Lizz

19 yo I’m Lizz

[lizzknole]

Dad’s Military Friends

⏾ content - 18+(mdni) ; f!reader, age gap, threesome, porn without plot, Military kink / Daddy’s friends, Pet names (sweetheart, baby, good girl, pretty thing…), Oral (giving & receiving), Creampie, Dirty talk, Praise kink

(Guys please follow me n give me some ideas)

The first night they came over for dinner, you thought it would just be the usual: your dad grilling steaks, the two of them trading war stories, beers sweating on the table. Jon Bernthal with that permanent five-o’clock shadow and the voice that sounds like gravel wrapped in velvet. Jack Abbot quieter, sharper eyes, the kind of calm that makes you want to see what happens when it cracks.

By the third night the house was quieter. Your dad had an early shift. The leftovers were still warm on the counter when Jon’s hand found the back of your neck.

“Been watching you all week, sweetheart,” he murmured, thumb stroking just under your ear. “The way you look at us. Like you want to get wrecked.”

Jack was already behind you, chest solid against your back, mouth brushing the side of your throat. “Tell us if we’re wrong, baby. Say the word and we stop.” His voice was softer than Jon’s, but the heat in it was the same. “But I don’t think you want us to stop.”

You didn’t.

They moved you between them like they’d done this a hundred times—Jon’s mouth claiming yours in a deep, filthy kiss while Jack’s hands slid under your shirt, palms rough and warm. Pet names spilled out of them like they couldn’t help it.

“Fuck, look at you, pretty thing,” Jon growled against your lips. “Gonna open up so nice for us, aren’t you, sweetheart?”

“Such a good girl,” Jack whispered, teeth grazing your shoulder. “Letting your dad’s friends take care of you. Letting us ruin you a little.”

Clothes hit the floor in stages. Jon’s hands were bigger, more possessive, gripping your thighs and spreading you while Jack’s mouth worked lower—kissing down your stomach, then lower still until his tongue was dragging slow and deliberate between your legs. Jon held your face, watching every reaction.

“That’s it, baby. Let him taste you. Fuck, you’re already so wet for us.” His free hand stroked himself slow, thick and heavy, the head shiny. “Gonna feed this to that pretty mouth while Jack eats you out. Sound good, sweetheart?”

You nodded, already panting. Jon guided you down until your lips stretched around him. The stretch burned in the best way. He groaned low and filthy when you took him deeper.

“Jesus—good girl. Look at those eyes. Keep looking at me while you suck.”

Jack’s tongue never stopped. Two fingers slid into you, curling just right, and the dual sensation made your thighs shake. He hummed against your clit like he was praising you with his mouth alone.

They switched without speaking—Jack standing so you could taste yourself on his cock while Jon dropped to his knees and buried his face between your legs like a man starving. His beard scraped your inner thighs. His tongue was broader, hungrier. When he added a third finger and curled them hard, you came with a broken sound around Jack’s cock.

“That’s our girl,” Jack murmured, stroking your hair. “Coming so pretty for us. Think you can take both of us tonight, baby? One in this tight little cunt and one in that perfect mouth?”

You could. You wanted to.

They laid you out on the couch, Jon underneath you, guiding you down onto his cock inch by thick inch while Jack knelt beside your face. The stretch was intense—Jon’s hands on your hips steadying you, voice rough with praise.

“Fucking hell, sweetheart. Taking me so well. Bounce on it. Show us how much you want it.”

Jack’s cock pressed against your lips again. “Open up, pretty thing. Let me feel that throat while he fills you.”

You rode Jon hard, the wet sounds of it obscenely loud in the quiet house. Every time you sank down he thrust up to meet you, hitting that spot that made your vision blur. Jack fucked your mouth in shallow, controlled strokes, thumb stroking your cheek.

“Such a good fucking girl,” Jon growled, eyes locked on where the two of you were joined. “Look at you taking both of us. Dad’s friends using you like this… bet he’d lose his mind if he knew how well you take cock.”

Jack’s voice was tighter now, closer. “Gonna come down your throat, baby. Swallow every drop for me.”

He did—hot and thick, and you took it all while Jon’s grip on your hips turned bruising. A few more deep thrusts and he followed, burying himself to the hilt and filling you with a long, low groan of your name mixed with every soft, filthy pet name he’d been using all night.

They didn’t stop touching you after. Jon’s fingers lazy between your legs, smearing the mess he’d left. Jack’s mouth on your neck, whispering how perfect you’d been, how they were already thinking about tomorrow night, and the night after that.

A whole week of dinners.

A whole week of being their good girl.

[lizzknole]

WORRIED

⏾ content - 18+(mdni) ; P.V, Medical care during sex / healing kink undertones, semi-dubious consent vibes at the start, creampie / unprotected sex / coming inside.

Peter basically staggered through the window like his legs were made of wet paper. The suit was torn in three different places, there was a nasty gash along his ribs, and he looked like he’d been put through a blender set to “street fight.”

I didn’t even let him finish the dramatic entrance. The second he was inside I was already pulling him toward the couch, hands on his shoulders, guiding him down.

“Sit. Now.”

He dropped heavily, still breathing hard. I climbed right into his lap without thinking, knees on either side of his thighs so I could get a better look at the cut. My hands were already reaching for the first-aid kit on the side table.

“You scared the shit out of me,” I muttered, voice low and tight. “I was watching the news and they kept showing the building collapsing and then nothing. Nothing. I thought—” My throat closed for a second. I focused on peeling the torn fabric away from the wound instead. “I thought you weren’t coming back.”

Peter’s hands settled loosely on my hips, just resting there. He was still catching his breath, head tipped back against the couch. He didn’t answer. Probably couldn’t hear half of what I was saying with how close I was.

I kept talking anyway, cleaning the cut carefully, pressing gauze against it.

“I hate when you do this. I hate sitting here not knowing if you’re okay. You just—disappear for hours and then show up looking like this and I’m supposed to act normal?”

My weight shifted a little as I leaned in to get a better angle on the deeper part of the wound. I didn’t even notice at first. Just natural movement—adjusting, settling more firmly into his lap so I could work.

Then I felt it.

A hard, unmistakable press right against me through the suit.

Peter’s entire body went rigid under me. His fingers twitched on my hips.

I kept my hands steady on the gauze like nothing had happened, but I felt the heat rush up my neck. Slowly, deliberately, I shifted my weight again. A slow roll of my hips this time. Not an accident.

Peter made a small, choked sound in the back of his throat.

“I—I’m fine,” he managed, voice cracking a little. “It’s just… the adrenaline. Or—or the suit is tight, or—”

I pressed a little harder with the gauze, pretending to focus on the wound while I rolled my hips again, slower, more intentional. The hard line of him dragged against me through the thin layers of the suit and my clothes.

“You’re not fine,” I said quietly, still looking at the cut. “You’re hurt. And you’re sitting here letting me fix you while you’re… like this.”

His breath hitched. “I can’t— I didn’t mean to—” He swallowed hard. “You’re just… really close. And you’re moving, and I—”

Another careful roll of my hips. This time I felt him twitch under me.

Peter’s head dropped forward until his forehead almost touched my shoulder. His voice came out smaller, embarrassed as hell.

“Please don’t… stop talking like that. About being scared. It’s— it’s making it worse.”

I kept my hands gentle on his side, still tending to the wound like a responsible person, while my hips moved in a slow, steady grind against the obvious problem in his suit.

“I’m allowed to be scared,” I murmured near his ear. “You’re allowed to feel whatever you’re feeling right now. Even if it’s… this.”

His fingers dug into my hips for a second before he forced them to relax again. A soft, broken “fuck” slipped out of him, half-swallowed.

I didn’t stop.

I didn’t stop moving against him. Not yet. My hands just slowed on the wound, fingers brushing the torn edges of the suit like I was still focused on first aid while the rest of me was very clearly not.

Peter’s breath kept catching every time my hips rolled. His hands stayed on my waist, not pushing, not pulling—just holding on like he didn’t trust himself.

“I should… get this off,” I said quietly, already working at the damaged panels of the suit. The fabric was stiff with dirt and dried blood in places. I peeled the chest piece open carefully, exposing the bruising along his ribs, the shallow cuts, the warm skin underneath. He shivered when the cooler air hit him.

“You don’t have to—” he started, voice soft and a little shaky.

“I do.” I kept going. Shoulders next. Sliding the sleeves down his arms one at a time while I stayed straddling him. Every time the suit shifted, he twitched under me. When I finally worked the top half free and tossed it aside, Peter was breathing like he’d just finished a fight all over again.

His eyes flicked up to mine, dark and a little embarrassed, but soft. Really soft. Like he couldn’t believe this was happening and didn’t want it to stop at the same time.

I moved lower. Fingers finding the seam at his hips, tugging the rest of the suit down slowly. He lifted just enough to help, face turning slightly away like he was trying not to look too eager. The second the fabric cleared his thighs, his cock sprang free—hard, flushed, already leaking a little at the tip.

Peter made a quiet, almost helpless sound.

“Sorry,” he whispered, like he needed to apologize for existing. “I just… you’re right here and you’re being so gentle and I—”

I shushed him with a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth, then settled back down so I could feel him properly against me. Still clothed from the waist down, I rocked once, slow, letting the hard length of him press right where I wanted it.

He groaned, forehead dropping to my shoulder again.

I didn’t rush. I just kept moving against him while my hands traced over the bruises on his chest, careful, almost tender. Every small roll of my hips made his breath stutter. When I finally lifted up enough to push my own clothes out of the way, Peter’s hands tightened on my hips like he needed something to hold onto.

I guided him in slowly.

The stretch pulled a low, shaky moan out of him. His head tipped back against the couch, eyes half-lidded, mouth open. He looked wrecked already and I’d barely started.

“Jesus,” he breathed. “You feel… you feel so good.”

I sank all the way down and stayed there for a second, just feeling him. Then I started moving—slow at first, rolling my hips in a steady rhythm that made his fingers dig into my skin. Every time I lifted and dropped, Peter’s breath hitched. Soft little sounds kept slipping out of him, half-swallowed, like he was trying not to be too loud.

I rode him deeper, a little faster, watching the way his face kept softening even as the pleasure built. He looked up at me like I was the only thing keeping him together.

“I’m close,” he warned, voice cracking. His hands slid up my back, holding me closer. “Please— can I… inside? Please. I want to feel it. I want to come inside you.”

I slowed just enough to make him whimper.

“No,” I said, soft but teasing, lips brushing his ear. “Not yet.”

Peter let out a broken little laugh that turned into a moan when I ground down harder. “Please. I’m— I’m right there. I’ll be careful. Just— please.”

I kept riding him, deliberately, feeling every twitch and pulse. He was shaking under me now, completely gone, still asking so sweetly it almost hurt.

“You’re so polite when you’re about to lose it,” I murmured, smiling against his mouth.

He nodded frantically, eyes glassy. “I’ll say please as many times as you want. Just— let me. Please.”

I held out a few more seconds, just to watch him fall apart a little more. Then I sank down fully, rolled my hips once more, and whispered:

“Okay. Come inside me.”

Peter broke with a soft, almost grateful sound, hips jerking up as he spilled deep inside me. His arms wrapped tight around my back, face buried in my neck, breathing hard and shaky while the aftershocks rolled through him.

“Oh—god!. Th—thank you!, tha-thank you!.” He said.

I stayed right there, stroking the back of his hair, letting him ride it out.

He was still murmuring quiet thank-yous against my skin long after he’d finished.

[lizzknole]

HE DOESN’T DESERVE YOU

⏾ content - 18+(mdni) ; age gap, breeding k!nk, pet names, p.v, (you’re in a relationship with his son)

He doesn’t say a word when you walk into the house with his son’s arm around your waist.

Jon just stays where he is—slouched deep into the corner of the couch, one boot kicked up on the coffee table, black shirt stretched tight across his chest. The television is on but he’s not watching it. His eyes track you the second the door opens. They stay on you even after his son leans down to kiss your temple and mutters something about grabbing beers.

You feel it. That heavy, quiet stare.

He tips his head back against the cushion the way he always does when he’s trying not to look like he’s looking. Throat working once. Jaw tight. The scarred knuckles of one hand flex against his thigh and then go still again.

You’re his son’s girl. That’s the rule. That’s the line he doesn’t cross out loud.

But the second the kitchen door swings shut and you’re alone in the living room with him, the air changes. He doesn’t straighten up. Doesn’t smile. Just keeps his head tilted back, eyes half-lidded, watching you the way a man watches something he already decided he can’t have.

“C’mere,” he says finally. Voice low. Rough. Like it costs him something to speak at all.

You don’t move right away. He notices. The corner of his mouth twitches—not quite a smile.

“Just… sit. He’s gonna be a minute.”

You sit on the other end of the couch. Far enough to be proper. Close enough that he can still smell your perfume when he turns his head.

He doesn’t look at you when he talks next. Stares at the ceiling instead, like the words are easier that way.

“He treatin’ you right?”

“Yeah.”

A slow nod. Then silence. His throat works again.

“Good.” Another pause. Longer this time. “He better.”

You glance over. His eyes are already on you. Dark. Steady. Something hungry and carefully locked down behind them.

He holds the look for three full seconds before he forces his gaze away, jaw flexing hard.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he mutters.

“Like what?”

He huffs once through his nose. Almost a laugh, but not quite. “You know.”

The kitchen door starts to open. Footsteps. His son’s voice calling your name.

Jon’s posture doesn’t change, but something in his face closes off completely. He tips his head back again, eyes on the ceiling, the picture of a man who is perfectly fine with everything.

Only the white-knuckled grip he has on the edge of the couch cushion gives him away.

You stand up before his son fully enters the room.

Jon doesn’t watch you go.

But you feel it anyway—the weight of that quiet, jealous stare burning into your back the entire way down the hall.

His son leaves an hour later for a late shift. The door clicks shut. The house goes quiet.

Jon doesn’t move from the couch. He’s still half-reclined, head tipped back, one arm stretched along the back cushions. You stand in the doorway of the living room longer than you should. He knows you’re there. He always knows.

“You gonna keep standin’ there starin’, or you gonna come closer?”

His voice is lower now. Rough. Like he’s been holding it in his chest the whole time his son was home.

You walk over. He doesn’t sit up. Just watches you with those dark eyes, the same ones that tracked you earlier when he had to pretend he wasn’t looking. When you’re close enough, he reaches out—slow, deliberate—and hooks two fingers in the waistband of your jeans. Not pulling. Just holding. Claiming the space.

“C’mere, baby girl.”

The pet name lands heavy. You feel it between your legs.

He tugs once. You end up straddling his lap, knees sinking into the cushions on either side of his hips. His hands settle on your thighs, big and warm, thumbs stroking slow circles that make your breath hitch. He looks up at you like he’s been starving for this exact view.

“You know how fucked up this is?” he murmurs. “My kid’s girl. In my lap. Lookin’ at me like that.”

You don’t answer. You just rock your hips once, testing. He exhales hard through his nose, grip tightening.

“Jesus.” His forehead drops against yours for a second. “You’re gonna let me ruin you, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

That’s all it takes.

He surges up, mouth crashing into yours—hungry, almost angry with how long he’s had to stay quiet. His tongue slides against yours, deep and claiming, while one hand fists in your hair and the other works the button of your jeans open. He doesn’t bother with soft. He shoves the denim and your panties down just far enough, then lifts you enough to free himself. Thick. Hard. Already leaking at the tip.

He lines up and sinks into you in one long, slow thrust that punches the air out of both of you.

“Fuck—look at that.” His voice is wrecked. “Takin’ me so good already. My good girl.”

He sets a pace that’s deep and steady, hands locked on your hips so he can drag you down onto every inch. The couch creaks. Your soft sounds fill the quiet house. He watches your face the whole time, eyes dark with something possessive and filthy.

“Gonna fill this pretty little cunt up,” he grits out against your mouth. “Breed you right here on my couch while my son’s at work. You want that? Want Daddy to knock you up?”

The age gap sits heavy between you—his silver at the temples, the lines at the corners of his eyes, the way he says Daddy like he means every letter of it. You clench around him hard enough that he groans.

“Yes—please—”

“That’s it. Say it properly.”

“B-breed me, J-Jon. Please.”

He growls low in his throat and flips you onto your back without pulling out, one of your legs hooked over his shoulder so he can drive even deeper. The new angle makes you cry out. He covers your mouth with his hand, eyes locked on yours.

“Quiet, baby. Neighbors don’t need to hear how wet Daddy’s girl gets for him.”

He fucks you harder after that—deep, relentless strokes that force wet sounds from where your bodies meet. Every thrust grinds against the spot that makes your thighs shake. He keeps talking, voice raw and filthy between harsh breaths.

“Gonna pump you so full. Keep you on my cock until it takes. Want you walkin’ around this house carryin’ my baby while he thinks you’re still his. That what you want, sweetheart?”

You nod frantically under his hand. He drops it so he can kiss you again, messy and deep, while his other hand slides between your bodies to rub tight circles over your clit.

“Come on my cock first. Then I’ll give you what you need.”

You break with a broken little sob, clenching hard around him. He follows almost immediately—burying himself to the hilt with a low, guttural sound as he empties into you in thick pulses. He stays locked deep, grinding through every spurt like he’s trying to force it further inside.

When he finally stills, he’s breathing hard against your neck, one heavy hand splayed over your lower stomach.

“Stay just like that,” he murmurs, voice softer now but still rough. “Keep it in you. Good girl.”

He doesn’t pull out. Just shifts so he’s half on top of you, still buried deep, thumb stroking slow circles over the soft skin of your belly like he’s already imagining it swelling.

“Mine now,” he says quietly. “Even if I have to stay quiet about it.”

His lips brush your temple.

“Daddy’s got you, baby girl.”

My first time posting here. I hope you liked it.