you can thank my subconscious mind for this bc i essentially just regurgitated the dream i had last night :)
cw — semi-public, overstim + orgasm control, significant age difference, power imbalance, outdated gender dynamics, dom!sid dishing it out, fictional climate criminal behavior, yada yada yada...
It's a day of the week that ends in "y," meaning the jet, as well as its standard two passengers and several crew members, are en route to a state dinner... or a rally. A conference, maybe?
Who knows... who cares?
Another official something-or-other—nothing for you to worry your pretty little head over, so says your husband.
You know all too well the specifics matter not. While you may be the governor's devoted shadow these days, you—in absence of the preferred alternative—were first your father's.
Minor details are of little consequence. Frivolousness, if anything. Behind closed doors, hushed conversations flow like liquor from a crystal decanter regardless of the drapery.
As much as your pride might like to, you can't pin your absent mind on the change in altitude or even the glass of champagne the purser slipped in your manicured hand. No, the pin-prick dizziness and pounding behind your brow only ever has one culprit: the hand buried deep between your thighs.
Writhing against the buttery soft leather, you're sure you've bitten your bottom lip bloody trying to keep strangled moans and shrill whines at bay. But, to no avail. Lost in an oxygen-deficient haze and at the mercy of your palpitating heart, you forget yourself.
"Quiet, dove. I can hardly hear myself think over all that racket."
Dove; a girlhood nickname aptly co-opted by your husband.
Dutiful and docile; mated for life. And fertile, God willing. The innocence and purity, however, have long-since departed, like a vagrant feather on a breeze. Though, acknowledging precisely how long would send your father straight to the grave he already has one foot in. (Donning pearlescent silk the day you officially ascended to First Lady of Pennsylvania had felt painfully hypocritical.)
You aren't sure how to feel about it—the befoulment—even six months removed.
But, there are more pressing matters at hand than what the incumbent has elected to call his wife. Namely, the drunken buzz roaring in your eardrums and the skilled, but no-less punitive touch traversing through your sore, spent folds.
Too overstimulated to mind your mouth (and it's raucous, unladylike spillage), your third peak came and shattered the delicate peace paramount to your husband and his work.
While he's been known to fashion a game out of making his second wife scream, as if chasing decibels for sport, he's decidedly against mixing business and pleasure.
Oh, the irony.
Floating above the depravity with your extremities in tow, you hear yourself beg for reprieve. For his torment—a punishment you can no longer recall the reason behind, but no doubt deserve—to cease.
And no sooner does the sound you dread most fill the spacious cabin: Governor Crosby's long, labored sigh of discontent.
Hot tears pool at your lower lashline.
The waterworks do nothing to soften the edge of his pointed reprimand. They never do, and never have. Your husband isn't as susceptible to womanly wiles as your father. It's a hard truth you've been slow to learn.
"You seem to have forgotten more than just your manners this evening. I decide when you're done, little bird. Not you."
Save for a fleeting flicker of amusement, side-cast and sadistic, the governor had barely acknowledged you since boarding the newest addition to his fleet a few hours prior.
After take-off, the cabin lights were dimmed. The only light emanated from the single fixture overhead. It bathed the governor in a deceptively dreamy glow as his dominant hand dragged a fresh fountain pen over stacks of creamy, heavy-weight paper.
As he paid you no mind.
"Two more before touch-down. Sing for me, dove, and I might forgive you for the day's transgressions."
You nod in acquiescence, but he isn't looking.
He never needs to.
—
had this concept in the vault for quite some time and clearly my brain wanted it out in the world
feedback is always appreciate and always helpful :) 💛
pairing(s) — fwb!MATTHEW TKACHUK x reader
wc — 3.2k
synopsis — best not-boyfriend boyfriend ever! (read the request here)
note — bestie, your brain? marvelous! this was an absolute joy to write, and i hope this captures your vision!!! thank you for the request <3
main masterlist
content warnings under the cut.
cw — hints of a debut-inspired ensemble; complicated, grossly intimate situationship + emotional constipation; angst (not really) to fluffy fluffy; tswizzle references; suggestive section: "heavy petting" but nothing explicit / fade to black; brief alcohol mention + consumption; brief mention of food (no specifics); and ~emotions~
I. it’s getting so much clearer…
Matthew regrets making you a key.
Majorly.
If he’d known the can of worms he was opening when he unceremoniously dropped them in your lap one night, he would’ve listened to his brother; you don’t give girlfriend privileges to women who aren’t your girlfriend. It only leads to hurt feelings, broken console controllers, and unnecessary trouble.
However, it’s highly unlikely this is the “trouble” to which Brady was referring.
Rooted in the entryway, he surveys the damage.
Beads of all shapes, sizes, and colors sit in a sea of jars. Some have spilled out under the coffee table and couch, others have made it all the way into the kitchen. Knotted balls of elastic are sprinkled throughout the chaos, as are multiple pairs of scissors, skeins of embroidery floss, and shards of construction paper. There are markers everywhere, but for some unknown reason, the crayons and sticker sheets are in nice, neat piles. A white feather boa is draped over the entertainment center and there’s a pink one curled by his feet. And, in the eye of the storm, is an anxious lump frantically stringing together DIY jewelry and muttering along to the megamix blaring through the room; he doubts you even heard him come home.
“Sweetheart, is there a reason it looks like a craft store threw up everywhere?” Matthew shouts as he gingerly braves the hurricane.
Something crunches under his shoe, and from the sound alone, he knows it would’ve been worse than stepping on a Lego if his feet were bare.
He also knows that if the music were even a decibel lower, you would be pissed beyond belief. How dare he move freely through his own home without first checking for rogue pieces of plastic? His ears are ringing, but he’s grateful for it. From many years of mistakes and misadventures, he's learned you won’t get on top if you’re mad, regardless of how much groveling he does. And he's got one foot in the doghouse after last weekend as it is.
“T-minus two days ’til Taylor, Matthew,” you grumble from the floor. “What do you think?”
You’ve been at this for weeks. It gets worse the closer the concert gets. The mess and your mood.
Matthew isn’t stupid, and he knows you better than he lets on. You panic under the weight of your own (often unrealistic) expectations. You need everything to be perfect, or the entire world crumbles. This, Night One of the Florida dates of the Eras Tour, is, understandably, no exception. If anything, the pressure’s dialed up to eleven.
In stressing over every little detail, you’ve made yourself miserable. Watching you unravel makes his chest feel strange.
You won’t ask for help. You don’t want it, either.
But, he can’t let you flounder. For his own sanity, he can’t do it. And he does care about you. Maybe not in the way everyone assumes or hopes, but he does. He’d do almost anything to lighten your load.
Yet, Matthew treads lightly. If he’s too forthcoming, you could get the wrong idea. He doesn’t want to spook you, and he can’t have any wires getting crossed. What’s so good about your situation is how markedly uncomplicated it’s been. He refuses to be the one who fucks it up for everyone.
So, he does what he can, and he does it without making a big deal about it.
After a quick shower and a change of clothes, he sinks down onto the floor beside you. You’re perched on one of the obnoxious throw pillows you insisted he order to “spruce up” the space and make it look less “bachelor pad-y." As if that’s not exactly what it is. He takes this as rare permission to do the same, placing one under his hips and cuddling another to his chest as he stretches out on his stomach, phone in hand.
Well, as stretched as a person can be in the middle of an obstacle course.
Between the second play of “cowboy like me” and the third of “Tim McGraw,” his various feeds dry up, and he’s spammed his contacts into oblivion. You're still chugging along, like a Sad Girl automaton locked in an endless glittery assembly line.
At one point, you murmur, “Give me your wrist."
And he does.
Matthew’s taken aback when you loop elastic around it to get a measurement.
He’s confused, but not for the reason one might assume. He’s painfully familiar with the friendship bracelet phenomenon and the giddy exchanges, having been force-fed hours' worth of tour content over the past year, but he never thought you’d rope him into it.
The buzz under his skin is oddly auspicious, watching you clip the appropriate length before reaching for the pile laid out near his head.
It’s not long before you make the same request again. However, this time, you slide on a custom creation. You fiddle with it for a moment, then turn back to your station to begin the next one on the list.
“And in which era does she cosplay as a camp counselor?” Matthew teases as he thumbs the letter beads.
They spell out a moniker he’d honestly find offensive if you hadn’t looped the song one too many times. He wonders if you’ve made yourself the matching one.
You emit a sound that haunts his nightmares and side-eye him in a way that would’ve made a lesser man disintegrate.
“If you don’t want it, give it back so I can give it to someone who will appreciate my time and effort,” you bite with your hand outstretched, palm up and open expectantly.
Matthew shoves it away, suddenly defensive. “I never said that.”
The sun slips behind the fence an hour later, and the sky bathes the house in purple-pink hues. As he gathers ingredients in the kitchen, Matthew watches the slow-moving clouds absentmindedly. He hasn't felt this content in a while.
Arms full, he wades through the arts and crafts on the way to the backyard.
You’re still in the den, still hunched over in the same place he found you in. He shakes his head when he passes you, knowing he’s got an hour (at least) moonlighting as a masseuse in his future.
You don’t startle or acknowledge him until the grill set you bought for his birthday clatters to the floor.
“Why’re there two cowboy hats getting glitter all over my patio?” he asks, despite knowing the answer. And hating it. Vehemently.
You fix him with an unamused glare. Your brow quirks, and your hands still. Then, you blink at him very slowly. Like he’s an idiot. Like he just asked a stupid question—because he did.
Matthew’s head wags so intensely that his neck cracks.
“Oh, hell no.”
II. it’s coming undone…
Matthew scowls at his reflection.
“—looks so fucking stupid.”
He can’t tell if he looks worse with or without the fur-trimmed, shimmery cowboy hat. And, honestly, it's a little distressing. After temporarily ditching it, he tugs at his curls. Then, the hem of the jersey.
Resigned, he reaches across the bed for the homemade accessory. Wearing it will make you smile—and it gives his dignity something to hide behind.
Twitter’s going to have a fucking field day.
Your panicked voice spills out from the hotel bathroom, “Really?”
“Of course, it fucking do—”
His tirade of vanity grinds to a screeching halt at the sight of you, backlit and wilting.
“That’s not—ah, fuck.” Matthew digs the heels of his palms into his eyes. “What I meant was—me, it looks stupid on me. Not you. On you, it looks… It looks…”
“It looks, what?”
It looks like he’s glad none of your friends were available because he won’t have to pretend you’re less than you are.
No lectures, no goading, no scrutiny. Just you.
“Right.” That’s the word he settles for. “It looks right.”
The emphasis chips away at what little believability the underwhelming affirmation had. That much is evident from the insecurity bleeding through your makeup.
“Right,” you parrot. Skeptically, you drag out the vowel long enough that it disappears into the bathroom with you.
Before the door clicks shut, Matthew’s already berating himself for whatever just happened. For acting like a complete doofus with a foot shoved down his throat.
His mind is as quick as his tongue is sharp. He’s got confidence for days and a cocky demeanor primed and on-call, one that most women find endearing. Yourself included. He’s never had an issue dishing out pretty words or flirting before, especially not with you.
With you, banter came easy. Sweet or salacious, it didn’t matter. The bob and weave, from platonic chatter to something charged and suggestive, is effortless. And it’s been that way for as long as he can remember. It's innate. He should be able to uphold his reputation in his sleep.
What’s gotten into him?
(You’d say the power of Taylor Swift, or some shit. Which is why he doesn’t open the floor for discussion. Among other reasons.)
Matthew makes the executive decision to put things right. To redeem himself, to feel more like himself.
His palms are hot and tingling as he sets off to do what he does best. Something fool-proof. Something that’ll erase the past ten minutes from the collective consciousness. Something to scratch an itch...
He won't make it through three and a half hours without catching a public indecency charge.
Not with you looking like that.
“I was thinking,” Matthew trails off as he comes up behind you in the en suite bathroom. His hands land on the counter, one on either side of you. “We should fool around a little bit before we leave.”
With his chest flush to your back and his chin propped on your shoulder, he blatantly checks you out.
You, albeit begrudgingly, find it flattering. On principle, you roll your eyes.
You snort. “Funny."
Sarcasm pinches his face as he unintelligibly mocks you.
Whatever witty retort he had died on his tongue when you lean forward to put some eyeliner in your waterline, inadvertently pushing the curve of your backside right into his growing bulge.
Matthew turns you to face him without warning.
The kohl pencil goes flying, dotting the pristine space as it tumbles to the floor. Its final resting place is unknown; you’ll follow the smudge-crumbs later.
Later, when he doesn’t have you pressed tight between the harsh edge of the counter and his chest.
Later, when the dull ache in your arched back dissipates.
Later, when his attraction isn’t so painfully tangible.
Later, when he isn’t looking at you the way he is now.
You’re sinking in a shade of blue you don’t recognize. It’s stormy, vast and disquieting. Like any collision, you’re unable to tear your eyes away even though you know you should. It betrays an aura of foreboding, yet somehow, Matthew’s charged gaze carries a soothing effect. It's hypnotic in an stomach-twisting way.
“I’m not laughing, sweetheart.” He breathes the words through the slight part in your lips, his voice rich and thick like honey.
“W-We need to be quick—”
Matthew buries his face in the sweet-smelling crook of your neck. Intent on shutting you up, he succeeds with infuriating ease once he’s latched onto your throat. He nips and sucks whenever you protest, and soon, you don’t even bother trying anymore.
Why lie and deny when what you want feels this fucking good?
When your nails dig impatient little half-moons into his forearms, Matthew bares his teeth with a triumphant hiss.
He grins against your skin, humming atop your erratic pulse.
“Better hurry up and spread ‘em, then.”
Matthew’s between your dangling boots as soon as you’ve hoisted yourself onto the counter. Kneading the soft skin of your thighs, inching up and in with eager hands, he doesn’t slow or stop until the white Self-Titled sundress is bunched up in the hinge of your hips.
“That’s my girl.”
III. it’s delicate…
“All Tequila, No Crime” isn’t as diabolical of a cocktail as it sounds.
Spending $100+ to taste test it and three other signature mixed drinks is.
A robbery, if you ask him.
What's downright criminal, though, is your inability to finish a single one. A “Last Great American G&T” with a few sips missing, a half-finished “Midnight Mule,” and a watered-down “Blue Debut” sit abandoned amongst an assortment of sweet treats and small bites.
As he waits for what he ordered, Matthew picks at the vibrant fruit salad. He’s about to pluck a honeydew star from the pile stacked high in a bowl fashioned from a watermelon rind when the back of his neck prickles.
“Knock it off.”
You blink, bemused.
Matthew, having watched your reaction in a reflection, rolls his eyes.
Back still to you, he clarifies. “You promised you wouldn’t make this a whole thing.”
“I'm not.”
“You've never been a good liar.”
“Isn't that a good thing?” you deflect.
You turn your attention back to the lively stadium, watching as it fills with laughter and anticipation. You're hoping he'll take the hint and drop it, that he won't pull the night apart at the seams.
He abandons the sprawling buffet table in favor of the plush recliner beside yours. Once settled, Matthew slides a plate of your favorites across the small table between you.
“Don't change the subject.”
The cement under your boots makes for a captive audience as you sail into dicey weather. “I know—I know what I said, and I'm really trying my best, but can you blame me? I mean, c’mon, Matty. Look where we are.”
“A Taylor Swift concert?” Matthew does what he does best.
You know his tells and his tricks. You indulge neither.
“My first Taylor Swift concert. Ever. I came out of The Queue From Hell empty-handed and shit out of luck, yet here we are. The Eras Tour. And not way up the nosebleeds or side-stage with an obstructed view. A suite. A private, fifteen-person suite—for just us. You did that.”
Matthew shifts uncomfortably. He scratches the shadow clinging to his jaw. He looks everywhere, at everything. Everything except you.
“So?”
The probe is firm yet reluctant but not inherently dismissive.
“So,” you heave a labored sigh of unease. “—so, how could I not? This ‘whole thing’ is the kindest, most thoughtful gesture anyone’s ever done for me. It means the absolute world, and I know you know that.”
A thick, paralyzing quiet descends on the balcony.
He does know that, which is what makes it so terrible. He knows, he knows, he knows. Matthew knows; he wishes he didn’t. For years, he successfully kept it at bay because… because you can’t just un-know something like that. Even entertaining the thought felt too big a risk. It jeopardizes the delicate peace only willful ignorance can safeguard.
“Alright, alright. Jesus, sweetheart. Can't have you emptying the tank before the show even starts,” Matthew teases as he thumbs the tears away. “How d’ya know I didn’t pull some strings just to put an end to your perpetual pity party?”
He’s trying to lighten the mood. Hoping to inch away from the emotionally dense zone of uncharted territory, hoping you’ll have mercy—or take pity—on him and his plight of avoidance.
And you do.
Ever the benevolent people-pleaser.
You take your foot off the gas. You retreat to the status quo. You yield, but for a good cause.
Good and right aren’t synonymous. And we can’t will them to be. So, instead, we choose our battles and bide our time.
There’s no reason to rain on tonight’s parade.
“Thank you,” you acquiesce.
Mathew smiles.
This ceasefire, this tacit truce, is as fragile as rice paper. It feels as though, if someone pushed too hard from either side, they'd go right through it unchallenged. But, for now, it's enough.
He takes your hand and squeezes. “And for the hundredth time, you’re welcome.”
IV. it’s been a long time coming…
He gets it now.
Truthfully, he understood after the very first bridge of the night. There’s just something about the intimacy of the spectacle; it's… indescribable. With thousands from all walks of life gathered in a single stadium to celebrate nearly two decades of singing, crying, and growing up together, it wasn't difficult to get swept up in the magic.
For someone who’d consider themselves fan-adjacent at best, he wasn’t expecting to feel much of anything, let alone goosebumps, misty-eyed.
He can’t even imagine how extraordinarily special it must’ve been for you, a lifelong fan, to partake in the world’s most cinematic sing-along. To luck out with your opener of choice, to be surprised with your favorite song during the acoustic set—you could probably die happy. Matthew can still feel your tear-streaked cheek against his shoulder and your shakey hand clasped in his. And he’ll remember the warmth of your joy for the rest of his life.
He, however, doesn't have to imagine how much the experience took out of you.
“Hey, hey. Don’t pass out on me yet, sweetheart.”
You’re one minute into a five-minute Uber ride, and he’s already had to nudge you twice.
Curled against the cool window like a cat, you groggily protest, “I’m not. My mind is alive, promise.”
He snorts. “Then why’re your eyes shut?”
“They aren’t!”
They absolutely are.
Matthew tugs you across his lap with a smile pulling at his cheeks.
“Sounds like you need to get yours checked, Matthew Brendan,” you quip into his chest before drowning the backseat in delirious giggles.
In the golden glow of the streetlamps, his smirk rests against your temple.
Here is the moment. There have been hundreds like it in the years since you met. Lighthearted banter and late night laughter spill over into the early morning hours, all of it utter nonsense he wouldn’t trade for anything. It should be perfectly ordinary, but it's music to his ears.
The cowboy boots he swore he wouldn’t carry home rest against his similarly sore calves. The ziplock bag, once bursting at the seams with bracelets, is empty and folded in his back pocket, and his arm is full from elbow to wrist. The glitter he contested clings to him like a second skin, there to stay.
And he doesn’t hate it.
💌 if you liked it, pls lmk! 💌
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All of the stories and fantasies written or discussed on this blog by the owner or by followers are purely fictional and are not intended to offend any parties.
hi!!! absolutely love love your writing.. bit of a newbie here but i discovered the college!sid request and PHEWWWW.
reader actually taking sid up on the offer to tour campus.. friendly banter/flirting while sid shows her all his favorite spots.. can’t stop thinking about the dynamic oml
blurb in question
HI <3 so so jazzed to have you here and to hear from you :,)
and oh my god do i have some THOUGHTS!
maybe this is a "me" thing but i get super shy and weird when two different realms of my life converge bc it feels like two separate versions of myself that shouldn't (and cannot) mix and idk i just get nervy having one part see the other !!!
okay so working off that, i could see little miss tour guide getting very flustered very early on
like immediately... the second she picks him up from the airport, it's already a lost cause lol
bc 1) this is SIDNEY CROSBY visiting her like what ?? why did he actually follow through w this 2) they're likely the most alone they've ever been or have been in years and 3) the aforementioned ~ when worlds collide ~ perception anxietyyy
missing turns, stumbling over her words, tripping over her own feet, forgetting the names of people and places... just a mess all around
and sid is such a sweetie boy about it 🥹 sure he teases her like usual and def sees how much worse he can actually make her but he actually finds it SO endearing and is highkey lowkey flattered <333
it's kind of an open secret that his best friend's little sister was nursing a puppy crush on him (and everyone used to tease her for it growing up) but he never thought he could have the same effect on her all these years later :,) and it makes his stomach somersault and his heart speed up
keeps telling her she doesn't need to be nervous because "it's just me" 😵💫😵💫😵💫
AS IF THAT HELPS???
i have a feeling neither of them said anything to her brother (or anyone else for that matter) but i don't think they ever discussed it? like, there's no pact or vow of silence. just mutual understanding that this is just for them
plus they KNOW everyone would blow a gasket and make it something it's not
bc this is def not anything besides two childhood friends spending the weekend together! nothing to see here, people!
lies lies lies lies lies
tagging along to her classes (sid takes notes too and sneaks 'em into her bag because he noticed she was getting overwhelmed + having a hard time keeping up with the slides 🥹)
carrying her books to & from the library!!!
SO many casual touches like his big hand on her lower back as they cross the street or weave through a crowded space
def wants to check out her university's hockey team aka the completion ;)
coffee walks in the mornnnnn (and he doesn't need to be told her order - lol i wonder what that means...)
sharing the twin XL in her dorm <333 and getting a lil frisky on it after a night out when her roommate is gone
def gets mistaken for her bf MULTIPLE TIMES and neither of them correct it. ever. 😋
but they also don't ever acknowledge it aloud which may become a problem down the road
leaves a note under her pillow that she doesn't find until after she's already dropped him off at the airport :)
spit kink jamie doing something to me. it’d be so funny to see what his friends would say the first few times you guys did it in front of them
spit saga masterlist
patreon saw it first! (on may 1, 2024)
ashdhdjk i love love love thinking abt this <3 ty for prompting me to actually write abt it (+ spit kink origin details — if you want more of a narrative, lmk!)
cw — alcohol consumption, doing lewd things in public places, sexual experimentation + kink exploration, d/s dynamics + smidge of brat taming, manhandling, having meddling menaces for friends
i feel like the very first time was accidental? or, at least, not premeditated. it just sorta happened, and its not inherently sexual.
like, maybe you both are a lil tipsy and you want a sip but he's being a jerk (affectionate) and trying to keep it away from you, eventually spilling it. all but what's in his mouth still... he taps your thigh and tilts his head back towards the kitchen, silently telling you to get up and he'll make you another one to share and you're like... or not? (bestie girl's really letting those intrusive thoughts win) and he's like oh 🤨 oh 😏
then he just... does it? casually. zero hesitation. no fanfare. jamie doesn't even check for on-lookers or think before he grabs your jaw, leans over, and spits whatever he'd been sipping straight into your mouth. and he definitely laughs at your shocked expression and the not-so-subtle clench of your thighs.
"i think you might've liked that more than you should."
"you're one to talk." — drawing attention to the tent in his pants :)
for some reason, i don't think y'all were necessarily "kinky" before this became a thing. you were comfortable and adventurous and playful, sure, but you never ventured too far off of the beaten path. this kinda unlocked a door for you... and everyone could tell and they constantly make jokes about it. like, "who would've thought jd and his girl, of all people, would swapping spit like birds on the reg" or jokingly patting him on the back because they "didn't think he had it in him" with regards to ~brat-taming~ because it was so out of left field (for them — we all know its the "quiet," normal-looking ones you gotta watch out for). i think they saw him do it from across the room/yard the very first time, but didn't think much of it because it was SO casual and it could be chalked up to drunkenness (but don't think this means they don't tease you both the next morning). then they saw it a second time... and a third... and it just kept happening?? (def get called "sick" and "disgusting" because if twenty-something boys are gonna do one thing, its hypocritically kink shame! and you know it comes from a place of jealousy, duh) but they never seriously protest because #freeshow
i do think there's a bit of shyness the first couple of times (back before you abandoned all sense of decorum). you don't ask for it upfront: you quietly ask for "sips" from his water or whatever he's drinking at the time. but everyone (and i mean everyone) knows what you're actually asking jamie for. or, rather, what you're asking him to do. even if they can't hear you or missed the initial request, your and jamie's eyes say enough (+ jamie keeps adjusting himself, and is bright red. for a little while, you cling to the ruse, bashful as you hide behind an innocent front. that is, when jamie isn't a menace who makes you "use your words" to ask for what you want 😵💫
jamie's no better, always tapping your jaw or your cheeks, or parting your lips with his thumb. no words necessary. procedural knowledge. as mindless as brushing your teeth or riding a bicycle. it brings you both immense satisfaction to move like this, to be so effortlessly in-sync. its a different kind of intimacy, like having a secret language, and it just makes everything else (sexual and not) feel better.
when you're in public or around friends, its short and sweet (usually — because there are... exceptions), intended to scratch the itch without causing too much of a scene, and that's about it. but when you're alone? he drags that shit out. makes you work for it, makes you cry for it. he wants you squirming and pouting and begging like a puppy desperate for a treat before he indulges you both. this, too, is done without conscious thought on his part. he acts in the moment, responding and reacting to your behavior, then recalls what he learned the next time an opportunity arises.
the "pleading period" grows as time goes on (as his resolve strengthens and your embarrassment fades). sometimes, its just because. because he can, because you let him. for his own amusement, to test your endurance, as foreplay. and he's not afraid to use your neediness against you whenever you're a brat (which is often — y'all get off on the push-and-pull / verbal sparring).
eventually, you have zero shame. sometimes, you'll ask nicely for it (jamie says this is his favorite, but everyone knows he LOVES when your claws come out). other times, you just walk up to him, open your mouth, and blink at him expectantly. he'll act all put-out and annoyed, sighing and rolling his eyes, but he stops what he's doing to tend to you, his sarcastic "happy now?" dripping with lust. jamie acts like its some big, annoying inconvenience, as if he didn't do it repeatedly of his own volition the night before?? or that he didn't walk into the room, grab your jaw from behind, then go about his business like nothing happened...
once your friends realize this shenanigan is here to stay get used to it, they definitely goad you both. not necessarily because they want to see the actual spit situation, but because its too damn fun to rile you up and pit you against one another. i feel like you n tz get into a lot of mischief in general, so its no surprise he's probably the main culprit when it comes to egging you on / pushing jamie's buttons for shits n giggs :) and i would't put it past anyone to create situations that make you irritable and bratty just to piss off your boyfriend — they think him trying to be a disciplinarian and being all authoritative top tier comedy.
it takes a lot to trigger a jd outburst, and this spit kink is like a cheat code...
i'm never gonna shut up abt this (and neither should u!!)
that shirtless picture of sid you reblogged is screaming “your brothers best friend who slept over the night before and you’ve just ran into him while going to the bathroom and now ur gonna think about that interaction all day”
so true bestie oh my lord
thots below the cut 😌 (shockingly sfw)
me thinks this is your older brother's best friend since diapers, always around but always just out of reach (first, boys were gross and cootie-covered and when you came to your senses grew up, he was off-limits and you were forbidden)
i'm imagining he and your brother went out of state for college, and while you're from the same town and run in the same circles, summer's the first time you cross paths since he graduated
you definitely don't know he spent the night because boys are garbage with communication, especially when they're related to you (usually)
so imagine your absolute surprise and UTTER HORROR when he walks in on you mid-toothbrush world tour in pjs just a smidge too small old to be appropriate and dried toothpaste smudged on the corners of your mouth
you're a deer in headlights, wide-eyed and crazy bedhead with your mouth unhinged... and your toothbrush mic frozen in mid-air
"oh hey there, squirt! almost didn't recognize you"
my brain chooses to interpret this as "wow you grew up hot!" but that's just me
AND IN RASPY MORNING VOICD GOOD LORD
the best you can manage is a garbled — but minty, "hi" back
"cute pjs, though i never thought i'd see the day strawberry shortcake beat out sunshine bear"
which makes your cheeks flame... and everything else
especially between your legs
how dare he stare and remember things about you and speak in general like can't he see you're about three seconds from spontaneous human combustion??? how rude!
meaning you need to vacate the premises asap before you die of embarrassment in front of the man you're completely obsessed w and whose last name looks mighty nice next to your first (just ask every diary you've kept since middle school)
sid is, well, himself and makes some nice, polite small talk as he saddles up to the sink covered in your brother's grime and personal effects — none of which you comprehend or retain. lots of nodding and smiling until your cheeks burn (he not stupid, but he lets you think he is)
and as you're sprinting out after spitting out some odd (and unbelievable) excuse (oh, what's that? your phone phantom ringing with an emergency two rooms over? gotta blast!) as well as the toothpaste left idle in your mouth, he definitely offers to give you a tour of campus whenever you're in town to visit your brother :)
and your brain short circuits over him ending the invitation by WINKING
jesus take the wheel
and that's how you scored his phone number
(as if you haven't had it since you got a cellphone, lifted from your brother's phone and surrounded by embarrassingly obvious emojis — but he doesn't need to know that. ever.)
after closing (and locking your door to ensure no repeats of this morning) you promptly scream into your pillow before chronicling the momentous occasion in excruciating detail in your current diary and then reenact it several times to your friends on the phone :)
and you dreamed about it for two weeks straight
maybe you'll pluck up the courage to suggest he visit you at school, too tehe
-
i could go on about this for the rest of my life oh my lord
florist!reader gets flustered during sid's calendar shoot
parents mentors for the day
someone's going on a date with chief crosby... and it ain't our girl </3
gif from @matbaerzal
To Sidney, this sham is nothing more than a meat-market legitimized. His fierce, formidable crew, flaunted and auctioned off in the name of "charity," as upstanding members of the local community brazenly gawk and drink themselves into a courageous stupor.
Gathered in packs around the local watering hole on a Friday night, the only things missing are high-res Animal Planet cameras and the calm wonder of Sir David Attenborough. It's only a matter of time before they start throwing themselves at each other like elk during mating season.
It's a shame Sidney won't be around to see it.
"Don't even think about it, Chief."
Sidney slumps; he spoke too soon.
Now, he's caught between cracked-door freedom and the firm grip of his Assistant Fire Chief. Kneading at the annoyance budding between his brows, Sidney turns on his heel to face his childhood best friend.
"C'mon, really? This is a circus, Nate. I shouldn't—Is this really something I should be doing? Y'know, it's not exactly... becoming of a civil servant."
"I'm doing it," Nate shrugs. "You don't see me pitching a fit."
The Chief glares. "Yeah, because you already know who you're going home with."
"Not true; tonight's could be the night Emmy decides to act on her grade school crush," the blonde jokes, his chin tipped across the gymnasium. "And who'd blame her? Flower's lookin' better than usual tonight."
"Nate."
The younger of the two only laughs in response to the dramatic groan of his name.
"No, I get it. You're acting pissy because your flower's stuck at home with a stomach bug, and, subsequently, you've been condemned to the terrible fate of having Cole Harbour's hottest fight tooth and nail for a date with you—oh, the horror! Truly, I feel for you, Saint Crosby."
"Bandwagon much?" he grumbles.
As Nate's grin widens, Sid's frown deepens.
Blue eyes twinkling with satisfaction, Nate teases, "You didn't deny it this time."
"D-Deny, what?"
Nate rolls his eyes; Sid's refusal to acknowledge anything, let alone something so obvious to anyone with eyes, was starting to get old, and fast.
"Yeah, sure, okay. Play dumb if it makes you feel better. But I'd figure my shit out sooner rather than later if I were you."
"What's that supposed to mean?" Sidney blinks.
"Oh, nothing... Just that you aren't the only civil servant sniffing around Blossom & Bloom these days."
With a parting wink, Nate vanishes into the crowd, leaving Sidney to stew in a fresh pot of bubbling unease.
—
and the plot thickens... hehehe 😈
as always, i would really appreciate if you reblogged my work, left a comment or dropped by my inbox w some feedback :) fandom runs on engagement, and so do writers!! thx a mil in advance!
florist!reader gets flustered during sid's calendar shoot
oh, nothing... just them playing house doing a mentorship day and stirring up the rumor mill... another tuesday!
gif from @ehghtyseven
Sidney remains cautious around the local amateur matchmaker, adopting a level of vigilance, one not unlike that of the state he experienced while on duty, whenever she and her cohort openly collude on his behalf. Unfortunately for him—and anyone else audacious enough to be single in their vicinity, their movements are as unpredictable as they are assured to occur.
He could be milling around the market down the block from the station, or waiting for his order at the hole-in-the-wall café beside your shop—even his mailbox was fair game. Blissfully alone one minute, and the next? He's center stage as Halifax's Most Eligible Bachelor, unwittingly sifting through a rolodex of eager contestants, many of whom present in name only.
Their community wasn't remarkable small, but it was quiet. So, Sid could understand the appeal. The residents, many of whom were nearing retirement or already had been for several years, had little else to fuss over. It wasn't uncommon for a single person to become a central topic of conversation at the bingo table or the church pew. Everyone got their turn.
But, of the community's ever-dwindling pool, Sidney Crosby is most definitely the favorite, with you not far behind.
When you arrived, Sid breathed a sigh of relief. Fresh meat meant that, at least a little while, the heat would be off his back. He could go about his business without a peanut gallery or having to stand trial over the state of his (non-existent) romantic life.
It felt somewhat callous to hope for someone else's life to be probed and scrutinized the way his has been, but his reprieve was long overdue. And it wasn't as though he intended for you to fend for yourself. He knew firsthand how relentless Madame Matchmaker—as she liked to be called—could be, and therefore, he could be a vital resource and a nice shoulder to lean on.
You were receptive to his aid and grateful for his kindness, and while Sidney anticipated this alliance of sorts would be largely one-way, he was pleasantly surprised to realize a positive, unintended consequence—a deterrence to meddling. With you by his side, Sidney was approached significantly less.
You both were.
And you knew why. It wasn't hard to connect the dots; appearing together effectively marked you as "off-limits," and, therefore, not worth their time or help.
However, it soon became clear the rouse worked a little too well. And, unwilling to fabricate a half-truth or outright lie, the horde of Cupids found reason to descend with renewed fervor. This time, with a fresh initiative: to bring their fantastical assumptions to fruition.
Today's doings were further fodder, and the pile of pooped toddlers curled between you being the chief culprits.
For nearly eight hours, you looked and behaved like a stereotypical nuclear family out for field trip. The day began with a breakfast spread seated at your breakfast nook and a leisurely stroll through the neighborhood. Then, a trip to your shop for a light lesson in floriculture and an introduction to bouquet arrangement, before the four of you made your way to the station for an edu-chat on fire prevention and safety. And, of course, a gear try-on and (assisted) turns with the fire hose. (Sidney wishes he would've snuck a photo of you donning his helmet.)
As the sun slipped closer to the horizon, you crumpled onto a bench framing the park in the center of town.
Managing two children together for Mentor Day seemed less daunting than going it alone, and it had been—but at what cost?
The hushed giggles just within earshot are measure enough.
"We're never going to hear the end of this, are we?"
Sidney hides his splitting grin behind his hand, all too aware of the typical spectators not two yards from where you're sat. It was best to find amusement in their meddling whenever possible.
"Definitely not," he concurs.
You lapse into comfortable silence, as you usually do around this hour on one of your back porches. The fading sun paints the town square in a buttery golden light soon after. Neither of you can resist stealing glances, open and lingering, too eager to watch the color dance across the other's face to worry about public perception and speculation.
Tired eyes tracking over your face, Sidney hums, "Today was a good day."
He watches you nod in agreement, a dreamy little smile pulling at your mouth. Behind the children's heads, your warm fingers tangle in his. His heart thuds when your hand gently squeezes his three times.
"Yeah, it was."
—
someone let me give him kids! now!
as always, i would really appreciate if you reblogged my work, left a comment or dropped by my inbox w some feedback :) fandom runs on engagement, and so do writers!! thx a mil in advance!
thank you for the love on the first lil nibble :,) makes me so happy to see y'all loving them + this new verse as much as i do!! i hope you enjoy this charity calendar shoot scene...
gif from @hunterrrs
Sid and yourself are in silent agreement—Emerson did this on purpose.
But any nerves he might've had after unexpectedly running into you at the station melted watching you become a flustered mess when his turnout jacket parted to reveal bare skin and toned muscle.
Pride bloomed recklessly in his chest realizing you couldn't keep eye contact for more than a few seconds. And, that you avoided his torso entirely. He grinned harder than he had in years watching you invent tasks to busy your hands with—to distract your wandering mind.
"Remind me again; what exactly do floral arrangements have to do with fighting fires?" Sidney hears you hiss at your best friend twenty minutes into the session.
He stifles a laugh while as he holds the pose he was given.
Emerson, the town's best (and only) professional photographer, only chuckles. The sound of smug satisfaction slips between shudder clicks.
"Not a damn thing..."
You pin her with an unamused grimace, your arms folded tautly over your grass-stained overalls. The adorably pinched expression reminds him a lot of the furry friend he plucked out of that tree not too long ago.
She sighs, rolling her eyes. "I thought it'd be a nice way to jazz up the background a bit. Maybe give some variety to the calendar, y'know? There's only so much I can do with a red brick wall."
You scoff in disbelief, but keep any further gripes to yourself.
Lowering the camera, she drops her voice to a half-assed conspiratorial whisper, "—and I wanted to give you an opportunity to finally see him shirtless. You're welcome, by the way."
"Because I needed your help the first time," you bite back thoughtlessly.
You petulantly kick at nothing before freezing, eyes blown wide. Stunned into silence by your unplanned candor, you can barely sputter out fragments... which only serve to strengthen the initial innuendo.
Sidney's thunderous laughter nearly drowns out the unfortunate sound of Emerson's R6 crashing to the floor.
—
ahhhh this is verse so !! and sugary!! makes my teeth ache (in the best way)
as always, i would really appreciate if you reblogged my work, left a comment or dropped by my inbox w some feedback :) fandom runs on engagement, and so do writers!! thx a mil in advance!
gif from @ehghtysevenarchive + per this ask and others
Surely, the chief of Canada's oldest fire department has more important things to do on a crisp morning, the last one preceding a fresh week, than this. He most definitely does. And, yes, Chief Crosby is known for his pragmatic approach to, well, everything.
But neither carries weight here—not when she calls.
Leaky faucet, dead car battery, unreachable spider... It doesn't matter. One ring, and he's rushing home. He can't pin-point when the pattern began, likely sometime shortly between the day you moved into town and his first off-day, but it's a routine he's come to enjoy despite the extra strain on both his schedule and his body; Sidney never thought sharing a property line could be so tedious or time-consuming.
He knows he shouldn't enjoy the distraction as much as he does. You aren't together, Sidney doesn't ever allow his imagination wander that far, but he can't help it. He can't help but help. He rarely turns down anyone in need, which has done wonders for his reputation within the community, but with you... With you, it's different, and embarrassingly so.
He doesn't have the words to explain it. Not that he needs to, it's written plainly across his face.
There's a reason you're regular fixtures in the town's gossip column.
When he arrives on scene—not ten minutes after his F-Series crawled down the gravel drive—Sidney shakes his head and laughs. Collecting his cell and his radio, he slips out of the truck, watching as you fret like a mother hen.
Still in your slippers, you're stood at the base of a decently-sized red spruce wedged between his yard and yours, your crumpled face angled up into the yellow-green needles. You're the very picture of worry, wringing your trembling hands and muttering to yourself.
A stray kitten caught in a tree, that's what's got you in a such a state.
"Well, this is a new one," he bellows in lieu of a greeting, slamming the door shut as his boots hit the ground.
Briefly, your glassy eyes dart in his direction. You're midway through your customary apology when he arrives at your side and quiets you, just as he always does.
"They're more than capable of holding down the fort for however long it takes to rescue our new friend, okay?"
"I know, but what if—"
"But nothing," Sidney huffs, and he dares to take you by the shoulders. And, externally, he ignores the way you shiver under his palms. "If I didn't think it was safe for me to step out for a couple of minutes, I wouldn't. You believe me, right?"
You nod, bottom lip pinched between your teeth.
"Good. Now, how 'bout you keep an ear on this," Sidney sets the clunky satellite radio in your hand, "—and I'll grab the ladder from the shed?"
He doesn't really need your help monitoring the channel, but he knows you'll feel better if you feel like you're doing something. Like him, you find comfort in your utility.
In less than a minute, Sidney re-emerges, rounding the corner with a ladder in hand. You're in the same spot, now fidgeting with the radio, anxiously dumping it from one palm to the other and back again. He follows your gaze to line up the simple equipment necessary for the rescue operation.
Sidney's heart swells as you quietly step forward to spot him.
Lucky for everyone, the ball of orange fur is on the branch nearest to the ground. Sidney needs only to step up onto the first wrung to safetly coax the frightened creature into his waiting hands, he's back on the ground not long after.
He gives the kitten a gentle parting scratch under the chin, then transfers the purring fluff to you. The soft bundle takes to you immediately, nuzzling into your chest like that's where it wanted to be all along.
"I think he likes you," Sidney observes with a cheek-numbing grin.
Your lips are tipped up at the end and there's fan of happiness rooting itself around your eyes. Your mouth opens to reply, but before the words come—
"Well, would you look at this?"
Across the quiet street and a few houses to the left sits an audience of two. Both of which are now cooing as loudly as two ladies in their sixties can manage. Coffee cups in one hand and their cellphones propped up in the other, they fawn over the two of you as if it's live theater.
Sidney curses their sons, who he'd completed the explorer program with as teens, for enabling this technological torture.
"Smile, you two! Oh, Denise is just going to eat this up," one of them, a spitfire in a 4'11 frame by the name of Mrs. Bouchard, exclaims to her co-conspirator, Ms. Johnston.
Then, to no one's surprise and Sid's chagrin, they giddily type out their respective messages to the local paper's equally-nosy editor-in-chief.
"Looks like we're front-page news again," you hum bashfully.
The tabby mewls in your arms. You curl into the little bundle of fur, lips landing between its delicate ears.
Sid studies you in his periphery as he slips in and out of heady contemplation, ultimately deciding he doesn't mind as much as he once did. "That we are..."
—
eek! wait, why do i luv them already 🥹
as always, i would really appreciate if you reblogged my work, left a comment or dropped by my inbox w some feedback :) fandom runs on engagement, and so do writers!! thx a mil in advance!
Heavily breathing at your Jamie blurb… forgive me father for I have sinned
one // two // three
not me squirming every time i write abt this pair... 🤭
cw — brat!reader x brat-tamer!dom!jamie, jamie teasing his girl for being easy + name-calling
what's presently plaguing my mind is the thought of jamie coming up behind you and silently cupping your throat, gently pulling you back until your head's resting against his abdomen, his thumb rubbing the tender spot where your neck meets your jaw <3
at first, it isn't inherently sexual. an absent-minded thing. he's just being affectionate, and he likely doesn't even realize the gravity of his behavior until he feels a moan building in your throat. he can't see your face, but he can feel the vibrations against his palm and that's all he needs to surmise that you're about ten seconds from melting completely.
he, of course, teases you about it — "really, that's it — that's all it takes to get you going? just my hand around your throat? it's that easy?"
you try to swallow, to push down the traitorous sounds climbing up your throat — you're too fucking stubborn to admit he's right, or give him any more satisfaction than you already have in the last minute or so. you'll stroke anything but his ego.
"playing hard to get?"
you stay staring straight ahead, not even acknowledging him verbally, knowing it'll piss him off.
"alright, fine — whatever. be a brat for all i care, i just hope you remember this later when you're humping my leg like a bitch in heat, begging for attention i won't give you."
jamie drysdale pls spit into my mouth and degrade me
brainrot incoming...
cw — pouty!princess!reader x mean-ish!jamie, spit (obvi), alcohol, shenanigans that probably shouldn't be done w an audience (sry trev + mase), man-handling <3
❥ thinking abt jamie's gf having a pouty princess attitude moment, at some bar or a club or house party, just bored outta her cute little mind listening to the boys talk about... whatever boys talk about? getting all huffy and puffy frustrated, whining and tugging at his sleeve because he's clearly not paying enough attention to the only person who matters — you!!! duh
❥ bats you and your wandering hands away like a gnat, doesn't even look your way as he does it, continues his conversation as if he didn't just shoo his girlfriend away like an annoying little bug
❥ but you're persistent <3 and spoiled <3 (wonder who's to blame for that)
❥ "fuck— jesus christ, would you—would you just quit it?" or, alternatively, a classic "knock it off"
❥ w you still undeterred, eventually he resorts to an ass pat reprimand (tbh it's more of a smack, but jamie'll argue it was a light "love-tap" and you're "just dramatic/sensitive") + "behave, yeah?" with a slight brow raise
❥ you don't (bc where's the fun in that? it's too entertaining to rile your sweet boy up!! and his buttons are so easy to push!! and trevor eggs you on!!)
❥ says "c'mere" gesturing with a crooked finger like it's optional 😵💫 grabs your jaw to move you closer, practically in his lap (ignoring all the strange looks your table's getting) then he pinches your cheeks to force your mouth open...
❥ you squirm and feebly push at his chest bc how humiliating (and hot??) but he just laughs at your pathetic struggle and tightens his grip
❥ "what? you wanted my attention so fucking badly, and now you have it." 🤭🤭🤭
❥ violently shaking your head (does it even move? sources say no) when you realize what he's about to do... in public... directly in front of his friends...
❥ "you're not really in a position to be picky, are you, princess?"
❥ the man spits into your mouth. fully baby-birds you with saliva and yucky cheap beer.
(serious question boys, why are we not ballin and getting something actually drinkable... you can afford it why are we sufferinggggg) anyway back to the filth
❥ you're holding the warm concoction on your tongue, all pleading eyes and face twisted in disgust — surely, he's not going to... right? he'll be nice <;3 (fat chance, sweetheart)
❥ "swallow it, or you get nothing when we get home" 🥵
❥ pats your cheek after you finally obey 😳 bark bark bark
❥ obvi this just backfires in his face; shouldn't he know by now that his filthy mouth and tugging you around like a ragdoll just makes you needier???
❥ def mocks your pouting (t and m are just watching them stare at each other, bottom lips jutted out and lashes fluttering lol) as he's literally giving in and taking you to poundtown home
now I ALSO need jamie to spit in my mouth in front of people!
the og post
consider this lil blurb my formal press release officially broadcasting my spit kink 😋
cw — spitting/spit kink (obvi), dom!jamie and his spoiled bratty princess subjecting innocent bystanders to their antics, casual dominance + man-handling, public groping? lol, jamie calling her a slut (affectionate), implied 🍃 + jamie being a condescending meanie and embarrassing her (she likes it dw)
okay so this def becomes your "thing," to the point where your friends are collectively just like "again?" whenever it happens because its such a common occurrence. eventually they're desensitized to it and never really notice unless someone new/not as close to you catches it in their periphery or from across the room, and is like ?? um what ?? and then they remember how objectively strange it is to behave like that in public lol so many people have been instructed to ignore you two because, like i said, its just a thing! got it? good.
· 。ﾟ☆: *.☾ .* :☆ﾟ.· 。ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :
anyway! currently thinking about jamie being such an ass and dodging all your kisses because you were "difficult" after not getting your way (for once) as a punishment, knowing it'll drive the point home because of how addicted you are 😵💫 at the start of the night, he was super serious about it but as time went on (and you got progressively more needy and pouty) jamie keeps up the act purely because it amuses the hell out of him, hashtag free n easy entertainment! (as if you won't make him regret it later)
without a doubt, he's got his hand cupping the back of your neck, fingertips digging into you just enough to keep you from trying anything too crazy... and just enough to make you ache between your thighs. you're stood in front of him while he's perched on a barstool, making conversation with people across the island. maybe he's got one thigh slotted between yours, maybe he doesn't. either way, his other hand's entire job is to keep you from grinding against anything—only good girls get sweet, sweet relief!
but that doesn't mean you aren't going to try when he's distracted...
"just makin' things worse for yourself, princess. wiggling like that won't get you anywhere far. or good."
of course, he waited until there's a lull in the conversation to reprimand you. and, of course, he said it slightly too loud, catching the attention of the group huddled nearby.
is your face heating up because you're embarrassed, or embarrassingly turned on? (or a surprise third option!)
all hot and bothered, you're grumbling even more now, kicking invisible rocks with the toe of your shoe, and hoping he'll take pity on you if you act dejected enough. "wouldn't be wiggling if you'd stop icing me out," you mumble, mostly under your breath.
"and whose fault is that?"
he sounds so unimpressed and bored with the whole ordeal he might as well be talking about the weather. jamie's eyes never linger for more than a few seconds, his face betraying none of the emotion throbbing against your upper thigh.
what you're about to ask makes you feel incredibly shy, and it sends your face into the warmth of his neck, muffling your bashful request, "c-can i... i can at least kiss your cheek, right? s'not as good as your lips, so it's still a punishment..."
jamie laughs. he fucking laughs at your sad attempt at bargaining as he pulls your face from the crook of his neck—from the privacy of your hiding spot. a small audience and their curious eyes drill into you from all angles. they, and the familiar haze clouding his otherwise warm eyes, knots your somersaulting stomach.
"open."
when you don't and, instead, feign confusion, he rolls his eyes. "c'mon, you know exactly what i want. where's my good girl, hm?"
like magic, your lips part, jaw slackening.
rarely, if ever, does jamie have to pry your mouth open. no matter your mood, you'll open good and wide if he sprinkles in the right words. still, he holds your chin right where he wants it.
the glob is thick and hot, with a faint sweet, hashy accent and an earthly parting bite. you flinched on impact, unprepared for the sheer force of it, but it's the ever-developing flavor that twists your pretty features into an expression that makes him chuckle.
nevertheless, tell-tale warmth seeps through the sad excuse for underwear jamie picked out hours prior. you shiver as the evidence of your sick enjoyment slips down your inner thighs.
jamie forces you to hold his spit squarely on your tongue, enjoying the way your throat bobs and your eyes water trying to meet his demands. to make him happy. to earn mercy. once satisfied, he gives a subtle nod, finally giving you permission to swallow.
"there she is," he hums, running his thumb across your spit-stained bottom lip, the other hand kneading the fistful of your backside.
pride thumps in your chest. you curl into him like a happy kitten.
"too bad you were naughty earlier—could've been kissin' me all night. instead, you're sucking down my spit like a desperate little slut."
for an introvert, he's fucking shameless??
the whimper you let out makes several bystanders blush.
"don't give me any more trouble, and i'll consider lessening your sentence, yeah?"
you're nodding before he even finishes talking, tucking yourself into his side.
um so yeah 🥰 could go on and on and on... (esp if requested tehe)
cw — spit (last time tagging this bc... redundancy), raw dogging it (implied), creampie + cum play (snowballing, specifically), oral (reader receiving), voyeurism, some service!dom!jamie thots, brat!reader, slight oral fixation situation + of course, more man-handling <33
so... for anyone who read drink me like a warm glass of milk, this one's for you <3
*ೃ༄
in my head, jamie is more fingers than mouth/tongue (see: the gift of giving), namely because he wants a good view... the best view. the man needs to watch the chaos his actions incite... half the fun/enjoyment of intimacy for him is seeing how easily you slip under his command and surrender to the pleasure he's giving you... sometimes, watching you crumble at his hand is enough for him to be fully satiated. idk something about him screams service!dom to me. the sort of bedroom disciplinarian whose philosophy is "everything i do is for your own good, even if you don't like it" (aka actually facing consequences for being an absolute menace to society <3 — no, this is definitely not self-indulgent, why would you ask that?)
thinking about the aftermath of jamie caving (he's a simpy simp at heart, okay guys?) and dicking you down after the first blurb i posted talking about this... you're barely a human being at this point, loosely held together by his heavy gaze and wandering hands. before you know it, jamie's knelt between your limp thighs, eyes locked on your ruined drooling cunt. he's enthralled, watching as he drips out of your swollen, spent hole. he catches most of the mess with his greedy fingers, then shoves it back in — "have'ta put it back where it belongs, don't i, princess? wouldn't want to waste any, would we?" 😵💫 all the while you're writhing and feebly pushing at the hand keeping you splayed open at jamie's mercy, clearly too physically sensitive for any more tonight. but jamie knows you can take more — that you want more. if you can walk tomorrow, he did something wrong... and he'll surely get an earful from you about it, bitching and moaning about leaving you "high and dry," as if he didn't fuck you six ways to sunday the night before.
letting the intrusive thots win jamie dips down and buries his face in your sticky folds, lapping at you like a starved man on a time limit. the pillow under your head is quickly eclipsing the sheets wrinkled below your ass for most soaked, a flood of tears slipping down your temples as he plays with your overstimulated cunt. but even in your pleasure-drunk drowsiness, you notice something new... something different... it almost feels like he's...
your suspicions are confirmed when he climbs your lax body closed-lipped, mouth pressed in a firm, thin line. jamie pinches your cheeks to release your clenched jaw; he normally wouldn't need to, but you're too gone to do much more than blink up at him, and even that you're struggling to do. but jamie doesn't mind, he likes when you're helpless and have to rely on him for everything <3 your tongue falls out on instinct you're so well trained tehe and he can't help but smirk. with his thumb pressing down on your bottom teeth, he leans in close enough for your lips to brush ever so slightly, then opens his own mouth to allow the treat to slip into your waiting one. your eyes roll back and you arch into him, humming with content.
"tastes good, huh?" he breathes into your mouth. "open wider, sweetheart. show me how pretty you look eating my cum."
jamie wants you to show it off, the milky evidence of your charged tryst. despite the state you're in, you don't need to be told twice. proudly, you push your tongue out. jamie plays with the puddle for a bit, massaging your combined cum into the soft muscle.
once he's had his fun, he nods at you to swallow. after you do, you present your clean tongue to him, smiling when he does. he pets your cheek.
"t-thank you, jamie."
it's more hiccup than speech, but he doesn't give a shit. he already got exactly what he wanted.
"look at those manners, princess — did a good job with you, didn't i? didn't even have to remind you this time."
so... anyone wanna give me an excuse to keep thinking abt this?
Like to just sit on his thighs and him call me his baby 😪
pookie fr 😩 i know you didn't ask for this but... i just couldn't help myself (a growing trend with jd it seems)
cw — alcohol consumption/tipsy!reader x tipsy!jamie, accidental exhibitionism (jamie getting handsy at a bonfire bc he just can't resist lol), suggestive lang + innuendo, + general fluffy filth but nothing super explicit really, pretty tame for me tbh
jamie drysdale has never been so pleased to have lost a fight in his entire life.
he didn't think it'd get cold enough to warrant lugging around an extra blanket (meaning him, not you—he's a gentleman). you thought otherwise, and pestered him until there was one neatly folded in the backseat.
objectively speaking, jamie was right; it wasn't even chilly. he was actually a little warm, if he was being honest, but that had a lot more to do with his wandering, beer-soaked mind than the weather or a superfluous layer.
—and he had a tent in his pants to prove it.
it's his own fault. he pulled you into his lap when there were more than enough lawn chairs scattered around the blazing fire, knowing full-well you fidget when you're tipsy. jamie knows you can't sit still to save your life, yet he sat you across his thighs anyway. and now he—and his raging hard-on—are paying the price.
he isn't embarrassed he's turned on, that's not the problem. that's never the problem. you've been dating for years, and anyone who's shocked by the effect you have on him has bigger problems than jamie's attraction to his own girlfriend.
it's the fact that he's about ten seconds away from pulling your suit to the side and rutting into you in the middle of a public beach with his friends not even a foot away.
someone across the half-moon crowd says something that makes you laugh—makes you wiggle. jamie's hands tighten on your hips to keep you still, but, by this point in the night, his body is too lax to be of much help. if anything, the impassioned touch eggs you on, and it isn't long before his hips are moving to match your mostly-involuntary movements.
jamie hisses through gritted teeth, jaw clenched so tight it aches. "baby, quit it—please."
fluttering half-lidded eyes meet his, clock his internal struggle, and immediately twinkle with mischief. under the guise of shifting your attention, you rub the outside of your thigh against the bulge threatening to tear his trunks.
"quit what?" you ask with a demure smile, your hands looping themselves around his neck. warm fingertips play with the feathered locks tickling his sunburnt neck, making him shiver.
"you know what," he glares. "i don't know when we'll get back home, and you're driving me insane."
"touch me here."
blinking in disbelief, he balks. "w-what?"
"touch. me. here."
each word is punctuated with a chaste peck to his ever-reddening cheek. the succinct affection bounces you in his lap, and jamie can't help but slide his hands further beneath the sandy blanket. at first, to halt the infuriating friction but, like usual, once his hands wander he just can't stop. consequences—and shyness—be damned.
"s'not a good idea." jamie nips your jaw, dotting a line of warm kisses along your neck, stopping once his nose brushes your ear. "my baby's loud as shit, and i'd rather not have an audience."
you swat his chest in offense, but giggle nonetheless. "am not!"
"are too." he smiles up at you.
"i can be quiet," you huff, determination furrowing your brow.
jamie reaches up to smooth the crease with his thumb. you catch his arm and press a sweet peck to the inside of his wrist. he shudders.
you hum into his skin, "i think you're projecting."
"that right?" your boyfriend feigns ignorance, amused.
"let me prove it," you whisper before leaning in to kiss the tip of his nose. with your forehead flush to his, you try again. "please, jamie. i can't wait anymore—and i certainly can't wait until t strikes out with whoever he's obsessed with this week."
jamie snorts.
you make a solid point; it could be another ten minutes or upwards of two hours. his guess was as good as any—trevor himself included. jamie's really starting to hate that him finally fucking his own girlfriend hinges on his best friend's ability—or inability—to seal the deal.
"you make even a peep, and i stop. got it?"
what's the worst that could happen if he indulges you a bit? no one's even paying attention to either of you, anyway.
you nod, bottom lip pinched between your teeth. jamie tugs it free, fingertip dancing over the fresh indentations. your tongue slips out to tease his sun-soaked skin, and it isn't long before the digit is flush to your hot tongue.
jamie's eyes are almost black with lust as they watch your lips welcome and release his finger over and over again. your eyelids fall as he slips into a trance, mesmerized by your mouth.
"words, baby. gimme words," he prods, the words barely audible.
you surrender his hand with a faint pop, blinking down at him like you're already teetering on the precipice. "no sounds or you stop—i got it," you parrot. "now are you going to touch me?"
"needy, needy, baby," jamie teases after stealing a kiss. "i've spoiled you rotten, haven't i? can't even go a couple hours without begging me to touch you... s'alright, i can barely keep my hands of you. 'specially when i've got you sittin' all pretty in my lap like this."
"—jamie, please, just... just touch me already—need t'feel you."
chuckling to himself, jamie mercifully pushes the sodden material out of the way. he nearly moans at what he finds.
how much of it is from the evening dip you took with a couple of the other girlfriends, it's hard to tell, but he'd put good money on it being little to none. no, the damp patch growing in his lap is all you. sweet and warm, and perfectly you.
you gasp when he collects some of the escaped arousal with a few of his fingers. jamie raises a brow in your direction and you cover your mouth apologetically. he bites the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. you're trying so hard to keep quiet, it's adorable.
"—haven't even done anything and you're already breaking your promise," he chides. "how am i supposed to give you what you want when you're already misbehaving?"
"the other one," you breathe. confused, jamie hesitates. "give me your other hand."
you fish his free hand out from between your bodies and bring it up to your mouth. his eyes bulge out of their sockets once your intentions become obvious; you mean to silence yourself by sucking on his middle and marriage as he fucks you with the other hand. your back is mostly to the group, but he's still paranoid as all hell.
yet, jamie can't bring himself to deny you—or himself.
"you're gonna be the death of me," he groans as your head dips.
too turned on to care, jamie relents and slips a gentle finger into you. your eyes pinch shut, teeth catching on his other hand, but no sound leaves you. as a reward for your good behavior, he sinks in even further, until he's knuckle-deep at both ends.
his movements are much slower than normal, but, somehow, it doesn't matter. jamie's thumb seeks out your clit, sensitive and swollen despite its neglect, and he traces lazy circles between deep, measured thrusts. all the while, he mouths at your neck with little concern for what evidence he might leave behind. jamie's sole focus is making you feel as good as he does right now with his half-naked, hot-as-hell girlfriend writhing in his lap, her pretty pussy clenching around his lucky fingers.
"—j-jamie," you warble around his drenched hand, hips bucking into the other with what little leverage you have positioned like this. "—close, s'close."
oh, he knows. he can tell. jamie knows your body better than you do; he's a diligent student.
"are you, baby?" jamie can't resist a bit of taunting. you're too far gone to push back. "poor thing, what do you need from me? tell me what you need to get there."
you're slow to answer, overwhelmed by the sensations attacking your mind from all angles. somewhere along the line, a second finger was added... and then a third. the burning stretch aches so good your vision blurs.
jamie, jamie, jamie—the beginning, middle, and end of your thoughts—jamie, through and though. he's everywhere, but it's still not enough.
"my n-neck," you eventually gasp. "please—kiss my neck again."
your boyfriend is more than happy to oblige. lips latched to the tender spot just below your ear, jamie lets his hand take control of the pace; he's no longer content to drag this out. it's been a long day, and all he wants is to watch his pretty girlfriend fall to pieces in his lap.
your peak is ushered in by a series of pitiful little whines and whimpers, mostly muffled by his spit-stained hand, but jamie doesn't have the heart—or the sanity—to chastise you for it. if he had it his way, his mind would play those beautiful, broken sounds on a loop.
but the reverie is too good to last. it always is.
"get a room, you two!"
a chorus of laughter and vulgar remarks succeed trevor's call-out. and, hot under the collar, jamie's cheeks burn pink as he buries his face in the safety of your neck.
dededos
blakekathryn
areudirty
janainaart
snowghoul
baratheonpilled
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