… alright,” he says, smirking through a wrecked voice.
You gasp and smack his arm, offended. He laughs—real and breathless—and the tension finally breaks.
As you stand, knees aching, he clears his throat and gestures a little awkwardly.
“Hey, uh,” he says hoarsely, still catching his breath. “Could you grab some napkins?”
You nod and head for the kitchen.
Zook stays frozen on the couch, staring at the doorway, heart pounding hard enough it almost hurts. He needs napkins because you—his best friend, the person he’s trusted with everything for years—just crossed a line with him. And he let it happen. He wanted it to happen.
The reality of it sits heavy in his chest now, impossible to ignore. He runs a hand over his face, cheeks burning, stomach tight with a mix of nerves and something hotter that won’t settle. You didn’t just fool around—something between you shifted, and he knows there’s no pretending it didn’t.
Nothing is ever going to be the same.
🏷️ ─── ୧ ‧₊˚ poor zook... now he's wrapped around your finger ⋅
@witchygagirl @walkerofshield @yeetaliano @novfr @archangelswing @xojadeelizabethox @bartonsparrow25 @hesaidgirlyoubetterhavefun @ghost-ina-tree @katieandersstark-blog @theloverofstuff @reedusw1fe @inafieldoflilies @bizarrescribblez @kc-readsss
a/n: dud wants to make you feel better after a bad date ;-;
↬ based it off the gif because he just looks so edible in it grrr
gif creds @mrsducky
1.3k words mwah
Dud shows up at your door with takeout containers dangling from both hands like he’s holding peace offerings to a tiny, irritated god.
He knocks with his foot because his hands are full. Then he knocks again harder, and you can practically hear him wincing at how loud the second thump was.
When you open the door, Dud just stares at you for a second, brown hair a little windblown, hoodie wrinkled in that specific “I absolutely did not plan this but I grabbed my keys and ran out the door” way.
“Hey,” he says, almost breathless. “I, uh… heard your date sucked. So I brought… everything.”
He thrusts the bags forward. Thai food. Sushi. A burger? Why did he bring a burger and sushi?
You blink at him. “…Dud, how many restaurants did you go to?”
“Like three,” he answers immediately. “Because I didn’t know what mood you’d be in. Breakup food? Sad food? Vindictive food? I panicked halfway through and just expanded the radius.”
You want to be annoyed. You want to be cool. But he looks so proud, standing there with too much food like an excited golden retriever who stole something and brought it back as a gift.
You step aside with a sigh. “Come in.”
He grins like he’s just been invited into a castle.
Inside, Dud spreads the food across your coffee table, mumbling things like “we can do fusion… like, spiritually…” while you grab drinks. You flop onto the couch, exhausted and annoyed at the world.
“So,” Dud says as he plops down next to you, close enough that your thighs touch. “Tell me what happened.”
You groan and cover your face with both hands. “I can’t. It’s embarrassing.”
“I’m embarrassing,” Dud says lightly. “So you’re, like, safe.”
Okay. That’s unfairly comforting.
“I dunno,” you say. “He just kept talking about his investment portfolio and how he’s very passionate about tax loopholes. Which, cool, I guess, but then he asked if I’ve ever considered ‘optimizing my assets.’ ???”
Dud frowns. “That sounds like he called you a spreadsheet.”
“It felt like he called me a spreadsheet.”
Dud nods, solemn. “Yeah, he sucks.”
You poke your chopsticks into the sushi. “He also didn’t walk me to my car.”
Dud’s head snaps around. “He what—”
“He just waved and left.”
“Oh. Okay.” Dud shifts, brows knitted like he’s trying to do complicated math. “That… that’s not cool. He should’ve—like—you know—made sure you were safe. Because—” He gestures vaguely at you. “You’re you.”
You raise an eyebrow. “I’m me?”
“Yeah! You’re…” He trails off, hands flapping as though trying to catch the right word. “You’re important.”
Your face gets warm. So you pop a dumpling into your mouth to hide it.
You tried to put a TV show on. You don’t know why. You never actually watch anything with Dud. The moment the intro starts, both of you are already talking.
He’s halfway through a story about a terrifyingly large raccoon he saw behind Arby’s when you snort so hard you almost choke.
“He was this big,” Dud insists, stretching his hands apart like he’s describing a baby whale.
“You’re lying.”
“I swear on my sister’s Honda Civic.”
You cackle. “That means nothing.”
“It means everything,” he counters, offended.
You’re laughing way too hard for someone who just had a terrible date. And Dud looks at you like he notices.
Not in a creepy or intense way. Just… soft. Like he’s glad he can pull you out of whatever hole you were in.
Two episodes go by and neither of you have absorbed a single second of it. Dud has migrated farther down the couch until he’s practically sideways, half resting against you like someone who doesn’t realize he’s cuddling.
His head knocks against your shoulder.
“Ow,” you say.
He turns, horrified. “Was that too hard?”
“No, Dud, you’re—” You laugh. “You’re fine.”
“Oh. Okay.” He nods, relieved. Then immediately does it again, but softer.
You let him.
“So,” he says suddenly, looking at you. “What did you even want from that investor guy?”
You shrug, leaning back into the couch cushions. “Just… to have someone actually like me, I guess. Consistently. Not weird about it. Not half-interested.”
Dud chews thoughtfully on a fry he definitely stole from the burger bag. “Yeah,” he says, “I get that.”
“You do?”
“Yeah. I mean… I think people deserve that. Like, someone who actually listens and shows up and… brings a lot of food after a bad date…” He winces at himself, sitting up slightly to play it cool. “Y’know. Hypothetically.”
You stare at him.
He fumbles, eyes darting to the TV and then back to you. “Not that I’m saying I’m—like—auditioning or anything. That’d be—well, not weird, but like, maybe weird? I dunno. Ignore me.”
You don’t ignore him.
“Dud?”
“Yeah?”
“You literally sprinted across town buying too much food because someone hurt my feelings.”
He looks down. “Yeah, well… you sounded sad when you texted. And I hate when you’re sad.”
Something in your chest twists.
Before you can think too hard about it, you lean your head against his shoulder.
He freezes.
Then—slowly—melts. Like butter on warm toast. His breath stutters a little, like he’s trying to casually survive the moment.
The room feels smaller. Warmer...
“Hey,” he says, voice quiet now.
“Yeah?”
“Can I tell you something?”
Your heartbeat stutters. “Okay.”
“I, uh… really like being the person you call. Like—even if it’s for stupid stuff. Or serious stuff. Or, like, when your sink did that gargling thing at two in the morning? I liked coming over.” He swallows. “I’d come over for anything.”
You pull back just enough to look at him. “Dud…”
His ears are pink. “It’s okay if you don’t feel the same. I just—tonight you looked so upset and I thought, well, maybe I can fix some of it. Or at least distract you. Cause you make me feel… like I want to try more. Be more. I don’t know how to say it right.”
He is babbling and nervous and sincere enough to make your ribs ache.
You put a hand on his knee to shut him up.
He goes dead silent.
“Dud,” you say softly, “I always feel better when you’re here.”
He blinks, slow. Wondering. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
A pause. Your hand is still on his knee. His is hovering like he wants to put it somewhere but is terrified of choosing wrong.
“Can I…” he starts. “Just—uh—can I do something?”
Your stomach flips. “What?”
He gestures weakly between you two. “Just—something small. Promise I won’t screw it up.”
You nod before you even know what you’re agreeing to.
He leans in.
So gently. Like he’s afraid the air itself might shatter.
Your nose brushes his cheek first, then his forehead bumps yours, and he lets out the smallest, nervous breath.
His mouth touches yours—soft, barely a kiss, barely pressure at all.
But the spark hits both of you at the same time.
He pulls back just enough for your eyes to meet, realizes you felt it too, and then his hand slides to your jaw.
The next kiss lands harder, deeper, both of you leaning in like you’ve been holding back for way too long.
Dud breaks away like he just touched a hot stove, eyes huge, voice cracking as he blurts, “Was that—okay? Too much?”
You grab his sleeve before he can combust, whispering, “It was good,” and then you kiss him—slow, sure, until you slip the tiniest hint of tongue against his lips.
His whole body jolts, and his elbow smacks a small bottle of soy sauce clean off the table. “Oh—shit,” he mutters, wincing.
“You better clean that up,” you tease, and he grimaces at the puddle… right until you lean in and press a soft kiss to his cheek.
He smiles—wide, crooked, stupidly happy—because he knows there will be no more bad dates for you... (!!!)
The music is pounding, lights spinning slow and syrupy in your vision. You’re half-leaning, half-folded into Lewis's side while your friends laugh about something you can’t quite catch. You’re talking, or trying to—you think you’re saying his name, maybe something about the next round, or a friend's dumb joke—but it all comes out as a tangle of syllables.
Lewis's arm tightens around you. “You’ve had enough” he mutters, the rasp of his voice cutting through the noise. He reaches across the table for a glass of water and presses it into your hand. “C'mon, sweetheart. Drink this.”
You blink down at it, swaying. “Lew’s… m’fine,” you slur, smile loose and lazy.
“Yeah?” His brow furrows, mouth twitching in disbelief. “Sure you are. Drink.”
When you hesitate, he exhales through his nose, then cups your jaw—big, warm hand steadying you as he tilts the rim to your lips. “Open up,” he says, voice low and firm.
You do. Cool water slides over your tongue, down your throat. Some spills, slick down your chin. He tips it again. “That’s it,” he murmurs, thumb brushing your cheek. “Atta girl.”
Something in you stirs—slow, hot. You look up at him through your lashes, the club spinning away until there’s only him. His eyes are focused on the glass, not you, but you stare anyway, gaze heavy and wanting, lips still parted around the cup. You drink the rest in silence, eyes never leaving his face.
When you finish, he takes the glass from your hand and sets it aside, palm finding the back of your head. He bends down, presses a kiss against your hairline, his breath warm against your skin. “Do we need to leave before you cause trouble in here?” he murmurs against your ear.
You grin, chin resting on his chest, eyes glazed but soft. “M’not trouble,” you mumble, smiling up at him.
He huffs out a groan, eyes closing like he’s half-exasperated, half-defeated. “Yeah,” he mutters, rubbing a hand down your back. “We should head out before you prove me wrong.”
When he starts guiding you through the crowd toward your friends, you clutch his shirt, still giggling, still drunk on him more than anything else.
🏷️ ─── ୧ ‧₊˚ make sure to drink plenty of water!🎐 ⋅
@witchygagirl @walkerofshield @yeetaliano @novfr @archangelswing @xojadeelizabethox @bartonsparrow25 @hesaidgirlyoubetterhavefun @ghost-ina-tree @katieandersstark-blog @theloverofstuff @reedusw1fe @inafieldoflilies @bizarrescribblez @kc-readsss
So I work retail and the Christmas time has me overworked and stressed.
Could I humbly request John Walker taking care of an exhausted and overwork reader after they get home from a shitty work day (perhaps help them unwind in the bedroom as well)
Thank you, my tired soul appreciates you reading this.
⋆ a/n: the holidays absolutely took all of my time and energy. john would love nothing more than to take care of us :(
(p.s. ahem well I— uhhh yes I’m back haha lols) (enjoy this req. I tried to rush out before I decided to take a break but cried (a little) writing it from stress but now it’s been rewritten and made with loveee) IM HEALED!! :D
⋆ 3k words *moans*
‧ ₊ ˚ ✩ 彡
The apartment is quiet when you get home—Friday quiet, the kind that hums instead of rings. Your shoulders ache with the kind of exhaustion that seeps into bone, your brain still half-stuck in emails and deadlines and the way nothing seemed to go right today. You barely manage to kick your shoes off before the weight of it all finally settles.
John looks up the second the door closes.
He doesn’t say anything at first. He just takes you in—your slumped posture, the way your bag slips from your shoulder and thuds softly to the floor, the tired blink you don’t quite hide. His face softens instantly, concern melting into something warm and steady.
“Hey,” John says quietly, like he doesn’t want to spook you. “Cmere.”
You don’t even answer. You cross the room and walk straight into him, forehead bumping lightly into his chest. His arms come around you without hesitation—strong, sure, wrapping you up like he’s anchoring you to the floor. One hand settles between your shoulder blades, the other presses at your lower back, pulling you in until there’s no space left at all.
He hugs you wholly. Completely. Like he’s trying to hold you together.
You sigh into him, deep and long, the sound dragged straight out of your lungs. It’s the kind of sigh you don’t even realize you’re holding until someone gives you permission to let go.
“Yeah,” he murmurs, cheek resting against the top of your head. “That bad, huh?”
You nod against his shirt. He rubs slow circles into your back, steady and grounding, like he’s smoothing the stress right out of you. You feel your shoulders drop another inch.
“I’ve got you,” he says softly. “You’re home.”
That almost does you in.
He pulls back just enough to look at you, thumbs brushing gently over your arms. “Okay,” he says, shifting into practical-sweet mode, the one you love most. “First order of business—what do you want to eat?”
You blink, brain lagging. “I… don’t know. Something hot.”
“Hot is doable,” he nods seriously. “Any preferences? Salty? Comfort? Something I can dramatically overcook and then pretend was intentional?”
That earns a tired huff of a laugh from you, which he clearly counts as a win. His grin flashes, bright and relieved, like making you laugh is his favorite success metric.
“Surprise me,” you say.
He salutes you with two fingers. “Dangerous words. Sit. Couch. I’ll handle it.”
You barely make it onto the couch before he’s already moving around the kitchen, sleeves pushed up, humming under his breath. He talks as he cooks—little running commentary about the pan being “suspiciously loud,” or how he’s pretty sure the garlic is judging him. Every so often he glances over at you like he’s checking in, making sure you’re still there, still breathing.
At one point, when the food’s almost done and you’ve wandered back to the counter to lean against it, he steps between your knees and hooks his hands around your hips, pulling you gently against him.
“Hey,” he says, low and fond. “You did good today.”
Your throat tightens.
“I don’t think I did,” you admit.
He shakes his head immediately. “Nope. Wrong. You survived a shitty day without losing your mind or committing any crimes. That’s a win.” He squeezes your hips once—grounding, affectionate. “I’m proud of you.”
You laugh softly, pressing your forehead into his shoulder. He bends to kiss the top of your head, slow and lingering, like he’s sealing the moment there.
When he plates the food, he sets it in front of you like it’s something precious. “Careful,” he says. “It’s hot. Just like me, unfortunately.”
You snort. “John.”
“What?” He grins, unapologetic. “Too much?”
You eat while he stays close, one hand resting at your back. When you wince and roll your shoulders, he’s there instantly, thumbs pressing gently along your spine, working out knots with quiet focus.
“Tell me about your day,” he says. “Or don’t. I can just ramble at you instead.”
You mumble something about coworkers and deadlines, and he listens—really listens—responding with exaggerated outrage on your behalf and the occasional terrible joke meant to lighten the load.
Midway through, you glance toward the table where his half-finished Star Wars Lego set sprawls in all its ridiculous, intricate glory.
“How’s the… huge space thing?” you ask carefully.
His eyes light up despite himself. He tries to play it cool, but it’s hopeless. “The Star Wars Lego set,” he corrects, mock-stern. Then he scratches the back of his neck, a little sheepish. “I’m almost done. Just have to finish the last section and then—well. Then I get to admire it for an unreasonable amount of time.”
You smile at him. “I like it... I like seeing you work on it.”
He pauses, then smiles—soft, relieved, grateful. “Yeah?” He leans in and kisses your hairline gently. “Thanks again for getting it for me. I worry sometimes that I’m… you know. Too much of a nerd.”
“You’re exactly the right amount,” you say without hesitation.
His smile turns quiet. Real.
When you finish eating, he takes your plate from you, already yawning. “I’ll clean it tomorrow morning,” he mutters, stacking it in the sink. “Future John can deal with it.”
He comes back to you, hands sliding up your arms. “Anything else you need?” he asks gently. “Massage? Tea? Me standing guard while you pass out?”
You lift your arms toward him weakly. “Carry me to bed.”
His grin is immediate. “With pleasure.”
He scoops you up bridal style like you weigh nothing, holding you close as he walks down the hall. You tuck your face into his neck, breathing him in, the day finally loosening its grip.
John carries you the last few steps to the bed with effortless care, arms steady, sure. He lowers you gently onto the mattress, like he’s afraid of jostling even an ounce of the exhaustion still clinging to you. One hand stays braced beside your shoulder as he leans down and kisses you—soft, unhurried, just a brush of warmth meant to ground you.
He pulls back only a fraction, eyes searching yours, something quiet and reverent in his expression. Like he’s checking in. Like he always does.
Then he leans in again.
This kiss is deeper and slower, his mouth fitting to yours with intent. You part for him instinctively, a small sound slipping out as he takes his time, kissing you like he’s got nowhere else to be. His hands come up to cradle your face, thumbs warm along your jaw as his tongue slips gently against yours, coaxing instead of claiming.
You lift into him slightly, one hand sliding to the back of his neck for balance, for closeness. John follows immediately, careful as he shifts his weight and eases over you, bracing himself so he never truly presses down. His chest is solid against you, heat seeping through fabric, familiar and grounding all at once.
He nudges your legs apart with his knee, settling between them, close enough that you can feel him there—present, restrained, wanting. He breaks the kiss then, forehead resting against yours, breath warm and uneven.
“Can I make you feel good?” he asks quietly, voice low and sincere, like the answer matters more than anything.
“Yes,” you breathe, the word slipping out like a plea. “Please.”
Something soft and relieved flashes across his face before he kisses you again, slower this time, hands roaming your sides with reverent care. Your fingers drag over his back, feeling muscle shift beneath your touch, and when his hips rock just once—barely there—you feel how badly he wants you.
He kisses along your jaw, down the line of your neck, stubble rough against your skin in a way that makes you shiver. His hands trace your waist, thumbs pressing in like he’s memorizing the shape of you.
He pulls back only long enough to lift your shirt over your head, movements unhurried, eyes flicking up to watch your face the whole time. You undo your bra as his fingers work your zipper, both of you clumsy in that quiet, familiar way. When he eases your pants down, his mouth curves into a small, appreciative smile.
“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, like it’s a simple fact.
He leans back in to kiss you again as you shove your bra off onto the floor, his words brushing your lips between kisses. “We’re gonna take this slow,” he promises, voice warm and sure. “I want you so relaxed you forget everything else exists.”
You whine softly, half-laughing when you realize he hasn’t taken anything off yet. “John…”
He chuckles, low and fond. “You want me to?”
You nod immediately, another quiet sound slipping free, and he kisses you again—deep, lingering—before murmuring that you’ll have to help him. You tug his shirt free, kissing him as you go, fingers fumbling at his waistband until he takes over, pushing his pants down the rest of the way with a crooked grin
“I’m gonna take real good care of you,” he says softly, like a vow.
“Yes, please,” you murmur again.
He kisses your cheek, then trails his hands down your stomach, touch slow and deliberate, heat following wherever he goes. When his fingers dip lower, just teasing, you squirm beneath him, breath hitching as he smiles—gentle, focused, entirely yours.
His hand drifts lower, two fingers sliding through the slick folds of your pussy, making your hips jerk instinctively toward his touch. John’s thumb finds your clit, rubbing slow, deliberate circles—gentle but insistent—sending sharp jolts of pleasure straight through you.
Your nerves, already frayed from weeks of stress and exhaustion, light up under his hands. You’ve been running on empty for so long, barely giving yourself time to breathe, and now—like this—you feel awake. Alive. Desperate.
A moan tears out of you, louder than you expect, starting deep in your throat before spilling into the space between you. John pulls back just enough to look at you, lips curling into a knowing smirk.
“Yeah?” he murmurs, eyes dark and gleaming with satisfaction, before he leans in and kisses you again—slow, deep, stealing the air from your lungs.
He slips a finger inside you, then another, stretching you open, filling you. A soft, needy mewl escapes you as you try to roll your hips into the movement, chasing more friction, more depth. John’s hands clamp down on your hips, holding you still, grip firm and grounding.
“Patience sweetheart,” he growls against your mouth. “I want to savor this.”
His fingers curl, reaching deeper, brushing that perfect spot inside you. Pleasure crashes through you in heavy waves, stealing your breath. You gasp, clutching at his biceps nails biting into his skin as his pace quickens. He knows exactly what he’s doing—drawing it out, building you up slowly, relentlessly.
Your stomach tightens, heat coiling low and fast, your first orgasm looming dangerously close. You try to warn him, words breaking apart between moans.
“John, I’m gonna—”
He cuts you off with a kiss, tongue sliding against yours, mimicking the rhythm of his fingers, making it impossible to think.
“You’re gonna what, baby?” he rumbles, voice low and teasing, full of promise.
“Cum,” you gasp, body going taut. “I’m gonna cum.”
John groans, deep and rough, the sound vibrating straight through you.
“Then fucking cum,” he urges, equal parts command and plea. “Let it go. I’ve got you.”
And you do. Your vision whites out as your body convulses, pleasure tearing through you in uncontrollable waves. You’re chanting fuck, fuck, fuck like a prayer, muscles clenching hard around his fingers, milking them as you come undone beneath him.
He doesn’t stop right away. His fingers keep moving, slow and deliberate now, dragging the pleasure out until you’re shaking and oversensitive. His breathing is ragged as he watches you, eyes blown dark with want and something heaveir—something that makes your chest ache. He looks like he could come untouched, just from seeing you like this, wrecked and open for him.
When the last tremors finally fade, he pulls his fingers free, unhurried, making you whimper at the loss. He brings them straight to his mouth, sucking them clean, never breaking eye contact. His gaze drags over you slowly, taking in every curve, every flushed inch of skin.
You fight the urge to hide your face as heat creeps into your cheeks, that familiar shyness rising despite everything. No matter how many times he’s seen you like this, there’s something about the way he looks at you—like you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever laid eyes on—that makes your heart stutter and your body ache for more.
John pushes down his briefs just enough for his cock to spring free, hot and heavy against your thigh. He leans down, mouth tracing a path up your neck, stubble a delicious, grounding scrape.
“Gonna make you feel so good,” he growls, the words vibrating against your pulse. “Gonna make you forget your name.”
And you know he’s right. He already has.
He hooks his forearms under your knees, raising your legs until they’re draped over his elbows, opening you completely to him. The position is vulnerable, but with John, it feels like worship.
He lines himself up and then pushes in, so slowly you feel every thick inch as he stretches you, fills you, seats himself deep inside. He comes down over you, chest pressing to yours as he kisses you, slow and deep, matching the lazy, deliberate roll of his hips.
When he bottoms out, a loud, unabashed moan tears from your throat as he hits that place deep inside—the one only he ever seems to find.
“Please, John,” you gasp, hands fisting in the sheets above your head. “Faster.”
“Hm?” he murmurs against your neck, hips still maddeningly slow. “What was that?”
“Harder,” you plead, arching, desperate for more. “Faster, please.”
A dark, guttural fuck is his only reply. He pulls all the way out, leaving you empty and aching for a split second before slamming back into you. He sets a punishing rhythm, pistoning into your slick heat, the sound of skin slapping skin filling the room, loud and obscene. Your moans are loud, but his are louder—deep groans and grunts he knows only make you clench harder around him.
He shifts, wrapping his arms around you in a tight bear hug, pinning you to his chest as he thrusts deeper, harder, movements turning feverish, desperate. Your eyes roll back, a silent, gaping moan escaping as pleasure overwhelms you, sharp and blinding.
“That’s it,” he pants, voice ragged in your ear. “You’re doing such a good fucking job taking all of my cock. So proud of you.”
The praise—the raw, filthy worship—makes you mewl and clench around him, your body responding to his words as much as his touch.
The coil in your stomach winds impossibly tight, too hot, too fast. You’re too far gone to warn him, but it doesn’t matter—John feels it. He keeps his rhythm, driving into you with relentless precision, and then your orgasm rips through you, violent and all-consuming. Your body convulses, pleasure so intense it borders on pain, and you cry out his name like a curse and a prayer all at once.
John slows to a stop, buried deep as you ride out the last tremors. He chuckles breathlessly and groans as your cunt clenches around him, pulsing tight and rhythmic, milking his cock. He stays there, weight solid and comforting, face buried in your neck as the world slowly comes back into focus.
He sits up, pulling out slowly, and you whimper at the emptiness. He wraps a hand around his cock, slick with your arousal, stroking himself as he watches you, gaze dark and possessive. Then he gently flips you onto your stomach. Cool air hits your back before he grabs a pillow and wedges it under your hips, lifting your ass higher. He thrusts back in, and you yelp at the oversimulation, face burning as your wet cunt greedily sucks him in.
John rolls his head back with a guttural groan and doesn’t waste a second.
The room fills with the sound of your whines, his huffs, hips smacking against your ass in a raw, rhythmic percussion. He grips your hips tight, forcing you back onto his cock with every snap of his waist. He’s going so fast, so deep, that you reach back instinctively, palm pressing to his stomach in a plea for mercy.
Instead, he grabs your wrist and pins it against your lower back, using it like reins to pull you harder onto him, control absolute.
“That's it, baby,” he growls, voice strained. “You treat me so good. Fuck—you’re too good for me, too good for making me feel this go—”
He cuts himself off with a sharp gasp as his rhythm falters, thrusts turning erratic as his orgasm crashes up on him.
“Cum all over my cock,” he commands, voice breaking. “Now.”
Your orgasm detonates, kicking his into motion, and as your walls clamp down, he spills inside you—hot, deep pulses that leave you shaking. Your overstimulated pussy clenches and milks him as he rides it out with a hiss, pressing a soft kiss to the back of your head.
He pulls out with a sharp breath and immediately gathers you to his side, kissing everywhere he can reach—your shoulders, cheeks, forehead. You smile shyly, exhausted, stress utterly annihilated. You lift your head just enough to nip playfully at his arm.
He chuckles, low and rumbling, before kissing your hairline.
He stays still for a long moment, thumb rubbing slow circles into your hip, before pressing a kiss to your temple.
“You need water,” he murmurs, voice rough. “Let me get you some.”
“No,” you whine, curling closer. “Stay here.”
He huffs a quiet laugh, the smirk audible in his voice. “I’ll be two seconds. I promise.”
You tighten your arm around his waist, anchoring him. “Just want to stay like this,” you mumble, already drifting. “Don’t go anywhere.”
John stills. The teasing fades, replaced by something heavier, softer. His hand covers yours, fingers lacing tight. His chest swells with a rush of affection that nearly steals his breath.
After a beat, he murmurs, “Okay.” He pulls the duvet up over you both, cocooning you in warmth. “Okay. I’m not going anywhere.”
🏷️ ─── ୧ ‧₊˚ john relaxes once you do.🎐 ⋅
@witchygagirl @walkerofshield @yeetaliano @novfr @archangelswing @xojadeelizabethox @bartonsparrow25 @hesaidgirlyoubetterhavefun @ghost-ina-tree @katieandersstark-blog @theloverofstuff @reedusw1fe @inafieldoflilies @bizarrescribblez @kc-readsss
i’ll be coming back very soon!! i’m going to be catching up on inbox requests and also finally working on some of my own ideas that have been sitting in my notes for way too long 😭
if there’s anything you’d like me to do differently, any suggestions, or something you’d love to see more of, please feel free to send me a message! i’m always open to hearing from you guys 💌
