[puppiobi]

— hello hellooo ೀ⋆˚ talayeh ! ꉂ(˵˃ ᗜ ˂˵) ⋆ twenty yrs. ʚଓ₊⊹ black + 🇵🇷. lesbo. they/she/he. personal blog. 𐔌 : wicked and perverse. girl scout cookies luvr.☘︎ ݁ born to puppy. fake idgafer. resident bkdk. walking dead nerd. the young ho in question !?

[nocterm]

[madame-vide]

No more silly Philly !

[diphowell]

it's you

[returnofeternity]

nothing to say except i need that butch destroyed. 18+

· · 𓃦 · ·

first of all. that gif. coming home from work and seeing van drinking on the kitchen table, manspreading, and in that glorious white shirt of hers. all you wanna do after your horrible day is drop to your knees and rub your face against her thighs as she cradles your head and coos at you. she knew you would need something to cheer you up after work, so she reaches over and cracks open a beer from the box she's been drinking from, and sets it on the counter before unzipping her jeans to pull out her strap. you immediately get to sucking but she has to pull you back with a laugh, telling you to take a drink first. both of you getting very tipsy and very horny very fast. van ends up cracking open 3 more bottles for you and praises you for taking it so good. pouring it down your throat with her hand forcing your jaw open, closing it for you and telling you to swallow it like a good girl.

she gets adventurous and starts fucking your mouth with the bottle, tracing the tip along your lips before easing it inside your mouth. slapping the tip of the bottle on your tongue while she jerks her strap. pouring some of it on her strap and having you clean it off for her. or, even better, it's an ejaculating strap, and she pours her beer into it so she can get you more drunk.

sucking her fingers while rubbing your cheek on her thigh, looking up at her like she's your god and you need to please her or you'll die. need to chew on them a little. her fingers are just so hot, especially with those rings on, and you get so desperate your mind just blanks. you almost fall on top of her as you get on her lap, shoving her hand down your pants and begging for her to do something. i think vans the type to keep moaning about absolutely drenched you are, and of course it's all because of her. her breath keeps hitching when she hears your wetness as she slams her fingers into your cunt. she loves it.

[keikiri-kitten]

FINGERS // G.A

FINGERS: Grace loves putting her fingers in your mouth

attention ✩ smut, wlw, fem!reader, making out, thigh riding, asphyxia, dom!grace, domesticated!grace. Servicetop!grace – 2.5k (not proofread)

“Let me see your hands?” Your voice rings warm in Grace’s ear as she’s planted beside you, eyes leaving a show she was only half watching anyways.

A lazy smile pulls at the corner of her lip with a gentle hum from her throat. In no time, she lifts her hand to yours admiring the chance to compare hand sizes with you. The heat in her body begins to rise out of pure admiration for her favorite girl.

When your fingers touch her, it sends a shock down her spine, making you both share a giggle. To your surprise, your hands combat each other more than you thought. Grace watches intently; eyes dragging over your hands pulling and prodding at her fingers.

“I didn’t know people still did this,” Grace mumbles.

“Is it corny?”

Grace mentally kicks herself; that’s not at all what she is trying to convey. In fact, the act was rather innocent and sweet. If you could see inside her head, you’d see her giddy. “No– n-no. I just haven’t seen anyone do anything like that in real life. It’s uhm,” pushing out a chuckle, her spare hand runs through her hair, eyes leaving yours. “It’s really cute.”

Her hands lace around yours, having enough courage to lift it carefully. She notices the details; the scarring, the smoothness, natural grooves and the roughness before low, olive toned eyes make their way back up to yours to find an expectant look. She doesn't want to let go of your hand. She knows she probably should break contact to avoid overwhelming feelings brewing in the pit of her stomach, but the contentment on your face forces her to let you have your way. Instead, Grace decides to savor your fascination with her hands. She’s hesitant though intentional when she gives a small lap to her bottom lip, placing only a peck against your knuckles.

Grace uses this moment to turn your hand over in hers like she’s inspecting porcelain glass. Her attention isn’t clinical though; she carries that same purity you do. And as you watch her trace the lines of your palms, turning your hands over and studying the natural difference of your fingers, you feel the tips of her fingers tickle along your skin. It’s all deliberate in Grace’s eyes and genuine in yours.

Your smile makes her heart warm, “It’s cute?” you ask with a lighthearted, playful tone as you pull yourself closer to her, nuzzling into the warmth radiating off the young woman. With assurance, her hands reach for you merely out of protection, lazily draped over your hips while feeling you settle down on the thigh closest to you.

Grace’s body is warm; feeling the temperature rise and it’s not from the work issued hoodie she’s in. Hell, she wouldn’t even blame the duvet you’re both atop of. No. For the first time, she’s not blaming herself and instead blaming you. “Yeah,” her voice loses its calm, cracking and going quiet halfway.

“Yeah?” you coo, breaking her under the pressure.

“Yes,” Grace states under her breath, eyes meeting yours once more like you’re the one turning the Earth with her on it.

There’s a silence that enters the bedroom you two have been wasting time in. Lazy cuddling with nothing to offer but simple conversation and soft kisses. Grace is not an initiator in the traditional sense of taking what she wants with pride, but she’s instead careful. There’s hesitance in her kisses, caution in her touches, but she knows that you always give her permission.

“Your hands are bigger than I thought,” there’s a comfort in all ten of your digits cupping her face, making her lips turn into a lopsided grin. Her laugh fuels you, leaning into her body.

As if climbing off your lap is an end all be all, Grace’s grip tightens on your hips. Not to trap you, but just tell you that she doesn’t want to leave. Not yet. In a failed attempt to cut the heat in her chest, she tries to crack a small tease, “that,” snickering, she shakes her head and rolls her eyes, “nevermind.” Choosing to cut herself off feels better than letting herself talk herself into a place she wouldn’t be able to get out of.

Grace watches you widen your eyes, turning her head away from you to hide her amusement. She knows you’re going to throw her under the fucking train, so she’s just embracing impact. “Oh? You have jokes, huh? Say it,” you smirk, grabbing her face playfully before pressing a gentle kiss at the tip of her nose. “What were you going to say?”

“No!” Grace whines, pouting through a smile, taking a tiny kiss you leave on her lips, arms resting over your hips.

“No, you were gonna tell me!” you’re quick to try and reel her back in, hoping to get an answer out of her. “You can’t hold out on me. You know I won't leave you alone about–”

“Okay!” Grace groans out, throwing her body back against the pillows of your shared bed, feeling your hands carry down her chest. “I was just going to say–” she doesn’t know what takes her so long to tease you about something so intimate when she’s only ever been intimate with you. “I was going to ask how couldn’t you have known when they’re always–”

“Grace!” You stop her in her tracks. Grace has never been one to initiate dirty talk or even engage in it. It all felt so forced and scripted. Even saying that sent shivers down her spine. No… she’s a woman of action. ‘Don’t talk about it, be about it’ type of woman. She’d love to hear you ask her for what you want, but as far as her saying what she wants, there’s nothing holding her back, more like her hands like to guide with minimal verbal instruction. Pleasure was something for you, and if she could please you, she’d be just as pleased. That’s not to say she doesn’t chase her own pleasure from you, she definitely does. However, time and place. Time and place. “You’re thinking about that, now?”

“I wasn’t until you climbed in my lap,” the blonde admits.

“And who’s to say that I have never perceived your hands?” hovering over her body, both hands on each side of her head, she flushes as you smirk. “I think about your hands more than you think.”

Grace falls silent, smile falling slowly before the flesh inside of her cheek makes its way between her bites. The hands she has on your body twitch, balling up before releasing them. Her breath is caught in her throat, closing her olive colored eyes behind her glasses. You watch her inhale so much her lean frame lifted through her heavy top, opening her eyes to show herself that she has this moment in control. Hopefully.

“Do you?”

The analyst realizes she’s dating a woman comparable to a vixen the way your bottom lip sits between your teeth, making her heart race. “I’ve been wanting to feel your fingers in my mouth since you did it the first time.”

Grace is stunned by your words. You two have sex plenty enough for her to walk around town like she’s got the key to life in the back of her brain, but even those words rip lust from the back of her spine and bring it up into her chest. She felt like she could’ve smiled, laughed, anything other than sitting back up reinforcing her grip on your waist.

She doesn’t know what she’s looking for when she looks into your eyes. All she knows is that your hopeful look creates this thick atmosphere around you. “Ask me,” she whispers, shortening the gap of your lips. The tip of her nose rubs against yours.

“Can you put your fingers in my mouth?” the question causes the woman to stare at your lips, watching you lick them. It doesn’t register.

“Ask me again,” this time she asks you with a kiss to the corner of your lips. The moment it’s you that becomes nervous, she shakes her head, lifting her hand to carefully hold your face. “Please?” she prods, knowing you cave every time. “One more time, just ask me and I’ll do it… I just want to hear you say it again.”

Suddenly it’s you cradling the back of her head, heartbeat in your ears. “Can I taste your fingers? Please?”

The woman bumps a smirk once more, nodding. “Kiss me.”

Like the good girlfriend you are, you oblige her order, pressing your lips against hers.

And like her life depends on it, she dives into your kiss. With a low grunt, her lips crash into you, pulling your body closer (if that was possible). She drives the kiss with passion, but she’s gentle as she tries to be to not hurt you. You know more than anyone else that Grace couldn’t hurt a fly if it flew directly in front of her face, but you have to admit you’re currently at her mercy.

Pulling for just a breath, her kiss is softer than her first one. It’s careful; it’s an apology for such a hungry first encounter. As she feels your hands run down her hair and over her shoulders to rest on the bend of her hips, Grace shivers. She still doesn't know how bold she can be, but as long as you haven’t pushed her away, she feels safe to keep going. Though, why would you?

Your fingers curl into the hem of her hoodie, falling more for her just by feeling tugging your shorts, pulling your hips closer to hers. She gets a moan from you, sending electricity down her body. You adjusting your seat on her thigh is used for some mental feedback loop Grace can use later. Her lips continue to mesh with you, getting air by lingering kisses onto your cheeks and the bone of your jaw.

With careful hands, she encourages your hips into hers once more. This makes you write under her touch. The sound of victory isn’t a cheer more than it is a low, rough, satisfied chuckle rumbling against your skin.

“Grace,” you plead, but as she returns your look, it’s not to coo and mutter into your ear. She did that. No, it’s to give you exactly what you’ve been asking for.

Five digits carry up your back, wrapping around the front of your neck comfortably enough to not harm you but claim you. Your voice cuts out and Grace has no plans to give you the verbal attention you seek. Rather, her lips continue to dance along your lower neck, peppering your collarbone. Her hand simply rests at the top of your neck to keep you steady and surely out of her way. Whimpers in the air fuel her to keep going, and the grip you wrap around her wrist only amuses her.

Slowly, she offers you a lifting hand, fitting your cheeks into her hold, still dressing you up in affection. Grace lends her index and middle fingers to your lips, using her other hand to wrap your waist and pull you flesh to her chest. The hold you have on her wrist gets tighter and through your weakening stance, you melt into her arm and loop her fingers into your mouth with your tongue. That makes Grace pull off of you.

“Fuck,” her voice is low and dazed. She watches you intently; her heart quickening from the damp warmth your mouth has. You suck on her fingers slowly, observing her shaking eyes through her foggy glasses. In moments like this, she’s so fucking proud that you’re her girl. “Earn it…” she shakily demands, catching her breath. “You’re so pretty.” It’s a threat she rarely uses, but a threat nonetheless.

And as you feel her fingers curl comfortably in your mouth, there’s something warmer, more carnal drawing out of you. Grace has a hard time finding anything to say or what to even think as you grind down on her thigh, pulling a moan from her as if you’re the one taking advantage of her. Though in her mind, she wouldn’t have it any other way. You could use her and she’d give you the playbook.

The seat of you is hot, mending with the mold of her thigh. It’s hard for her to catch a breath with your eyes locked like this. Riding her thigh with her fingers in your mouth is such a vulgar sight to see, but never would she stop you and neither will you stop until you both get what you want. “That’s it, give it to me,” she stirs underneath you, keeping you firm in her hold.

She vows to leave it up to you; you keep riding and she’ll keep her hands right where you want them.

She sees your eyes flutter close.

She sees the focus of your tongue wrapped on her digits

She feels your hips already lose rhythm.

If she could bottle the moment up she would.

It’s silent for a moment as the two of you feast at the sight of one another.

You work those hips exactly like you want to. Does it beat her fingers? Absolutely not? The strap you’ve grown fond of? Not if it’s your girlfriend using it. Rolling your hips with intent, Grace keeps you balanced as you lean back, one arm keeping you up by digging your palm into the mattress, really working your body into the plush of her bare thigh. Grace knew that this would be the perfect night to wear those shorts.

“Baby,” you call out for her past her fingers, sending a shock down her body. Nodding, there’s encouragement in her actions.

“My good girl can do it,” she cheers through the passion. It's erotic watching your body work so hard.

Your chest rises and falls against hers, heat pooling in the pit of your stomach as your lover can feel her thigh become hotter and damp through the fabric of your underwear.

You belong to her.

Your body is stiffening even though she has you in her grip tight. But the distance you’ve created makes her anxious. If you’re going to finish, it will be against her chest, shivering and begging. She wants to feel you fight to speak with a little bit of her in your mouth. And as you get pulled back into her chest, you begin to flutter in the seat of your bottoms…

Finishing exactly like she knew you would.

It’s not loud, drawn out or dramatic. It’s breathy, passionate and deserving of a kiss well done.

Before Grace can pull her fingers from your mouth, you shake your head. It makes her laugh, “I think… you should just ask if you want my fingers in your mouth.”

[sapphicswph]

flicker ₊⊹

warnings : gn!reader x adult!van . nsfw , mdni . cursing . jealous van . legal age gap .

you can find the request here ꨄ︎

the rain’s hammering the roof of the video store, a relentless drumbeat that barely drowns out the hum of the flickering fluorescent lights. you’re behind the counter, flipping through a tattered fangoria, stealing glances at the grainy horror flick playing on the corner tv. it’s a dead night, the kind where you’re counting the seconds until you can lock up and bail.

van’s in the back, supposedly sorting returns, but you can hear her wrestling with the ancient vcr, muttering “fuckin’ piece of shit” every time it jams. it’s almost cute, the way she gets so worked up over stubborn tech, like it’s personally out to get her.

you’ve been working here for a few months now, ever since you needed a job to cover rent while figuring out what the hell you’re doing with your life. van’s been your boss the whole time - sharp-tongued, red hair that flows over her shoulders, flannel sleeves rolled up like she’s ready to fight the world. she’s older, forty something, maybe, she’s never mentioned her age. and there’s this raw, electric edge to her that makes your pulse race when she looks at you too long.

and she’s been looking a lot lately.

you’re not oblivious. you’ve caught the way her eyes trail over you when you’re restocking shelves, lingering when you bend down to grab a tape. or how her voice dips, rough and teasing, when she rags on your movie picks. “scream over halloween? c’mon, kid, we gotta fix your taste.” she calls you kid like it’s a joke, but there’s something in it that sets your nerves on fire.

tonight, though, she’s off. her usual sharp banter’s gone, replaced by short answers and a jaw so tight it could crack walnuts. you’re pretty sure it’s because of the guy who came in earlier - some leather-jacket wannabe who leaned over the counter while you rang him up, smirking like he thought he was god’s gift.

“so, you free after your shift? bet i could show you a better time than this place.”

you brushed him off, said you had plans, but he kept at it, tossing out lines that were half-cringe, half-irritating. van was restocking horror nearby, and you could’ve sworn you saw her nearly snap a vhs case in half. she didn’t say a word, just vanished into the back room after he left.

now, with closing time creeping closer, you’re debating whether to call her out on it. you’re about to when the door’s bell jingles, and leather jacket. struts back in, looking like he’s got a point to prove.

“hey,” he says, all cocky swagger and cheap cologne, leaning on the counter. “thought i’d swing by, see if you’re ready for that drink yet.”

you sigh, dropping the magazine. “still got plans, dude. sorry.”

he leans closer, undeterred, and you feel van before you hear her - the air shifts, heavy and charged.

“everything okay here?” her voice is low, calm, but there’s a razor’s edge to it that makes the guy flinch. she’s right behind you now, close enough that you catch the cedar-and-smoke scent clinging to her flannel.

leather jacket smirks, missing the vibe entirely. “just trying to get your coworker here to loosen up. you know, have some fun.”

van’s laugh is sharp, cutting. “yeah, well, they’re working. and you’re holding up the line.”

there’s no line. the store’s a ghost town. but he gets the message, muttering as he grabs his rental and slinks out into the rain. the door slams shut, leaving a thick, buzzing silence.

you turn to van, eyebrow raised. “what was that about?”

she’s already moving, grabbing a stack of tapes to sort like she didn’t just run a guy off. “nothing. don’t like creeps bugging my employees.”

you snort, leaning against the counter. “he wasn’t bugging me. i had it handled.”

her hands still for a split second before she keeps sorting. “sure you did.”

there’s that edge again, sharp and biting, like she’s holding something back. maybe it’s the boredom, or the way her jaw ticks when she’s pissed, but you push.

“you jealous or something?”

the words slip out, half-teasing, half-daring. van freezes, her fingers clenched around a copy of nightmare on elm street. when she looks up, her green eyes are molten, pinning you in place, and the heat in them steals your breath.

“jealous?” she says, voice low, almost a growl. “of that prick? please.”

but she’s closing the distance now, slow and deliberate, until you can see every freckle on her nose, the way her lips press tight like she’s fighting herself. your heart’s pounding, but you don’t back down.

“then what’s your deal?” you ask, quieter, testing. “you’ve been weird all night.”

she’s silent for a beat, her gaze dropping to your mouth, then snapping back to your eyes. “you really wanna know?”

you nod, throat tight.

she steps closer, so close you can feel the heat radiating off her. her voice drops to a rough whisper. “my deal is you. the way you laugh at every dumb fuck who flirts with you like it’s no big deal. the way you don’t even see how you’re driving me crazy.”

your brain stalls, mouth dry. “van…”

her hand grazes your arm, light but intentional. “tell me to stop if you want.”

you don’t. you can’t.

that’s all she needs.

her lips crash into yours, desperate and searing, like she’s been starving for this. you match her intensity, kissing her back hard, hands finding her waist, pulling her flush against you. the counter bites into your back, but you barely notice, not with her tongue sliding against yours, her hands gripping your hips like she’s anchoring herself to you.

she tastes like coffee and something sweet - maybe the candy she was sneaking earlier - and it’s dizzying. your fingers knot in her hair, tugging just enough to draw a low groan from her throat, and that sound lights you up inside. she pulls back just enough to breathe, her forehead pressed to yours, eyes dark and wild.

“back room,” she rasps, voice thick with want.

you’re moving before she finishes the sentence.

the back room’s a mess - boxes of old tapes, a couch that’s one spring away from collapse - but it’s private, and that’s all you care about. the door’s barely shut before van’s on you, pushing you against the wall, her mouth claiming yours with a hunger that makes your knees weak. her hands are everywhere - sliding under your shirt, tracing the curve of your ribs, her calloused fingers rough and warm against your skin.

you fumble with her flannel, popping buttons until it falls open, exposing the soft line of her collarbone, the freckles dusting her chest. you press your lips there, tasting salt and heat, and she lets out a shaky breath, her head tipping back as your tongue grazes her skin.

“fuck,” she mutters, her hands dropping to your jeans, deftly undoing the button. “you don’t know what you do to me.”

you try to respond, but it’s just a choked “yeah?” as her fingers slip inside, brushing you through the thin fabric of your underwear. your hips buck, chasing her touch, and she smirks, slow and wicked, her thigh pressing between yours, pinning you to the wall.

“oh, yeah,” she murmurs, voice a low growl as she leans in, lips brushing your ear.

her hand moves with purpose, sliding past the fabric, finding you slick and aching. she curses softly, her fingers exploring, teasing, circling with a slow, deliberate pressure that has you gripping her shoulders to stay upright. her breath is hot against your neck, her teeth grazing the sensitive skin just below your ear, and you can’t hold back the soft whimper that escapes.

she pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes blazing, lips parted. “you like that?” she asks, voice rough but laced with something softer, like she’s checking in. you nod, barely coherent, and she leans in to kiss you again, deep and messy, her tongue curling against yours as her fingers pick up the pace.

her touch is relentless now, two fingers curling inside you, finding that spot that makes your vision blur. her thumb brushes against you in tandem, a steady rhythm that has your thighs trembling, your breath coming in short, desperate gasps. you’re clutching at her, nails digging into her arms, her name falling from your lips in a broken plea.

“van- fuck, please- ”

she doesn’t let up, but she shifts closer, her body pressing against yours, her free hand sliding up to cup your jaw, holding you steady as she kisses you like she’s trying to devour you. the heat builds, tight and overwhelming, your hips grinding against her hand as she works you closer to the edge. her lips trail down your jaw, your neck, sucking lightly at the pulse point until you’re sure she’s leaving marks you’ll have to explain later.

you don’t care. not when she’s murmuring your name against your skin, her voice low and wrecked, not when her fingers are hitting just the right angle, pushing you higher until you’re trembling, teetering on the brink. when you finally come, it’s with a sharp cry you barely muffle against her shoulder, your body arching, shuddering as waves of pleasure crash through you.

van doesn’t stop right away, her fingers slowing but still moving, drawing out every last shudder until you’re a boneless mess against the wall. she pulls back, her hand still resting lightly on your hip, her forehead pressed to yours as you both catch your breath. her lips are swollen, her eyes still dark with want, but there’s a softness there now, too.

“you okay?” she asks, voice low, almost tender as her thumb brushes your cheek.

you manage a breathless laugh, still reeling. “fuck, van. that was…”

she grins, a little smug but warm, and kisses you again, slow and lingering, like she’s not ready to let go yet. “told you i was jealous,” she murmurs against your lips, her tone teasing but heavy with truth.

you roll your eyes, smiling, your hands still tangled in her hair. “maybe i like you jealous.”

her laugh is soft, warm, and it sparks something new in your chest. “careful what you wish for, kid.”

requests are open!

[zayora]

𝟅ϱ sum. arguing with sylus in missionary! cw : mdni, argument, make up sex, sylus is a caring husband.

frankly, you don’t even know what the argument has been about, or if you can even call it an argument. between the lengthy assignments you have to do on short notice and your husband barely batting an eye when he pisses you off, you are a wreck.

“ y-you never listen to me; all you do is talk.” you’re currently situated under your annoying husband in question, legs parted on both sides of his hips, hands interlocked as he presses soft kisses into your sweaty skin, appearing as if he’s barely listening to your complaints— which you know is far from true. sylus is anything but neglectful when it comes to you, and somewhere deep inside you know that. you just can’t get that part of your brain to rationalize in your anger. “ you’re doing it again… not listening.”

“ i am listening, sweetie.” his hot breath touches your skin as he exhales with a soft chuckle, removing his face from your chest to make eye contact with you as he presses deeply into your wet warmth. despite your attitude, you hold him close, nails slightly digging into the expanse of his back while his dick reaches such deepness inside you that you almost forget why you’re mad. “ i just didn’t want to make my kitten get even more fussy while she rants about me. continue, i’m all ears.”

you dart your eyes away, focusing on anything in the room that can distract you from how badly you want to be vulnerable and crumble in his arms. his fingers on your chin pull your gaze back to him, lips curled into that boyish but shit-eating smirk.

“ oh? cat got your tongue?”

“ this cat will strangle you,” you uttered, maintaining eye contact as he made sloppy thrusts with his hips, knocking on your sweet spot and briefly passing it. the lowness of his voice hinted at a sultry purr, and you couldn’t stop yourself from clenching down on him harshly, wrapping your arms around his neck tightly; you scratched at the untamed skin there. “ hah, j-just like that, sylus.”

“ has my sweetheart of a wife returned back to me? or does she still want to rip my head off with her tiny claws?” sylus’ teasing words trail off into a groan as your walls refuse to loosen their grip on him. he straightens his back, hands firmly but softly pressing your knees into your chest as he re-enters into your whiny cunt with the purpose of scrambling your mind and words. pride washes over him once he sees you keen and grasping for closure on the messy bed as he impossibly discovers places so deep in your walls it feels as if he’s searching through your brain. “ it’s okay, i’ll just help you make up your mind in the process.”

“ f-fuck you, sylus!” through your panting you still bitterly curse him out. your words do no sort of impact on him; all he does is shrug them off, smirk widening even more while watching you try to catch up with your breathing. it all feels so good, watching you refuse to back down knowing that by the end of the night he’ll pry out what made you mad in the first, even if he has to do it while fucking all thoughts out your pretty mind.

“ jokes on you, kitten. i believe you’re already doing so.” you didn’t have a response; he laughs at that. bending your legs onto his shoulders he thrusts into you with free range, eye to eye, skin to skin, and mouth to mouth. when you disconnect there is a string of combined saliva between and a lingering warmth. “ if you tell me what’s wrong, i can make you feel better. you don’t have to do mind games with me, kitten.”

painfully, your heart clenches. “ s-sylus,” is all you can manage to whimper out as tears begin to pool in the eyes he loves so much. you don’t register when they drop until he starts peppering your wet skin with his soft kisses. his once erratic hips slow their pace, leaving a space of understanding where you can melt into him fully. “ ‘m sorry for being an… ass. just been so stressed out.”

“ i told you multiple times you can quit your job and work for me. stress free, and you have me to yourself all day.”

“ d-don’t joke around like that!” you whimper, eyelashes clumped together due to the moisture of your tears as your body underneath him continues to jolt and squirm in the utmost of pleasure and passion. the way how he shushes your cries and wipes your tears away is the softest feeling in the world. you hiccup when he fiddles with your clit with soft touches, coaxing your orgasm closer and closer. “ sylie… wanna cum.”

“ now i’m sylie? you’re a tricky one.” he’s back at the teasing, but it’s half hearted compared to how he usually pisses you off in outstanding ways. the more and more you stared at him, the more you wanted to be one in his skin, a small part of you consider actually taking his offer. his thumb speeds on your erect clit, wringing more wetness from your slit that coats his dick in a glimmering sheen, which also gets on the base of him. “ such a brat.”

“ ‘m sorry, you win.” you pout, trailing your hand to his soft white hair, gently tugging it, pulling a soft groan from him. he presses down on your clit— just a tad, watching your legs tense and threaten to tremble and he coaxes you into an orgasm. “ s-sylus!”

for the rest of the night he softly shushes your whimpers as he pulls orgasm after orgasm out of you, enough to leave you happy for the rest of the month.

[userlesbian]

*shakes you*

[danrifics]

🤗

[puppiobi]

bought a fucking bunnysuit off tiktok shop whats going on

[bennyshadow]

are u gonna let me sit by ur feet and lean against ur leg or do u hateme

[flirtingfawn]

ᥫ᭡. ⋮ 𝓉ℯ𝒶𝓈𝒾𝓃ℊ 𝓁ℯℴ𝓃 𝒷ℯ𝒸𝒶𝓊𝓈ℯ 𝒽ℯ’𝓈 ℴ𝓁𝒹ℯ𝓇 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓃 𝓎ℴ𝓊 .ᐟ

⤷ 𝓼𝓯𝔀. suggestive. age gap. giggly. request. 𝟷.𝟺𝓀

“stop giggling, sweetheart,”

leon’s grumbled words just set you off even more, causing you to laugh lightly from your spot on the kitchen counter while you watch him methodically shoving groceries into the pantry with only a small amount of tension between his shoulder blades

“it was funny though,” you attempt to reason with him through your fit of giggles and then catch the tea towel that he hurls in your direction just before it smacks you in the face, “c’mon, it was just a mistake,” you say softly and begin to fold the rag over your thighs

“he asked you if i was your daddy,” leon huffs and shuts the pantry doors just a little bit harder than he normally would. he’s talking about the cashier from the grocery store who absolutely did ask you that—and then regretted it immediately after you answered

more giggles pass your lips as you recall the situation in your mind. leon is older than you by a fair amount and truthfully, you’re shocked that it’s taken as long as it has done for him to be mistaken for your father, “he felt real bad after though, huh,” you snicker

leon leans against the counter opposite you, folding his arms over his broad chest, “yeah well, you didn’t exactly help—answering the way you did,” he scolds, frowning at you with the softest eyes you’ve ever seen

“i don’t know what you me—”

“you said yes,” leon cuts your bold face lie off with a snap that doesn’t really have any heat behind it as he shakes his head slowly and then raises his eyebrow over the smile that’s pulling the corners of your lips upwards

“well,” you hum, coy and dragged out, “i mean, was i wrong?” you ask before you shrug your shoulders and suck your bottom lip between your teeth, leaving leon looking wholly unimpressed

“don’t start,” he warns and pushes off of the counter he’s leaning against to saunter slowly in your direction. his body pushes between your thighs, forcing you to make room for him as his hands plant onto the counter on either side of your body

he leans in slowly, kissing you quick and fleeting three times while your hands smooth against his face. greying, prickly hairs scratch against your palms and the underside of your fingers, tickling in a sharp kind of way as you drag your nails up and down his jaw

after a moment, leon turns his head and kisses your palm before hanging his head, allowing your fingertips to stroke through the—also greying—hairs at the nape of his neck, “my old man,” you tease lightly and grin whilst he's not looking

leon resigns to your teasing almost immediately, sighing and shaking his head for a second time as he commits to you getting it all out of your system. you tease him all the time and he never minds, especially not when you’re giggling and smiling whilst you do it

“what was your weapon of choice during world war two?” you ask, still scratching gently against his neck when he tilts his head up to fix you with a deadpan stare, “oh yeah, you’re right—silly question—definitely the guns,” you agree mockingly as well as nodding your head for good measure

with rolling eyes, leon puts his head down again and just grunts, low and rough, in response. for all that it’s worth, you adore leon just as he is, with his greying hairs and thin smile lines, certainly with his calloused hands that he’s worked hard for many years to get. he’s perfect to you but still, you’ll always tease and he'll always let you

“did you have to write on wax tablets in school? is that why your handwriting is so awful?” you giggle, eyeing the scattered notes that he leaves you before he goes away on an assignment. they're stuck all over the door to your fridge with location magnets from the many places he’s been to over the years

“uh huh,” he answers with sarcasm lacing through his tone because even he can admit to having awful handwriting. he once wrote a grocery list and then when you got to the store, neither of you could read a single thing from it—which is why the lists are your responsibility now

for a second, you fall into a comfortable silence while you conjure up something else to tease him with. he knows something is coming, you’re still giggling so you’ve clearly not flushed your system of your current form of entertainment

“you know what, you’re so lucky henry the eighth didn’t know about you,” you say suddenly with an obscene amount of—faux—seriousness that makes it really hard for you not to laugh over your own stupidity, “he would’ve had to behead you,”

leon’s head snaps up and confusion is written all over his face, “yeah, why’s that?” he asks, feeding into your teasing, even if it is just because he’s genuinely curious as to where you could possibly be going with it

you sigh deeply and pause for dramatic effect, bringing your hands back to his jaw and stubble, “you’re just too girl dad coded, you couldn’t have ever given him a son,” you explain, feeling laughter bubbling up within you, “and for that, he would’ve beheaded you, which is a shame, your head is very handsome,”

a frown pulls at leon’s eyebrows and then just as quickly as it arrived, it leaves, smoothing the creases out that formed on his forehead. he chuckles afterwards, low and breathy, gruff in that special way that older men do—it’s attractive and you love it

“fucking hell,” he mutters, though he’s smiling and watching you laugh more than he is. whilst you do that, he stands up straight, takes his hands off of the counter and relocates them to your waist, where he squeezes just enough to make your squirm, “are you done?” he asks, still sounding amused

in an attempt to get him off, you wriggle and try to knock his hands away but alas, he’s much stronger than you are—even in his old age, “yes! i’m done, m’done!” you yelp and hold your hands up either side of your head, surrendering

your laughing gets temporarily muffled by a solitary kiss. leon hums against your lips, pretending to be annoyed, regardless of the fact that you know he definitely isn’t, before he steps back and crosses his arms over his chest again while he waits for your incessant giggling to end

eventually, it does slow to a stop but by that time, tears are clinging to your lashes and your ribs ache. panting breaths escape past your lips, preventing you from speaking immediately. so, instead, you just blink at leon’s stoic self

“c’mon, we’ve still got groceries to put away,” he says once your breathing evens out. he steps towards you again, hands out and ready to grab you off of the countertop. except, he freezes when your fingers loop around his wrists to stop him

you gasp, “waitwaitwait—what pen did you use to sign the declaration of independence? did abraham lincoln really wear a big top hat? was the great depression really that depressing and—and was your childhood best friend a dinos—”

for a second time, leon cuts you off. this time he does it with a crushing kiss that silences your rambling upon impact. your spine goes rigid as he presses into you, growling as he slots your bottom lip between his own and grazes teeth over your sensitive skin

“you’re done,” he decides, once and for all, with his lips still against yours to keep you quiet. but, before you even have the chance to fail an attempt at replying, he leans over you and—with ease—hoists you up over his shoulder in one swift move

your hands dig into his lower back as you twist and flail, not really trying to get out of his hold but rather trying to see where he’s taking you as he’s strides out of the kitchen, but to no avail, “where are you taking me—what about the groceries?” you shriek when he rounds the corner and heads towards the stairs

“we’re going to find out if you can keep up with this old man,” leon drawls and you can quite literally hear the smirk on his face while he reaches up, slaps your ass and finishes lowly with, “maybe we’ll even find out if i’m just as girl dad coded as you seem to think i am,”

thanks for reading! remember to like! reblog! and comment! i’ll give you a kiss if you do, mwah ily! send prompts to my ask box!

[steamedp0rkbun]

eyes of a pathetic puppy top that I want to climb on

[cosmicasteroid]

"Did I do something to upset you?"

You look back at Leon, he's stood in the doorway of the kitchen, your wedding ring clutched in his hand, "What are you talking about?"

"You took your ring off." Leon frowns, looking like a kicked puppy.

"I took it off for the gym and forgot to put it back on. It's no big deal." You shrug, turning your attention back to the stove.

You hear Leon huff.

"To love and to cherish, that was the promise we made, and yet you cast my love aside by leaving proof of our marriage on your dresser." You feel Leon's arms wrap around your waist, his head resting on your shoulder.

"I didn't want to lose it at the gym! Quit being dramatic, " You laugh, smacking his arms away.

Leon grabs your hand, a smirk on his face as he slips your ring back on your finger, "Finally," Leon mumbles, his fingers interlocking with yours, wedding rings side by side.

-

Two posts in one night? It's more likely than you think

Leon Masterlist

[is-bakugou-alive-yet]

Height difference bkdk

[scarymonsters-andsupercreeps]

I’ve had enough