declan o’hara is such a man, he doesn’t even have to think about it. he holds open doors, picks up heavy things so his girl doesn’t have to, walks on the outer side of the sidewalk, keeps a hand on the small of her back, redirects the waiter to her first at every restaurant, always pours the drinks, always pays the tab, comes home with a small gift every single day just to show that she was on his brain while they were apart, eats pussy like it’s the first time his taste buds have ever worked, makes sure she always cums first, and then a few times after that. breakfast in bed, remembers her morning tea or coffee ritual, offers to iron her clothes for the day, sits patiently on the bed as she decides what she’s even gonna wear, never complains about her taking too long to get ready, compliments her when she finally appears in his line of sight. all without breaking a sweat. and that’s not even the half of it.
Happilymarried!Pope who makes everything a onesided competition on who treats their wife best. He just wants to brag how he kisses the ground u walk on because how are they criminals but Cath has to work at a bar??? Uh uh not Pope's wife, she's lapping up the sun by the pool in their house or busy spending his money around, not a care in the damn world hair done nails done in a cute lil car...his card has never graced the leather of his wallet cause its always in her purse
oh my gosh yes, absolutely. oh he's so husband ohhhh i'm sick!! i especially love this with ditzy, bimbo!reader <3 i got a little carried away but it's andrew so it fits! :)
everyone's at the house waiting for dinner to be made, just standing around and chatting. it's hot, bordering on nauseating humidity, and all andrew wants to do is see his pretty wife before dinner. he needs alone time, quiet time in his old room to just sit and gaze at you as you chatter.
but now? andrew's engaged in a mindless conversation with craig, hearing him drone on about his latest hook-up while he stands with his hands on his hips nervously. you're due at smurf's house at any minute, a promise you made as you laid out on the beachfront of your home, waving at andrew as he got in his truck to meet up with the boys earlier that day.
he couldn't stop himself from kissing you. he was 15 minutes late. big fuckin' deal. andrew's family knew he needed his "you time".
deran's cooking tonight, much to pope's chagrin, and the cody's are all a bit anxious to eat the food. "oh no i literally have the pizza place down the block on speed dial" j expresses in between sips of his beer, before deran angrily chimes in from inside the house "jokes on you, dickhead, i catered."
baz sits on a lounger with cath, holding her to his side as he talks to j about an upcoming job. she's sticky with bar-soda stains and exhausted with the sheer movement of a work ethic. staring down at her ring, she runs her thumb over the diamond, wondering how life could've been different. her eyes flicker over to the oldest cody, and she can remember a time when she'd always find him looking back at her. but that hasn't happened in a long time. her shoulders crack with resignation and envy.
a horn honking, a happy squeal from the driveway, and andrew's straightening up his miserable stance. the thick gummy sole of his jordans rub against the concrete as he, quite literally, walks away from craig mid conversation. "bro-" craig shrugs, turning to look at baz in confusion as baz smiles "his girls home bro, you lost him the second the tires pulled in the driveway." craig stomps into the house, but he's not really angry, never could be at pope, "fucker has super hearing, man"
andrew walks to the driveway, shoulders losing their hunch the closer he gets to your bubblegum pop music and toothy smile. it's hard for andrew to smile, he'd often tell you, late in the dark of your bedroom, "'it's like it hurts a bit. hurts my face, i guess" but right now? his smile is beaming; crooked, endearing teeth on display with a light flush. it's probably because his brothers are inside, he never liked smiling with his teeth before you.
"andy!!" you cheer, wide smile and bouncing in lightly between your left and right foot. andrew doesn't even slow his steps, just keeps trudging towards you until you're in his arms. one big hand hooked behind your head for a long, sloppy kiss. waaaay too much of a display for normal public settings. his breath hitches as your hands drag under his t-shirt, nails lightly scraping his sides.
breathing in through his nose, andrew pulls back to look down his nose at you, "missed you. where you been? how was shopping?" "good! really good andy, wanna see?" "later. lemme get a feel for you. missed you so much" with more kisses to your cheeks as he pushes the hair away from your eyes <3
when you go into the yard, you're smiling and waving at the cody's as you hang onto andrew's arm. your ring glistening in the reflection of the pool, cath can't help but swallow bitterly. andrew trails next to you, head fully turned to listen to you rant and rave about the latest sales and the cute clothing you bought for yourself and him. he looks like he could and would eat you whole at the nearest convenience. it's been years, and he still looks at you the same way.
at dinner, you sit on andrew's lap, legs swinging as you bring the fork to his mouth. craig can barely look but deran smiles into his food; it's nice to see pope happy (even if it is gross to witness at dinner). when his iced tea needs to be refilled, you lean forward over the table, his hand resting on the side of your ass to stabilize you. he's not comfy until the weight of his pretty wife is resting on his thighs.
later that night, when you are all cozy and chatting on the couch, you lift your feet into andrew's lap. he doesn't even bat an eye, moving like it's routine.... because it is. slipping off your lil platform flip flops, starting with a massage at your ankle, andrew massages your foot lovingly as he watches the conversations around him. "'s that good?" he speaks lowly to you, and you nod excitedly.
it's almost torture for cath to watch. she was on her feet for probably 9 hours today, and here you are: shiny toe ring, perfectly, freshly manicured toes. begging andrew for a massage, "think i twisted it after i ran out of victoria's secret." his voice sounds alien to her "'s no good baby, gotta watch your step, we talked about this" soooo husbandly and earnest.
it’s all “accidental hand touch” this and “brief longing gaze” that, where’s my support at for “reaching up and fixing someone’s collar for them” crew??
the intimacy disguised as helpfulness! the lingering contact! the optional subdued “you look nice” as they stand too close!!
In fact, he tries to keep you as far away from the whole family as possible.
Not because he’s ashamed, but because you’re the only thing in his life that feels clean.
If you do need to meet one of them, it's Deran first.
He likes that you're not a part of that world.
The first time he met you, it felt like his world stopped and everything narrowed down to you. Everything else stopped existing.
You call him Andrew or Andy. No Pope. Pope doesn't exist to you.
He calls you "my love" but only in private.
In public he calls you by your name or "sweetheart".
Not super touchy in public but will hold your hand.
You have your period? Cool! He doesn't know what to do but god does he panic when he realises you're in pain.
Actually asks who he needs to hurt.
“Who do I need to hurt?” is said completely seriously.
Sorry no period sex for you. He's too worried about hurting you.
BUT! He will hold you close with a heat pack and whatever snacks you want, with any show of your choice.
He hovers a bit when you’re unwell, like he doesn’t know where to put himself but refuses to leave your side.
He will absolutely build you a nest on the couch. Blankets, pillows, snacks, water, remote—everything within reach.
Surprisingly gentle with you.
He’s very aware of his size and presence around you, so everything he does is… careful. Controlled. Gentle.
Opens doors and pulls out chairs and guides you with a soft hand on your back and always walks closest to the road and sits closest to the door and and and..
Fixes shit in your house before you even know its broken.
Bashful af when you kiss his cheek. Don't even get me started on if you kiss his forehead!
Loves to have you sitting in his lap. He finds the weight of you comforting.
He watches you when you’re not looking. Not in a creepy way—just… studying you. Like he’s still trying to understand how you’re real.
He doesn’t talk about his feelings much, but his actions are loud.
If you ever look scared or uncomfortable, he notices instantly. His entire demeanor shifts.
He’s very protective—but never controlling with you. There’s a difference, and he’s careful about it.
He likes routines with you. Quiet, predictable moments where nothing bad is happening.
Andrew is very aware of tone. If your voice changes even slightly, he picks up on it immediately.
He doesn’t like raising his voice around you. Even when he’s frustrated, he keeps it low, controlled.
If you ever flinch—even accidentally—it wrecks him a little. He’ll go still, quieter, more careful than before.
He learns your routines without you telling him. What time you wake up, what you eat, how you like your space—and he quietly works around it.
He doesn’t ask for reassurance, but he needs it. You can see it in the way he watches you sometimes.
When you give it—soft words, a touch, anything—he settles almost instantly.
He’s not big on crowds, but he’ll tolerate them if it means being somewhere with you. He just stays close, like you’re his anchor.
If someone gets too close to you in public, his hand tightens in yours just slightly.
He doesn’t interrupt you. Ever. Even if you’re rambling or going off on a tangent—he listens like it matters. Because, to him, it does.
He’s very particular about your safety. Walking you to your car, waiting until you’re inside, making sure doors are locked.
Not in a suffocating way—just… something he needs to know you’re okay.
If he says he’ll be there, he’s there early.
He doesn’t cancel on you. Ever.
He likes watching you exist. It calms him.
If you compliment him, he doesn’t know what to do with it. You can literally see him short-circuit.
He memorises what makes you comfortable. Lighting, noise, temperature—and adjusts things without asking.
If you’re tired, he notices before you do. “You should sleep,” said softly, not as an order—just concern.
He doesn’t sleep well, but if you’re with him, he rests easier. Not perfect—but better.
If you wake up in the middle of the night, he’s usually already awake. He’ll just pull you closer without a word.
Big dick.
Like.
It's ridiculous.
Doesn't really know how to use it.
You should teach him. He'll beg you for it.
Whimpers.
Kinda whiny.
Wants as much skin-to-skin contact as he can get with you.
Mating press so he can still look in your eyes whilst he's rearranging your guts with his massive cock.
Uses a condom at first but the second you tell him it's ok for him to hit it raw.. yeah.. good luck to you.
You're cumming at least four (4) times. Fingers, tongue, cock, tongue (or maybe cock again).
Tries cockwarming. Fails before he's even fully stretching you out.
Will not try anything in public with you. He's not going to risk someone else seeing you, no matter how much you beg.
Always checks in with you while he's fucking you. Could be balls deep and will still ask "are you ok?"
Bonus:
Deran is the first one you meet. Non-negotiable. Andrew trusts him the most with you.
He ends up being weirdly protective of you too. Not in the same way as Andrew—more like, if you’re staying, you’re under my watch as well.
Craig likes you instantly. Too instantly. Big energy, loud, chaotic—but harmless with you.
He will absolutely say something like, “Damn, Pope, didn’t think you had it in you,” and Andrew just stares at him until he shuts up.
Craig treats you like you’ve always been around.
J is the one who watches the most.
He’s quiet. Calculating.
He’s not rude to you—but he’s definitely trying to figure you out. Why you’re here. What you want. How long you’ll stay.
You earn J’s respect slowly. Through consistency. Through staying.
Smurf is the most complicated.
Andrew does not want you around her. At all. If he can avoid it, he will.
When you do meet her, he is on edge the entire time. Watching. Waiting. Ready.
Smurf is… charming. Warm. Curious. But there’s something underneath it.
She takes a liking to you, which somehow makes Andrew more uncomfortable, not less.
Arguments in the family? Andrew keeps you away from them.
If voices start raising, he’s already guiding you out. Doesn’t matter if you want to stay—he doesn’t want you in it.
If anything ever escalates, you are the first thing he removes from the situation.
You become… protected. In a quiet, unspoken way.
Not part of the business. Never that.
But part of him.
And that’s enough.
Because hurting you?
Wouldn’t just be a mistake.
It would be the fastest way to see a side of Andrew Cody they don’t want to deal with.
I’m convinced Pope loves to the point of invention BTW. He noticed you didn’t have somewhere to put your mug when you read by that window you liked, so he screwed a shelf into the wall. He noticed the sink was too narrow for your banking pans… you go on a long weekend trip and come home to a farmhouse sink what the hell? You don’t like the chain link fence fine my brothers and I will put up a wood one. He put up some hooks because your bags were just in a pile in the corner. Put a clean shoe organizer on the inside door of the linen closet for pot holders and wash cloths, this will help, right? He’s bad with words but good with taking care of problems.
the attractive things ser duncan the tall does (18+)
protectively cages you against the joust's railing, his hands resting on either side of you. as a way to avoid other people touching you, duncan places himself between you and the rest of the crowd (rip the person's view behind him lol). his knuckles stay on the railing, his warmth radiating off his chest as he stands behind you. he also gets the perk of enjoying the pleasant scent of your hair that clouds his senses when he's this close.
he's always manhandling you. even innocently, dunk is absentmindedly moving you around. whether it's helping you off your horse, swiftly pulling you out of the way of a bustling wagon passing by, or tugging and lifting your hips closer to his face while he eats you out, he's always displaying his strength through affection. dunk adores the way your eyes go a bit wide with astonishment every time he treats you as if you weigh nothing (because to him, you do). he also might have caught you ogling his muscles once and now enjoys showing off every once in awhile ;)
constantly watches over you (and egg). he has to know where you and his squire are at all times. it eases his conscience to have eyes on you both, to know that you're merely an arms length away should something pop up. also prefers to watch over you so he knows when he needs to make his presence recognized if a man decides to approach you—he can be quite a jealous man, though he would never admit it aloud. moreover, when back at camp, a lot of his time is spent admiring you. he thinks you make the most mundane things look attractive.
is incredibly protective and possessive. as mentioned before, he gets jealous sometimes, though he does his best to subdue it (he knows it's insecurity-based emotions). however, sometimes it does slip into his actions. one minute you're alone, a man trying to encourage you give him one dance, and the next dunk is at your shoulder, quiet but aware that his riveting presence will scare the lesser man away. he hates when other men even glance your way, their greedy desires reflecting in their eyes.
what's his is yours. dunk does not mind sharing. he considers it a privilege to even have people to share with, therefore he will give you whatever you're eyeing that's 'his.' plus he loves the way you look in his clothes (it spurs his size kink mhm). and although you might not wear them outside of camp, it still gives dunk that satisfaction of should someone approach, they'll know you're his.
makes you finish at least twice before he even thinks about his own release. first of all, he's one hell of a giver. second, he understands that you need to be wet when you take his length in order for you to not feel as though you're completely splitting in two. this man can literally just finish by watching his partner come i don't make the rules
praises and talks you through it. and this goes for anything and everything. easing you through multiple orgasms? "one more, pretty girl, jus' give me one more." teaching you how to wield a weapon or basic self-defense? "good girl. again." now he may be dense, but not so dense that he misses the way your gaze shies from his at the praise, cheeks growing warm or the way your cunt clenches around his fingers/cock the second the sweet words leave his mouth.
note please take this while i procrastinate writing a critical analysis on frankenstein for my lit criticism & analysis class sighhhh
probably too late for baby blurbs, but i’m gonna send anyways!
reader and eddie are having a silly argument debate, and you really wanna win. so what does it hurt if you flash your tits at him and… oh, what was eddie talking about again?
“Elsie was a divine caster, not a mage! There is a huge difference.”
Eddie leans back in your bed like a jerk, dark tattoos and pale skin a complete contrast to your blue sheets. He looks imposing against ditsy flower stitching, but he’s at home here. He makes himself comfortable, and if he didn’t you’d force him to.
“Elsie wasn’t a divine caster,” you disagree, kneeling on the floor by your bed with a mountain of unpaired socks beside you, “she never went through the trials. That makes her a simple mage. She would’ve had to submit under the yielded light–”
“Shut up about the yielded light, you don’t even care about that stuff, you just wanna be right.” He grins at you, jaw soft as he slips down into your pillows, bringing a throw cushion against his chest. “You know the yielded light thing doesn’t matter, because Sir Cane was a divine caster and he was from Tolberon.”
“That’s different.”
“How?”
You bundle what’s left of the unpaired socks back into the tote bag they’re mustering in and close the sock drawer of your bedside table. Eddie’s grinning ‘cos he knows he’s winning the debate and it’s pissing you off because The Anglebird is your favourite book, and not his, and he doesn’t have to be right about everything. “He didn’t need to submit because he wasn’t actually a divine caster, they just didn’t have a word for it in Tolberon, and it’s the same with Elsie. She could have been one, but she hasn’t gone through any of the basic trials.”
“It’s just a title thing. This is like– baby, you’re acting like the government.”
You aren’t gonna win this little argument because Eddie’s a stickler for semantics, but you should. You’re right. You’re sick of being not right and you want him to say it, and you know you have certain powers over your boyfriend. You’d quite like to stretch all demure and sleek like a house cat in the sun until he’s caught sight of the small of your back, but you’re not, like, manipulative.
You put on a fake effect, raising your brows. “Oh, gosh, is it hot in here?” you ask dramatically.
“Huh?”
“I am just overheating like this. Would you– do you mind?” you ask, folding your elbow down into the bottom of your shirt and pulling it upwards, arching into the movement as the fabric slips up your shoulders. With a quick tug, you pull it off of your neck and settle, still kneeling, chest flush with excitement while his eyes go steady on your naked skin. “That’s better.”
“Yeah.”
You drop your shirt on the ground and look down at your chest. Naked chest. No need for a bra so close to bed time. “Oh, shoot, sorry, baby. Indecent exposure. I forgot I wasn’t wearing a vest under here.”
“What do you want?” he asks, eyes warm with affection and a very obvious second emotion as you cross your arms gently over your chest.
You lean a bit into the act. Just softly. Going all hushed and sweet like he likes, not a lie, but not usually a version of yourself you embody with the lights on. “I don’t want anything, Ed, I’m just overheating.” You offer a sad little smile you know he wants to kiss. “Do you understand what I’m saying, though? Divine caster might be a title, but it’s one you have to earn. Elsie’s a super powerful mage, but–”
“Baby, you’re right.”
“Yeah?”
“I’ve thought about the whole thing from your perspective as we’ve been talking and Elsie really should’ve had to go through the tribulations of a traditional caster before I give her the title,” he says, all in one breath, his gaze very carefully set in the midpoint between your face and your chest.
You cup the skin where chest so obviously becomes a swell of fat and try not to boast. “You really think so?”
“I barely know what we’re talking about, if I’m honest.” He swallows obviously. You know it is not for show. “I can’t think straight.”
“If Elsie–”
“You’re so perfect,” he says, hiking on his elbows. “Are you coming up here? Please, stop kneeling on the floor. Angel. Please.”
You give a soft, triumphant hum and clamber onto your feet, just long enough for Eddie to spring toward you and pull you into his embrace, sending you giggling and breathless sprawled over his lap as he mutters, “Fucking siren,” by your ear.
I think there’s a big possibility that if Jason has feelings for you, you wouldn’t know until it literally kills him. He’s good at schooling his facial expressions, that’s a big part of his job. However, when it comes to you, the new clerk at the library, he doesn’t mean to. He’s not trying to act cool and nonchalant- he’s just awkward. You make him nervous, and when he’s nervous his face becomes hard like steel. If it weren’t for the pink tinge on the tips of his ears, you’d have no idea he was even thinking about you. But he does. Think about you, that is. All the time. And sometimes he goes home and kicks himself for not just saying something. Anything. Because you try to talk to him, despite being a bit shy yourself- you really do. Yet, all he offers in return is soft pink cheeks and clipped responses.
It’s really not his fault. For as long as he could remember, Jason has struggled with anxiety. After the Lazarus pit, it worsened tenfold. So yes, it can be intense at times. However, nobody warned him for how anxiety inducing a first crush would be. He’s embarrassed by his own behavior. This 20 year old man spends most of his nights prowling the streets, terrorizing crooks. Yet, he can’t stand to be in the same space as you without his heart beating painfully in his chest.
He just thinks you’re so pretty, so smart and sweet. You make tedious tasks seem graceful. But being the awkward boy trapped in a big man’s body, Jason does nothing to let you know just how he feels. Or so he thinks. He thinks he’s doing a good job at not screwing it up, of making a fool of himself.
He accepts every book you offer with the grace of a draft horse. Strong grip and a poker face. You don’t note the sheen of sweat on his palms, or the way his gaze is bit too intense. And those eyes, eyes that say more than his mouth does. You think sometimes you might even catch just a glance that means more than what he lets on. And then it’s gone.
Which is why you’re shocked when, months after your first meeting, you find a hand written note attached to the first page of the book only he returned. Neat but sharp handwriting reads, “How can I get closer to you?” No signed name, but you know who it’s from.
His level of yearning is pathetic. He wants you so bad. Wants to be yours so bad, and you don’t even know it. So, until he can work up the strength he needs to take things further, he’ll have to settle for this.
You always forget what it means to have a soldier who trains for endurance, whose body was built to run uphill with a full pack, rifle, and mission, then turn around and do it again. Whose legs don’t tremble, who doesn’t gasp for air unless it’s to curse your name through grit teeth as you come apart again around his cock.
Captain John Price doesn’t tire.
Not when your hands scramble at the sheets. Not when your thighs are shaking. Not when your voice breaks around a plea and he just chuckles low in your ear, the sound half smoke, half war drum, his cock grinding deep and sure until the sound coming out of you isn’t words anymore.
You plead once, twice- slow down, John, p-please- and you hear him coo and adjust the angle until the words spilling out of your mouth fall out in keening whines and drool pooling beneath your cheek.
Your legs shake. His don’t. He just keeps going, stroke after stroke, the endurance drilled into every muscle until you’re nothing but wrecked beneath him.
You’ve lost track of how long it’s been. Hours maybe. Time doesn’t exist when he’s like this; just the weight of him behind you, the deep roll of his hips, the ruthless grind that presses you further into the mattress with every thrust.
You’re shaking, begging for a breather. Price rolls you to your side, hooks your knee over his hip, and grinds home slow and brutal. “I’ve still got more in me love” He keeps you teetering there until the room goes white around the edges, long, deep strokes that make your spine bow and your voice break.
Pillow fisted in one hand, your ankle cupped in the other, he drives you up the curve over and over, kissing your shoulder between thrusts like a reward. “Good girl. Again.” You didn’t know again could sound like a threat and a promise.
You whimper something- his name, a curse, a sob- but he doesn’t slow.
He doesn’t ever slow.
He’s locked in like it’s a training op. Like he’s pacing himself for a long march. Like you’re just another hill he’s meant to conquer and he will, over and over, until there’s nothing left of you but trembles and the scent of him pressed into your skin.
You should’ve known better.
You’ve seen him run down enemies in the field, miles of terrain eating up under his boots.
You know what kind of man he is when it comes to pursuit.
You forgot what kind he is when he catches you.
Now your voice is gone and your legs shake with every rock of his hips and still- still- he fucks you like the finish line hasn’t even come into view yet.
You’re limp and glassy eyed. He flips the both of you, stays buried to the hilt, and rocks, humming lazily. “Easy now. Let it roll through.”
NOTES: I told y’all we have romantic vanilla sex. I love this man he is perfect. Calvin come home the kids miss you
WARNINGS: non freaky romantic sex (yes bro I’m shocked too)
Calvin Evans stands before you at your front door with a bouquet of flowers and a swelling anxiousness that all but hangs off of him to drift into the purplish night air. Oh, God, he thinks. You’re beautiful. He knew this already, he had to be an idiot to think otherwise, but it’s all he can think when he’s standing before you with a catch in his breath when you look at him with such wide loving eyes—oh, at least he hoped it was loving. The swelling hopeful feeling in his chest couldn’t bear to think otherwise.
“Did,” your voice, so soft and beautiful lilts as you smile down at his clothes, “Did you run…here?”
“Oh, well, I would have changed, but I seemed to have…lost track of the time,” he mumbles sheepishly, his grey joggers hugging snuggly across his hips, the collar of his sweatshirt damp with sweat. He shoved the flowers forward hastily, “But I got these for you. I saw a stand on my way—they didn’t have your flavorites, but I hoped they would suffice. I thought it might make up for my tardiness,” he admits with a cheeky grin. “Does it?”
He forgets himself for a moment as your smile breaches across your face, a smile twisting up his own lips as you tug him inside.
Your lips press to his the moment the door closes and he can’t help the sigh he pushes past your lips as he swallows the immediate gasp you give when his hands pull you closer, tugging on the loose fabric of your skirt.
“Dinner—is already in the oven,” you murmur against his lips.
“How much time until it’s ready?” he says between kisses, pushing into you whenever you try to part in response, an airy laugh leaving your lips as his mouth pressed to your cheek.
“Only an hour. I set the timer, but I need to check every fifteen or it might burn,” you hum, nose wrinkling. “You’re salty.”
“Tears and sweat are made up of sodium chloride,” he replies, shuffling you backward, hands bunching up the fabric of your skirt into his palms, his lips dragging down the expanse of your throat.
“Is it?” You gasp, hands draping over his shoulders, giggling when he bumped you into the furniture.
“Mhm—essential for maintaining fluid balance in the body. Glands release a small amount of sodium and water—damnit,” he curses, your giggles filling the air as you both bounce off the wall leading to your bedroom. “You have too much stuff in this house. How do you get around anywhere?”
“Well I usually don’t have you attached to me so it’s pretty easy,” you smile, leaning up to kiss his lips softly and he pouts.
“Thought you missed me when I worked,” he says, thumb tracing up to press on your bottom lip while you grin up at him.
“Never said I didn’t like having you attached to me,” you murmur, kissing the pad of his thumb. “It’s one of my favorite pastimes.”
“Is it really?”
You nod, fingers brushing under the scrunched waist band of his pants.
“But we’re usually more horizontal than this.”
God, he was in love with you. “That can be fixed.”
“Oh, Calvin,” you pant into his open mouth, soft thighs pushed up on either side of him as he moves in slow aching sheathes inside of you, heels dug into the base of his spine. His forehead pressed to yours, his skin blushing a faint pink as he gasps against your hot skin, the yellow-orange street lights pooling from beyond your bedroom curtain. Your hands paw over his sticky skin, perspiration from his run and how his exertion as he bucks into you, arms curled under your spine to pull you closer as he rocks into you.
“You’re so beautiful,” his fingers furl into your hair, your cheek pressed eagerly into his palm while you whither and whine beneath him. “Perfect—so, so perfect, god, I love you.”
He wants to say it over and over again, I love you, but instead he kisses you because he can’t help himself. Your lips slot against his, like soft petals parting his lips and your tongue slides against his own. Your skin was so soft, so warm, like summer. His palms pressed against your skin while he drove deeper into you, a soft mewl coming from your lips onto his in a soft breath. All the words he wants to say are extraneous, his cock pulsing inside of you, groans pushed out with each thrust that grew erratic with every flutter of the warmth between your legs enveloping him.
He kisses your neck and shoulders, the slope of your collar, murmuring I love you’s and sweet praises while his fingers push under your skull to bring you to him again because, god, he loved to kiss you. He loved the sounds you made when he did, the way your hands reach to tug the short strands of hair at the base of his skull, the graze of your hair that tickled against his cheeks while he licked into your open mouth in a way that’s almost obscene.
You hips stutter and your back arches up into him, chests smushed together as he pushes you down to press snug between him and the mattress while he drives his hips into the mattress, feeling the way you spasm around him before he choked out a groan and spills into you.
He drags himself inside of you a few more jagged thrusts, your lips pressed up lazily to the edge of his mouth, your fingers toying with the curls of hair behind his ear and you smile up at him.
“I love you,” you hum sweetly, fingers splayed across his jaw, tracing down the edge with your finger.
“You were right,” he smiled, drowsy. “This is a good pastime.”
You giggled. “Too good of a pastime.”
“Way too good. How do we get anything done?”
“Well, it’s pretty hard to manage this when you’re at the lab.”
“We could manage,” he hummed, leaning down to kiss you again before you could laugh at him. He only has his lips on yours for a moment when you pull away abruptly and he looked at you startled as you sat up in a panic.
“Shit!”
Turns out the “too good of a pastime” burned dinner.
Summary: He knows when to come to you, he knows when you need him, when you miss him. You only need him to hear that melody to have him in your arms once more.
Warnings: +18 content, oral (fem!receiving), smut mention, choking (in the right way), nipple play… uhhh and Vlad just literally obsess and in love with his wife.
An: Can I have my Vlad now?
Wc: 3.5K
Masterlist
They once said that patience was the noblest of virtues in a wife — in a queen, in a princess. But patience had begun to bleed from your lips like a broken vow. You missed him... missed him with such cruel, relentless force that no prayer could soothe it. However many times your gaze returned to the doors, they never once opened to grant you the miracle of his return. Not even God, to whom you had entrusted so many fervent supplications, saw fit to show you mercy.
You looked upon yourself in the mirror, and the reflection that met you was that of an endless waiting, bowed and wearied beneath the flickering glow of a sun that burned uncertainly at your side. And within that reflection, your eyes were drawn to the gift: a box of dark wood, its surface adorned with fine silver filigree.
A faint smile, a flicker of sweetness, curled upon your lips. You extended your hand and turned again and again the small handle that jutted from the coffer’s side.
You knew exactly what you were doing. You knew that each turn was an incantation — a spell to summon his presence, to tear time asunder and let you feel him once more.
Whenever you long for me, make certain I can hear it. Those had been his words, a promise both literal and profound, bound to a gift meant to calm your worries whenever your souls were wrenched apart.
As you lifted the lid, the melody spilled into the chamber like an enchanted river. It was a sound so pure, so achingly beautiful, that it seemed it might breach the cold stone walls, glide through the frozen panes, and soar beyond the icy wind that curled about the black castle at dawn.
And then — cradled in the spellbound hush — you heard it: the whisper of doors opening. You did not turn your face; there was no need. Your body knew before your eyes. Your soul had been waiting.
His steps echoed on the stone like the shadow of a memory, slow, almost tortured. And yet, each one brought you closer to the end of your suffering.
When his hands — those hands the world had been taught to fear, hands forged in iron and cruelty — found your neck, you discovered in them not a single trace of violence. They settled there as though they had always belonged, as though they had waited for nothing but this moment to claim their rightful place.
The brush of his breath slid down your skin, and then his lips followed — claiming it with a yearning so devout it belied the passionate strength trembling within his fingers. Your flesh burned, as if fire had leapt into your veins.
Your hands reached for his, lifting with a tremor not born of fear, but of something older, a recognition written deep within your bones. Your fingers wove between his, wordless and pleading. Don’t stop, they said.
Soft sighs escaped your lips, each answered by the slow, smouldering rhythm of his breath upon you.
You sought his mouth with the urgency of one gasping for air, but found only the fleeting brush of his lips. So faint, it felt like denial. Like insult. You drew back just slightly, enough to find yourself caught in the storm of his gaze. A flame burned there, and on the curve of his mouth, a half-smile, cruel and tender in equal measure.
"You have made me wait, my love..." you whispered, the tremor in your voice betraying a longing edged with reproach.
He inclined his head, and his voice, grave and low, fell upon you like velvet thunder.
"The gravest of offences," he replied, before closing the distance with the inevitable certainty of one who seeks no permission.
He released your throat to cradle your face, his thumb stroking your cheek with something almost reverent.
You parted your lips for him alone. The kiss was a conflagration — a fierce, consuming fire that drew your breath into his. Your arms, obedient to longing, encircled his neck, holding him to you as though the very thought of losing him might shatter you.
He responded with equal hunger, his hands grasping your waist with fervour until you were wholly claimed. In his touch there was power and gentleness, dominance and surrender — as though in your form he had found both his damnation and his salvation.
His lips still burned against yours when, with ease, he lifted you into his arms. The motion was effortless, as though your body had been fashioned to rest there since the beginning of time.
He held you close to his chest, and you felt the reverberation of his strength course through your body like a living thunder. There was no fragility in his embrace — you were his, wholly his, and in that certainty there was only a delicious vertigo that made you cling all the more tightly.
He carried you with unwavering steps through the golden-lit chamber, and when the heavy canopy rose before you both, it felt as though a sanctuary awaited. The grand bed, cloaked in pale drapery, lay before you like an altar, ready to seal this eternal moment.
With reverent care, he laid you upon the sheets, and the canopy curtains fell around you both like a silken veil, enclosing you in a world that had no others.
"Will you stay with me tonight?" you whispered, your palm gliding slowly over his chest — as though touch were the only way to assure yourself he was real.
He lowered his face towards yours, solemn and burning, as though such devotion had always been his right.
"I shall stay until you try to tear me from your side," he replied in that low voice, the certainty of it brushing your lips like a vow.
A trembling smile escaped you, carried upon a breathless sigh.
"Then that must mean, by morning, you’ll be gone once more..."
His eyes — aglow with fire and tenderness — held yours, unmoving, as though in that gaze he meant to brand your soul into his for all eternity.
"No matter where I am, my princess… I am always with you."
His words slid into your heart like molten flame, flowing through your veins, igniting every hidden corner of you. It was not merely love. It was faith. A devotion so profound, it reminded you that there remained something to hold on to, even when the world sought to prise it from your grasp.
You hated the war. Hated those who would dare tear him from your side, to wrench your heart from its only refuge. But in the depths of you, you knew — he was brave. He was strong. And God, in His infinite wisdom, must surely understand that your love was the most faithful and valiant subject of all. That his life was not only vital to you — but to all who relied upon his strength and his will to endure.
"I know," you murmured at last, and in that moment, confession became promise.
He surged forward, cupping your face in both hands as he pressed his lips to yours once more. You melted against him, drawing him to you, even as he whispered how he was always thinking of you.
You laughed softly against his mouth, clinging to him. And you wondered how you had ever lived your life before him — how you could have borne it had he not chosen you. What would have become of your fate, had it not led you here — to this moment, to him?
The spell was broken by a low, muted knock against the heavy wooden door. A sound that was both apology and intrusion. You tensed — just slightly — a sigh of frustration caught against Vlad’s lips, which parted from yours with slow, reluctant ire.
"It seems our feast calls for us," he murmured, his voice a low thunder rippling through you.
You knew he expected to dine with you at every nightfall—and tonight would be no exception.
The door opened without his leave, for the servants who entered, silent as shadows, knew well their duty and bore no need for words.
From your throne of linens and powerful arms, you observed as they transformed the chamber. A low table of dark oak was placed upon a thick carpet. Then came the delicacies: golden loaves still steaming, fruits bursting with juice like pagan offerings, pale and gleaming cheeses, and an entire lamb, its crisped skin glowing under the candlelight that now bathed the room in warm flicker. The air thickened with the perfume of spices and dark wine—a feast worthy of a Voivode and his princess.
Vlad, with a feline elegance that belied his fearsome renown, slid from the bed and extended his hand to you.
He placed a velvet cushion beside the table and guided you to settle upon it with the grace of a maiden in an ancient mosaic. He reclined beside you, propped upon one elbow, his formidable frame curled toward you in an attitude of devoted attentiveness.
With his own hands, he plucked a cluster of black grapes, dark as the wine that filled your silver goblets.
“Open your mouth,” he commanded, though the words brushed you like velvet.
And you obeyed. You closed your eyes, parted your lips. You felt the cool smoothness of the fruit, then the rough caress of his fingers upon your skin. The flavour burst upon your tongue—sweet and sharp. It was a delicacy, yes—but the true feast was the way he watched you, as though the act of nourishing you was the most sacred rite he had ever known.
“To give you my strength,” he murmured, and when you bit into the flesh, the scarlet juice painted your lips the hue of passion and sacrifice.
A soft, playful laugh bubbled from your throat.
“And if I become drunk on your strength, my lord?” you teased. “What then shall you do with a wife so powerful?”
A dangerous, charming smile touched his lips. His eyes, twin wells of fire and midnight, glinted with pure amusement.
“Then, my love, I shall be forced to grow stronger still, that I might deserve you. It will be a battle I long to lose, day after day.”
The laughter stilled upon your lips, and a shadow—light as a bat’s wing against the moon—dimmed your gaze for a fleeting moment. The wine, the warmth, the joy of the moment made you vulnerable, and the word you feared most escaped as an unbidden whisper.
“And this battle… the true one…” you murmured, toying absentmindedly with the edge of his tunic. “When will it end? At times, fear bites at me. I feel the chill of the enemy even here, in the heart of our home.”
He straightened slowly. The mirth vanished from his eyes, replaced by a resolve as grave as steel. He took your chin gently, guiding you to meet the unbreakable flame within him.
“Listen to me,” he said—not a whisper, but a vow carved in stone. “God, in His design, forged this strength in me. He granted me these hands not only to build, but to lay waste. He blessed me with this thirst that I might stand as the wall between the Empire and you. For every one who dares defile this land, a hundred shall fall. I would die a thousand deaths before permitting a single enemy footstep to stain the threshold of your garden.”
A chill of dread ran through your soul—not from the Ottomans, but from the terrible possibility his words evoked.
“No!” the word burst from your lips, half a cry, half a desperate plea. “Do not speak of death. Do not tempt that fate. Without you, my life would be no life at all—only endless waiting in darkness, an eternal winter. Promise me… promise me you won’t.”
“You are right. Even the thought was a cruelty,” he admitted, brushing your cheek with his thumb. “I would not dare. I would not dare condemn you to such solitude. It is a promise.”
To banish the shadow that had fallen between you, his hand drifted to your hair, his fingers weaving through your curls with infinite devotion. He bent low, burying his face in the curve of your neck, inhaling deeply like a parched man discovering a hidden spring.
Held within the circle of his arms, with the warmth of the fire on one side and the heat of his body on the other, the world seemed to shrink to that perfect microcosm of peace. Your free hand reached toward the flames, letting the golden light dance over your fingers, while the other, entangled in the darkness of his hair, traced slow, hypnotic circles at the base of his neck, upon skin that smelled of storm and sanctuary.
And then, without thought, your lips gave birth to a soft melody. It was the tune of the music box—the very one that had spilled its enchantment to summon him. You hummed it gently, as though sharing a secret with the crackling hearth.
Vlad stilled. His lips, which had been trailing slow fire down your neck, grew motionless. He listened. Each note seemed to weave tighter about him, a web of beauty and sorrow from which he made no effort to flee. He inhaled, as though he might drink the melody with your essence, embedding it within himself so you would remain alive in him—even before memory had a reason to cling.
Sensing his stillness, the hush of his breath, the reverence in his silence, a deep, tranquil smile curved your lips. You closed your eyes, surrendering to the ecstasy of being his entire world in that single moment.
Slowly, you turned your head. Your fingers slipped from his neck and rose to cradle his chin, guiding him with delicate certainty until his eyes—those twin abysses of starlit night—met yours.
“Why can we not remain like this forever?” you whispered, your voice fragile as glass. “Just the two of us. No wars to fight. No battles to win. No shadow of loneliness. Only you and I, and the world forgotten beneath our feet.”
He looked at you with a tenderness that could have melted the Carpathian glaciers. His hand caressed your cheek.
“Because, my love,” he said softly, “the day would come when you’d tire of this old wolf and his darkness. You would grow to despise me.”
Your denial was immediate, absolute.
“Not even the vilest of sins could make me despise you. Nor grow weary of you. You are the beat of my heart, Vlad. One does not tire of breathing.”
A spark of amusement lit his sombre gaze.
“Is that so?” he murmured, his voice a playful hush. “Then tell me—what would you do with so much time alone with me?”
A mischievous smile, bright with mirth and mischief, bloomed upon your lips. You leaned close, letting your breath tease his ear.
“I would show you,” you murmured—and before he could respond, your fingers slipped teasingly along his neck, and you slid from his lap with nimble grace.
You rose, your skirt swirling around your legs, and met his gaze from a safe distance, the fire framing your silhouette.
“I would teach you all the secrets of this chamber,” you said, and plucked a feathered pillow from the great bed. “Starting with this.”
With a crystalline laugh—a spell in itself—you hurled the pillow at him.
Vlad dodged it with a slow, dangerous smile, like a predator indulging the game of its prey. He rose with that same feline elegance that stole your breath.
“So this is how you wish to play, Princess?”
You dove for the bed, seizing another pillow as a shield, laughter spilling from your lips as you retreated.
“It is all a cruel king like you deserves!”
He moved forward—not with the ferocity of a warrior, but with the playful determination of a man utterly bewitched.
The chase was brief, a whirlwind of laughter and sighs among the draperies. At last, his arms caught you, wrapping around your waist and drawing you back to the softness of the bed, where you both sank into a sea of feathers and velvet, your laughter mingling in the air—a sound as miraculous and precious as the melody that had begun it all.
Your laughter faded into breathless gasps, dissolving into a whisper of air that mixed with the crackling of the fire. Above him, your hair formed a golden curtain that shut out the world and let in only the flickering light of the flames. You remained there, gazing into each other’s eyes. The amusement in his gaze shifted into something deeper, darker, more ravenous. The air thickened, heavy with a desire so tangible it seemed to have weight.
“And what else would you do, my temptation?” he asked, his voice a gravelly purr that slid over your skin like a caress. “In that eternity you dream of... how would you fill our hours?”
A slow smile, laden with promise, curled your lips. You leaned in, your mouth brushing his ear, your breath warm and damp against his skin.
“I would kiss you,” you whispered. And to seal the promise, your lips touched the strong line of his jaw in a slow, deliberate caress of fire that made him shiver.
You pulled back just a breath’s distance, the proximity still unbroken.
“Again and again...” you added, this time brushing the corner of his lips with a fleeting touch—an exquisite torment that left him craving more.
Finally, your eyes met his, burning with the intensity of a forge.
“I would kiss you so much... that you’d be the one to tire of me.”
And then you closed the final breath of space between you, your lips meeting his in a kiss that was no longer play, but declaration.
That was when he responded. His hand shot up like lightning, tangling in your hair at the nape of your neck—not with roughness, but with absolute, possessive need. He held you there, against his mouth, as though afraid you might vanish.
The kiss was no gentle brush—it was conquest. A communion of devouring and surrender. The sound of lips moving in unison, of stolen, uneven breaths, became the only symphony in existence. Nothing else remained. Only taste. Only heat. Only the urgent pull of hands and the melting of souls.
When he pulled away, it was just enough to let you breathe, your lips still brushing, sharing the same desperate air.
“Foolish heart,” he murmured, his voice a silken growl that penetrated your very bones. “All that would do is make me love you more. Until the end of time. Until my name is dust and only yours remains.”
Before you could reply, he moved. In a single, fluid motion, he flipped you beneath him, the world tilting until you lay against the velvet, with the deliberate weight of his body above yours.
His elbows braced beside your head, supporting him, but his hands... his hands wasted no time.
Both rose to frame your face, holding you as if you were the most sacred relic, while his mouth descended onto yours with a devotion edged in desperation.
This kiss was different—deeper, more urgent, an attempt to drink in your soul. His fingers slid from your face to your neck, feeling the wild heartbeat that thundered beneath your skin, claiming it as his own.
Then, his palm moved over your chest, feeling the heart that galloped only for him, before descending to your waist, pulling you tighter, erasing every last space between you.
“You are my sweetest ruin,” he breathed against your skin, his voice an echo of a thousand battles lost to the discovery of you. “Every sigh of yours is a glorious defeat to my vow of strength.”
One of his hands, that which had rested upon your waist, began a slow and agonising ascent. His palm, vast and mapped by the scars of infinite strength, came to rest upon your thigh. Its touch was a paradox: the hand that had reaped a thousand lives now caressed you with a devotion that bordered upon the divine.
"All of you is a perfection designed for my perdition," he whispered, whilst his fingers traced circles of fire upon your inner skin, ascending, ever ascending. "The curve of your hip... the sound that escapes your lips when I touch you… the tremor of your lashes against your cheek…"
His gaze lifted to meet yours.
"Tell me it is mine," he entreated, and in his deep voice there was no command, but a supplication, the very deepest of his weaknesses. "All of it. This heaven, this hell... tell me it is for me alone."
"Yours," you gasped, arching into the hand that now pulsed against your very core, feeling yourself unmoored. "Only yours, My love. Always."
Your surrender was the key that unleashed both the demon and the devotee at once. A low growl, half agony, half ecstasy, was torn from the depths of his chest. His mouth captured yours in a kiss that was no longer of possession, but of consumption. It was as if he sought to drink your very soul, to savour every corner of your being, to memorise the taste of your breath like the last thirsty man in a desert.
You tore at him, or near enough, rending any barrier of cloth between his body and yours.
With a fluid and powerful motion that stole a gasp of surprise from you, his arm slid beneath your back. He lifted you with a startling ease, as if your weight were thistledown, and settled your head upon the nest of pillows with a tenderness that stood in brutal contrast to the ferocity in his eyes. You were laid bare, arched towards him, your hair fanned like a golden halo upon the darkness of the fabrics.
His mouth, which had savoured your lips with devotion, began its descent. It was a pilgrimage of fire. His lips sealed upon the pulsing line of your throat. Each kiss was a sip of your essence, each lick a memorisation of your taste. He descended into the valley between your breasts, and one hand freed itself to mould the curve of one, appreciating its weight, its softness, before his mouth captured the peak with a devotion that made you cry out.
The sound was muffled by the bed-curtains, but he heard it. He absorbed it. He savoured it. His eyes, dark and burning, lifted to meet yours whilst his lips and tongue worked in a hypnotic rhythm, sending waves of pure pleasure that made you writhe. His fingers, meanwhile, did not cease their play upon your thighs. They caressed the inner skin, so sensitive, so soft, tracing slow and deliberate circles that drew near, again and again, only to retreat at the final instant, rendering your body an instrument of exquisite tension.
"Vlad... please..." you pleaded, and your voice was no longer a sigh, but a fracture, a broken prayer.
He emitted a low sound of triumph and unleashed lust. It was the music he longed to hear. Your desperation was his most treasured victory.
With a slowness that verged on cruelty, he began to descend further. His mouth left a trail of wet fire down your abdomen, kissing every inch of skin as if discovering a new sacred territory. His hands held your hips, anchoring you, preventing any escape from the delicious torment of his advance. His lips kissed the curve of your belly, the soft skin of your thighs, nibbled gently at the tender flesh of their inner reaches, provoking violent shudders that racked your entire frame.
And then, finally, you felt the warmth of his tongue flattening against your aching core.
It was the kiss of a thirsting man at the final oasis. A slow, deep, devout kiss. His tongue was not an invader, but an explorer charting every fold, every source of pleasure, with absolute dedication. He savoured every moan he wrung from you, every contraction of your muscles beneath his anchoring hands. He consumed you with the patience of a dying man drinking his last drop of water, with the devotion of a repentant sinner finding grace. Every lick, every suck, every intimate caress was a hymn to your perfection, a confession that his greatest strength, his immense power, surrendered at the altar of your pleasure. And you, lost in the storm of sensation, could only cling to his hair, offering your body and soul to the mouth that worshipped you as its one and most precious weakness.
His fingers, which had until then traced circles of blissful agony, stilled. His thumb, a master of torment and delicacy, came to rest upon your very centre with an exact, irrevocable pressure.
And it was enough.
A ragged moan, half plea, half ecstasy, was torn from the deepest part of your being. Your body arched like a bow drawn by a divine hand, and then it shattered. Waves of a devastating climax coursed through you, convulsive, undeniable, causing your thighs to clamp around his head in an involuntary spasm, trapping him in the storm of your pleasure.
He growled against you, a sound of animal approval and pure sated voracity. He did not withdraw. He held fast to your hips and drank of you, licking, savouring every drop of your essence with the devotion of a man who has found the fountain of life itself. His tongue was an instrument of relentless worship, prolonging the ecstasy to the very brink of pain, until your pushes against his head grew weak, your cries becoming sensitive, pleading sobs.
Reluctantly, with the slowness of one departing a heavenly banquet, he drew away.
His chest, broad and powerful, rose and fell with ragged breaths. His lips, glistening and wet with your essence, bore an expression of absolute intoxication, of a wild and poignant beauty. He dragged the back of his hand across his mouth, cleansing himself with a gesture that was at once possessive and reverent, his dark, burning eyes never leaving you.
He slid then over your body, settling himself between your trembling thighs. His weight, familiar and comforting, settled upon you, and he lowered himself until his forehead rested against yours.
"You have been so good for me, my love, my princess, my queen," his words were a hoarse whisper, a rain of praises against your swollen lips. "So, so perfect for me." He captured your hand and kissed each knuckle with a tenderness that rent your soul.
A stifled moan, more a sigh than a laugh, escaped your lips when his devotion carried you to the edge of ecstasy and beyond. Your body arched, not in an attempt to escape, but in total offering, and your arms, weak and trembling, entwined about his neck with the desperate strength of one clinging to the only rock in a stormy sea.
When the tide of pleasure began to recede, leaving you gasping and vulnerable upon the pillows, it was his turn. Your hands, still tremulous, began their own journey of exploration and adoration. With flat palms and sensitive fingertips, you traversed the familiar geography of his body. You began at the base of his throat, feeling the powerful, accelerated pulse that matched your own. You descended across the plain of his chest, over the map of scars that were medals of his battles and to you were simply parts of him, following the trail of dark hair that narrowed into a seductive line.
Your fingers traced every defined muscle of his abdomen, each contraction beneath your touch, each ragged breath your caress stole from him. Finally, they came to rest upon his hips, anchoring you to him, feeling the brute, contained strength that resided there. You wished to memorise every contour, every edge, every inch of heat and skin. You wished for this night, every sensation, to be etched upon your fingertips forever.
He allowed your pillaging, watching you with a gaze so intense it could have melted iron.
His eyes—black, bottomless—never strayed from your face. He was utterly immersed in you. In the sound of your breathing, which slowly began to steady. In the echo of your smothered, satisfied laughter, still lingering in the charged air. In the whisper of his name on your swollen lips.
He followed you through the rest of the night.
Every movement you made, every sigh, every flicker of shadow that danced along the curve of your smile—he memorized it all.
His world, once vast and full of darkness, had shrunk to the borders of that bed, to the silhouette of your body bathed in firelight.
He watched you sleep. He watched you dream.
Drinking in the serenity of your features with the hunger of the damned.
Unaware—in the ecstasy of that moment—that he was branding every detail into memory with fire.
Unaware that fate, cruel and unyielding, had already begun weaving the threads that would pull him from your side.
Unaware that this night—this night of endless passion and absolute worship—would be the last time he would have you like this: naked, trusting, wholly his, for a span of time that would stretch into what felt like eternity.
This would be the final night of true completeness,
before the winter of war came to claim him—
and drowned him in a darkness where his only solace would be the memory of your laughter
I am so unwell about marriage kink. Just a man who gets so horny and hard thinking about putting a ring on your finger and being with you forever and no one else getting to have you. Who's so sweet but also selfish and greedy and doesn't want to share you, doesn't want anyone else to take care of or spoil you, who would do anything just to be able to have you as his wife. Ugh
Price hears you say its always supposed to hurt a little bit and takes that as a personal offense.
He's stuck in conversation with soap about something, not even near your damn table when you tell ghost "Oh don't worry about it. It always hurts just a bit, maybe try and find a masochist or something?"
And suddenly price is whipping his head towards you, speaking over two other conversations to ask "The hell did you just say? Who the fuck taught you that?"
To which you shyly reply, with everyone watching you "...my first boyfriend?"
Price scoffs, frowns like you've just insulted his mother, and stands up. He grabs your arm and hauls you out of the bar muttering about real men and kids these days. Soap and gaz wave you off as if this is a totally normal thing, and honestly you're kind of intrigued so you go along with it.
Which is how you end up spending hours tucked against the soft pillows of prices bed, thighs spread languidly as he works you through your third orgasm. He's not even taken his dick out yet, solely focused on licking at your clit and slowly working a third finger inside.
Even through the haze of lust, his eyes are scorching. Locked onto every minute facial expression for any hints of discomfort. Price somehow always backs off before it becomes too much, muttering praises into your thigh about how much you "deserve a proper man to make you feel good, love."
And when he finally, finally fucks you? It's perfect. He doesn't shove in or go too fast thinking that somehow feels good. No, price is so much better than your past lovers. Rolling his hips languid, deep. He grips your waist only to position you just right to hit that spot that makes your vision blur, never bruising.
Afterwards, when price is gently washing your hair in the bathtub, he asks "So, sweetheart? Was it nice?"
You laugh, lean back into his shoulder. "John it was more than nice it was fucking magic."
"Hmmm," he kisses your temple, ignores the soapy taste "that's what you deserve, dove. No pain, no rush, just a proper man to take you apart, yeah? And I'm more than happy to teach you all the things your pathetic boyfriends couldn't."
