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runbystrings

Jul 22

somethingcovert

Mama's Boy

Summary: After spoiling Jay all morning, he confesses a dream of his to you.

18+!!! SMUT!!!

anon request <3 love u guys sm

WC: 4,271

The pancakes were a little lopsided, but you arranged the blueberries in a smiley face anyway, because Jay deserved smiley faces on a Tuesday morning.

You’d been at it since six—flipping bacon, squeezing fresh orange juice, tiptoeing around the apartment so you wouldn’t wake him. Now the tray balanced on your forearm as you nudged the bedroom door open with your hip, and there he was: Jay, still half-asleep, his dark curls smashed flat against the pillow, one arm thrown across his eyes like the morning light was a personal offense.

“Good morning, sleepyhead,” you whispered, setting the tray across his lap.

He lowered his arm. Blinked. Looked at the pancakes. Looked at you. His mouth curved into something slow and sweet.

“You made me breakfast in bed?”

“Of course I did.” You smoothed his hair back, pressed a kiss to his forehead. “Eat. It’s getting cold.”

Jay picked up his fork like he was handling something sacred. He cut into the smiley face—sacrilege—but the sound he made when he took the first bite was worth the destruction. You sat on the edge of the mattress and watched him eat, your fingers absently tracing circles on his knee over the comforter.

When he was halfway through, you asked, “What do you want to watch today?”

“Mm. Whatever you want.”

“No.” You plucked the remote from where it lay beside his thigh. “What do you want. You pick.”

He looked at you for a long moment. Something flickered behind his eyes—gratitude, maybe, or something warmer and more complicated. “The new sci-fi thing. The one about the space station.”

You found it. Flipped it on. Adjusted the volume. Set the remote on the nightstand where he could reach it but wouldn’t have to stretch.

“You’re doing laundry today, right?” you asked, already knowing the answer.

“Yeah, I was gonna—”

“I’ll do it. Your basket’s full. I saw it.”

“Babe—”

“Shh. Eat your bacon.”

You kissed his temple this time, lingering just a second longer than necessary, and he leaned into it like a flower turning toward the sun. When you pulled back, his cheeks had gone a shade pinker.

You gathered his laundry basket from the hallway—socks and t-shirts and the hoodie he’d been wearing for three days straight—and carried it to the machine. Sorted the darks from the lights. Started the first load. On your way back to the bedroom, you detoured to the kitchen and poured him a second glass of orange juice, fresh-squeezed, pulp and all, the way he liked it.

When you handed it to him, he set down his fork and took both your hands.

“You know what?” he said.

“What?”

“I love this.” His thumbs moved over your knuckles. “I love being treated like this. Being—spoiled. You’re so good at it. Like, freakishly good.”

You smiled. “It’s not hard. You’re easy to spoil.”

“No, I mean—” He paused. Swallowed. His gaze dropped to your joined hands, then came back up, and there was something hesitant there, something he was chewing on that wasn’t bacon. “You do such a good job. Taking care of me. Making sure I’m—I don’t know. Fed. Comfortable. All of it.”

“Jay.” You squeezed his fingers. “You okay?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m great. I’m—” A breath. A small, self-conscious laugh. “I’m actually kind of embarrassed right now, which is stupid.”

“It’s not stupid.” You sat back down on the edge of the bed. Waited. Didn’t push, just held his hands and let the quiet do its work.

The space station on the TV hummed with artificial gravity. The washing machine thumped rhythmically from down the hall.

“Can I tell you something?” he finally said.

“Always.”

He wet his lips. His eyes found yours and held them, and you saw the vulnerability there—raw and unguarded and a little scared.

“I’ve had this—thing. For a while. A really long time, actually.” Another pause. You didn’t rush him. “When you do stuff like this—bringing me food, kissing my head, taking the remote—it does something to me. Like, it hits this part of my brain that I don’t usually let anyone near.”

Your pulse picked up, but you kept your voice steady. “What part?”

“The part that—” He exhaled hard through his nose. “The part that wants you to call yourself something. During sex. When we’re—you know.”

You waited. Patient. Warm.

“Mommy,” he said, and the word came out barely above a whisper, like it cost him something to release it into the air between you. “I want you to call yourself Mommy. When we’re together. I’ve had a—God, this sounds so weird saying it out loud—a mommy kink. Like, a major one. Since forever. And the way you're taking care of me today, every day, it just—it makes me feel so safe, and so turned on—”

He stopped. Pressed his lips together. His ears were crimson.

You brought his hand to your mouth and kissed each knuckle, one by one.

“Jay.”

“Yeah?”

“You could have told me that months ago.”

His eyes widened. “Really?”

“Really.” You smiled against his skin. “But I’m glad you told me now. While I was already in full caretaker mode. It’s kind of perfect timing, actually.”

He let out a laugh—relieved, shaky, beautiful. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You leaned forward and kissed his forehead again, slow and deliberate. Then you pulled back just far enough to meet his eyes, and you let your voice drop into something lower, something that made his breath catch. “Now finish your breakfast, baby. Mommy’s got laundry to fold.”

The washing machine chimed. You slipped away from the bed, pressing one last kiss to the crown of his head, and went to work. Every sock paired, every t-shirt squared and stacked, his jeans pressed flat along their seams. You carried the basket back to the bedroom and found him still propped against the headboard, the tray pushed aside, the sci-fi show playing at a low murmur.

You didn’t just put the clothes away. You reorganized. Took everything out of the closet—the mismatched hangers, the shirts shoved in sideways, the pairs of shoes that had migrated from the shoe rack to the floor. You hung the shirts by color. Folded the sweaters and stacked them on the upper shelf. Matched his socks and rolled them into neat little bundles. Found a box for the shoes and lined them up, toes facing out, like soldiers.

Jay watched you from the bed. He didn’t say anything. Just watched with his lips slightly parted, like he was witnessing something holy.

When the closet was done, you stepped back and surveyed your work. Then you turned and pulled a few pieces from the fresh stack—a pair of soft gray sweatpants, navy boxers with a thin white stripe, and a cozy navy crewneck that was still warm from the dryer.

“Alright,” you sighed, setting the outfit on the dresser and clapping your hands together. “Get up!” you chimed, with a smile on your face.

Jay didn’t move. He was propped on his elbows, watching you with an expression that was half amusement, half something more indulgent—like he was savoring the view, the sound of your voice, the entire performance. His mouth quirked at one corner.

“What?” you said.

“Nothing.” He shrugged, but the smile gave him away. “I’m just—enjoying this. You’re very bossy when you clean.”

You put your hands on your hips. “Mommy’s gotta get you dressed for the day, baby.”

The effect was immediate. His smile faltered. His cheeks flushed—not the soft pink from before, but something deeper, spreading down his neck and into the collar of his sleep shirt. He ducked his head, and you could see the shyness crawl over him in real time, the way his shoulders curved inward, the way his fingers twisted in the comforter.

You picked up the navy crewneck from the dresser. Held it open. He leaned forward, arms extended, and you guided it over his head, down over his shoulders, tugging the hem into place. Your fingers brushed the nape of his neck as you adjusted the collar, and you felt him shiver.

“There we go,” you murmured. “Good boy.”

His breath stuttered. You pretended not to notice.

You turned to grab the boxers and sweatpants from the dresser, and something in your chest shifted. Something warm and deliberate unfurled low in your belly, and you paused there with the fresh clothes in your hands, half-turned toward the dresser, half-turned toward him.

Then you pivoted.

You set the boxers and sweats on the edge of the bed and instead of reaching for the waistband of his old boxers, you let your hand drift to his knee. Slow. Casual. Like you were just adjusting the crewneck again. Your palm slid up the inside of his thigh, over the cotton of his sleep pants, and you let your fingers linger there—not moving, not retreating, just resting against the warm skin of his inner thigh while your thumb traced lazy circles.

Jay went very still.

You let your hand climb higher. Your fingers curled gently around the muscle, pressing into the soft give of him, and you felt the heat radiating off his skin through the fabric. Your fingertips crept another inch. Another. His thighs twitched, and a small, strangled sound escaped his throat—a huff, breathy and involuntary, like it had been punched out of him before he could catch it. His face flooded pink, spreading from his cheeks to his ears to the hollow of his throat, and he looked away quickly, jaw clenched.

“Does it feel good when Mommy touches you like that?” you cooed, your voice honeyed and low.

He nodded. Just barely. His eyes were fixed on your hand, tracking every micro-movement like he was hypnotized. Through the thin cotton of his boxers, you could see him hardening—the slow, unmistakable swell of him, straining against the fabric, and your heart kicked against your ribs.

You brought your hand up and palmed him through the boxers, rubbing your thumb along his length in one slow, dragging stroke. He was already so hard, so responsive under your touch, and you watched his mouth fall open, watched his chest rise and fall in shallow, stuttering breaths.

“All this?” you murmured, squeezing gently. “For me, baby?”

His eyes flickered up to yours—dark, dilated, almost glassy—then dropped to your mouth, then climbed back to your eyes. He couldn’t seem to hold your gaze for more than a second. His lips parted but no sound came out.

“Hmm?” you hummed, squeezing gently. “I asked you a question, sweetheart.”

“Yes, Mommy,” he whispered. The word came out cracked and reverent, like a prayer.

You hooked your fingers into the waistband of his boxers and drew them down in one smooth motion. He was fully hard now, flushed and straining, a bead of pre-cum already gathering at his tip, and the sound he made when the cool air hit him was small and desperate.

“I have a new pair for you to wear,” you said, glancing at the folded boxers on the bed. “But I think Mommy has to take care of you first, huh?”

He swallowed. His Adam’s apple bobbed. “Yes,” he breathed. “Please.”

You leaned down. Pressed your lips to the inside of his knee. Then higher—the soft skin of his inner thigh, the crease where leg met hip, your mouth open and warm against him. You kissed your way up slowly, deliberately, and when you reached his cock you nuzzled against it first, breathing him in, before placing the softest, gentlest kiss right on the tip. Then another. Then you let your tongue flick out—a kitten-lick, barely there—and he shuddered so hard the mattress creaked.

His fingers found your hair. Threaded through it. Not pulling, not yet—just holding, trembling.

You licked him again. Longer this time, from the very base—where he was hottest, where the skin was thinnest and most responsive—all the way back up to his tip in one long, deliberate drag. His hips jerked involuntarily, and his grip tightened in your hair.

Then you took him into your mouth. All the way. Slow and deep, your lips stretching around him, your tongue pressing flat against his shaft as you hollowed your cheeks. The moan that broke out of him was so soft, so broken, it sounded almost pained—a high, breathy thing that made your chest ache with how much he was holding back.

You pulled off with a wet sound, resting your chin against his thigh, looking up at him through your lashes. “You’re being so good for me,” you murmured, and your voice came out rougher than you intended. “So good, baby. Mommy’s going to take care of you. I promise.”

Another moan. Longer this time. His head tipped back against the headboard, the cords of his neck standing out, and his fingers tightened in your hair.

You took him back into your mouth, deeper this time, and you worked him with your tongue and your lips and the flat of your hand where your mouth couldn’t reach. His breathing changed—quicker, sharper, his hips starting to rock up into the wet heat of you in small, desperate thrusts. His grip in your hair tightened, and you could feel the tension coiling at the base of his spine, the way his thighs were shaking on either side of you.

You pulled off. His cock was glistening, straining, and his eyes were glassy when they found yours.

“I’m not done with you yet, sweet boy,” you whispered.

He whined—a real, honest-to-God whine, high and needy in the back of his throat. “Mommy—”

You stood. Your hands went to the waistband of your own bottoms—the soft cotton shorts you’d thrown on that morning—and you pushed them down your thighs, stepping out of them without breaking eye contact. You were already wet, you realized, had been for longer than you’d admitted to yourself, the ache between your legs sharp and insistent.

You climbed onto the bed. Straddled his lap, your knees sinking into the mattress on either side of his hips. His hands found your waist immediately, fingers digging into your skin, and you reached between you to guide him—sliding his length through your wet folds, pressing him against your clit, grinding down in slow, deliberate circles.

His head fell back. “Oh—fuck—”

“Language, baby,” you breathed, but you were smiling, and your voice was shaking. You rolled your hips again, coating him in your wetness, and the sound he made was something between a moan and a sob.

“Mommy—” he gasped, and the word was a prayer.

“Yeah?” You leaned down, bracing your hands on his chest, your hair falling around both of you like a curtain. “Use your words, sweetheart. Tell Mommy what you need.”

“I need—I need you to—please—”

“Please what?” You rocked forward, letting him slip through your folds again, and his hands flew to your hips, gripping hard.

“Inside,” he whispered. “Please, Mommy, I want to be inside you.”

You sank down another inch. His head fell back. “You want Mommy to ride you?”

“Yes—God, yes—”

“Is that what my good boy wants?”

“Yes.” His hands found your hips, fingers digging in, but he didn’t push—he held, he waited, he let you control it. “Please, Mommy, I’ve been so good—”

“You have.” You reached between you again. Guided him to your entrance. Held his gaze as you sank down—slow, agonizingly slow—taking him inch by inch until he was buried to the hilt and you were panting against his mouth, your forehead pressed to his. “You’ve been the best boy. That’s why Mommy’s going to give you exactly what you need.”

He was shaking. Actually shaking—his whole body trembling beneath you, his fingers digging bruises into your hips, his breath coming in short, broken gasps. You stayed still for a moment, letting him adjust, letting yourself adjust, the fullness of him almost overwhelming.

“You feel so good,” you breathed. “You feel so good inside Mommy, baby. Are you comfortable? Does it feel good?”

“Feels—” His voice cracked. He swallowed. “Feels so good, Mommy, you’re—you’re so warm, you’re so—”

“I know.” You rolled your hips, just a fraction, and his whole body jolted. “I know, sweetheart. You’re doing so well. You’re being so good for me.”

You started to move. Slow, deep, pulls that had him clutching at you, his face buried in your neck, his breath hot and ragged against your skin, as you pushed yourself back down. You felt every tremor that ran through him, every involuntary thrust upward, every broken syllable of your name.

“Look at you,” you murmured, cupping his face in your hands, tilting his chin up so he’d look at you. You let your hips find a rhythm—bouncing on him, slow and deep at first, then picking up pace, your thighs burning with the effort, the wet sound of your bodies meeting filling the quiet bedroom. You took his hands from your waist and lifted them to your breasts, pressing his palms flat against you, encouraging his fingers to curl and squeeze. His thumbs found your nipples through your thin t-shirt, and the groan that ripped out of him was so raw it made you clench around him.

“Deep breath for me, baby,” you whispered, your voice steady even though your body was trembling. “Use your words, not your whines.”

He looked up at you, his eyebrows stitched together like it physically hurt to form a sentence. His lips were swollen, his jaw slack, and the flush on his cheeks had spread down his chest, visible above the collar of the navy crewneck you’d dressed him in that morning.

“You feel so good—” he choked out, and his voice was wrecked, barely recognizable. “I think I’m gonna come.”

The words hung between you, desperate and honest. You slowed your pace immediately—dragging it out, rolling your hips in a deep, grinding circle that had him squeezing your breasts so tight it almost hurt. He whined into your shoulder, high and broken, his hips bucking up in short, aborted thrusts.

“Not yet,” you whispered, pressing your lips to his temple. “Not yet, sweetheart. Mommy’s not done loving you.”

“Please—” The word was muffled against your skin, wet and desperate.

“Please what?” You pulled back just enough to see his face, your hand coming up to cup his jaw, thumb stroking along his cheekbone.

“Please let me—I need—”

“You need to come?”

He nodded frantically against your neck, his curls tickling your chin. “Please, Mommy, I’ve been so good—”

“You have.” You rolled your hips once—deep and devastating, the angle hitting something inside you that made your vision blur—and he sobbed, a real sob, his whole body shuddering beneath you. “You’ve been perfect. But Mommy wants you to wait a little longer. Can you do that for me? Can you be patient?”

“I—I’ll try—” His voice cracked on the last word, and his hands trembled where they gripped your breasts, like he was physically holding himself together.

“That’s my boy.” You kissed him—properly, deeply, your tongue sliding against his, tasting the orange juice and the salt of his sweat—and you felt him moan into your mouth, his entire body shivering beneath you like a leaf in the wind. “That’s my good, patient boy.”

You pulled back just far enough to speak against his lips, your forehead still pressed to his. His eyes were squeezed shut, and you could feel the effort it took him—the rigid tension in his thighs, the way his fingers kept flexing against your skin, the way his cock twitched inside you with every heartbeat.

“I know it’s hard,” you murmured, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “I know, baby. But Mommy needs you to hold on just a little longer. Can you do that for me?”

“Yes, Mommy.” The words came out strangled, like they’d been pulled from somewhere deep in his chest.

“Good.” You kissed him again—softer this time, lingering. “So good for me. You’re always so good.”

You shifted your weight, lifting yourself almost all the way off him before sinking back down in one long, torturous slide. His hands flew to your hips, gripping hard enough to bruise, and a sound tore out of him that wasn’t quite a word—something guttural and wrecked, vibrating against your collarbone where his face had buried itself.

“Shh,” you breathed, carding your fingers through his curls. “Shh, sweetheart. Mommy’s got you. You’re doing so well.”

“I can’t—” he gasped, and his voice was so small, that something in your chest cracked open. “Mommy, I can’t—it’s too much—”

“You can.” You stilled your hips, just held him there, full and deep, and you felt him shake and shake and shake. “You can, baby. Mommy’s so proud of you.”

His lower lip trembled. You kissed it. Held his face in both hands like he was the most precious thing you’d ever touched, and maybe he was.

“I need to move again,” you told him. “Can you handle it? Can Mommy move?”

“Y-yes—”

“Use your words.”

“Yes, Mommy. Please move. Please—”

“Good boy.” You began to ride him again—not the bouncing from before, but something slower, something that undulated through your whole body, your core tightening around him with every downstroke. His hands moved onto your breasts, and you covered them with your own, showing him how to touch you, how to squeeze and roll and press.

“That’s it,” you breathed. “Just like that. You’re learning so fast.”

He made a sound that wasn’t quite a word—something between a moan and a whimper—and you felt his cock jump inside you, but you didn’t slow down this time. You kept going, kept rolling, kept whispering into his ear—good boy, so good, you’re doing so well, Mommy’s right here, Mommy’s got you—until his breathing changed, until the shivers became full-body tremors, until his hands left your breasts and grabbed your hips and held on like he was drowning.

“Tell me what you need,” you whispered. “Use your words.”

“Just—” He swallowed. His throat worked. “Just—keep talking to me. Please. Keep calling me—”

“Calling you what?”

“Your boy,” he whispered. “Your good boy.”

Your heart clenched so hard you thought it might stop. You pressed your lips to his forehead, then his temple, then the bridge of his nose, then the corner of his mouth.

“My good boy,” you repeated, and the words came out thick and warm and certain. “My perfect, patient boy. The best boy Mommy’s ever had. You’re doing so well. You’re being so brave.”

He made a sound—half laugh, half sob—and his grip on your hips loosened, just slightly, like he was finally letting himself trust that you wouldn’t let him fall.

That’s it,” you breathed. “That’s it, baby. Just like that. You’re taking Mommy so well. You feel so good inside me, you know that? So perfect.”

His expression cracked open—something raw and unguarded flashing across his face—and you knew, in that moment, that you had him. Completely. Utterly. In the palm of your hand, in the cradle of your hips, in the soft space between one breath and the next.

“Mommy,” he gasped, and it was the most beautiful thing you’d ever heard.

You rolled your hips once more—deep, deliberate, final—and you felt the dam break. You felt it in the way his whole body seized, the way his cock swelled and pulsed inside you, the way his mouth fell open against your neck and a sound came out of him that was beyond language—raw, guttural, stripped of everything except need. His release hit you in waves, and you rode him through every one, your own orgasm building on the momentum of his, cresting and breaking and pulling you under in a rush of heat that left you gasping against his shoulder.

“Good boy,” you whispered, and you felt him cry—really cry, his chest heaving, his face buried in your neck—and you held him through that too, your hands in his hair, your lips pressed to his temple, your voice a steady murmur against his skin. “My good boy, coming for Mommy.”

The space station hummed on the TV. The apartment was still, and warm, and full of the smell of pancakes and sex and something softer—something that felt like home.

You didn’t move. You stayed exactly where you were—straddling him, his face still against your neck—and you rocked him gently, your hand cradling the side of his face, your lips moving against his hair.

“That was—” He stopped. Swallowed. His voice was hoarse, scraped raw. “That was a lot.”

“Yeah.” You smiled against his curls. “It was.”

He pulled back. Looked at you and there was something in his expression that made your chest hurt—something so open, so unguarded, that it felt like looking directly at the sun.

“Can we—” He paused. Licked his lips. “Can we do that again? Like—regularly?”

You laughed—quiet, warm, a little breathless. “Yeah, baby. We can do that regularly.”

He buried his face back in your neck. His arms came around you, holding on tight, and you felt him smile against your skin.

“Good,” he whispered. “Because I have a lot of laundry.”

#thank youthankyouthankyou #OP you are an angel #i hope both sides of your pillow are cold tonight #i hope you find something that you lost long ago and thought was forever gone #jschlatt #fanfic

runbystrings

Jul 21

schlonny

TED NIVISON ⋆‧°𓏲ּ𝄢

𑣲⋆ Pervert!Ted and his camera roll

۶ৎ headcanon format . gn!reader, no gendered terms? (or at least what i consider ungendered), short reader mention, not lovers he just a freak, photo taking without consent?? jerking off. tell me how to tag this better if you want LMAO ⚠︎ NSFW/18+ MDNI

── ᭝ ᨳଓ ՟ Ted who's always loved taking photos of people when they least expect it. Capturing the moment as it is means much more to him than any planned poses or exaggerated smiles. He documents his life with videos screenshots, live photos, you name it. If you're ever wondering what happened last October he'll pull up his camera roll and start laying out the evidence.

── ᭝ ᨳଓ ՟ Ted who takes candids of you when you're distracted. He'll snap a quick photo when you're rambling about a new project. Your nose will crinkle and you'll reach for his phone while he holds it out of your reach.

"Oh my god, delete that, I look awful!"

He'll grin, letting you stumble into him on your tip toes, bracing a hand against his chest. You win, because you always win, and he'll lower the phone letting you snatch it away, your quick fingers moving to delete the photo. Once it's been removed, you sigh with relief and hand it back over.

Recently deleted was a God he prayed you never started thinking about every day.

݁ ˖Ი𐑼⋆ earlier warnings under the cut

── ᭝ ᨳଓ ՟ Ted who has a problem and it starts somewhere with an interest for keeping delicate moments close to his chest and ends with a password protected folder he'll drag with him all the way to his grave. Each photo you've ever deleted is carefully recovered and deposited into this folder.

── ᭝ ᨳଓ ՟ Ted who believes you're stunning. Genuinely one of the most attractive people he's met. The little twitch of your lips before you smile. How you rub your neck when you're embarrassed. The absent minded fidget of your nails. How could he not want to keep you? In his phone, that is. That was the safest outlet.

── ᭝ ᨳଓ ՟ Ted who's taken more photos when you're not paying attention. Photos that slip into territory that'd probably send you scampering away. One time it'll be your head thrown back in a laugh, and he'll zoom on the curve of your throat. Another it'll be a moment where your shirt rode up. One of his favorites is probably one he caught of you half asleep against his chest. God.

32 collective photos. Part of him thinks that's crossing a line. The rest of him says there should be more.

── ᭝ ᨳଓ ՟ Ted who trusts you enough not to look through his phone and find this secret of his. He'll leave his phone out, get off on the idea of you calling him out. You never have. You never check. That does more to him than a pic of you at the beach ever will.

Because he does like it. Having you trust him so much when you should probably think twice. You're too kind to him.

── ᭝ ᨳଓ ՟ Ted who leans back in his bed, one hand flipping through photos, the other gripping his cock.

He works painfully slow. He likes to imagine that's how he'd be with you. Patient. Because he has been, he's been patient for so long. Every snap of his camera - flash off, always - is just a testament to how patient he can be.

He'll choose one photo and mentally picture himself back there, choose something else he could have done instead of save a new image to the gallery. Grab your hips, maybe. Pull your ass against the tent in his pants, because it was never hard to get it up when it came to you.

He's not quiet. He'll buck into his hand, squeeze himself at the base with a groan torn from deep in his chest. His thumb will wipe at the leaking slit, collecting pre-come as his lube. Each movement is punctuated with a small inhale or moan, and when he finishes, it's with your name on his lips.

I have more ideas of this . i was keeping it short but i wanna write a drabble of him jerking off while reader is there so bad 😭 or him getting caught. pervert ted you are dear to me. anyways, just feeling out the audience.

#thank god for perverts #this was delicious #ted nivison

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