kteezy🍓

howzat? jack o’connell fanfic writer. minors DNI.

[kteezy997]

My Masterlist!

* an ! indicates a smut chapter(:

* an •• indicates ongoing series

Timothée Chalamet

one-shots

be my baby daddy 1 2 3 4! 5 6! 7 8! 9!

The Other Man! 2! 3! 4 5! 6! 7! 8! 9 10!

6 Months 1 2 3 4 5 6! 7! 8 9! 10 11! 12!

my best friend’s sister 1! 2! 3! 4

Daddy’s Boy 1 2 3 4 5 6! 7 8! 9 10! 11 12! 13!

more series (and characters)

Lee (Bones and All)

I’m with you 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8! 9 10

Willy Wonka (portrayed by Chalamet)

Chocolate Boss 1! 2! 3!

The Candy Man 1! 2! 3! 4 5! 6! 7! 8! 9! 10

James Cook (Skins)

Halloween with an Angel! (one-shot)

Sir Lord Jimmy Crystal (28 Years Later franchise)

The Prophecy 1 2 3 4! ••

Eric Love (Starred Up)

Hello, Love 1 2! 4! 5 6!

shower! (3)

Oliver Mellors (Lady Chatterly’s Lover)

Young Lady of the Manor 1 2 3! 4!

Paddy Mayne (SAS:Rogue Heroes)

The Nurse and the Madman 1 2 3 4!

Lion Kaminski (Jungleland)

The Gentleman 1! 2!

Dr. Patrick Sumner (The North Water)

the Doctor will see you now… 1 2 3! 4

Roy Goode (Godless)

you can’t leave! (one-shot)

[dramaism]

I've got a boyfriend, you know. Yeah, no, I heard. Along with the rest of the ladies' room. Doesn't sound like he's gonna last long, though.

1x03 The Orgasm OFF CAMPUS (2026- )

[kteezy997]

I volunteer as tribute to be their third

[kteezy997]

I’m on episode 6 of Off Campus and my bisexual dream is Allie and Dean god they are so hot especially Allie plz marry me Allie Hayes I love you

[kteezy997]

the doctor will see you now….part six//Patrick Sumner x f!secretary(OC)

Warnings: smut, fem receiving oral sex, breast sucking, cowgirl, fluff

“You’re ready for me. Good.” Patrick said, slipping his fingers between her wet folds.

Eden felt her heart race. The more his fingers moved, the more aroused she became.

He pushed his forefinger inside of her, sliding in and out slowly, letting his thumb press against her clit.

“Fuck.” She dropped her hand into the sink, breaking the dish she had been holding. She looked into the sudsy water, now sprinkled with broken plate pieces. “Oops.”

Patrick stopped was he was doing. “Are you alright?” He instantly inspected her hands, “No cuts?”

“No, I’m okay. I’m sorry about the plate.” she said, innocently.

He grinned, “It’s alright. Don’t you worry.” He used his other hand to brush her hair off her shoulder, placing his hand on the side of her neck. He kissed her softly, assuring her he wasn’t upset over a silly little dish. He pulled away, “Let’s go to bed.”

………

The doctor led her to his bedroom, and undressed them both. He pulled her close, their bodies melded together like two puzzle pieces. He kissed her hard, but held her tenderly, letting his hands roam over her curves. “Go on, lie down.” he whispered onto her lips.

Eden did as she was told, laying back on his bed, waiting.

Patrick touched her knees, parting them while she admired how his orangey-brown hair had become undone. He was always well-groomed and tailored in fine clothes, perhaps looking more put together than other doctors. She tingled on the inside at the notion that she, and she alone, got to see the less sophisticated version of him.

As his deft hands spread her thighs, he dipped down between them, introducing the warmth and the wetness of his tongue.

She shuddered as he started to lap on her clitoris, licking up whatever arousal had already seeped out of her.

He started licking faster, then slower, longer strides, repeating that process in no certain timeframe. She couldn’t predict what he would do next. All she could do was lay back and try to keep still, which was nearly impossible. Her hips raised up and bucked against her will with pleasure. Patrick had to clamp his hands onto her thighs just so he could continue.

He couldn’t get enough of the way she tasted; couldn’t get enough of the way she felt under him, the way her thighs squeezed his head. He moaned against her pussy, rubbing his nose onto her clit.

“God! Patrick!” she cried, her pussy throbbing, her heart racing. She tried to bring some air into her lungs as she chased that high, but he was making it difficult.

As if he could sense that she needed some reprieve, Patrick took his mouth away, pushing his body upward to lay beside her.

Eden caught his gaze as his hand ventured between her legs. She was able to breath now, but his cold blue eyes brought on a new intensity, especially as he went to work on her clit again.

His fingers moved slower, just circling her clit like the rim of some thin, fine crystal glass; fragile like a bomb. He knew she was close, and he shoved a finger into her wet cunt.

She moaned desperately, letting her head drop back onto the pillow. She grabbed his arm in an attempt to break the tension mounting inside of her.

“Good girl, my love. Come for me.” he cooed, watching every flick and shudder of her body.

She finally let go, finally let her orgasm through it’s threshold and her back arched into it. She closed her eyes as her body shook and saw only blackness and the static of white stars when she opened them back up again.

He kissed her cheek, over and over, moving his lips just slightly each time so each kiss felt new. He let her regain her breath, then looked in her eyes. “Want to keep going?”

“Of course.”

He grinned, kissing her lips and shifting his body on top of hers.

Eden moaned at the feeling of his body weight on her. She put her arms around him, their skin already tacky as she squeezed his strong figure.

His tongue slid into her mouth and she battled it with her own. She could taste her own sweet saltiness on his tongue, which turned her on even more. She loved that he loved tasting her.

Patrick removed his lips from hers, dragging them down her jawline, then sucking softly on her neck.

She put her hand in his hair, moaning as his lips ravaged her.

He nibbled along her collarbone and peppered her breasts with kisses. He took them in his hands, giving them a tender, proper squeeze before taking her nipple into his mouth.

She gasped, “Baby..”

He moaned on her tit in response, suckling steadily.

She tucked her legs around him, moaning and writhing into the mattress.

He popped off of her nipple, catching her eye contact as he moved to her other breast. He took that nipple in his mouth as well, this time flicking his tongue over it, letting it dance back and forth in a rhythm that sent waves of pleasure down to her aching channel where she needed him most.

“I need you inside me.” she whined.

“Yes, my darling.” He answered, beginning to raise himself up, but she put her hands on his shoulders.

“Wait..” she braced her hips against him, and while pushing his chest at the same time, she rolled them over, earning herself a chuckle from him.

“Yes,” he said, reaching down to place his cock at her entrance, “whatever you desire, you shall have it, my love.”

She sank down on his length, letting out a sigh of contentment as she relaxed her shoulders. Placing her hands on his abdomen, she looked in his eyes. “You mean that?”

“Of course I mean it. Here, in bed, or otherwise. My wife will want for nothing.” he placed his hands on her hips.

Eden started to move, finding a pace that felt the best. “But I’m not your wife yet.”

“Well,” he took a stronger grip on her, helping her fuck him, “we will remedy that soon.”

“I love you, Patrick.”

He sat up, cradling her in his arms as they became face to face. He cupped her cheek in his hand, touching his nose to hers, “I love you too.”

………..

The next morning, they walked hand in hand into the office.

“So, would you like to go out for dinner tonight?” she asked.

“Of course.” He responded. “Anywhere you like is fine with me.” He unlocked the door to the lobby, “I’ll let you get the lights and get settled. Send in the first patient when they get here.”

“Alright, Doctor.” she grinned.

Patrick have her a quick kiss and a pat on her bum before leaving for his exam room.

As she sat down at her desk, the other three ladies made their way in as well.

“I see you accompanied the Doctor to the office this morning.” sang Gladys.

Eden blushed, tucking her hair behind her ear, “Yes, I did. We spent the night together.”

“See? And you weren’t sure where you stood yesterday.” said Lottie, “So what did you do?” she raised her eyebrows at her.

“Well, first he cooked us some dinner.”

“He cooks too?” quipped Eloise.

The ladies all laughed, then Eden went on, “Yes, and we had a drink, then I tried to wash the dishes…but things went differently.” she let her eyes wander onto her blank pad of paper, avoiding their gaze like they were sharks and she was a vulnerable little fish.

“What does that mean?” Lottie implored, leaning over in her chair.

“I’ll just say that we… went to bed rather than finishing the dishes.”

They all oohed and awed at that.

“So what about the dishes?” asked Eloise.

“El, how can you think of the dishes right now, of all things?” scowled Lottie.

Eden giggled, “Oh, he said it’s alright. He has a housekeeper that comes a couple times a week, so they can take care of it.”

“Oh wow, so if you two get married you won’t have to clean? That’s marvelous.” Eloise said.

“It’s no wonder Dr. Sumner can afford it, as busy as we have been these last couple of years. The man has to have money.” Gladys remarked.

“I’d love to see his place. I bet it’s so nice.” Lottie cooed.

“It is nice. But still modest, I think.” Eden said.

“Of course, I’m sure Dr. Sumner has great taste.” Gladys insisted.

“It’ll be nice for you to not have to work, Eden. Being a doctor’s wife will have its perks for sure.” Lottie said.

Each of the girls dispersed into their desks, and the patients started to pile in.

“Mr. Perry, the doctor is ready for you.” Eden said to the first man to enter, as she began pondering over what the girls had said.

5.29.26

@gatotejadero @gothlula @b0nney @thebookdragon95 @h3r3t1c

[quietchaosclub]

Ok so paddy idea -

Being in Italy and seeing him in civies for like the first time and calling him pretty.

Completely up to u where u go with it or the dynamics!!

Imagine really calling Paddy Mayne "pretty". I'd die to have that chance because LOOK AT HOW PRETTY HE REALLY IS.

(gif by : @poetmayne) Your café sat tucked beside a stone alleyway where soldiers, tourists, and wandering musicians often passed through without notice. The war had changed the city—everyone looked over their shoulder now—but your little shop still smelled of coffee, cinnamon, and fresh bread.

That evening, six foreign men stepped inside.

Not loud. Not drunk. Just tired.

The leader among them ducked beneath the doorway first, dark-haired and broad-shouldered in a plain wool coat that did very little to hide the strength underneath it. The others followed close behind: a lean officer-looking gentleman with sharp eyes, another with a crooked grin, one already eyeing the wine bottles behind the counter, and two more carrying themselves with the unmistakable posture of men accustomed to danger.

They wore civilian clothes. But they were soldiers all the same.

You knew it instantly.

The dark-haired man glanced around carefully before speaking. “You still serving food?”

His accent was Irish.

“Depends,” you replied, drying a glass with a cloth. “Are you trouble?”

One of the others laughed—Johnny Cooper, though you did not know his name yet.

“Oh, definitely trouble.”

The sharp-eyed one beside him sighed. “Ignore him.”

David Stirling.

You eventually learned all their names over the next hour as they occupied the corner table near the window: Paddy Mayne, David Stirling, Johny Cooper, Pat Riley, Jim Almonds, and Reg Seekings. Men traveling through quietly during a brief leave from the war.

They ate like starving wolves.

You watched them between serving customers. They moved differently from ordinary men—always aware of exits, speaking low, instinctively facing the room instead of each other. Even relaxed, they looked dangerous.

Especially Paddy.

He sat slightly apart from the others, one arm draped over the back of his chair, blue eyes following the street outside whenever the café door opened. There was a scar near his jaw you noticed when he tilted his head toward the light.

You brought over another bottle of wine.

“You’re staring,” Paddy said without looking up.

“So are you.”

That finally earned his attention.

Up close, he was unfairly handsome in a rough sort of way. Wind-burned skin, tired eyes, broad hands covered in old cuts. A man built for violence trying very hard to pretend he wasn’t.

You smiled.

“You’re very pretty, you know.”

The entire table went silent.

Then Johnny nearly choked on his drink.

Pat Riley barked out a laugh while Reg Seekings buried his face in his hands. Even David Stirling looked mildly impressed.

Paddy blinked once, genuinely caught off guard.

“I beg your pardon?”

“You heard me.”

“You call all your customers pretty?”

“Only the dangerous-looking ones.”

Jim Almonds grinned into his cup. “Oh, this is excellent.”

Paddy leaned back slowly, studying you now with open suspicion mixed with amusement.

“What makes you think I’m dangerous?”

You gestured vaguely toward him.

“The shoulders. The scars. The way you checked the windows when you walked in. Also,” you added lightly, “you keep sitting like someone’s about to shoot you.”

The men around him burst into laughter.

Even Paddy smiled then—small and crooked and unexpectedly warm.

“Careful,” he said. “You sound like you’ve met soldiers before.”

“Haven’t we all?”

That silenced the table for a moment.

Outside, distant church bells rang through the evening air.

You softened your voice. “You don’t wear civilian clothes naturally. None of you do.”

David Stirling raised his glass toward you slightly. “Observant.”

“It’s my business to notice people.”

Paddy kept looking at you in that unreadable way of his.

“And what else have you noticed?”

You pretended to think about it. “You’re the one they follow.”

The quiet that followed was answer enough. Johhny muttered, “Christ.”

Pat Riley grinned wickedly. “She’s smarter than you, Paddy.”

Paddy ignored him completely. For a long moment, neither of you looked away. Then you smiled again, gentler this time.

“You don’t have to worry,” you said softly. “Whatever war you boys came from stays outside my café.”

Something shifted in his expression at that. Relief, maybe. Or exhaustion.

He exhaled quietly through his nose before finally reaching for his drink.

“Well then,” Paddy murmured, eyes still fixed on yours, “perhaps we’ll stay awhile.”

They did stay awhile.

Long after the dinner crowd disappeared and the rain began again outside, the six men remained crowded around the corner table with empty plates, cigarette smoke curling lazily toward the ceiling beams. Your café had become warmer through the evening, filled with low laughter and the soft crackle of the stove.

You should have closed an hour ago.

Instead, you found yourself listening to Johny Cooper tell an outrageously exaggerated story involving a stolen truck, three angry officers, and a goat somewhere in North Africa.

“There was no goat,” David Stirling said dryly.

“There absolutely was.”

“There wasn’t.”

Pat Riley pointed across the table. “There was definitely a goat.”

Reg Seekings nodded solemnly. “Mean little bastard too.”

You laughed despite yourself, carrying over another tray of coffee cups.

Paddy watched you the entire time.

Not in a rude way. Just… attentively.

Like he was trying to understand something.

“You keep looking at me like you’re suspicious,” you told him as you set down his cup.

“I am suspicious.”

“Of what?”

“You.”

That made you grin. “Terrifying. A café owner with bread and coffee.”

“A café owner who reads people too easily.”

You leaned one hand against the table. “And you dislike that?”

“No,” Paddy admitted after a pause. “I think I dislike how quickly you read me.”

The others wisely pretended not to listen. You tilted your head slightly. “You’re tired.”

A faint smile touched his mouth. “Go on.”

“You act calm because the others expect it.” You glanced toward the men around him. “You’re the largest one here, which means everyone assumes you’re unbreakable.”

Johnny coughed loudly into his drink.

You ignored him.

“But,” you continued softly, “you haven’t relaxed once since walking through that door.”

Paddy’s eyes stayed on yours. The room had gone quieter now.

Even the others sensed something delicate unfolding between you.

Finally, Paddy leaned back in his chair with a low chuckle. “Christ,” he muttered. “You do notice everything.”

“It’s useful.”

“For what?”

You smiled faintly.

“Knowing when someone needs another cup of coffee.”

That finally drew a real laugh from him.

Deep. Warm. Tired.

It transformed his whole face.

And unfortunately for you, it made him even prettier.

You pointed at him immediately. “There. That.”

“What?”

“That smile. You should do that more often.”

Pat Riley slapped the table triumphantly. “Ha! I told you she fancied him.”

“Oh, she definitely fancies him,” Reg added.

Jim Almonds looked delighted by the entire situation. “Paddy’s blushing.”

“I am not,” Paddy growled.

He absolutely was.

Only slightly—but enough.

You tried not to smile too hard as you moved back behind the counter. “He’s pretty when he’s embarrassed too.”

Johny Cooper nearly fell out of his chair laughing.

David Stirling pinched the bridge of his nose. “I cannot believe this is happening to him of all people.”

Paddy shot them all a look that probably terrified enemy soldiers.

It did nothing to his friends.

“You lot done?” he muttered.

“Not remotely,” said Pat.

The storm outside worsened, rain rattling against the windows while thunder rolled somewhere over the distant hills. The streets would be flooded now; nobody would be leaving anytime soon.

You began stacking chairs onto empty tables.

“You boys have somewhere to stay tonight?”

“A hotel,” David answered.

You looked toward the storm outside.

“In this weather?”

“We’ve survived worse.”

You glanced toward Paddy. “Have you?”

His expression flickered at the question.

Not because of the words themselves—but because you sounded like you genuinely cared about the answer.

Slowly, Paddy stood from his chair and wandered toward the counter while the others resumed arguing over whose fault the nonexistent goat incident had been.

Up close, he felt even larger somehow.

You suddenly became very aware of how near he was.

“You always flirt this shamelessly with strangers?” he asked quietly.

“Only pretty Irishmen.”

“That word again.”

“You dislike it?”

His mouth twitched.

“No,” he admitted. “Just not used to hearing it.”

You studied him for a moment beneath the warm café lights.

For all his size and roughness, there was something oddly careful about Paddy Mayne. Like he was perpetually holding back parts of himself the world had taught him were too dangerous to unleash.

War did that to men.

You reached forward before thinking too hard about it and adjusted the collar of his coat slightly.

“There,” you murmured. “Now you almost look civilized.”

Paddy went completely still.

Behind him, six years of military discipline failed instantly as his friends erupted into scandalized shouting.

“OH, HE’S FINISHED—”

“Look at his face!”

“Paddy, say something!”

David Stirling looked moments away from laughing himself.

Paddy ignored every single one of them. His eyes remained fixed on yours.

Then, very carefully, he covered your hand with his.

His palm was warm and rough with old scars.

“You’re bold,” he said softly.

You smiled.

“You came into my café looking like a wounded wolf. What did you expect me to do?”

Rain hammered against the windows while the wind rattled the shutters hard enough to make the hanging lights sway gently overhead. The café had emptied entirely now, leaving only the six soldiers and the smell of coffee lingering warmly in the air.

Or rather—

Five soldiers.

Because Paddy had somehow ended up leaning against the counter beside you for nearly half an hour while the others sat watching the situation unfold like spectators at a sporting event.

“You know,” Johnny Cooper announced loudly, stretching in his chair, “some of us are exhausted.”

No response from Paddy.

Johnny exchanged a meaningful look with Pat Riley.

“Tragic,” Pat agreed. “Absolutely tragic. We may have to leave without him.”

Still nothing.

You hid your smile behind a coffee cup while Paddy calmly continued speaking to you as though his friends weren’t being insufferable on purpose.

“So you’ve owned this place long?”

“Since before the war.”

“And you stayed?”

You shrugged lightly. “Someone has to make decent coffee for wandering soldiers.”

“Hm.”

He looked around the café again, quieter this time.

There was fondness in the glance now. Familiarity. As though the place had become something restful after too many months of dust, gunfire, and uncertainty.

David Stirling finally stood, pulling on his coat.

“Well,” he said deliberately, “we should probably get some sleep before tomorrow.”

Reg Seekings immediately caught on. “Right. Sleep. Very important.”

Jim Almonds nodded gravely. “Essential, really.”

Pat Riley looked directly at Paddy. “You coming then?”

Paddy did not move.

“No.”

The table erupted.

Johnny slapped his knee victoriously. “I knew it!”

David sighed toward the ceiling like a disappointed schoolmaster. “Unbelievable.”

“You’re all acting like idiots,” Paddy muttered.

“Are we?” Reg asked innocently.

“Yes.”

Pat grinned wickedly. “Funny, because from here it looks like you’ve forgotten we exist.”

You busied yourself wiping down the counter so none of them could see your expression.

Paddy, meanwhile, looked entirely unbothered by their torment.

Which probably meant they did this to him often.

David stepped closer, lowering his voice slightly though not enough to stop you hearing.

“Paddy,” he said carefully, “we are leaving now. The hotel still exists several streets away. You do remember the hotel?”

“Yes, David.”

“And you are aware we should probably avoid being arrested in a foreign country?”

Paddy gave him a flat look. “I’m not planning to start a riot.”

“That’s reassuring considering your history.”

Johny burst into laughter again.

You glanced between them curiously. “He starts riots often?”

“Frequently,” said David.

“Allegedly,” Paddy corrected.

“Paddy,” Reg said, standing and grabbing his coat, “you realize we all know you’re not following us anytime soon, yes?”

“Goodnight, Reg.”

“That’s not a denial,” Jim Almonds pointed out.

Pat Riley leaned toward you conspiratorially. “He likes you, by the way.”

“Pat.”

“Oh, he really likes you.”

Paddy finally looked mildly murderous.

Unfortunately, this only encouraged them further.

Johny stood next, grinning broadly. “Careful, miss. He’ll pretend to be mysterious and dangerous, but deep down he’s just Irish.”

“I can hear you,” Paddy warned.

“Yes, but you’re distracted.”

David Stirling adjusted his gloves calmly. “We’ll see you in the morning, Mayne.”

“You assume I’m returning.”

The entire group froze dramatically.

Then Johny pointed at him. “Did you hear that?”

Pat clutched his chest. “He’s already planning a future.”

“Good God,” Reg muttered. “He’s gone.”

You laughed before you could stop yourself.

Paddy looked over at you immediately at the sound, and something in his expression softened again—that same quiet warmth from earlier.

For a moment, the others all noticed it too.

The teasing eased after that.

Because beneath all the jokes, these men knew each other intimately. Knew exhaustion. Knew loss. Knew how rare it was to see someone like Paddy Mayne genuinely at ease.

David was the first to notice the change fully.

His gaze flicked from Paddy to you thoughtfully before he gave a small nod.

“Well,” he said more gently, “don’t stay up all night.”

Paddy snorted. “Get out.”

One by one they headed toward the door, still muttering smug comments under their breath.

Johny paused before leaving entirely and pointed between the two of you.

“If he starts reciting poetry, run."

The door slammed shut before the argument could continue.

And suddenly—The café was quiet. Only the storm remained outside now. Paddy exhaled slowly beside the counter, rubbing a hand over his face.

“They’re never going to let this go.”

“I think it’s sweet.”

“They’re animals.”

You smiled, setting another cup of coffee in front of him.

“They seem fond of you.”

His expression turned faintly thoughtful as he looked toward the rain-streaked windows where his friends had disappeared into the night.

“Yes,” he said quietly. “Unfortunately.”

You leaned your elbows on the counter.

“And what about you?” you asked softly. “Are you fond of them too?”

Paddy looked back at you then.

There was something unguarded in his face now. Something honest.

“With men like that,” he said, voice low and rough, “you don’t survive together without it.”

For a while, neither of you spoke.

The storm softened outside into steady rain, tapping gently against the café windows while the lamps burned low and golden around the room. Paddy sat at the counter with his coffee untouched now, broad shoulders relaxed for the first time all evening.

You noticed it immediately.

The tension had finally left him.

Not entirely—perhaps men like him never fully relaxed anymore—but enough.

Enough that he no longer looked ready to fight the shadows.

“You’re staring again,” he murmured without looking up.

“You’re less frightening now.”

“That so?”

“Mhm.” You tilted your head slightly. “Now you just look tired.”

Paddy huffed a quiet laugh through his nose.

“Dangerous observation.”

“You keep saying that.”

“Because most people know better than to study strangers.”

“But you’re not really a stranger anymore, are you?”

That made him glance at you.

The warmth between you had changed gradually throughout the night into something quieter. Heavier. Not flirtation alone now, but recognition. Two people seeing each other clearly despite the masks they wore for everyone else.

Paddy’s eyes lingered on your face for a long moment.

“No,” he admitted softly. “I suppose I’m not.”

The café suddenly felt very small.

Very warm.

You became aware of every little thing—the rain, the ticking clock behind the counter, the way his coat brushed against the stool beside him.

And the way he kept looking at your mouth before catching himself.

You set down the cloth in your hands carefully.

“The storm’s not stopping anytime soon,” you said.

“So it seems.”

“You’ll be soaked before reaching the hotel.”

“I’ve survived rain before.”

“I’m sure you’ve survived worse than rain.”

His expression flickered at that.

You stepped around the counter slowly until you stood directly in front of him.

Close enough now that you could smell tobacco, wool, and the cold night air still clinging faintly to his coat.

Paddy looked up at you quietly.

You could see the exact moment he realized what you were about to ask.

“There’s a room upstairs,” you said softly.

He held your gaze.

“And?”

Your heartbeat stumbled slightly beneath the weight of those blue eyes.

“You could stay there tonight.”

Silence.

Not awkward.

Just full.

Your eyes searched his carefully then, asking the question you weren’t quite brave enough to say aloud.

Not just stay.

Stay.

With me.

Paddy understood immediately.

You knew he did because something in his expression changed all at once—his usual rough confidence disappearing beneath sudden restraint.

As though he were trying very hard to behave.

“You’re certain?” he asked quietly.

“Yes.”

“You barely know me.”

“I know enough.”

His jaw shifted slightly.

“That should concern you more than it does.”

You smiled faintly. “You haven’t frightened me once.”

“That doesn’t mean I couldn’t.”

There it was again—that carefulness. That constant awareness of his own size, strength, temper. Like he carried violence inside himself with both hands wrapped tightly around it.

But you had seen the gentleness too.

The way he listened when others spoke. The way his friends trusted him instinctively. The way he had not once touched you carelessly despite clearly wanting to.

You reached forward slowly, fingers brushing lightly against his rough knuckles where they rested on the counter.

“I think,” you said softly, “you’re much kinder than you pretend to be.”

Paddy stared at your hand for a long moment.

Then at you.

And God—

The look in his eyes nearly stole the breath from your lungs.

Not lust alone.

Something far more dangerous.

Want.

Real want.

The kind a lonely man carried quietly for too long.

“You keep saying things like that,” he murmured roughly, “and eventually I’m going to believe you.”

“Maybe I want you to.”

For a second neither of you moved.

He towered over you now, close enough that warmth radiated through the space between your bodies. One large hand settled carefully against the counter beside you—not trapping you, never forcing—just near.

Always giving you room to choose.

“You should know,” he said quietly, eyes fixed on yours, “I’m trying very hard to be respectful.”

Your pulse fluttered.

“And if I didn’t want respectful?”

That finally broke him a little.

A soft sound escaped him—half laugh, half disbelief—as he dropped his head briefly.

“Christ,” he muttered.

You smiled.

Then, very gently, Paddy lifted his hand to your face.

Rough fingertips brushed your cheek with startling tenderness, like he thought you might disappear if he touched too hard.

When he spoke again, his voice was low enough to melt straight through you.

“Lead the way then, love.”

The stairs creaked softly beneath your steps as you led him upward, fingers laced through his. Paddy followed without a word, his grip steady but unhurried. At the bedroom door he paused, letting you enter first, then closed it quietly behind him. The lamplight caught the rough lines of his face, but his eyes stayed soft.

“You’re sure?” he asked again, voice low.

You answered by stepping into him. His hands came up slowly, framing your face as he kissed you—deep, unhurried, tasting of restraint and whisky. He undressed you piece by piece, fingers working each button and clasp with care, pausing to press his mouth to every inch of newly bared skin. When your dress slipped to the floor, he knelt to help you step out of it, then rose again, letting his hands trace the curve of your waist, the swell of your breasts, thumbs brushing your nipples until they tightened under his touch.

He let you undress him in turn. When you freed him from his trousers, he was already hard, thick and hot against your palm, but he didn’t rush you. Instead he guided you to the bed, laying you down and settling between your thighs with deliberate patience. His mouth followed the path his hands had taken—kissing the hollow of your throat, the underside of your breasts, the soft skin of your stomach—until he reached the heat between your legs.

He took his time there, tongue moving in slow, thorough strokes, tasting you with quiet focus. Two fingers slid inside you, working gently, curling just enough to draw a gasp from your throat. He watched your face the whole time, reading every sound, every shift of your hips, adjusting his rhythm to what made you tremble.

When you pulled him up to you, he came willingly. He braced himself on his forearms, keeping most of his weight off you, and kissed you again as he pushed inside—slow, steady, giving you every inch with careful control. He stayed deep for a moment, forehead resting against yours, breathing through the sensation.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” he murmured.

You answered by lifting your hips, and he began to move—long, measured strokes that let you feel every part of him. His hand found yours, fingers threading together above your head. The other hand stayed at your waist, thumb stroking soothing circles even as his thrusts grew deeper, more insistent. He never lost the tenderness; even when your bodies grew slick with sweat and the room filled with the wet sound of skin meeting skin, he kept checking your face, kissing your mouth, your jaw, the corner of your eye.

When you came, clenching around him, he followed soon after with a low, broken sound against your neck, hips stuttering but never losing that careful rhythm until the last tremor passed. Afterward he stayed inside you for a while, stroking your hair, pressing soft kisses to your temple, murmuring quiet words in that soft Irish lilt until your breathing evened.

Only then did he ease out, clean you gently with a cloth from the washstand, and draw you against his chest, one arm wrapped protectively around you.

The madman they spoke of was nowhere in the room. Only Paddy remained—quiet, attentive, and achingly gentle.

[kteezy997]

the doctor will see you now….part five//Patrick Sumner x f!secretary(OC)

I haven’t touched this series in three months, but it’s back!!

Parts 1-4 can be found on my masterlist <3

Warnings: workplace gossip, reader feeling insecure, mention of finances if you squint, beginnings of smut

Eden walked into the office the Monday after her trip with Dr. Sumner, not saying a word, not looking at the girls though she felt their eyes her and only her.

One could hear a pin drop as she approached her station and settled into her desk. A couple of minutes went by, she kept fighting the smirk teasing her mouth. She knew they were practically salivating for the scoop.

“Oh for god’s sake, just tell us how the trip went!” Eloise, the newbie shouted. The rest of the women laughed at the tension being broken all of sudden. Eloise had only been working in the office for a week but she’d already become part of the family, and just as invested in Eden and Sumner as Lottie and Gladys were.

“Oh, it went fine.” Eden answered, with a simple shrug, pretending to focus on getting her materials organized for the day.

“Fine?” Implored Lottie, equal in age to Eden, but more eager for gossip and details. “Just how fine was it?”

“Yes, did you two hit the sheets or what?” Gladys, who could easily pass as the other girls’ mother, asked bluntly.

Eden giggled, a rush of color flooding her cheeks. “Gladys! I can hardly believe you.”

“You’re not denying it! You did it, didn’t you!” Lottie squealed at the realization.

The other two ladies cheered in unison.

“Okay, fine. Yes, we did it. Many times, actually.” she admitted.

“Oh that’s so wonderful!” Exclaimed Gladys, just as a pair of footsteps trickled into the lobby.

“Good morning ladies.” Dr. Sumner greeted them with bright eyes and a smile.

“Good morning, Doctor. And welcome back.” Gladys smiled at him.

“Morning, Doctor Sumner.” Eloise and Lottie both said, knowing grins on both of their faces.

He gave them a nod, then looked at Eden, “Send in the first patient in about fifteen minutes, Eden.”

“Of course, sir.”

He walked toward his office, but took a second to look back at her with a grin.

Once he was out of sight and out of earshot, Gladys spoke up again, “So are you two officially an item now?”

Eden wanted so badly to mention his proposal of marriage, just to say it out loud, just to say it someone, but she held back, as she was unsure how secure the question still was. So, she answered, “Yes, I think so. It’s still very new, of course. But it’s very exciting.”

“Oh yes it is! And I’m not even the one living it. I’m so happy for you, Eden!” Lottie came over and put her arms around her to give her a squeeze.

“Thank you. Now, let’s get to work. Enough gossip for the moment.”

……..

The end of the workday came, and the girls were readying to leave. “So do you two have plans to see each other tonight?” Eloise asked.

“Oh, no, not really. I mean, he hasn’t said anything.” He barely even looked at her all day. He was busy, of course, Mondays were always busy, but she had hoped he would have a spare second to look her in the eyes, or even say something sweet when it was just the two of them, but there was nothing. She started to worry his feelings for her were gone, somehow. “I don’t even think I’d be able to call him my boyfriend.”

Gladys put her hand on the young woman’s shoulder, “I’m sure you will soon, as you said, it’s still new. You’ve got plenty of time to make things official.”

“Yeah, and in the mean time, just have lots of fun in bed.” Lottie said, matter of factly.

Eden laughed, covering her face in embarrassment, “I can’t believe I told you.”

“You can’t keep anything from us, we’re family.” Lottie said.

As the women said their goodbyes for the evening, they heard their boss’ voice, “Eden, come into my office, will you? I want to go over something with you for tomorrow.”

They all looked over at him, Lottie gave Eden a light shove in his direction.

“Sure, Doctor.” Eden answered, turning her head and giving Lottie a look.

………..

“What is it, Dr. Sumner?” she asked as she stepped through the threshold of his office.

He walked over and closed the door behind her. No sooner did the door click shut did he grab her around the waist. He pressed his lips to her with a hunger she wasn’t expecting. He moaned softly against her lips, “I’ve wanted to do that all day.”

“Really?” She leaned the back of her head onto the door, “You hadn’t looked at me all day. I was starting to worry..”

“I feared that if I caught your gaze for too long, I wouldn’t be able to stop myself from…god, I don’t know what.” He brushed his nose over hers. “I’m sorry if I made you feel bad, it was all me, trust that, my darling.”

“Oh, Doctor.” she wrapped her arms around his neck, kissing him.

His strong hands ran down her back, slowly, savoring. He parted from her lips, “Will you come home with me tonight? Spend the night with me?”

“Yes.” she didn’t even think about it.

Patrick grinned, pecking her lips before moving to his desk, packing his briefcase. “I’ll run you by your house so you can pack an overnight bag and have your things so can get ready for work at my place in the morning.”

…………

Patrick parked the car outside of Eden’s family home. It wasn’t in the best neighborhood, and she was suddenly becoming hyper aware of that fact now that he was there with her.

“Would you like me to come in with ya? Parents love for their daughters to date a doctor.” he teased.

“Uh, no, no. That’s alright. I’ll only be a minute.” she said, giving his lips a peck before getting out of the car.

……….

She felt out of place when they entered his home, which was twice the size of hers, and much cleaner in general with nicer furniture. She was comfortable with Sumner, and happy to be there with him, but couldn’t shake the feeling she didn’t belong in such a nice place.

“How about some supper?” he asked.

“You cook?”

“Some. I have steak and some vegetables if you like.”

“That’s sounds good.” she said, coming into the kitchen with him.

“No, no. You’re not helping me. You’re my guest. Go pour us a couple drinks and have a seat. I’ll have supper done soon.” he kissed her cheek, then nodded to the small bar cart across the room.

Eden walked over, pondering over the small array of bottles and decanters, not knowing much about alcohol. She wasn’t much of a drinker herself. She decided on a decanter that was filled halfway with a light brown liquid, figuring a small bit of it in a crystal glass would be sufficient.

“Are you alright?” Patrick asked her when she brought two glasses over. He was preparing the vegetables and seasoning the meat.

“What do you mean?” she handed him a glass.

He paused and took the drink from her. “Do you want to be here?”

“Of course I do! Patrick, I wouldn’t want to be any where else.”

“Okay, good. You just seem withdrawn is all.” he took a sip, then set the glass on the counter to resume cooking.

“No, I’m fine, really.” she insisted.

“You can tell me anything. I care about you, Eden. I won’t judge you or be upset about anything you have to say. I promise.” He looked at her with those damn blue eyes and she knew that she could trust him. And she realized that he wasn’t going to give up. This man could see right through her.

“It’s just…I feel a bit out of place. Not with you. But your place is so much nicer than mine. I still live with my parents and our house is nothing fancy, nor is it the cleanest. I just don’t feel..”

“Don’t feel what?”

She sighed, feeling tears coming as heat rose to her cheeks. “I don’t feel like I belong here. Like I’m not good enough to be with you.”

He put down whatever utensils he was using instantly, and he pulled her close. “Eden.” he said softly.

She tucked her face into his neck, trying to keep the tears at bay.

His hand smoothed over her hair. “I don’t want you to think like that. I want you, Eden. I haven’t always been this well off. I saw your home, it’s nice. A lot more than what a lot of people have. I want to meet your folks, when the time is right. They raised you for Christ sakes, they cannot be all that bad.”

She laughed at that. She pulled away to face him, “I’m sorry. It was silly.”

“No, no, you were just being honest. That’s all I want from you.” he kissed her forehead. “Mm, let’s get your belly full, yeah?”

…….

After a steak dinner and a couple of drinks, Eden insisted on washing the dishes. “It’s the least I could do,” she said, “since you did all the cooking.”

“Very well, but I’m going to help you.” he said, joining her near the sink.

“Patrick, you don’t have to.” She was scrubbing one of the plates.

Suddenly, his hand was on her lower back. She felt the heat of his body at her side, and then his lips brushed against her neck. “I wasn’t talking about the dishes.” he cooed. His mouth settled into the crook of her neck, kissing and nibbling there, like he couldn’t wait to really sink his teeth in.

Eden giggled, shifting her neck a bit to give him more access. “I’m not going to get many cleaned if you’re going to distract me like that.”

“Hm.” He hummed, letting his hand travel down the side of her leg.

She tried to keep still, to rinse the plate in her hand, but his hand moved under her skirt. “Patrick.”

He didn’t take his time sliding his hand between her legs, slipping his fingers into her panties.

She gasped, unwittingly gripping onto the plate.

His fingers dipped into her puddle, he smirked, “You’re ready for me. Good.”

5.18.26

@gothlula @gatotejadero @b0nney @thebookdragon95 @h3r3t1c

If you’d like to be added to the tag list, let me know!

[gothlula]

 𝕱𝖔𝖑𝖑𝖔𝖜 𝖞𝖔𝖚

𝔑𝔬𝔱𝔢 𝔣𝔯𝔬𝔪 𝔏𝔲𝔩𝔞: 𝔑𝔬𝔠𝔱𝔲𝔯𝔫𝔞𝔩𝔰, 𝔦𝔱'𝔰 𝔪𝔦𝔡𝔫𝔦𝔤𝔥𝔱 𝔱𝔬𝔡𝔞𝔶, 𝔟𝔲𝔱 ℑ 𝔴𝔞𝔫𝔱𝔢𝔡 𝔱𝔬 𝔤𝔦𝔳𝔢 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔬𝔫 𝔐𝔬𝔫𝔡𝔞𝔶 𝔰𝔬𝔪𝔢𝔱𝔥𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔰𝔴𝔢𝔢𝔱, 𝔪𝔶 𝔪𝔦𝔫𝔡 𝔤𝔬𝔢𝔰 𝔴𝔦𝔩𝔡 𝔱𝔥𝔦𝔰 𝔱𝔦𝔪𝔢, ℑ'𝔩𝔩 𝔤𝔬 𝔴𝔦𝔱𝔥 𝔤𝔯𝔞𝔪𝔪𝔞𝔯 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔡𝔦𝔠𝔱𝔦𝔬𝔫𝔞𝔯𝔦𝔢𝔰 𝔱𝔬 𝔪𝔞𝔨𝔢 𝔱𝔥𝔦𝔰 𝔩𝔞𝔫𝔤𝔲𝔞𝔤𝔢 𝔟𝔢𝔱𝔱𝔢𝔯 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔪𝔬𝔯𝔢 𝔡𝔢𝔩𝔦𝔠𝔞𝔠𝔶. 𝔖𝔬 𝔥𝔢𝔯𝔢 𝔴𝔢 𝔞𝔯𝔢. ℑ'𝔪 𝔫𝔞𝔰𝔱𝔶, 𝔫𝔬𝔴 𝔢𝔫𝔧𝔬𝔶 𝔞𝔫𝔡 ℑ'𝔪 𝔤𝔬𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔱𝔬 𝔰𝔩𝔢𝔢𝔭, 𝔗𝔬𝔡𝔞𝔶 𝔴𝔢𝔢𝔨 𝔞𝔱 𝔴𝔬𝔯𝔨 𝔤𝔬𝔫𝔫𝔞 𝔰𝔩𝔦𝔡𝔢 𝔦𝔫𝔱𝔬 𝔪𝔶 𝔟𝔯𝔞𝔦𝔫, 𝔲𝔤𝔥, 𝔴𝔦𝔰𝔥 𝔪𝔢 𝔩𝔲𝔠𝔨. 𝔄𝔩𝔰𝔬 𝔰𝔭𝔢𝔠𝔦𝔞𝔩 𝔡𝔞𝔯𝔨 𝔨𝔦𝔰𝔰𝔢𝔰 𝔣𝔬𝔯 @kteezy997 𝔞𝔫𝔡 @pedroncigarettes and @punani-san ❤️

𝔖𝔲𝔪𝔪𝔞𝔯𝔶:

𝔜𝔬𝔲 𝔪𝔢𝔱 𝔏𝔦𝔬𝔫 𝔎𝔞𝔪𝔦𝔫𝔰𝔨𝔦 𝔞𝔣𝔱𝔢𝔯 𝔪𝔞𝔱𝔠𝔥, 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔩𝔦𝔨𝔢𝔡 𝔢𝔞𝔠𝔥 𝔬𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔯, 𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔫 𝔥𝔢 𝔢𝔫𝔡𝔢𝔡 𝔬𝔫 𝔶𝔬𝔲𝔯 𝔠𝔬𝔲𝔠𝔥 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔦𝔱'𝔰 𝔫𝔬𝔱 𝔤𝔬𝔫𝔫𝔞 𝔟𝔢 𝔱𝔶𝔭𝔦𝔠𝔞𝔩 𝔢𝔳𝔢𝔫𝔦𝔫𝔤

𝔚𝔞𝔯𝔫𝔦𝔫𝔤𝔰: 18+ 𝔠𝔬𝔫𝔱𝔢𝔫𝔱, 𝔖𝔲𝔟 𝔏𝔦𝔬𝔫!, 𝔇𝔬𝔪 𝔉𝔢𝔪 𝔯𝔢𝔞𝔡𝔢𝔯!,𝔉𝔞𝔠𝔢 𝔰𝔦𝔱𝔱𝔦𝔫𝔤(𝔉𝔢𝔪 𝔯𝔢𝔠𝔦𝔢𝔳), 𝔇𝔦𝔯𝔱𝔶 𝔱𝔞𝔩𝔨, 𝔰𝔭𝔞𝔫𝔨𝔦𝔫𝔤 (𝔩𝔦𝔱𝔱𝔩𝔢), 𝔡𝔞𝔯𝔨 𝔣𝔢𝔪𝔦𝔫𝔦𝔫𝔢 𝔞𝔲𝔯𝔞, 𝔠𝔬𝔯𝔰𝔢𝔱 𝔩𝔦𝔫𝔤𝔢𝔯𝔦𝔢, 𝔭𝔢𝔱 𝔫𝔞𝔪𝔢𝔰, 𝔰𝔢𝔵 𝔱𝔬𝔶𝔰, 𝔥𝔞𝔫𝔧𝔬𝔟, 𝔠𝔲𝔪𝔭𝔩𝔞𝔶, 𝔭𝔢𝔱 𝔫𝔞𝔪𝔢𝔰, 𝔣𝔩𝔲𝔣𝔣 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔠𝔬𝔪𝔣𝔬𝔯𝔱 𝔞𝔱 𝔢𝔫𝔡, 𝔏𝔦𝔬𝔫 𝔦𝔰 𝔤𝔬𝔬𝔡 𝔟𝔬𝔶

𝔚. ℭ𝔬𝔲𝔫𝔱: 4𝔨

It started simply. You had no idea, at first, that you would end up here, sitting with him on this velvet couch. But Lion Kaminski had something sweet about him—something you craved. He was a big boxer with those pathetic blue eyes, a perfect combination for someone like you to eat his soul.

You two had met after one of those illegal fights your stinky town organized. You never imagined that you—an elegant, dark feminine woman—would spend a night surrounded by the smell of cheap drink, watching two sweaty men beat each other nearly to death. But a friend had asked, and so you had agreed, drifting into that violent world like a ghost in silk.

Then he came out: Lion. He was buzzing with adrenaline when he walked into the ring, but then he caught your eye. He wasn't like the other boys who tried to hit on you. He wasn't the "alternative" or "rock" type; his simplicity was the key. After the match, when Lion won (though he still looked like he didn’t believe it), he sat at the bar counter, sipping quietly. That was where the conversation started. A few little dates followed—motel meetings, quiet drinks—and you realized you liked him. 

____________________________

Tonight, you invite him at your place. The apartment was dark, but have very witch scent. Sandalwood, lavender and skull were carried by candle lights and some flickering shadows against the dark floral wallpaper. The couch was a deep, bruised purple velvet.

Lion sat with his elbows on his knees, his massive back curved in a way that made him look small. 

You watched him through the haze of a cigarette, the lace of your green corset and black skirt. Pale skin smelled like honey and milk, mixed with heavy altar perfume. 

"You're quiet tonight, Lion," you said, the words sliding out like honey and iron.

He shifted, he really looks so small. If you don’t know him, you never thought he beat people till death at parking lots. 

"Thinking how I don't belong in a place this nice. With someone like you." - He gulped and look at you and whole scenario. 

You reached out, your long, dark-painted nails tracing the line of his jaw, stopping just short of a fresh bruise.

"That's exactly why you're here," you whispered. "Because I like things that are broken. I like things that know how to bleed."

He finally looked at you then. Those blue eyes were wide, swirling with a mix of terror and deep, aching devotion. You stood up, the heels of your boots clicking sharply on the hardwood floor—a sound that made his breath hitch. You stood directly in front of him, blocking out the rest of the world.

"Lion," you said, your  voice switch into commanding tone. "Look at me."

He obeyed instantly. His head tilted back, his throat exposed. 

"You've had such a hard life, haven't you? Always hitting, always being hit." You ran a hand over the top of his head, your fingers tangling in his hair. 

"I think it's time you learned how to be still. How to be mine."

"I want you to forget the ring," you said, your voice a low, rhythmic hum. "I want you to forget the noise and the blood. Right now, you belong to me, you understand?"

"Yes," he breathed, his voice barely a ghost.

"Yes, what?"

"Yes... mistress."

You slid onto the velvet cushion next to him, the fabric sighing under your weight. The distance between you vanished. You didn't move fast, you moved with grace and slowly possesion. 

You running your fingers through his hair, petting him. His hair was soft, contrasting with the jagged scar near his mouth. He looked like bruised angel.

Then, you hooked your fingers under his chin, tilting his face up. You kissed him—a slow, sweet, press of lips. When you pulled back just an inch, you caught his gaze. Those pathetic blue eyes were glazed, fixed entirely on you, his breath coming in ragged hitches.

"Oh... you liked those?" you murmured, noticing the way his eyes had instinctively dropped to the swell of your chest, trapped by the green satin of your corset.

You pointed a sharp nail finger toward your breast, where the laces of the corset strained against your skin, creating a deep, shadowed cleavage.

"You've been a good boy, Lion," you purred, the vibration of your voice making him shiver.

"And good boys deserve to be rewarded. Can you be my good boy?”

You watched his throat bob as he swallowed hard. He looked like he wanted to reach out, to touch the silk, to bury his face in you—but he stayed perfectly still, waiting for the permission he knew he needed.

"I... I'll do anything," he rasped, the boxer’s pride completely stripped away.

He moved to the floor. He knelt between your legs, his bruised knuckles resting on his thighs, his head bowed. 

You leaned back, the corset creaking as it held you in that perfect posture. You didn’t just look at him; you studied him.

"You like the view from down there, Lion?" you asked, your voice a silken thread.

 "Yes," he whispered, his voice cracking. "I like whatever you tell me to like."

You slowly lifted your leg.  You didn't place your foot gently and rested the sharp, narrow heel of your boot right against the center of his chest. You could feel his pulse through the sole of your shoe.

You began to massage his chest with your heel, a slow, grinding pressure that forced him to breathe in time with your movements. It was a gesture of total ownership. 

"Does that feel good, Lion? To be under my boot?" - you asked sweetly 

"Yes," he gasped, his chest heaving under the weight of your leg. He reached up, not to push you away, but to wrap his scarred fingers around your ankle, holding you there as if he were afraid you might stop. "

Please... don't stop."

You smiled, that dark, predatory.

 You reached for the laces of your corset, the satin straining. With a flick of your wrist, you loosened the top. 

"You've been staring at these all night," you said, pointing to your breasts. "You want them so badly, don't you? You want to taste the reward."

Lion’s eyes blew wide, his pupils swallowing the blue. He looked like he was about to lose his mind. 

"Come here," you commanded.

He crawled forward on his knees, never breaking eye contact, until his face was inches from your lap. He was shaking now—not with fear, but with the sheer intensity of his devotion. You reached out, grabbing his hair and pulling his head back to expose his throat.

"I want you to show me how much you appreciate them," you whispered

 "I want you to work for it. No biting, no roughness. You treat me like the altar I am. Do you understand?"

"I understand," he groaned, his hands gripping the velvet of the couch as he prepared to serve.

With a sharp, deliberate tug of the ribbons, the satin of your corset finally gave way. You reached in and popped your breasts free from the lace, Lion made a sound—a low, broken whimper.

You didn't wait for him to ask. You grabbed a handful of his hair, your fingers tangling in the short, rough strands, and pulled him forward.

"Take them, Lion," you commanded, your voice a dark velvet whip. "Show me how hungry you are."

He didn't hesitate. His large, scarred hands came up to cup the undersides of your breasts by his palms. He’s mouth wide and desperate, and began to suck. He wasn't gentle at first—he was a starving man—but as your fingers tightened in his hair, he settled into a rhythmic, devoted pace. 

His tongue working with a focused intensity that made your toes curl into the plush rug.

As he lost himself in the curve of your chest, his breath hot and damp against you. You leaned back into the sofa, bracing yourself, and lifted your leg and placed the sharp, narrow heel of your boot directly onto the crotch of his grey jogger pants. Even through the soft fabric, he was thick, hard, and twitching with a life of its own.

"You're so ready for me, aren't you?" you purred, looking down at the top of his head as he continued to nurse.

You began to massage his cock with your heel. You didn't just press; you ground him.

The friction was intense. Every time you dragged your heel upward, his hips hitched involuntarily, trying to meet the pressure. Every time you pressed down near the base, he let out a muffled groan against your skin, his hands squeezing your thighs so hard he might leave bruises.

"Keep working, Lion," you whispered, your voice dropping to a hiss. "Don't stop just because I'm playing with you. You're a boxer, aren't you?”

He let out a strangled sound, his tongue swirling faster, his teeth grazing the nipples. 

You decided he had tasted enough. With a sharp tug of his hair, you pulled him away from your chest. He looked up at you, his lips wet and his face flushed, those blue eyes completely unfocused. He looked like he was drowning. 

"You’ve been a very good boy, Lion," you whispered

You stood up slowly, stepped over him and straddling his head as he knelt there on the rug. 

"Hands behind your back, Lion," you commanded. "I don't want you touching anything but me."

He obeyed instantly, locking his fingers behind his lumbar, his chest heaving. You lowered yourself down, the velvet of your skirt and the warmth of your skin descending like an eclipse over his face. When you finally sat, placing your full weight onto him, he let out a muffled, choked sound.

You leaned back, resting your palms on your own knees, feeling the vibration of his face against you.

"Can you breathe, Lion?" you asked 

A muffled, distorted sound came from beneath you. "Mmmph—yes... mistress."

"Good," you purred, grinding your weight down slightly, asserting your total dominance. "Because I want you to know exactly who owns you right now. You’re not a fighter here. You’re just a seat. You’re just a place for me to rest. Do you feel how heavy I am?"

"Yes," he rasped, the word vibrating through your body. "So heavy... please... don't move."

"Oh, I think I’ll move exactly as much as I want," you teased, your dark smile widening. "Tell me, Lion. What do you see right now?"

"Nothing," he groaned, his voice thick with devotion. "Just you. You’re everything. It’s dark and... you smell so good. Like roses and... and power."

You reached back, running your hand down his spine, feeling the way he shivered under your touch even though he was pinned.

"That's right," you whispered. "The world outside doesn't exist. There are no gyms, no rings, no debts. There is only the weight of me and the air I choose to give you. Are you mine, Lion?"

He struggled for a moment to get the words out, his face pressed firmly into you. "Yours," he finally choked out, a raw, honest sound. "I’m yours. Use me. Break me if you want. Just don't get up."

You laughed softly, a low, melodic sound that vibrated against him.

"I'm not going anywhere. I think I like it here. You're much more useful as a throne than a boxer."

With slow, deliberate movements, you reached beneath the hem of your dark skirt. You slid your lace panties down your thighs and tossed them onto the floor. 

"Look at me, Lion," you commanded.

He lifted his head, his face flushed and damp from your skin. When his eyes landed on you—on your neatly shaved, pale pussy, exposed and glistening in the candlelight—his jaw literally dropped. He looked like a man seeing the sun for the first time after a lifetime in the dark.

"You like what you see?" you whispered, your voice dropping into that dangerous, dark register.

"It's... it's perfect," he rasped, his voice breaking. "You're so beautiful, I can't... I don't deserve to even look."

You didn't answer with words. Instead, you lowered yourself back down, but this time, you didn't sit on his nose. You positioned yourself so that you were hovering just an inch above his mouth, the heat from your body radiating onto his lips. You could see his tongue dart out to wet his dry lips, his instinct taking over.

"Don't move until I tell you," you hissed, the corset creaking as you braced your hands on his shoulders, your nails digging into his skin.

You slowly sat, letting your wetness press directly against his mouth. He let out a muffled, vibrating sound of shock against your skin, his hands twitching behind his back as he fought the urge to break his posture and grab you.

"Lick."

The word was a short, sharp crack of a whip.

Lion didn't hesitate. He started to licking your pussy. His tongue was broad and warm, tracing the length of you with a desperate hunger. He moaned into you, the sound vibrating through your entire pelvis, sending waves of heat up your spine.

You leaned down, your hair falling around his head 

"Does it taste like everything you wanted, Lion? Does it taste better than the blood in your mouth after a fight?"

"Yes," he choked out between frantic laps of his tongue. "Better... anything for you... please, let me... let me keep going."

"You'll go until I'm satisfied," you purred, grinding yourself down harder against his face, forcing him to take more of you. "You're a service animal, aren't you? A big, strong boxer reduced to this. Tell me, Lion... who do you belong to?"

"You," he gasped, his voice muffled and thick. "I'm yours. I'm your dog. I'm whatever you want."

You smiled into this conffesion.  You could feel his cock straining against the fabric of his joggers beneath you.

You were no longer just sitting; you were driving yourself against him, your hips moving with a predatory speed that forced Lion to keep up or be crushed. 

"Oh, right there, baby!" you cried out, your voice echoing off the dark wallpaper, stripped of its gothic composure. "You gonna make me come? Yes?"

Lion couldn't answer with words. He was too busy burying himself. He let out a low, guttural growl against your thigh—a sound of pure, masculine desperation to please you. He was a man who lived for the "win," and right now, your climax was the only title he ever wanted to hold.

Just as the waves of your release began to crest, you felt a surge of that dark, commanding power. You didn't want a gentle finish. You wanted him to remember who was standing over him.

You lifted your hips and slapped his cheek. 

"Make me come on your face, you pathetic boxer," you hissed, your eyes dark and wild. "Earn it!"

Lion let out a broken, choked sound and lunged back in, his mouth wider, his tongue more aggressive, sucking at you with a strength that made your vision blur at the edges.

You gripped his hair so tight your knuckles turned white, pulling his face upward, forcing him to take the brunt of your weight.

"That's it," you gasped, your breath coming in shallow, ragged hitches. "Right there... show me what a good dog you are…"

The room was thick with the scent of sandalwood, sweat, and the sharp, metallic tang of total surrender. As the waves of your climax finally crashed over you, you felt every muscle in Lion’s neck cord with effort. You arched your back, the steel of your corset creaking under the strain, and let out a long, broken moan that echoed off the dark walls.

"Ohhh, Lion! Fuck yeah!"

You collapsed back against the velvet cushions for a second, your heart hammering against your ribs. When you finally sat up, you looked down at him. Lion was a mess, lips glistening with his saliva and your cum with pop blue eyes was delicous frame. 

"Take off your clothes," you commanded, your voice returning to that cool tone that made him shiver. "And go to the bedroom."

Lion moved like a man in a trance. He stood up, his legs slightly shaky, and began to strip. The shirt hit the floor first,

 revealing the map of scars and muscle and big celtic cross tattoo. When he tossed his joggers aside, he was left in only his boxers, his cock straining against the fabric.

By the time he reached the bedroom, you were already waiting. The bed was a sprawling altar of dark velvet and heavy silks. You stood by the bedframe, holding a circlet of black leather in your hand—a collar.

"Kneel," you whispered.

Lion dropped to his knees on the plush carpet without a second thought. You leaned over him, the  and buckled the leather around his thick neck.

His eyes popped wide, the cool pressure of the leather grounding him in his new reality. Then, you reached for the heavy silver chain—the leash. You clipped it to the ring at his throat with a sharp metallic snap and dropped the length of it onto his chest.

"Come on, baby," you smiled, a dark, playful glint in your eyes.

You climbed onto the bed, crawling backward until you were seated against the headboard, looking every bit the Gothic queen in your black satin armor. You reached out and took the handle of the leash, giving it a firm, demanding tug.

"Don't keep me waiting, Lion.

The chain rattled as he moved toward you on all fours, his eyes fixed on your hand. 

The atmosphere in the bedroom was heavy, the air thick enough to taste. He stayed on his knees, the silver leash draped over his shoulder like a heavy reminder of his new status.

You grab his face into your hands and left light litte kiss on his lips.

"You're so good for me, you know?" you whispered against his lips, your thumbs tracing the rough stubble of his jawline. "So much better than any trophy or any belt."

He let out a low, broken sound, leaning his face into your palm like a stray seeking warmth. "I... I just want to be what you need," he rasped.

Your hand traveled downward, leaving his face to slide over his chest, tracing the hard ridges of his ribs before finally coming to rest over the straining fabric of his boxers. The moment you gripped him, it was pure. He was thick, hot, and pulsing with a frantic rhythm.

"It hurts, doesn't it, big cat?" you asked, your voice a dark, melodic tease. 

Lion’s head fell back, a choked groan escaping his throat as your fingers tightened around the bulge. "Yes... please... it's too much."

"I decide when it’s too much," you reminded him softly.

With a slow, deliberate movement, you hooked your fingers into the waistband of his boxers and slid them down his muscular thighs. His cock sprung free, dark and angry-red, twitching with every frantic beat of his heart. You didn't rush. You wanted him to feel every second of the exposure.

You reached out, your manicured fingers closing around him. You began to massage him with a slow, agonizingly steady motion, sliding your hand from the base to the tip. You watched his face—the way his eyes squeezed shut, the way his lips parted as he gasped for air that seemed to have vanished from the room.

"Look at you," you murmured, increasing the pressure just a fraction. "A fighter who can take a hundred punches, and you’re falling apart because I’m touching you."

You continued the massage, your thumb tracing the sensitive head of his cock, catching the bead of moisture there and spreading it.

You grab leash and let him lay down on big frame bed, then your reached down and slid the vibrating cock ring over him. The moment the silicone settled at the base of his shaft, the buzz began to go hrough his entire body. His hips buckled upward, his heels digging into the silk sheets as he let out a long, shuddering moan.

"Oh... fuck... what is that?" he gasped, his head thrashing against the pillows.

You didn't answer. Instead,you massage him, your hand pumping him with a slow rhythm that worked in tandem with the vibration. 

"Don't come," you whispered, leaning over him-"You stay right here, on the edge for me. If you can hold it, if you can be my good, obedient boxer... I'll let you fuck me. Do you understand, Lion?"

Lion’s eyes were unfocused, rolling back into his head as he tried to fight the tidal wave of pleasure you were orchestrating.

"Uh... don't come... yes... yes, Mistress," he choked out, his voice barely a wheeze. "I won't... I’ll stay... please..."

You increased the speed of your hand for three sharp, fast strokes, watching him nearly break, then suddenly stopped altogether. You pulled your hand away, leaving him pulsing and vibrating in the silence. The sudden loss of your touch was a different kind of torture.

He let out a whimper, his hands clenching the sheets until the fabric threatened to tear.

 Lion was at his limit. His cock was a frantic pulse in your hand, gorged and twitching against the rhythmic hum of the ring. You could see the gloss of pre-cum slicking the head, catching the orange flicker of the candlelight. He was a hair's breadth away from breaking, his back arching off the velvet as he hovered on that agonizing precipice of release.

The silver chain rattled, the jerk of the collar snapping his focus back to you. He moved like a puppet on strings, his massive body shifting forward in a daze of primal obedience. You shifted your position, sliding up the bed and spreading your legs wide, the silk sheets cool against your heated skin.

"Look at what you're getting, Lion," you whispered, your voice a dark, velvet promise. "Look at what you earned by being so good."

You reached down, your fingers slick, and guided the tip of his cock—vibrating and dangerously hard—to the opening of your pussy. The moment he felt your wetness, a shudder ran through his entire frame, from his scarred knuckles to the soles of his feet.

Slowly, agonizingly, you lowered yourself, or perhaps he pushed—it was hard to tell where your command ended and his desperation began. The tip slid in, and then, with a deep, liquid sound, he was full of you. He buried himself deep, his thick length stretching you, the cock ring still buzzing between your bodies, sending tremors of electricity straight into your womb.

"Ohhh... yeah," you moaned, your head falling back. "Fuck me, Lion. Fuck me like the beast you are."

Lion let out a sound that wasn't human—a guttural, echoing growl of pure relief and redirected power. He gripped your hips with his heavy, boxer's hands, his thumbs digging into the soft flesh of your waist, and began to drive into you.

"Mistress... please," he gasped, his face buried in the crook of your neck, his hot breath blooming against your skin. "You're so tight... I can't... I’m gonna—"

"You're going to do exactly what I tell you," you hissed, reaching back to grab the handle of the leash, pulling it taut so he had to look you in the eye while he took you. "Don't you dare close your eyes. I want you to see who’s breaking you."

He looked up, his blue eyes shattered and brilliant, tears of  overstmulation  overload pricking at the corners. 

"You're doing so good, baby," you breathed, your voice breaking into a ragged moan as he hit that perfect spot deep inside. "Yes... oh, yes. Take that cock deeper. Show me what you’ve got, Lion. Show me how much you want to stay here."

He didn't need any more encouragement. He speed his movements and hit the sweet spot. You reached up, your fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck, and pulled him down into a kiss.

As he moved within you, Lion reached down. His large, calloused thumb found your clit, moving in a practiced, urgent circle that mimicked the frantic buzz of the cock ring still trapped between your bodies. The double sensation was to much. Your head snapped back, your eyes rolling into your head, glazed and wide like a person possessed.

"Oh fuck," he groaned, his voice a low, vibrating rumble against your collarbone. "Oh fuck... I'm gonna cum... Mistress, please..."

"Do it," you hissed through gritted teeth, your nails carving red tracks into his shoulders. "Come for me, Lion!"

You felt it first—the sudden, violent tension in his thighs and the way his hands gripped the mattress so hard the wood of the bedframe creaked. Then, the explosion happened. He loudly groan, feeling realise. 

You stayed there for a long time, the only sound the ticking of a clock and his ragged, fading breath against your neck. You reached out, your hand shaking slightly, and petted his hair with a gentle, possessive touch.

"Good boy," you whispered into the dark. "My good, sweet Lion."

You reached up, your fingers slightly trembling as you found the clasp of the leash. With a soft clink, the silver chain fell away, and you unbuckled the leather collar from his neck.

Lion let out a long, shaky breath. He curled his large, scarred body around yours, tucking his head into the crook of your neck. He began to press soft, lingering kisses to your jaw, your cheeks, and finally your lips.

"You're so cute, Lion Kaminski," you smiled, reaching up to trace the line of his nose.

 No one in this stinky town would ever believe that the fighter who could knock a man cold was currently looking at you like you were the only thing that mattered in the universe.

Lion shifted, his face turning a little red, his gaze turning shy. "Can I... can I have you on a proper date?" he asked, his voice low and hopeful. "Without the motels and the dark corners and stuff? Maybe you’d like some coffee... or dinner? I don't really know what a dark goddess like you likes to eat."

You couldn't help it; you let out a soft, melodic giggle The image of the two of you—you in your sharp corsets and him in his rugged gear—sitting in a normal restaurant was almost too much.

"Dinner would be very nice, Lion," you smiled, bopping his nose with your fingertip. "And some sweet dessert. Maybe the Waffle House? I have a craving for something sugary after all that work you did."

Lion’s entire face lit up, a genuine grin breaking through him. He leaned in, giving you one last, firm kiss on the forehead.

"Deal," he whispered. "Waffle House it is. My treat."

As the candles finally flickered out, leaving the room in a soft, natural dark, you realized that while you might have his soul in your pocket, he had found a very comfortable place in your heart.

[kteezy997]

"I want you to forget the noise and the blood. Right now, you belong to me, you understand?"

Lion and his dark feminine goddess! Love it!

[kteezy997]

ERIC LOVE NSFW ALPHABET

Warning-mention of violence and abuse

Aftercare: Doesn’t even know about this step, but he is more than willing to learn how to take care of you. He’d do anything in his power to make you feel seen, comfortable, and loved.

Body: Most guys are either tits or ass guys but Eric doesn’t have a preference. He loves everything about your body, but if he had to choose, as corny as it may sound, he would pick your eyes. He never gets tired of looking into them.

When it comes to his own body, his favorite part would probably be his abs. He’s worked hard in the gym and he’s come to feel proud of his strong body and the progress he’s made. He loves to feel your soft hands (and warm, wet lips) on his hard abdominal muscles.

Cum: Loves to cum inside you most of all but likes to see his cum on your body. He gets excited because he knows your body has the ability to squirt your arousal, so he always tries his hardest to get you there.

Dirty Secret: He likes to be babied. He loves when you caress his head, run your fingers through his hair, massage his back. He loves to be doted on and to feel loved. Spoil him all you want.

Experience: Having been locked up since he was a kid, Eric has no sexual experience. He loses his virginity to you.

Favorite Position: at first, he really liked missionary because he loves to lock eyes with you when he’s inside of you, but he found out he could really let loose while in doggy. As often as you let him, he loves to put every ounce of his energy into ramming you from behind. Your hips are always marked up with bruises from his hands.

Goofy: His life up until you has been intense and traumatic so it’s difficult for him to let go and be silly. But with time he’s become not so serious and has learned to have fun with intimacy.

Hair: Eric prefers a close trim for himself, but doesn’t care when it comes to your body hair. He’s obsessed with you and is just happy to see you naked; waxed, shaved, or unkempt, it doesn’t matter to him.

Intimacy: He’s somewhat of a natural romantic. He doesn’t know anything about romance, he just says and does whatever comes to him. He wants to be good for you, no matter what, and he dotes on you all the time.

Jacking Off: He’s still pretty young so he does it a lot. Especially since he didn’t get a ton of privacy whilst in prison. He feels more free to do it more often now.

Kinks: He loves to be praised. After feeling so low all of his life, it’s rewarding to hear he’s actually done something good. Though he’s never said so, you just know he loves to hear a “good boy.”

Location: like most guys, he’s not picky about where you two have sex. He loves a soft comfortable bed, but also doesn’t mind a cramped backseat of your car. Loves shower sex also.

Motivation: anytime he sees you in something revealing, it’s a green light to him. Even if it’s just a somewhat low cut shirt you’re wearing, or anything showing your legs, he just wants to pounce on you.

No: something he will not do is hit you in anyway, not even spanking. He’s been hit and delivered beatings plenty in his life, so anything at all resembling that is too traumatic for him. That, and he would never hurt you or any woman.

Oral: He loves to go down on you. Loves everything about it, the way you taste, the way your body moves against him as he gives you pleasure.

However, since he has experienced sexual abuse in the past, he prefers to not receive oral sex as it is triggering for him.

Pace: Usually he likes it fast and hard, but the more time he spends with you, he realizes that slowing down is just as pleasurable and it feeds into his more romantic side.

Quickie: He is always down for a quickie, anywhere, any time. He’s been to prison, so people are already judging him anyway so what does he care about being caught in the act?

Risk: He’s not really quick to experiment, but as long as the two of you talk things out and have a clear understanding, he’s willing to try new things.

Stamina: Eric can go for hours, maybe 3 or 4 rounds. It takes a lot for him to actually get tired.

Toys: He loves to watch you use your vibrator.

Unfair: He is a HUGE tease. He’s started to work out in your home, always shirtless as he’s lifting or hitting the bag, sweaty, muscles bulging. He loves for you to catch his smirk as he knows exactly what he’s doing to you.

Volume: He is also really loud during sex. He whimpers and whines more than anything and you love it, you love how comfortable he is with you to be so vulnerable. He’s also gotten into dirty talk, whose pussy is this?, who makes you feel this good?

Wildcard: Loves boobs, like way more than any guy you’ve ever been with. He’ll take any opportunity to touch them, squeeze them, and especially suck them.

X-Ray: Eric is average when it comes to size but he’s really learning what to do with it.

Yearning: Big yearner here. He’s obsessed.

Zzz: After a few rounds it only takes a couple of minutes after his head hits the pillow and he’s out cold for the night, with his arms wrapped tightly around you of course.

@gothlula @h3r3t1c @gatotejadero

[kteezy997]

Pick one and I’ll do a nsfw alphabet for that character:

NSFW Alphabet for…

Eric Love

Patrick Sumner

Sir Lord Jimmy Crystal

Kyle Budwell

Voting ended onMay 8

[iamyourdailydoseofbi]

Hi can you please write an nsfw alphabet for olver mellors 💗💗💗

you freaky....i like it....💗💗💗

nsfw alphabet.. ( this just my opinion! )

A = Aftercare ( what they’re like after sex )

I feel in my heart and soul that he doesn’t seem like the kind of guy to have sex with someone he doesn’t love / care for, so this man would be so fucking gentle and caring after sex. 

If you’re sore, he’s going to massage you. If you’re feeling exhausted, he'll cuddle you close and soothe you down to sleep. If you’re feeling hungry, he’s dragging his ass to make you something to eat. If you are thirsty, he’s giving you a cup of water.

B = Body part ( their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s )

His - His hands because of all the things he does / can do with them. It’s how he provides for you and how he can have you arching your back off the bed from pleasure.

Yours - Your eyes because he likes being able to see how you're feeling in them. He can see when you're upset, when you're happy. You can mask your face and brush it off, but your eyes will always give it away if you’re lying.

C = Cum ( anything to do with cum, basically )

I think he’s very old school about it and would want to cum inside of you. But, if you needed / asked him not to for whatever reason ( fear of pregnancy, not being in the mood, wanting him to cum somewhere else, etc. ) he’d pull out. 

D = Dirty secret ( pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs )

I think he fantasized about you before you two got together and it affected how he felt about you for a solid month, because it made him confront his feelings and realize that he did like you. He never tells you about this, because who wants to tell their partner, “Oh, I jerked off to the thought of you and it made me realize that I love you.”

E = Experience ( how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing? )

Going off book cannon / movie cannon, YES! He had a wife and I do think that when they were on good terms he did have sex. But, it wasn’t until he was with you that the door was ‘open’ and he began exploring sex and intimacy. 

F = Favorite position ( this goes without saying )

When you both first start having sex, missionary. It’s a classic ( considering the context that this is in the 1910s - 1920s ), it’s really all that he knows because that’s the only position that his ex-wife would allow, and he doesn’t really mind the intimacy of being able to look at you.  

As you both got comfortable and began exploring what you two liked and did not like, I do think that he’d like, cowgirl, doggy-style, reverse cowgirl, missionary because it still allows intimacy. BUT, I also think that if you were to prefer something else, he’d adapt to it. 

G = Goofy ( are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc. )

When the situation calls for it, but other than that I do think that he’d be 45% serious about it because he’s really focused on giving you both pleasure. Maybe share goofy smiles or chuckle whenever your noses and teeth bump together, here and there.

H = Hair ( how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc. )

The gif above says it all, he’s a natural bush kind of guy and lets it be. But, that doesn’t mean that he’s unhygienic by any means. I do think that he doesn’t give a fuck if you have a full bush or not because it’s just hair, and real men don’t give fuck. 

I = Intimacy ( how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect )

If you want him to be rough, he’ll be rough with you. He’ll leave bites on your neck and thighs, pull your hair and manhandle you around. If you want him to dote on you, he will dote on you. He’ll give you sweetly and whisper sweet words to you while maintaining eye contact. But, he’s naturally very romantic and wants to feel intimacy and wants to feel loved during sex. 

J = Jack off ( masturbation headcannon )

Yes, he jerks off. It's a normal amount. But if he has you and you want to, then, he’d prefer having sex / letting you handle it. 

K = Kink ( one or more of their kinks )

Breeding kink, praise kink and maybe…I wanna say, claiming / marking up. 

L = Location ( favorite places to do the do )

Bedroom because it allows privacy, but he’d be down for anything that you feel comfortable with⎯forest, living room, kitchen table, etc. ( I know I keep repeating this, but I just KNOW that this man is heavy on consent and whatever you feel comfortable with / want! )

M = Motivation ( what turns them on, gets them going, etc. )

The ‘look’ you give him whenever you want him to initiate sex, seeing you act motherly, you protecting / defending yourself or him, you doing little things like ‘Oh, I got this for you because it reminded me of you.’.

N = No ( something they wouldn’t do, turn offs )

Anything that hurts you / that crosses your boundaries, and anything that involves cheating or sharing you with some other person. I think that after his ex-wife and the whole cheating stuff, he’d want you to only be his.

O = Oral ( preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc. )

At the end of the day, he is a man, so he would like to get oral. If you're okay with him pulling your hair and being rough, he'll be rough. But, this man is for sure down for eating you out. Plus, in the movie, he had her moaning and arching her back. So I just know that he's goodddddddd.

P = Pace ( are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc. )

Whenever he’s angry, rough and deep with a slow punishing pace that gets faster whenever he’s close. Whenever he’s feeling romantic, slow and sensual but when he gets close it gets fast and hard. 

Q = Quickie ( their opinions on quickies, how often, etc. )

Have you seen the movie? He’s DOWN! You give him that look and he’s letting you drag him away to have one. I do think that he is down to have a healthy amount of quickies because it keeps the relationship fun, but would prefer having regular sex because he likes to take his time. 

R = Risk ( are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc. )

At the beginning, no because he’s used to his ex-wife and her preferences, and he fears pushing and upsetting you. Like suggesting a quickie and you just cussing him out for it.

After a while, YES. He likes the idea of someone potentially hearing you and how much he pleases you. He likes the idea of someone potentially catching you. But if someone did, depending on your boundaries, he will either cuss them or smirk about it with you.

S = Stamina ( how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last? )

I think maybe..two long rounds? But, like multiple rounds of foreplay in between to drag it out and to really build up the tension / desire for an orgasm. 

T = Toys ( do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves? )

No. While yes the 1920s had some sex toys, I do think that he’s a “if you need some kind of machine to get off, I have failed” kind of guy and really prove that as fancy as the advances are in sex toys, he’s going to come out on top and in you. Plus, he has no use for a sex toy because he has you to help him with any desires that he might have.

U = Unfair ( how much they like to tease )

Only if you’re down for it. If you don’t like it, then he won’t. But, if you ask for it / approve, then he can go anywhere from light teasing to actively stopping just as you’re about to cum and mocking you for it. 

V = Volume ( how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc. )

He's medium loud, that turns into low whimpers whenever he finally cums. He praises, curses, moans, whimpers, whines. Maybe a little degrading comment, if you're okay with that.

W = Wild card ( a random headcannon for the character )

He’s definitely ripped a couple of your dresses..

Pressing open-mouthed kisses down the column of your neck, he fumbles with the small buttons of your dress, the stubborn little loops refusing to open wide enough to let the buttons out. He had been fumbling with them for only a few seconds now, but it felt like too long. Giving the button a small tug, the fabric puckers up, threatening to break the seams. Pausing kissing at the column of your neck, he pulls back from you, eyes narrowing at the stubborn buttons. Taking a sharp breath through his nose, he chews on his bottom lip, determined to undo the buttons on his own. It was just buttons..how hard could it be? Giving the fabric a hard tug, the sound of fabric ripping fills the air, silencing your soft giggles of amusement. His shoulders tense up instinctively, eyes widening. “Shite.” He mumbles under his breath, wincing at how deep the tear was.  “Do you just rip my dress?” You question, eyes widening as you reach for the back of your dress. “A little.” He pauses, knowing that lying would only worsen things for him. “Aye, down the seam.” “You’re paying for a new one, from that fancy catalogue." You huff, shooting him a soft glare. “I’ll buy you the whole fucking catalogue after this.” He snickers, pressing a kiss onto your lips to silence your scolding.

X = X-ray ( let’s see what’s going on under those clothes )

I stalked the screen and have talked with other Jack O'Connell thirsty enthusiast, and we think he's maybe 5 to 6 1/2 inches. But, then again, most clips of him nude could be a prosthetic / the camera angle may be off.

Y = Yearning ( how high is their sex drive? )

It's a healthy amount.

Z = Zzz ( how quickly they fall asleep afterwards )

If he's worked all day and you've been doing it for a while, then yes. Otherwise, he's waiting until you're asleep and all taken care of to finally fall asleep.

----

[iamyourdailydoseofbi]

your latest patrick sumner fic was sooo cute🥹 i love how awkward and sweet he is. if it’s possible, could i request one where reader is his wife and she gets really bad painful periods? he tries to comfort her but because he’s a doctor it comes off more clinical/professional and reader is just kind of over it lol. love all your work xx

period pains..

The last three months your cycle had been..off. More spotting. More intense cravings for sweet things. More bloating. More soreness in your breasts. More headaches. More cramps⎯God, the cramps were the worst, more than ever before. It wasn’t pregnancy, that much was sure. You had assumed that it was the stress of Patrick finding a decent job that was affecting you so much. You tried the usual tricks⎯hot teas and cloths on your lower stomach. None of it worked, your body still ached and you found yourself crankier because of it. You couldn’t sleep without the lingering soreness in your lower back. You couldn't eat without bloating. It was bad enough that you were stressed about Patrick, you didn’t need this to be added to your list of worries. 

Gritting your teeth in pain as he massages your left breast, he presses his thumb hard underneath your nipple, watching your reaction. Shooting him a sharp glare at the jolt of pain it shoots down your spine, he removes his hand instantly, fingers trailing down your midriff slowly. There was nothing romantic in the way that he touched you, just a cold, almost clinical feeling to it. Like he was your physician at this moment and not your husband. Lowering his eyes down to your lap, he drums his fingers against his knee, his lips curling down into a thin line as he thinks. Rolling your eyes hard at his silence, you would have preferred him to offer some comfort, maybe a kiss on the cheek. Not a clinical diagnosis. 

“That hurt.” You huff, buttoning back up your shift to cover your breasts.

“I could tell.” He chuckles, nodding his head.

“I am glad you can find some humor in my pain, Patrick.” You roll your eyes, not having as much patience with him like usual. “It’s not like I am suffering and have been for the last week.”

“Yes, well.."

"Can you hand me another heated cloth if you have no intention of holding me anymore." You huff, leaving the first button undone on your nightgown.

"A heated cloth won't do much, I suggest a dose of laudanum for the pain, we’ll start with one spoonful and increase if needed.” Patrick starts to ramble, “For the swelling of the stomach and tenderness of the breasts, I suggest a diet of teas and soups. Perhaps, refraining from wearing your usual garments that restrict⎯”

“You’re diagnosing me?” You scoff, annoyed.

“What?” He sputters, taken off guard at your scoff.

“I said, you’re diagnosing me? Like I am…some patient of yours?" 

Furrowing his brows in confusion at your outburst, it made you want to throttle him for being so thick. Had you truly been that vague enough for him to not tell you that you wanted his love and comfort? Opening his mouth up to speak, he stops himself as he sees the sharp glare you shoot his way, knowing that he was in for it. Spreading your thighs just enough to make room, you motion for him to come closer with your eyes, but he just stares at you blankly. Shaking his head gently in infuriating confusion, you slap his arm scoldingly, pissed that he still wasn’t picking up what you were wanting. How much more blunt could you be? 

“Yes..?” He answers unsure, shifting on his stool.

“God's sake, Patrick! I am your wife, not some patient.” 

“I am aware of that.” He mumbles, wincing at your scolding.

“Clearly not!” You shake your head, “I don’t need a prescription, I could find any physician to give me one. I need my husband.” 

“I..uh..the laudanum..” He shuts his mouth, playing with fingers.

“Fuck’s sake, just hold me already. I don't need laudanum, Patrick.” You order, having no more patience for his obliviousness.

---

[kteezy997]

my Sir Lord Jimmy Crystal smut series has 15 likes while others like it have hundreds lol make it make sense this app is so dead for me

not to sound like a whiny baby but no one interacts with my stuff and this is why I don’t write anymore and there’s a big void in my life now that I’m not writing anything. I used to genuinely enjoy it but I feel like I’ve been shadow banned or something and I don’t know what to do about it.

[spikedfearn]

NEIGHBORLY CONDUCT

ONE-SHOT

pairing: james cook x fem!reader summary: For months, your neighbor James Cook has flirted with you like it’s his full-time job. So when he asks for help filming a challenge video, you say yes—only to realize too late that the camera was never rolling, and Cook’s been setting you up for exactly what he’s wanted all along.

wc: 8.5k

a/n: based on this post i made a little over a month ago, something about Cook conning his way into your pants has me wetter than a slip n slide in july. been really enjoying this new laptop too, i’m able to write so much more lately which has honestly been so nice, it's really been my second wind in terms of fic writing since it seems like i can hardly put it down!! not beta read.

warnings: piv, sexual manipulation/deception under false pretenses, unprotected sex, creampie, oral (m!receiving), deepthroating, fingering, dirty talk, praise kink, nipple play, biting/marking, hair pulling, multiple orgasms, oral fixation/finger sucking, grinding/lap sitting, neighbor seduction, heavy makeout, filthy flirting

MASTERLIST

The first time James Cook ever spoke to you, he leaned his shoulder against the bank of mailboxes like he had every right in the world to take up space there and said, “You always look that fit collectin’ junk mail, or am I just lucky today?”

It was a Thursday. You remembered because Thursdays were when the building smelled faintly of bleach from the hall mop and somebody down on the second floor always burned toast badly enough for the scent to drift upward through the stairwell. You’d come downstairs in old lounge shorts and a thin tank, hair still half-damp from the shower, expecting nothing but a fistful of coupons and utility reminders.

Instead, you got him.

He lived two doors down. Flat 4C. You’d known that from the second week you moved in, because he was always there in pieces: stretched out on the front steps smoking with one foot braced on the railing, laughing too loudly in the corridor with his mates, heading out at odd hours in a leather jacket that looked like it had seen better days and a grin that suggested he had not. You’d noticed him before he ever noticed you. It would’ve been impossible not to.

He looked like trouble in the most obvious, unfair way—dark brown hair cut short at the sides and left messy on top, blue eyes that never seemed to settle anywhere polite, a lazy kind of swagger that made the dingy hallway outside your flats feel suddenly charged with something warmer and sharper. He always looked like he’d just come from somewhere more interesting than wherever he currently was. He moved like the whole world amused him.

And once he clocked that you were his new neighbor, he never shut up.

Not in an annoying way, exactly. In a relentless way. In a James Cook way.

Every shared moment turned into something.

A hello in the stairwell became, “Where you off to lookin’ like that, sweetheart?”

Passing each other at the building entrance turned into him holding the door and letting his gaze drag from your shoes to your face with no effort at subtlety whatsoever, smiling when you rolled your eyes.

Seeing you wrestle with grocery bags once had turned into him plucking the heaviest sack from your grip and saying, “I’ll carry this for you, but only ‘cause if you ask me in all sweet like that I’ll end up doin’ anythin’.”

You hadn’t asked. That had been the point. He’d just wanted an excuse.

He flirted with you like it was breathing. Like nuance had been introduced to him once and he’d rejected it on principle. Filthy little jokes tossed out in the hall. A low whistle when you bent to unlock your door. His gaze landing on your mouth while you were talking and staying there just a beat too long.

The maddening part was that he did it so naturally you could never quite tell how serious he was.

He flirted with cashiers. With old ladies. With barking dogs if they looked at him long enough.

So you laughed him off. Flirted back sometimes, because you were only human and he was very, very pretty. Let yourself enjoy the electricity without ever fully trusting it.

You told yourself he was like weather. Warm when he passed through, impossible to hold.

Which was why, on that Thursday at the mailboxes, you lifted an eyebrow and said, “Do you rehearse these lines in the mirror?”

He grinned at once, as if that was the exact response he’d been hoping for.

“Nah. Comes natural.”

“Bit tragic, then.”

“Bit cruel, more like.” He opened his own box, yanked out a folded takeaway menu and a red envelope, then glanced sideways at you. “You wound me.”

“You’ll survive.”

“You sure?” His eyes flicked down, then back up again, brazen and bright. “Might need mouth-to-mouth.”

You laughed before you meant to.

That, more than anything, seemed to please him.

From then on, the game had a rhythm to it.

You’d hear his door open while you were locking yours and there he’d be, filling the narrow hallway with that infuriating energy, one shoulder brushing the wall, smirk already halfway formed. He’d ask where you were going. He’d say something outrageous about your legs or your mouth or the little dress you’d thrown on to go out with friends. He’d step too close when there was plenty of room not to, close enough that you could smell him—soap, smoke, something darker beneath it that was just him.

Sometimes, late at night, you’d hear laughter through the wall between your flats. Music. The occasional thump of something dropped. Once, when you’d opened your door to take out the trash, he’d been coming back in with two mates, a little drunk and full of easy noise, and he’d stopped dead when he saw you in oversized sleep shorts and one of your old university sweatshirts.

“Jesus Christ,” he’d said, hand flattening to his chest like he’d been struck. “You tryin’ to kill me now?”

His mates had cackled. You had gone hot all over and muttered goodnight. He’d called after you, “Sleep tight, neighbor,” in a voice so rough and amused it had followed you all the way back into your flat.

Neighbor.

He called you that all the time. Like the word itself was a private joke between you. Like proximity had become intimacy by default.

It was ridiculous how much you liked it.

By the time he knocked on your door on a grey Sunday afternoon a few months later, you already knew opening it was a bad idea.

You still did.

The knock itself was casual—three quick taps, no urgency—but when you pulled the door open he was standing there looking distractingly good in a black T-shirt and grey joggers, hair mussed like he’d been running his hands through it. One forearm braced on the frame above his head. Mouth tilted in that familiar half-smile.

“Alright?”

Your flat was warm from the oven. You’d been baking, and the air around you still smelled faintly of vanilla and sugar. Somewhere behind you the kettle clicked softly on its base.

He sniffed once, glancing over your shoulder. “Christ, smells good in there.”

You folded your arms, wary mostly because he looked too pleased with himself. “What do you want?”

He pressed a hand dramatically to his heart. “You say the sweetest things to me.”

“Cook.”

“Right, yeah.” He dragged his lower lip briefly between his teeth, trying—and failing—to look serious. “Need a favor.”

That alone made you suspicious.

He saw it happen in your face and laughed under his breath.

“It’s not weird,” he said.

“That’s exactly what someone says before it gets weird.”

“Have a bit of faith in me.”

“I absolutely will not.”

His grin widened. “Fair.”

Rain tapped softly at the building windows farther down the hall. Somewhere upstairs, plumbing knocked in the walls. The corridor light buzzed overhead, casting that faint jaundiced glow cheap apartment buildings always seemed to have. And there he was in the middle of it, looking like he’d brought his own weather to the floor.

“My mate was meant to come help me film somethin’,” he said. “Bailed last minute. I’ve gotta get it done today ‘cause I’m meant to be uploadin’ tonight, and you’re the only one around I can ask.”

You blinked. “You’re filming something?”

“Yeah.”

“For what?”

He shrugged, too casual. “TikTok. YouTube. Whatever. Just a challenge thing.”

That earned him a full squint. “You do YouTube?”

“Don’t sound so shocked.”

“I’ve literally never seen you do anything except loiter in the hall and harass me.”

He laughed, head dropping a bit. “That’s not all I do, sweetheart.”

The endearment came soft and easy, same as always, but there was a crackling undercurrent to it that made you look away first.

He noticed that too. Of course he did.

“Come on,” he coaxed. “Won’t take long. Just need someone to sit there and do the challenge with me. Easy.”

You should’ve said no. The smart part of your brain knew that. Every instinct you had about James Cook told you he was a terrible idea wrapped in a charming face and a wicked mouth.

But there was the problem right there: the face, the mouth, the way he looked at you like every second of your attention was something he wanted to grab with both hands.

You enjoyed the attention. More than that, if you were being honest. It had become part of your day, the possibility of him. The little charge you got whenever you heard his voice in the corridor or caught sight of him at the mailboxes or felt his gaze slide over you while you fumbled for your keys.

And somewhere deep down, under all the common sense, was the stubborn little ache of wanting to know if any of it meant anything. If the heat in his eyes was real. If all that shameless flirting was just sport or if some part of him was actually serious.

“It won’t be weird?” you asked.

He lifted his brows. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

That should’ve been your second warning, because his mouth twitched like he was trying not to laugh.

Instead, you exhaled and stepped out into the hall, pulling your door shut behind you. “Fine. Ten minutes.”

“Angel.” He pushed off the frame and straightened, satisfaction flashing across his face so quickly you nearly missed it. “You’re savin’ my life here.”

“I doubt that.”

“Still counts.”

His flat was only a few doors down, but the walk felt strangely intimate. You were acutely aware of him beside you, his bare forearm brushing yours once in the narrow space, the easy way he keyed open his own door and stepped back to let you in.

You’d never been inside before.

That felt bigger than it should have.

The first thing you noticed was the warmth. The second was him.

Or rather, him everywhere.

His flat looked exactly like it ought to: lived-in, a little messy, masculine without trying too hard. Trainers kicked off near the sofa. A hoodie thrown over the armchair. A half-open cupboard in the kitchen revealing mismatched mugs. A faint scent of laundry soap clinging to the place, mixed with something smoky and clean and unmistakably his. Music played low from a speaker on the kitchen counter—just enough bass to thread through the room without dominating it.

The sitting room was small but comfortable, with a worn grey couch pushed up against the wall and a coffee table scattered with remote controls, coins, and a lighter. Rain streaked the window over the radiator, blurring the afternoon outside into silvery smears.

“Sorry about the state of it,” he said, though he didn’t sound remotely sorry.

“It’s not that bad.”

He glanced at you sideways. “You sayin’ you expected worse?”

“Yes.”

“Rude.”

There was a tripod already set up near the television stand, his phone clipped into place. The sight of it made the whole thing feel slightly more real, which settled you a little.

Slightly.

“There,” he said, gesturing toward the couch. “Just sit there a sec while I get it lined up.”

You crossed to the sofa and sat, smoothing your hands over your leggings. The cushions dipped softly beneath you. He moved around in front of the tripod, adjusting the angle, frowning in concentration. Even that was unfairly attractive. The focused line between his brows. The flex of his forearm as he twisted the clamp tighter. The hem of his shirt pulling across his back.

You found yourself staring long enough that when he turned, you had to glance away quickly toward the rain-streaked glass.

He definitely noticed.

A smile ghosted across his mouth, smug as sin.

“Right,” he said. “Need to make sure we’re both in frame.”

Before you could answer, he came and dropped onto the couch beside you.

Not beside you, exactly. Close. So close the cushions shifted sharply beneath his weight and your thigh bumped his at once. Heat shot through the side of your body. The whole sofa suddenly felt much smaller than it had thirty seconds ago.

You looked at him.

He looked right back, wide-eyed in mock innocence. “What?”

“There’s loads of room.”

“Yeah, but camera’s there.” He jerked his chin toward the tripod. “Need us both in.”

“You’re taking the piss.”

“A little.”

He didn’t move.

The music hummed low from the kitchen. The rain kept ticking softly at the glass. Somewhere in the building, a door slammed and footsteps echoed down the stairwell. Inside his flat, though, it felt oddly insulated, the air thickening in slow, subtle layers.

He picked up a ceramic bowl from the coffee table and set it between you.

Inside were folded slips of paper.

“It’s simple,” he said. “We take turns. Pull a dare, do it, move on. Good fun, yeah?”

You eyed the bowl. “What sort of dares?”

He rocked one shoulder. “Nothing mental.”

That answer was suspiciously vague.

He saw that too and grinned. “You can say no if one’s too scary.”

“Scary isn’t the word I’d use with you.”

His brows lifted. “What word would you use, then?”

You should not have looked at his mouth when you said it.

“Annoying.”

He laughed softly. “Liar.”

The word landed warm and low between you.

Before you could decide what to do with that, he leaned forward toward the tripod and tapped his phone screen.

“Right,” he said. “We’re on.”

You nodded, more to yourself than to him.

“Ladies first,” he said, offering the bowl.

You reached in and pulled out the first folded slip. Your fingers weren’t quite steady, which irritated you. You unfolded the paper.

“Read it out,” he said.

You cleared your throat. “Hold eye contact with your partner for ten seconds.”

A smile pulled at his mouth immediately. “Easy.”

“Stupid,” you corrected.

“Still easy.”

He shifted on the couch to face you more fully, one arm slung along the back cushion behind your shoulders. Not touching, but close enough for the awareness of it to sit hot against your skin.

“Go on, then,” he said quietly.

Looking at James Cook when he wanted to be looked at felt different than looking at anyone else.

He had one of those faces that was always changing shape—mocking one second, bright with laughter the next, then suddenly still in a way that made you feel like you’d stepped into something deeper before you noticed the water rising around your ankles. Up close, his eyes were bluer than they looked in the hall. Not soft. Just vivid. Alive with mischief most of the time, but capable of turning sharp enough to pin you.

Ten seconds should not have felt like a lifetime.

One.

Two.

Somewhere around three, your pulse started climbing.

At four, the smile on his mouth faded just a little.

At five, you realized he wasn’t joking around anymore. Not fully.

By seven, the room itself seemed to hush around you.

At ten, you looked away first.

“Alright,” he said, voice roughened at the edges. “Your turn to lose your nerve, then.”

“I didn’t lose my nerve.”

He gave you a look.

You put the slip down and reached for another from the bowl before he could say anything else.

“Let your partner fix something about your appearance.”

He leaned back, considering you with exaggerated seriousness. “That’s broad.”

“You wrote them.”

He pressed a hand to his chest. “Accusin’ me already?”

“You absolutely wrote them.”

He only grinned.

Then he reached up and touched the strap of your top where it had twisted slightly against your shoulder. His knuckles brushed your skin first—light, barely there—and even that nearly undid you. He pinched the fabric gently, straightened it, then let his fingertips slide once down the line of your upper arm before taking his hand away.

There was nothing remotely necessary about that last touch.

Your breath caught anyway.

His eyes flicked to your mouth.

“Fixed,” he said.

The next few dares were easier on paper and somehow worse in practice.

Whisper something you’d never say out loud.

He leaned close, close enough that his breath skimmed the curve of your ear, and murmured, “Been thinkin’ about your mouth since the first week you moved in.”

You froze. Heat rushed all at once up your throat and into your cheeks.

“That’s not fair,” you said when he drew back.

He tilted his head. “Didn’t say it had to be.”

Then it was your turn.

Your slip read: trace a finger over your partner’s lips.

That one landed between you like a lit match.

You looked at the paper. Looked at him. Looked back down.

He said nothing. He didn’t need to. The anticipation coming off him was almost visible.

Slowly, feeling foolish and hyperaware and a little bit breathless, you lifted your hand.

His mouth softened—not into a smile, exactly, but into something more watchful. He let you touch him without a joke, without a single smart remark. Your fingertip grazed the shape of his lower lip, warm and softer than you expected. He inhaled sharply through his nose.

That sound alone nearly wrecked you.

When you pulled back, his gaze followed your hand like he wanted it back where it had been.

“Next,” he said.

The word came out quieter.

Sit on your partner’s lap for the next round.

You laughed outright at that, a brief nervous sound. “Absolutely not.”

“Why not?”

“Because this is ridiculous.”

“Bit late to notice that.”

“You do it, then.”

His grin returned at once, wolfish and pleased. “Happily.”

Before you could process what he meant, he caught your wrist and tugged.

You let out a startled sound as he pulled you sideways over his thighs.

Not roughly. Not gently either. With the kind of easy certainty that suggested he’d imagined putting you there a hundred times before ever trying it.

And then you were in his lap.

His hands settled automatically at your waist, big and warm through your shirt. The couch dipped beneath the combined weight of you. The whole world narrowed to pressure and heat and the hard line of his chest so close to yours.

You became acutely aware that one of his knees was bracketed between your thighs.

“There,” he said, a little smug, like this was the most natural thing in the world. “Sorted.”

Your hands had ended up on his shoulders to steady yourself. He noticed that too, glance dropping briefly to where your fingers curled in the fabric of his shirt.

“Bit handsy,” he murmured.

“You pulled me.”

“And you stayed.”

You opened your mouth. Closed it again.

He smiled like he knew exactly why.

The dare after that should’ve been the point where a sensible person left.

Suck your partner’s finger.

You read it aloud and immediately stared at the slip like the words might rearrange themselves into something less obscene.

He let out a low whistle. “That’s bold, innit?”

“You absolutely wrote these.”

“Maybe I’ve got a creative streak.”

“Psychotic streak.”

“Harsh.”

But he was looking at you in a way that made the joke feel thin.

You were still in his lap. He still had his hands on your waist. The room had gone so charged it felt one spark away from combustion.

“You said I could say no,” you reminded him.

“You can.”

He said it easily. Meant it, you thought. For all his chaos, there was something oddly attentive in him right now, like he was reading every shift in your face and weighing them.

But then his thumb moved once where it rested at your side, slow enough to feel deliberate, and you knew he wanted you to say yes.

Your pulse thudded.

It was ridiculous. All of it. You knew that. You were sitting in your neighbor’s lap in his living room pretending to take part in a YouTube challenge that had somehow turned into… whatever this was.

And still.

Still, you lifted your gaze to his.

“Which finger?” you asked.

Something flashed across his face—surprise, triumph, hunger, maybe all three.

He raised his hand between you. The middle two fingers extended just slightly, then changed his mind and offered only one, index finger crooked like he was afraid of pushing too far too fast.

You took his wrist first, mostly so he wouldn’t see your own hand shake.

Then you parted your lips.

The second his fingertip touched your tongue, the air changed again.

It should not have been as intimate as it was. It was just a finger. Just a stupid dare in a stupid game on a Sunday afternoon with rain at the windows and low music in the kitchen.

But the moment your mouth closed around him, his entire body went taut beneath you.

His inhale was sharp enough to hear.

Your eyes flicked up automatically.

He was watching you like he’d forgotten how to blink.

Color rose faintly along the tops of his cheekbones. One of his hands tightened at your waist. Not enough to hurt. Enough to tell on him.

You drew back after only a second, because anything longer would’ve shattered whatever fragile line still existed between this and the inevitable.

His finger slid from your mouth.

For one stretched, dangerous beat, neither of you said anything.

Then he swallowed and said, “Right.”

His voice was wrecked.

You could not stop the thrill that went through you at that.

The next paper in the bowl read kiss your partner’s neck for five seconds.

You gave a disbelieving laugh. “Five seconds?”

“Specific,” he said, though his attention had fixed on the side of your throat as if the words had put it there.

“You first.”

“Gladly.”

The arrogance of that would’ve annoyed you if it hadn’t been for the fact that he sounded less arrogant now than intent.

He shifted one hand to the back of your neck, not forcing, just guiding, and tipped your chin the slightest bit to the side.

The first brush of his mouth under your ear made every thought in your head scatter.

He wasn’t kissing you. Not really. Not at first. More the warm drag of his lips along the sensitive skin there, then lower to the curve where neck met shoulder. His breath hitched once against you. His stubble scraped faintly in the most maddening, thrilling way.

One second. Two. Three.

By four, your fingers had knotted in his shirt.

By five, you were the one breathing hard.

He lifted his head slowly.

You didn’t realize your eyes were closed until you opened them and found him already watching you.

“Christ,” he muttered, almost to himself.

The next slip should have ended it.

Lick Cook’s abs.

You stared at the words.

Then at him.

He made a show of leaning back into the couch cushions, one arm stretched along the top, mouth curling at one corner. But under the swagger there was an edge to him now, a restless current just beneath the skin.

“That one’s got my name on it,” he said.

“Very observant.”

“You gonna do it?”

You hated how much the answer mattered.

He could joke all he wanted, but by now there was no pretending the game was harmless. Not after his finger in your mouth. Not after his lips on your neck. Not after the way he’d looked at you every time your breath hitched like he was collecting those moments for later.

You should’ve gotten up.

You didn’t.

He saw the answer settle in you and went very still.

Then, slowly, with a faint flare of triumph in his eyes, he hooked his fingers in the hem of his shirt and dragged it up enough to bare his stomach.

It should have been absurdly theatrical. Somehow it wasn’t.

He leaned back farther, head tipping against the couch, gaze never leaving your face. The hard lines of him were unfair at this angle—defined stomach, warm skin, the dark happy trail disappearing beneath the waistband of his joggers. He was all easy confidence on the outside, but you could see the tension in him too now, the subtle brace through his body like this mattered to him more than he’d planned for.

“Well?” he asked softly.

Your heart was battering itself against your ribs.

You shifted forward where you still straddled one of his thighs, bracing a hand lightly against his side. His skin was hot under your palm. He sucked in a breath.

And then, because there was apparently no saving yourself anymore, you bent your head and dragged your tongue once in a quick stripe over the center of his stomach.

The reaction was immediate.

His whole body jerked.

“Fuck,” he breathed.

The word dropped low and rough into the room.

You started to sit back at once, heat flooding your face, but his hand shot out—not rough, not grabbing, just firm at the nape of your neck—and held you there.

“Again,” he said.

Everything in you went still.

You looked up at him.

His pupils were blown so wide his irises were just thin blue rings. Mouth parted. The practiced grin had vanished completely. What was left in its place was hotter and more honest and infinitely more dangerous.

“Cook—”

“Again,” he repeated, softer this time. “Please.”

That did something catastrophic to you, the please of it. The roughness cracked open by want. The fact that he looked half-dazed and half-starved over something as simple as your mouth on his skin.

So you did it again.

Slower this time.

His hand tightened once behind your neck. The other dropped to your hip. A shudder moved through him so visibly you felt it under your palms.

When you lifted your head, his chest was rising harder now.

“Again,” he said.

You let out a shaky laugh. “You’re insane.”

“Yeah.”

No denial. No apology. Just those bright ruined eyes fixed on you.

Rain whispered at the window. The music from the kitchen seemed very far away now, the bass just a faint pulse under everything else. The air in the flat felt thick enough to drink.

You bent again.

This time you traced the line more deliberately, feeling the jump of his muscles under your tongue, the sharp intake of breath he couldn’t hide. His fingers flexed at your waist. You had just started to lift away when something on the other side of the room caught your eye.

The phone.

At first it was just a flicker of wrongness. Then your gaze sharpened.

The screen was black.

Not dimmed. Not on a countdown. Not showing two people on a couch in a cheaply lit flat.

Black.

You stilled.

So did he.

Slowly, you turned your head toward the tripod.

Then back to him.

His hand slipped from your neck.

For one long second, neither of you moved.

“You’re not filming anything,” you said.

It didn’t come out angry the way you meant it to. It came out stunned.

Something almost sheepish crossed his face, which was so unlike him it only made the moment stranger.

Then he exhaled once through his nose and sat up a little, shirt still half-pushed up, hair a mess now from your fingers.

“No,” he said.

You stared at him.

“What the hell?”

“Alright, don’t do that face.”

“What face?”

“That one like I’ve skinned your cat.”

“I don’t have a cat.”

“Exactly.”

“James.”

He went still at that.

Not Cook. James.

You almost never called him that.

The room seemed to sharpen around the sound of it. He dragged a hand over his jaw, suddenly looking less like the smirking menace from the hallway and more like a man who’d finally run out of places to hide his nerve.

“I was gonna tell you,” he said.

“When?”

He had the decency to look away for half a second. “At some point.”

You laughed once, disbelieving and breathless. “So you lied to get me in here and make me—”

“Asked you.”

“You tricked me.”

His eyes snapped back to yours. “Would you’ve come otherwise?”

That shut you up.

Because no. Probably not.

And the bastard knew it.

The edge in your anger dulled slightly, replaced by something hotter, more complicated. Embarrassment. Curiosity. A furious throb of relief at the fact that all this—his attention, his hunger, the crackling tension that had built itself up like static every time he saw you—had not been in your head after all.

He saw you thinking. He always saw too much.

“I’ve been tryin’ to talk to you for months,” he said, and for once there was no grin attached to it. No joke. “Properly, I mean. But every time I do, you look at me like I’m full of shit.”

“You are full of shit.”

“Yeah, well.” His mouth twitched, but it wasn’t smug now. Just rueful. “Not about this.”

Something in his voice made your pulse kick harder.

He leaned forward, forearms braced on his thighs, close enough that your knees nearly touched where you’d shifted awkwardly on the couch.

“I have been wanting you,” he said, quiet and direct and devastatingly serious, “for months.”

The words seemed to move through the room like heat.

You didn’t speak. Couldn’t.

He kept going, gaze fixed on yours with an intensity that made you forget to breathe.

“Wanted you the first time I saw you at them mailboxes in them little shorts,” he said. “Wanted you every time you smiled at me in the hall like you thought I was a joke. Wanted you every time you shut your door and I could still smell your perfume out there after.” His voice roughened. “Wanted you when I heard you laughin’ through the wall. Wanted you when you’d open your door in them tiny little sleep shorts and look all soft and sleepy and—”

He cut himself off with a harsh exhale.

You were staring now. Helplessly. Heart tripping over itself.

“I kept thinkin’,” he said, lower, “if I didn’t do somethin’ about it, I was gonna lose my fuckin’ mind.”

That should not have been romantic.

From him, somehow, it was.

Not sweet. Not polished. Not safe. Just honest in the most James Cook way possible—messy and too much and impossible to mistake.

You swallowed. “So your big plan was fake YouTube dares?”

His mouth finally tilted again, just a little. “It got you on my couch, didn’t it?”

You let out a breath that might have been a laugh.

He watched your face with maddening concentration, as if he could tell the exact second your anger had stopped being the main thing in the room.

“Say somethin’,” he murmured.

“You’re insane.”

“I know.”

“You lied.”

“Yeah.”

“You’re proud of it, too.”

He gave one slight shrug. “Bit.”

You should’ve been more furious than you were.

Instead, all you could think about was the way he’d just said wanted you like it cost him something. The way he’d admitted to listening for you through the wall. The fact that this wasn’t casual for him, not really, not in the way you’d always told yourself it had to be.

“You’re impossible,” you said.

His eyes dropped to your mouth. “And you’re still here.”

The words went through you like a struck match.

The silence after that felt alive.

Then he leaned in, slowly enough to stop him, and said, very softly, “Tell me to piss off and I will.”

You looked at him. At the mouth that had spent months making you laugh and blush and lose your train of thought in dingy hallways. At the eyes that had gone startlingly unguarded just now. At the man who had apparently staged an entire fake challenge because ordinary flirting had stopped being enough.

You should’ve told him off.

Instead you caught a fistful of his shirt and kissed him.

It wasn't gentle. It wasn't graceful. It was months of tension collapsing at once, all that stupid hallway banter and charged glances and what-ifs finally finding somewhere to go.

He made a sound into your mouth that was half surprise and half triumph, then he was kissing you back like he’d been waiting for permission from the universe. One hand cupped your jaw. The other dragged you over him until you were half in his lap again, bodies knocking awkwardly against the couch cushions.

He kissed like the rest of him lived—reckless, eager, devastatingly sure of himself when he wanted something. But underneath the bravado there was real hunger there too, and relief, and something almost disbelieving that made your chest ache even as your whole body sparked.

“You are such a prick,” you breathed against his mouth.

He laughed softly, forehead knocking once against yours. “Yeah?”

“Yes.”

“Still kissin’ me, though.”

So you kissed him again to shut him up.

That worked for all of three seconds.

Then his mouth slid from yours to your jaw, your cheek, the place under your ear he’d already discovered made your breathing go funny. His hands were everywhere now—your waist, your back, your thigh—like he’d been restraining himself for too long and had no interest in doing it anymore.

“You’ve got any idea,” he muttered against your skin, “how hard it’s been livin’ next door to you?”

You laughed breathlessly. “Poor you.”

“Cruel woman.” His teeth grazed lightly at your throat. “All them little dresses. Them shorts. You bend over in that hall on purpose?”

“I do not.”

“Bullshit.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“And you like me.”

The horrible thing was that he sounded so pleased by it.

You grabbed his face with both hands and kissed him again, deeper this time, the filthy wet slide of your tongue against his enough to break his answer into a low groan and his grip on your hip went almost painful in its intensity. Rain kept skating down the window. The music in the kitchen had changed songs without either of you noticing. The room smelled like warm skin and his soap and the faint sugar still clinging to you from your flat.

Everything had narrowed to heat and movement and the couch beneath you.

He pulled back just far enough to look at you properly.

Not at your mouth. Not your body. At you.

A strange seriousness moved through his expression, brief but unmistakable.

“You sure?” he asked.

The question cut cleanly through the haze.

You nodded once. “Yes.”

His eyes searched your face another heartbeat, then he smiled—not the cocky grin from the hallway, not exactly, but something rougher and warmer.

“Good,” he said.

He shifted you until you were straddling him, fingers curling into the waistband of your jeans as your knees bracketed his hips, tugging you closer until you felt him through the cotton—hard, obvious, a desperate strain against his joggers that made your breath catch. "Been thinkin' about this for months. Every time you walked past, bitin' your lip like you didn't know exactly what you were doin'."

You should've said something clever, something that regained the upper hand. Instead your hips rolled forward on instinct, and the sound he made—a low, wrecked groan—sent heat flooding through you.

"That's it," he breathed, hands sliding up under your shirt, palms hot against your ribs. "Been imaginin' you like this. Right here. Grindin' on my cock like a good girl."

His mouth found your throat, teeth scraping along the pulse point, and your fingers tangled in his hair, holding him there. He bit down—just enough to sting—and you gasped, hips bucking harder against him.

"Fuck," His voice cracked on your name, reverent and desperate. "Nearly came in my trousers the first time you bent over to grab your post. Had to stand there with my back to the door for five minutes before I could walk straight."

You laughed, breathless, and he pulled back just enough to look at you—eyes dark, pupils blown wide, that perpetual smirk softened into something raw.

"Take this off," he said, tugging at your shirt. "Want to see you. All of you."

You pulled it over your head, and his hands were on you before the fabric cleared your face—palms cupping your tits through your bra, thumbs brushing over your nipples until they hardened under the lace. He groaned, dropping his forehead to your chest.

"Been dreamin' about these tits. Wanted my mouth on 'em since the day you wore that thin white top without a bra."

His fingers found the clasp, and when the bra fell away, he didn't wait—mouth hot and wet on your nipple, tongue circling, sucking until your back arched and you were pressing yourself deeper into his mouth. His hand sli down your stomach, palm flat against your jeans, pressing exactly where you need him.

"So fuckin' wet for me already, aren't you?" He flicked the button open, dragging the zipper down slow. "Can smell you from here, love. Sweet and desperate."

You lifted your hips, and he peeled your jeans down your thighs, leaving you in nothing but your panties—a damp patch already spreading on the cotton. His breath caught when he saw it.

"Look at that." His thumb traced the wet fabric, featherlight, and you whimpered. "Soaked through. And I haven't even touched you proper yet."

He hooked his fingers into the waistband, pulled them down your legs, and then you're bare beneath him, spread open on his lap while he stared like you're the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. His hand slid between your thighs, fingers parting your folds, and he groaned at the slick heat he found.

"Jesus Christ." His middle finger circled your clit, slow and deliberate, and your hips rocked into his hand. "That's it. Let me feel you. Want you to ride my fingers before I fuck you."

He pushed two fingers inside you without warning, and you cried out—the stretch, the sudden fullness, the way his palm pressed against your clit as he curled them, searching, finding that spot that made your vision blur. His thumb circled your clit while his fingers pumped, slow and deep, and he watched your face the whole time.

"That's my good girl," he murmured, voice wrecked. "Takin' my fingers so pretty. Gonna come for me? Gonna soak my hand before I even get my cock out?"

You were close already—too fast, too much, but his thumb was relentless and his fingers were crooked just right and the way he was looking at you, like you were the only thing in the world, pushed you over. You came with a broken moan, clenching around his fingers, and he worked you through it, whispering filthy praise until you slumped against his chest, trembling.

He pulls his fingers out slowly, brings them to his mouth, and sucking them clean—eyes locked on yours. "Taste even better than I imagined."

Then he's guiding you off his lap, onto your knees on the floor, and he stood to unbuckle his belt. His cock sprang free, thick and hard, and he stroked himself once, slow, before gripping the base and holding it out to you.

"Open that pretty mouth, love. Been waitin' months to feel them lips wrapped around my cock."

Your lips parted before he finished speaking, and his thumb traced your bottom lip, tugging it open wider. The taste of your own arousal lingered on his skin, salt and musk, and your tongue darted out without thinking, catching him.

"That's it," he breathed, and the rasp in his voice made your thighs press together. "Open. Let me see that pretty mouth."

His cock stood thick and heavy before you, the head flushed dark, a bead of precum glistening at the tip. He stroked himself once, slow, spreading it down his shaft, and your mouth watered.

"Been thinkin' about this," he said, his free hand threading into your hair, fingers curling against your scalp. "Lyin' in bed at night, hand wrapped around my cock, wonderin' what you'd look like on your knees for me." He guided your head forward, not forcing, just present, a gentle pressure you could resist if you wanted. You don't. "Wondered if you'd be shy. If I'd have to coax you. If you'd take me deep the first time or make me work for it."

Your tongue flicked out, catching the tip of him, and his hips jerk. A low sound—almost a whimper—escaped his throat, and the power of it flooded through you.

"Fuckin' hell." His grip tightened in your hair. "Do that again."

You did. Slower this time, your tongue tracing the ridge beneath the head, tasting him—salt and heat and something raw that made you dizzy. His breath stuttered above you.

"Open wider, love. Take me in your mouth. Let me feel that tongue."

You parted your lips and he guided himself inside, the head sliding past your lips, and the weight of him on your tongue is more than you expected—thick, heavy, the pulse of his blood against the soft tissue of your mouth. He filled you, and you'd barely taken half.

"Christ." His head fell back, his hand still tangled in your hair, not pushing, just holding. "That mouth. Been dreamin' about that mouth around my cock for months, and it's better than I imagined. So fuckin' warm. So wet."

You holloed your cheeks, suck gently, and his hips thrust forward an inch, involuntary, before he caught himself.

"Easy," he breathed, but his voice was wrecked. "Easy, love. Gonna let me fuck that pretty throat? Gonna be good for me?"

Your eyes met his, and you nodded as much as you could with your mouth full. The sight of him above you—jaw slack, eyes dark, that perpetual smirk replaced by something raw and desperate—made heat pool between your thighs.

"Good girl. Such a good girl." His hand guided your head forward, slow, and you took him deeper, your throat opening to accommodate the stretch. He groaned when your nose brushed his pelvis, when you were full of him, when you held there for a second, just breathing through it. "That's it. Look at you. Took all of me like you were made for it."

He held you there, and your throat contracted around him, and the sound he made was broken, animal. His hips twitched, fighting the urge to thrust deeper.

"Gonna move now," he warned, voice barely a whisper. "Tap my thigh if it's too much. But I need—fuck, I need to feel your mouth while I—"

He didn't finish the sentence. He drew back, slow, until only the head remained between your lips, and then pushed forward again, deeper this time, setting a rhythm that had you gripping his thighs for balance. His cock slid slick and hot across your tongue, and you relaxed your throat, let him take what he wanted, and the noise he made—a broken litany of your name and curses and praise—was the most beautiful thing you'd ever heard. Your tongue traced the vein on the underside as he thrust, and his whole body shuddered.

"Fuck, love, your tongue. Right there. Keep doin' that, keep—" His words dissolved into a groan as he pushed deeper, and you felt him hit the back of your throat, felt yourself open for him, and you were dripping onto the floorboards, empty and aching and desperate for more.

You pulled off his cock with a wet sound, a string of saliva connecting your lips to the tip, and he made a noise like you'd wounded him. His hand tightened in your hair, trying to guide you back, but you resisted—pressing your palm flat against his thigh, holding him still while you caught your breath.

His voice is wrecked, desperate. "What're you—"

"I want you to fuck me." The words come out rough, raw, and you watched his eyes go dark at them. "On the couch. Right now."

Something broke behind his gaze. He pulled you up by your arms, lifted you like you weigh nothing, and deposited you on the worn corduroy—your back hitting the cushions, your legs dangling over the edge. He stood over you, chest heaving, cock slick and hard and still glistening with your spit, and the sight of him like that—undone, hungry, barely holding himself together—made you spread your legs without thinking.

"Look at you." His voice was low, reverent. "Spread open for me already. So fuckin' ready."

He climbed onto the couch, knees bracketing your hips, and the weight of him settled over you—warm, solid, the corduroy rough against your bare back. He didn't push inside. Instead, he dragged his cock through your folds, slicking himself in your wetness, the head catching on your clit with every pass, and you whimpered, arched into him, trying to angle yourself onto him.

"Not yet." His smirk returned, just a flicker. "Been waitin' months for this. Gonna take my time."

He shifted his weight, and his mouth found your throat—teeth grazing your pulse point, tongue soothing the sting. His hips rocked against yours, his cock sliding through your slick folds but never pushing in, the teasing pressure building an ache that made you dig your nails into his shouldes.

"Please, James." The name fell out of you, broken. "Please, I need—"

"Need what, love?" He bit your earlobe, tugged. "Use your words. Tell me what you need."

"Need you inside me. Need your cock. Please, I've been so empty, I can't—"

He cut you off with a kiss—deep, filthy, his tongue sliding against yours as he lined himself up. The head pressing against your entrance, just the tip, and you gasped into his mouth.

"Look at me." His voice was barely a whisper. "Want to see your eyes when I finally fuck you."

You met his gaze—blue gone dark, pupils blown wide—and he pushed in.

The stretch was everything. He was thick, filling you inch by inch, and your body opened for him like it was made for it. He didn't stop until he was buried to the hilt, his pelvis pressed against yours, and the fullness of it made your vision blur.

"Fuckin' hell." His forehead dropped to yours, breath ragged. "Feel that? Feel how perfect you are around my cock? Been dreamin' of this—dreamin' of bein' inside you—and it's better. So much better."

He pulled out slow, almost all the way, and then thrust back in—deep, deliberate, hitting something that made your back arch and a cry tear from your throat.

"There." His voice is triumphant. "Found it."

He set a rhythm—deep and relentless, each thrust driving him into that spot until you were clawing at his back, whimpering his name. The corduroy scratched against your skin, and the lamp cast their shadows against the wall, and all you could feel was him—his weight, his heat, the way he filled you completely.

"That's my good girl," he groaned against your throat. "Takin' me so deep. So fuckin' wet. Can feel you drippin' down my thighs."

His hand slid between your bodies, thumb finding your clit, and you sobbed at the pressure—too much, not enough, exactly what you needed. He circled it in time with his thrusts, and the pleasure built, coiled tight in your belly, and you were so close you could taste it.

"Gonna come for me?" His voice was wrecked, desperate. "Gonna soak my cock? Want to feel you come around me, babe. Want to feel you squeeze me while I'm buried inside you."

You nodded, unable to speak, and he kissed you—messy, open-mouthed, swallowing your moans as his thumb pressed harder and his thrusts got sloppier, and the coil snapped.

You came with a cry, your cunt clenching around him, and he groaned your name like a prayer, fucking you through it, chasing his own release.

"That's it. That's my good girl. Fuck, I'm gonna—can I come inside you? Please, love, let me fill you up. Want to feel you dripping with my cum for the rest of the night."

"Yes," you gasped. "Yes, James, please—"

He buried himself deep, and you felt him pulse inside you—hot, thick, filling you as he groaned your name against your throat. His hips stuttered, and he held there, emptying himself into you until there was nothing left.

He collapsed on top of you, his weight pressing you into the cushions, his breath hot and ragged against your neck. The quiet settled around you—the hum of the fridge, the distant traffic, the sound of two people breathing in the same rhythm.

And then he shifted, just enough to look at you, and that stupid, beautiful smirk spread across his face. "Told you I'd make it worth your while."

Later, you lay half-curled against him on the couch beneath the rumpled throw he’d dragged over the two of you at some point. The window had darkened to a blue-grey mirror. The music had long since stopped. Somewhere outside in the corridor, footsteps passed and a neighbor’s door clicked shut, life in the building continuing as if your whole world hadn’t just tilted on its axis.

His fingers drifted idly over your bare shoulder.

You turned your head to look at him.

He was staring up at the ceiling, hair even more of a mess now, one arm crooked behind his head. When he felt you looking, he glanced down.

“What?”

“You really made up an entire fake video.”

He grinned without shame. “Was a good idea.”

“It was insane.”

“Worked, though.”

You rolled your eyes, but the smile tugging at your mouth gave you away.

He looked unbearably pleased by that.

“Neighbor,” he said after a second, voice gone low and lazy.

“Hm?”

“Now that you know I’ve been after you for months…”

A warning prickled at the back of your neck. “What?”

His grin widened slowly. “Means I can stop pretendin’ to be subtle.”

You laughed so hard you had to shove at his shoulder.

He caught your hand before you could pull it back and kissed your knuckles, surprisingly gentle for a man who had conned you into his flat with a fake social media challenge.

Then he turned his head, mouth brushing your wrist, and said, almost idly, “Though fair warning, sweetheart—”

“Oh no.”

“Now I know what you sound like in here, hearin’ you through the wall’s gonna be absolute torture.”

Your face went molten at once.

“James.”

He laughed, bright and wicked and entirely too pleased with himself, and hauled you closer when you made another scandalized noise.

Outside, the rain kept falling. Inside, warm under his arm in the little flat two doors down from yours, it felt like the beginning of something you’d been standing on the edge of for longer than you’d realized.

And for the first time since you’d moved into the building, James Cook wasn’t just a possibility in the hallway anymore.

He was tangible. Real.

[gifslvr]

[kteezy997]

Oliver Mellors my daddddyyyy

[bluesycatharsis]

wish they'd approach me in a random pub in seattle, say they really liked my vibe and want to buy me a drink 😔

[kteezy997]

Oh my gosh yesss!!

[kteezy997]

The Prophecy// sir lord jimmy crystal x fem!reader part five

Warnings: picks up right where last part left off, smut, breeding session, cursing, “Vessel” pet name, Stockholm syndrome, mention of cum and pregnancy, explicit sex, dead dove?

Unedited~

“Oh!” cried Jimmy Crystal as he came, “Old Nick will be so proud.” His hands clapped against the floor of the van, his arm encasing y/n on either side.

She shuddered at the feeling of his warm seed spilling inside of her. After this, there was no going back. She could never be who she was before him. Now, she belonged to Jimmy Crystal and to the will of Old Nick.

Jimmy bucked his hips in quick, shallow movements, “Not going to let a drop go to waste, my sweet Vessel.” he caressed her cheek with his hand. His hips stirred, he raised up, his eyes closed, “Fuck, you feel so good.”

It occurred to her that he’d never done this before. Sex. Well, neither had she with anyone besides herself. So, she figured this was like a whole new world for him.

He leaned over her, his eyes wide now, “Isn’t it great?” he asked her.

“It was amazing, my Lord.” she answered.

He grinned, his eyes closed again, like he was listening to the sweetest music known to man, “I love hearing that from your lips.” He leaned down further, catching her lips on a kiss.

She put her hands on his chest, “Can I ride you now, my Lord?”

“Are you sure you should do that in your fragile condition?”

She giggled, “My fragile condition?”

“Yes, you’re pregnant.”

She laughed now, “Jimmy, it doesn’t happen that fast. And anyway, women can do all kinds of things when they are pregnant. Sex being the least of worries.”

“Oh,” he shrugged, “I suppose it’s alright then. Just don’t spill any.” He rolled them into over, letting her mount him with his cock still inside her.

She moaned as he pressed even deeper in her from this new angle. Her hands met his abdomen, warm and damp from sweat. Fresh air was minuscule in the walls of the abandoned vehicle.

Slowly, she started to rock her hips. Jimmy’s hands cupped her waist on either side, the metal of his rings cool to the touch on her hot skin.

“Yes, Vessel, that’s good.” he cooed, kneading his fingers into the flesh of her hips.

Her movements grew faster and more steady. Within minutes she was more confident and striving for more pleasure. His cock hit her cervix with each stride.

Jimmy pushed and pulled on her in time with her rhythm. He was ascending to a higher place, his chest puffing up and down and he moaned like a man possessed.

Every bit of her body grew sensitive, her nipples hard as glass, her toes curled, and every muscle rippling in her legs. She was unbelievably wet, bouncing on his cock and squeezing around him, chasing the same high he was on.

“Oh, yes, milk me for my cum, my beloved!” Jimmy cried. “I feel your pussy, she’s desperate for it.” he dragged his nails down her outer thighs.

The sensation, the white hot pain was enough to send her over the edge, shaking and trembling with her orgasm. “Cum for me, my Lord, my Jimmy.” she cooed, her nails digging into his hard chest.

As if his body obeyed her command, he came again, leaking back out onto both of their thighs.

After a moment, she put her head on his chest, letting their supple bodies stick together in a sheen of sweat.

Jimmy placed his hand on the back of her head. “Wasn’t sure I’d cum a second time, but you had your ways.” He laughed, she hear the deep boom in his chest as well as his rapid heartbeat.

“I knew you could do it.” she replied, raising her head and kissing his skin.

“I cannot wait to fuck every day for the rest of our lives, Vessel.”

“Jimmy, I don’t know about every day.”

“Why not? Now that I’ve gotten it, I need to worship this body daily. Old Nick says so.”

She giggled, “You’re just making that up for your own benefit.” she rested her chin on her arm and looked up at him.

He propped his head up with his arm bent behind his head, “Alright, maybe that’s true.”

……..

As they got dressed, she asked, “So you’ll still want me if I end up all big and pregnant?”

Jimmy was at her side in an instant, “Of course, my love. Besides, it’s me that’s gotten you that way.” He smirked, then kissed her on the temple before exiting the back of the van. He held his hand out to her.

She took his hand and hopped out of the vehicle as well. “Hmm, how do you know if I’m that way…" she teased.

He placed his hand flat over her stomach, “I bred you twice. It’s happened.” he kissed her cheek, “Old Nick’s will is underway. Come on.” He took off to find his Jimmies, leading her by the hand.

4.6.26

A/n: Sorry this is short. Sorry I’m slow at writing. I’m not good at writing anymore but maybe I can encourage or inspire a great author to write for Sir Jimmy Crystal or any of Jack O’ Connell’s characters really. I do have a Cook one shot in the works if anyone is interested

@thebookdragon95 @gatotejadero @h3r3t1c @remmicksecretpage

[kteezy997]

The Prophecy//sir lord jimmy crystal x fem!reader part four

Warnings: dead dove, Stockholm syndrome, fluff, jimmy calls reader “Vessel”, jimmy thinks about sacrificing kids to old Nick, smut, cursing, dirty talk, having sex for pleasure and for pregnancy, cult things, breast play/sucking, breeding kink obviously

•Not edited right now•

“You told us to kill her if she ever tried to escape, sir.” said Jimmima upon Jimmy Crystal and y/n’s return.

“Aye, Jimmima, I did. But she and I have worked it out amongst ourselves and I don’t want any harm to come to her.” It was a warning. Jimmima may have been his favorite child, but no one was above y/n. “Now,” Jimmy clapped his hands together, “it’s time to get a move on, see what adventures await us today.”

……..

As the Jimmies stalked the countryside, y/n couldn’t fight the urge to be to close to him. She wanted to hold his hand. She had no idea what had come over her. And when she did grab his hand, he didn’t say a word, he didn’t joke, didn’t make a show about it. He only held her hand right back.

Was this love she was feeling?

She heard Jimmima giggle and the Jimmies laughing behind them, but she didn’t care what they thought or what they said.

They walked almost the entire day with not one human sighting, only a group of infected folks, easily picked off by Ink and Fox.

Y/n wasn’t afraid to open her mouth to Jimmy, he rarely got truly angry with her, and that would be even less now that she was showing him some affection. “I’m hungry, Jimmy. We haven’t eaten since lunch yesterday.”

“I know, Vessel.” He squeezed her hand, “Don’t you worry, Old Nick’s got his lips at my ears,” he held his other hand upward, listening to the voice, “he promises us nourishment soon.”

They passed a few empty, quiet homesteads, and finally after many hours traveling on achey feet, they heard something.

It was a two story home with a nice sized yard in the front, and there were small children playing, y/n could see them, and could hear them laughing. She looked at Jimmy, a terrible smile on his face. She knew what Old Nick was telling him. Sacrifice.

No.

She couldn’t let it happen. She had to do something. “Jimmy.” she said, panicking. She grabbed him, pulling on his jacket and kissing him.

He was still for a second, probably taken aback by what she was doing, but then he moaned onto her mouth, and deepened the kiss.

The Jimmies walked around them, not paying them much attention, and actually being respectful for a change.

Y/n pulled away. “Um,” she licked her lips, “I was thinking you could fill my hunger another way.”

His eyes were practically heart shaped at this point, “Oh? What did you have in mind?” he grinned.

She inched even closer to him, her nose grazing his. This could be a perfect distraction. Maybe he would forget all about Charity, if an heir could possibly be conceived instead. “You know what I have in mind, Sir.” she smirked, laying it on thick as possible for him. She pecked his lips for good measure.

Jimmy put his arm out, snapping his fingers at the Jimmies, “Aye, you lot, fuck off for a few hours. I’ve got a womb to breed.”

With that, he led her away.

“Fucking hell, could have done without the explanation.” Jimmy Ink said with an uncomfortable shiver.

……..

After several minutes of searching and pulling her along with him, Jimmy found the perfect spot. There was a rusty old van in the woods, the back doors joined and opened in the middle.

He opened up the doors with various creaking sounds with bits of the rust breaking off with it. He grinned seeing a blanket in the spacious back of the van. “Yes, this is it. This is where our heir will be conceived.”

She wasn’t quite sure if he was telling her, or affirming himself.

He turned to her, pulling her close, “Didn’t I tell you the prophecy would play out? That in time, you’d accept your part in it?”

She knew it was crazy, that he was crazy and down right evil. But she was beginning to love him. She couldn’t listen to the voice in her head telling her how wrong it all was anymore, this was how it was meant to be. So, she answered, “Yes. You said it, but I never wanted to believe it. Not until now.” She wanted him, and felt no shame in it.

Jimmy closed his eyes, a strange grin creeping onto his lips. He hummed softly, his hands landing on her shoulders. He brushed her hair back with his hands, and then he gently held her neck. His thumbs caressed her jaw, he opened his eyes, “Kiss me.”

Y/n obeyed, pressing her lips to his.

He moaned into her mouth again and she wondered if that was his signature thing, that almost animal-like sound. She realized that she liked hearing it. He pulled her even closer by her neck, and smashed his lips harder onto hers.

Bending down, he picked her up and placed her in the van, “Take off your clothes. I want to see you.” he said, not bothering to close the back doors behind them.

She pulled her shirt over her head, dropping it to the floor, then unclasped her bra from the back, dropping it as well.

“Fuck me, you are beautiful.” Jimmy growled, moving forward to touch her.

She stopped him with her hands, “No, no. I’m not done yet.” She smirked, then began unbuttoning her pants.

She took delight in having some power over him. He, Jimmy Crystal, who believed he was the son of satan, and had the power to bend others to his own will, was now under her influence, doing as she told him.

As she tossed her pants to the side, she wondered if this was part of the prophecy: that the heir’s mother carried power as well.

Sitting naked in the back of the van, she said, “Now you.” giving Jimmy a nod.

He quickly unzipped and pulled off his purple velour jacket and tracksuit pants, next was his stained white tank top and boxers.

Y/n looked him over, even as he was chomping at the bit to pound on her. His body was fit, handsome with no hair other than his pubic area. His skin looked soft and smooth, with no obvious scars or cuts. He seemed actually quite lovely to her, under the clothes. His cock was hard, thick and had a pointy tip. She was going to enjoy this. Even if she had to endure a pregnancy afterwards.

“Come to me.” she ordered, and not a second later, Jimmy moved and climbed on top of her, moaning and groping against her. His movements were hurried and sloppy. His mouth was on hers like a starved animal. His hands moved from her thighs, to her ass, squeezing and kneading her flesh, his rings pinching her skin, then he dug his nails into her hips before inching upward to grab her breasts.

He nestled between her legs, pulled away from her lips to look in her eyes.

She was surprised at how quiet he was.

His hands had remained on her breasts, idly massaging. He flicked his thumb over her nipple, making her gasp. His eyes lit up at her reaction, and he kissed her again, hard. Then he squeezed her breasts, pinching both nipples, watching them harden and pebble under his touch.

“Rub them, Jimmy.” she whispered.

“Mm.” he answered with a quick glance into her eyes before focusing on her tits again. With his fingertips over her nipples, he started to rub soft circles.

“Yes, like that.” she cooed, “More pressure.”

He pressed the pads of his fingers down more, rubbing harder as well.

She started moan, and puff her chest.

“Can I suck them?”

“Yes.” she cried, wanting to laugh at notion of Sir Jimmy Crystal asking for something. Normally he would take or do whatever he wanted.

His warm mouth took her nipple instantly, sucking on it like some sweet nectar would lactate from her.

She felt his tongue lapping on her hard bud, an his teeth dragging, nibbling. “Jimmy.”

His lips left her nipple with a pop. “Good?” he asked, looking up at her.

“Yes, so good.”

He softly grabbed her other breast, swiping his tongue over that nipple, lapping at it as it hardened before taking it into his mouth.

She put her hand in his wavy blonde hair, moaning his name.

“Mmm.” he left her nipple, “I have to be inside you. I need to breed your gorgeous cunt. She’s waiting for me,” he leaned over her, pressed his lips to hers, “waiting for the cum of Sir Lord Jimmy Crystal.” He pecked her lips once more before reaching down and placing his cock between her legs.

His ridiculous talk would normally annoy her, but now it turned her on. She was wetter than she’d ever been in her life. Her body was aching for him. She realized that she wanted him to breed her, to cum inside of her everyday until his heir was conceived.

As he pushed his hips forward and she felt the stretch of his cock, she decided that she wouldn’t mind being his vessel. Because his cock felt so damn good and she liked the weight of his sweaty body on her.

3.26.26

A/N: I’m sorry to end this part here but it’s taking me forever to write this and I kinda just want to get something published for those of you that have read the previous parts.

@thebookdragon95 @gatotejadero @h3r3t1c @remmicksecretpage