SCUDDISHER

in the modern world

[scuddisher]

🌀 KAYLEE. 24. SHE/HER. WRITER. INSANE BRAINROT. currently: reading & not really writing. obsessed with rn: freddie fox & tom hardy's characters.

LINKS. MLIST. RECS. BOOKSHELF. RULES. SLASHERS. WIPS.

MAIN BLOG. @PLANETBEARS. GIFS. @SCUDDISH.

RECENTS:

owed a coin - osferth (ewan mitchell)

drumming along the stone walls - aegon (tgc)

DISCLAIMER: 18+. minors do not interact! send me recs and asks through my inbox! i block & ignore ageless + blank blogs!

[little-miss-dilf-lover]

ugh i love your writing, youre so talented! 🩷🩷

any chance you could bless us with another chibs x reader smut? maybe one where chibs finally caves after weeks of them pining for one another and takes her right on the bar/clubhouse kitchen counter? 👉🏻👈🏻

OUH GIRL!!😫 you’re cute, thank u!!! thanks for requesting 💌

TIME IS OF THE ESSENCE. 18+

chibs telford x fem!reader

wc. 2036 warnings. 18+ only. mentions of age gap, cunnilingus. mdni

⎯ ☆ ⎯

The job of being a Croweater comes naturally to some more than others. To you that was not the case. It was a tough gig that was made slightly easier by a particularly charming member: Chibs. 

You had grown an attachment to the man in question, a liking far exceeding what was expected of your duties at the club. You’d gravitate towards him, find yourself seeking him for conversations and company during functions at the clubhouse. 

It didn’t feel like a one-sided infatuation, or at least you hope it wasn’t like that. It genuinely felt as though he enjoyed your company too, that he preferred talking to you over the other girls that would offer themselves his way. 

Maybe he liked you because you weren’t like that — that you made him work to get to know you. You’re more reserved than the other Croweaters, and it made you interesting, mysterious even. Your more reticent self urging him to find out more about you.

It was late at the clubhouse, most members either on a late-night ride or in their own homes. Yet here you stand, still at the club sharing a drink with Chibs at the bar. It was completely unplanned, the circumstance happening almost naturally: the others filtering out until all that remained was the two of you.

You lean against the bar, a bottle of beer clasped to your chest as your chin rests against the rim, holding it there while you share an encounter — talking mindlessly about it. Chibs stands opposite you, mirroring your stance as he leans against the cabinet, a glass of whiskey hanging from his hand at his side. 

And while you were occupied in sharing the details of your story, Chibs’ lowered gaze hones in on your chest. Tipsy eyes seeming to focus shamelessly on the lacy frill of your bra that pokes over the top of your vest, the delicate shade of pink juxtaposes your dark and very black attire. It was quite like you were concealing parts of yourself for this job, hiding your true identity behind a place you didn’t quite belong. 

He may have made that connection for himself, but right now nothing of importance could permeate his brain, the sheer sight of you stilling any sense in his mind. 

He inhales deeply, eyes closing with the action and in turn it halts your monologue. You become suddenly aware of yourself, realising that this wasn’t part of the job description: you were meant to listen to the struggles and thoughts of the men, not the other way around. Maybe you had become too comfortable.

His sigh felt to you that he was growing bored with your story, but really you couldn’t be anymore wrong. That's not how he felt at all. He simply couldn’t bear to hear you anymore without his own selfish, seedy wants getting in the way. The more he looked at you, the more he struggled to contain those needs he’s suppressed since the day of your arrival in Charming. 

“I’m sorry, look at me go on and on,” you grow embarrassed and you look down to your drink in hand bashfully. 

He follows the movement of your head, eager to keep his eyes locked on yours. But when you divert your gaze, he takes a step forward, closing the distance between you. He places his glass on the bar beside you and his eyes briefly flicker down to your lips, the gloss even more enticing up close. 

He stills for a moment, seeming to debate with himself. He was too old for you, far too old, and it made him feel perverted for his wants. You made him feel perverted for his wants.

You feel your heart begin to thump in your chest, the way he’s looking at you being the blame for that bodily response.

“Keep talkin’, lassie,” he urges, eyes still cast down at your mouth. “Then what’d she say to the fella?” he hints, his prompt showing interest.

It hindered you. Utterly disabled you.

You always had an inkling that he favoured you most, and that he enjoyed talking with you, but never has ever been so blatant with that. Sure it wasn’t exactly obvious, but he wanted to hear more, and he remembered what you were saying. It has to mean something, surely.

“I uh,” you blank, mind frozen. 

A combination of his glances and his attention are the reasoning for the lack of sense in your brain right now. You glance down to his lips when his eyes flicker up to meet yours, and you become lost in that sly, cheeky grin of his. The lazy quirk of his lips almost hidden amongst his greying goatee. 

“I don’t remember,” you whisper, voice distracted.

Chibs chuckles faintly and moves just that bit closer, your feet firm to the ground between his widened stance. He places his hands on the edge of the counter either side of you, leaning on it as if to test you, tease you. Maybe even figure out how to make you crack.

“Forgot what happened in yer’own story, aye lassie?” he questions, and you can feel his breath against you. Smoke and alcohol infused breath.

You don't answer, primarily because you did in fact forget what happened next, but some part of you couldn’t make sense of words through the slight ache between your thighs. Your brain completely and utterly distracted by the closeness of him.

He wanted to kiss you, he really did. That's why he had taken a step towards you in the first place. He wanted to know how your lips felt against his and how they tasted, he wanted to feel you. Though the weight of his age and the associating guilt remained heavy in his brain. To think clearly, he had to redirect his blood flow away from between his legs first.

You place your bottle beside his glass, your hand brushing his as you do so. You each look down to follow the moment of contact, the pair of you watching the slight extension of your fingers towards his on the counter. He shakes his head subtly, but it doesn’t come from a place of annoyance or even aggravation, but instead an effort to distract himself. 

He truly wanted nothing more than to have you on this very counter. But with you, he couldn’t just rush into it. You made him want to take his time. It was like you deserved better than to be dicked over the bar counter. There had to be some level of intimacy and heart-felt connection involved.

You wanted more in every sense of the word: you wanted more than something quick and cold, something more than what usually happens in and around the club. You wanted to be more than a simple means to get him off, a quick fuck, even.

There was something there between you both and it had been building for some time. You each knew it.

And so, he takes that first step — thinking it was his place to do so.

He leans in, pressing a slow precautionary kiss to your lips, presence remaining close as if he was awaiting your response. But you don’t swat him away, and instead return the kiss. One becomes two, and two becomes more. The months and weeks worth of mutual pining all pouring into a singular moment.

His hands move to settle on your waist. He squeezes briefly and then guides you, slight lifting force helping you hop onto the bar behind. Chibs stands between your spread knees, the feel of him growing hard is more than noticeable against the inner of your thigh. 

Time was of the essence so he parts from the hasty array of kisses and begins littering them under your jaw. Your head tilting back instinctively, allowing more of you to more of him.

He slips his hands down your hips and over your thighs, palms sliding inwards and under your skirt — eager to reach the fabric of your underwear. His hands still for a moment before his fingers slip into the elastic, wandering fingers yanking on them.

You lift your hips, wordlessly granting him access, silently allowing him to rid you of your underwear. He pulls his face from the crook of your neck, pausing the markings for a minute to watch the slow teasing removal of your underwear — watching the delicate, skimpy fabric drag across your thighs. 

Chibs pulls your underwear off from around your ankles and bunches it, bringing it to his nose for a quick whiff. Filing his nose with the scent he’s dreamt of most since your arrival in town.

“Won’t mind if I keep these, aye?” he looks down to your lips again and stuffs your garment into his jean pocket, saving it for later. 

Your chest rises heavily as you watch it all play out and all you can do is shake your head. You wouldn’t miss them much anyway.

He drags the stool from behind him with the heel of his boot, hooking and pulling it towards him. Without breaking contact with you, he guides it closer and sits down; the motion swift and seamless. His knees aren't what they used to be, so he could really do with the support of the step stool.

Chibs pulls at your knees as if to bring you closer, pulling your bare cunt closer to his face. He presses a kiss to the inner of your thigh, forming a slight trail towards your pussy. 

He licks up the length of you, tongue parting your already slick folds. He buries his face further into you, his fingers making deep dents in your thighs from how close and firm he’s holding you to him. He presses a kiss to your cunt, and then another one, and another one, each one moving closer to your clit.

He begins to lap at you, tongue swiping hungrily at your pussy, lips wrapping around your folds as he holds them within his mouth, simultaneously puckering kisses to your cunt. Your hands reach down towards his head, fingers dragging through his hair as if to keep him close, hold him exactly where you’ve wanted him for these past couple months.

You grow lost in the feeling and the pressure begins to build within you: you’re getting close. The time flies past and the sound of motorcycles revving in the distance grows closer and closer — the members seeming to be only a few short minutes from walking through those doors. You each concentrate: you on the feeling, and Chibs on what he’s doing. 

You just know that you’re making a mess, but you couldn’t allow yourself to think about that when several members could very well be parking up their bikes out front right now.

The engines shut off just at the right time and you reach your high, cunt creaming on his tongue and convulsing against his face. You slap a hand to your mouth as if to muffle your noises, not so keen on the idea of everyone finding out about the lewd act on the very public, commonly used bar. 

Chibs presses a final kiss to your pussy and stands with a groan, a hand moving up to brush the bottom half face. An effort to dry his beard from the wetness you had made on his face.

But there was no hiding it and the clubhouse doors fling open. You cross your legs and lift your beer to your lips, trying to act casual. Chibs moves down the bar as he pretends to organise the liquor bottles on the walls: trying to hide his chubbed up cock in his jeans. 

Tig immediately knew what was going on, he could practically smell it — the scent of pussy and cum far too familiar with him. Jax flickers between you both, a faint smirk ling his lips as he connects the dots in his brain. The wet in Chibs’ goatee massively giving it away. Jax is no idiot.

Maybe for your next encounter you could retreat somewhere slightly more private. Somewhere far away to avoid interruptions. Maybe he can take you to the cabin you always hear about.

⎯ ☆ ⎯

[scuddisher]

[little-miss-dilf-lover]

hi i'm obsessed with your writing!! could i request some chibs telford smut where him and reader have been pining for each other for a while but neither of them will admit it until reader decides to go on a date. chibs finds out and all his feelings come out and it ends in filthy filthy smut hehe <3

hii!! thank you💌

WAITING GAME 18+ ⸻ CHIBS TELFORD

chibs telford x fem!reader

WORD COUNT. 1945 WARNINGS. 18+ only! small viagra mention (he’s getting on in age, he needs it) jealous chibs, unprotected pinv, throat holding, general filth. mdni

The effort Chibs makes with you is rather minimal, only ever paying you acknowledgeable attention when he knows you have another set of eyes watching. It's sporadic, his interest. It comes and it goes, and if you were being honest with yourself, you were getting sick of waiting — bored and tired waiting on him to decide whether he wanted you or not.

But the thing is, you knew he liked you, wanted you; he looked at you with that same warmth that you do with him. You knew by the way he interacts with you, spoke to you, sought you out in a room full of people in the clubhouse. Though what gets to you is the fact that he seemed fine with the flickering back and forth, but the moment you get an ounce of attention from another man, he'd be on you like a fly on shit. Only then would he advance. 

So between the dancing of feelings, you agreed to a date; finally agreeing to see the man that had very well made his intentions known. He had been vocal about his feelings for you from the start, and the stark contrast between him and Chibs was almost jarring. 

You kept the details of your arranged night quiet, not keen on Chibs finding out. Not that you were ashamed or guilty, rather you didn't want it to be blown out of hand. For it to become something its not when you only agreed to small dinner with a man that notably liked you. 

Your date was running later than you had anticipated and you were starting to worry, you had the impression that he's the type to be irritatingly early. And as you pull out your phone to message the man picking you up, you hear a rhythmic set of knocks on your front door. You knew who it was by the pattern, and you were not impressed. 

Slightly displeased —rather displeased— you open the door, Chibs standing on your front porch with that cheeky grin and a fresh picked rose from the bush in your yard. 

"Are you the reason my date is late?" you ask, eyes narrowing in on him.

His smile falters and he tilts his head, the reservation in his lack of response is all too telling. 

"Jesus Christ, Fillip," you scoff and push on the door, attempting to close it, though you're met with resistance on the other side, Chibs' booted foot acting as a wedge in between the gap.

"Just," he attempts, moving his body in closer to push the door open. "Hear me out, lovie."

You give in and gesture annoyance theatrically with your hands. Walking to the sofa, you take a seat, heated gaze watching Chibs close your door and step towards you tentatively. His hesitance was noted, and frankly you liked it. It was about time that he thought of his moves carefully.

"I'm waiting," you scoff, deflecting from his softened gaze. 

He takes a seat on the coffee table in front of you, legs spread wide, elbows resting on his knees as if it was a way to get closer to you. He opens his mouth to speak, but it shuts, like he's trying to think of what to say. 

"Actually, you know what. I'll go first," you shake your head and slowly turn to meet his eyes. "Here's what I know. You pretend you don't want me, and then when you find out someone else does, that's when show you care!" you scoff once more, the noise humourless and you lean forward, leaning in closer. "You see me get attention from other men that do what you can't and you get jealous. So instead of being a man, and being honest, you interfere." 

You wanted to carry on, but you were afraid it would be futile.

An expression of disdain for the subject is noticeable on your face and Chibs catches on, attempting to make amends with a set of dark brown apologetic eyes. Though there is a tinge of something almost indescribable within his gaze, sort of like entertainment. Like he's amused with your outburst.

"Finished?" he asks, a subtle grin tugging on the corners of his mouth. 

You take a breath and flash him a piqued, pissed face as you stand, irritated by the smugness of his expression. "Yes," you reply, tone flat. 

"Good," he responds, looking up to you as you stand between his widespread legs. 

He relaxes his arms and his fingers skim the outside of your thigh, rough, cigarette stained fingers brushing inconspicuously over your bare skin. You inhale heavily, a large intake of air caught in your lungs when you feel his skin graze your flesh. You wanted to shake off his touch, wanted to stop him from thinking he can just touch you and all will be forgiven. 

His grazing raises and he skims higher up your thigh, palms running up the ruching of your tight dress until his grasp settles on your hips, holding your body firm in place. Chibs guides you to take a step closer, pulling on your hips like a wordless instruction. And once you're close enough, he presses a kiss through your dress and to your sternum. 

You hesitate for a moment, arms awkwardly hanging at your sides while you debate your next move. But when you feel his touch slide up higher, you whine out a thick, heavy breath, stuck in place by the way he handles you. And so you settle your hands on his leather clad shoulders, using him for support to aid your balance. 

"Shouldn't dress like a tart for this fella of yours," he pauses and presses another kiss to the centre of your midriff. "He cannae fight like me."

The first part nearly brought you out of the trance completely, it was almost enough to make you want to land a harsh smack to the back of his head, but he quickly redeemed himself. Implying that it doesn't matter what you wear, just that he defend your honour if the time calls for it.

One of his hands slip down to between your thighs, while the other dips down to rest on his crotch, a preemptive hand resting on the heaviness firming up below. With the one he has between your thighs, he reaches up slowly, a finger slinking into your skimpy, floss-like underwear, eager to get to what's beneath. 

"Oh, you dirty little thing," voice low, like his voice is caught in his throat. He peers up at you, bottom lip caught between teeth in that cheeky way he often does. 

You raise a hand to slip into the hair at the back of his head, fingers locking into the greying strands as if to soften the blow of what you're about to say next. "I didn't wear them for you."

He shakes his head and chuckles, clearly amused by your bite. But he doesn't let that distract him, his thumb itching towards your clit evidence of that. He circles over it loosely, lazily running the pad of his thumb around it as if to entice you; slowly work you up. 

The chub on beneath his boxers was becoming taxing and tricky to neglect, the sneaky little blue pill he took an hour prior seeming to be catching up with him. He'd admit it, he got ahead of himself with that, but now he was almost thankful for it, grateful for the possibility that he now might be able to go on a little longer with you. 

Your head falls back and your mouth hangs agape slightly, consumed by the feel of him toying with you. Suddenly a small thought springs into mind and your head snaps up, not able to fight it off without an answer of honesty. And so you stiffen slightly, body retracting from him. 

"Why now?" you ask, either hand holding onto the sides of his head — tilting it up to meet your eyes. "Why the interest?"

He twists his neck and sears a kiss into the palm of your hand. "I don't deserve you," he pauses and pressing in another warm act of affection into where he placed the first. "But I know I can treat you better than the little laddies that want you."

You smile small, pleased with his response. Sure you would've like some genuine proclamation of his feelings towards you and to maybe go on a date before even thinking of sex, but that's just not the type of guy Chibs is. He's a roughened guy that thinks its romantic to pick the flowers you care for, the kind that thinks asking you to sit on his lap is enough validation to prove he wants you.

"Good enough for you?" he teases, lips curling up into a grin.

You thumb over the sides of his face, hands sliding down to hold the back of his neck. Nodding slightly, you lower yourself and lean over a little to plant a kiss to his lips, instigating the first one that had not been done to your cheek or hand or body. 

Your height advantage only lasts for so long before Chibs stands, keeping his lips connected to yours as he simultaneously deepens the kiss and redirects you to the sofa, a hand reaching to up to hold the base of your throat as if to further aid the silent direction of you. With his wordless instruction, you lay lengthwise along the sofa, Chibs settling his lower half between yours as he hovers above — mouths still connected, like the light grasp he still has around your throat. 

Hips having a mind of their own, you wind up into him, suddenly overcome by a raring need between your thighs — the feeling only intensifying when you feel his cock rub up against you through each of your clothing. You reach down and towards his jeans, fingers finicking with the belt as you urge him out of them. 

"Come on," you utter into his mouth, a shaky breath following after your plea.

"Desperate thing, aren't'yer?" he murmurs. 

His lips divert from yours as he litters a line of kisses across your cheek, along you jaw and down your throat. And as a result, you tilt your head back, opening yourself up further for him. 

Eventually you worm a hand inside his jeans and reach for his cock, palming over it and toying with him slightly — getting a feel of him. And so he retracts from you, pulling back to sit on his knees between your thighs as he readies himself; pulling down just enough of his jeans so his cock can come out over the top. With one hand he gives himself a quick couple pumps and with the other, he's reaching back between your thighs, hooking the skimpy, soaked material of your underwear aside.

He lines his cock up with you and spits down onto your cunt, aiming for your the head of his dick pushing up against your entrance. Giving his cock a quick slap against the wet pooling between your folds, he spits again, one more for good luck it seems.

He sinks in nice and slow, hoping the lack of haste can make up for the minimal foreplay. And when a comfortable amount of himself is tucked inside, he adjusts his body — leaning back over you. One hand on the arm of the sofa behind your head for his own support, the other worming it's way to your neck; holding you there so can mutter filth into your lips and swallow your blissed noises in the ways he's thought meticulously about the past few months. 

⎯ ☆ ⎯

[flofaiiry]

⋆˚࿔ three strikes, you're out — john price x reader tags ... fem!reader , dbf!john price , age gap (early twenties & mid/late thirties) , female masturbation wc ... 1.2k note ... i'm reposting this bcs my tags were being suuuper funky yesterday and i don't think this got good reach and i'm soooo proud of it so i'm not letting it flop </3 sorry if u see it twice !!!

the words ring in your head like a mantra every time you see him.

you shouldn't be attracted to someone this much older than you. you shouldn't be attracted to your dad's friends. you shouldn't. you shouldn't.

but oh, it was so easy to be attracted to john price.

the way he smiled at you cordially when he came over for dinner, seemingly oblivious to the way you looked at him like you wanted to jump his bones. the way he asked how your courses were going at school and if you liked your program whenever you were home for the weekend. all of it innocent. all of your interactions nothing more than a friendly conversation or fleeting meaningless touch.

but still it kept you up at night. he kept you up at night.

what would his lips feel like against yours? his worn, rough hands against your skin as he undressed you? and that beard. god, that beard. you imagined it rubbing against your inner thighs as he buries his face in your cunt, imagined tugging at his hair while he licks and sucks at your clit, imagined all the filthy things he'd say while he did it.

and so every night, like clock work, you found yourself with a hand down your panties, rubbing urgent circles into your clit as you let your mind drift to think of him.

it all came to a head one day. he had come over early in the afternoon to help your father fix something wrong with the sink.

strike one was when you made the mistake of sitting on the couch that gave you a perfect view of him. crouched down on his knees, reaching and leaning under the sink. you could see everything. the face he made when he was trying to loosen a stubborn bolt, the way his bicep strained against the already form-fitting shirt he wore with every tug on the wrench.

you pressed your thighs together, desperately trying to focus your eyes back onto your laptop and the essay on the screen demanding your attention.

strike two was the groans. the deep grunts escaping him when he stretched after standing up. the way he gritted his teeth as the sound slipped past his lips. he didn't think anything of them. why would he? they were involuntary responses to the movement.

he certainly didn't mean for them to have you biting your lip almost to the point of bleeding, for you to be unable to pry your eyes away from the source of them. and he most definitely didn't mean for you to imagine if he'd make similar noises in bed.

strike three was when you brought him a glass of water. your father had asked you, barked something about being thirsty and how nice it'd be if his daughter did something about that. so in a second you were up, taking two glasses from the cupboard and filling them with water from the fridge. cold and crisp.

you set your father's down on the counter and passed john's to him. the corner of his lips tugging upwards in an almost smirk when he looked down at you and took the glass. god he was going to kill you.

but that wasn't strike three, no, strike three was when he spoke. said "thank you sweetheart," in a low, husky register that could have even the most composed woman melting into a puddle.

that mantra repeated in your head again- you shouldn't be attracted to someone this much older than you. you shouldn't be attracted to your dad's friends.

you tried to move on, really you did. remember that he didn't mean anything with his words, that he doesn't see you as anything more than a kid, and that he certainly doesn't want you like you want him. but all of five minutes after you sat back down, you found yourself sneaking off upstairs to your room.

you shut the door behind you, wishing that the door came with a lock for times like these, then laid down your bed. it was routine at this point- hand down your pants and john on your mind.

you're soaked already (to no one's surprise), and make quick work of finding your clit. you gasp at the contact, then roll your head back into the pillow as you start drawing quick little circles around the bud. your free hand finds the sheets, grasping at them for dear life as his name tumbles from your lips amidst a chorus of soft whimpers.

little do you know, while you're chasing your orgasm in the quiet confines of the room, thinking of the man you can't have- he's standing right outside your door.

he came upstairs to get something from a closet, but stopped dead in his tracks when he heard the unmistakable sound of a moan, shortly followed by his name. he smirks and then exhales in disbelief. he felt his dick twitch to life in his pants, and he mumbled a curse. this couldn't be happening. not to him- not now.

but it was. he heard it again. clear as day this time, and fuck did it sound sweet. the way you said his name was like a melody, like a fucking siren song calling him, urging him- and so he let it get the better of him.

he hesitated- only for a second- before he closed his hand around the doorknob, the metal cool under his warming skin, and slowly twisted it open. and there, splayed out on your bed, eyes shut in ecstasy and moaning his name- was you.

you who he had accepted long ago was off limits. you who he could never have, but always dreamed of. you who made his skin hot every time you smiled at one of his pathetic attempts at a joke.

your back arches off the bed, along with a moan that is significantly louder than it's predecessors- john can tell you're close. he wants it to be him making you feel that good- his hands on you, his fingers on your clit, his cock fucking deep into your dripping hole. but for now, he settles for watching you. listening to all your pretty noises and watching the way your face contorts in pleasure.

he puts a hand on himself, palming his hardening length through his cargos and watches as you make yourself cum. his breathing quickens in time with yours, his hand grinding desperately against his bulge to try and ease some of the tension building. and when your whimpers turn into cries, when your muscles all tighten quickly before loosening again, and the last thing to leave your mouth before you orgasm is his name?

he thinks he's never seen anything so beautiful.

you come down from the high gradually, your breaths slowly coming back to a normal rate and your body sinking deep into the plush of the mattress. you don't open your eyes immediately, just basking in the afterglow of the subsiding orgasm for a moment. until- an unmistakable voice cuts through the room. a voice that sounds like gravel on velvet, that's low and controlled- the voice that made you come up here, that made you so desperate to touch yourself you couldn't wait until the house was quiet-

"what a fuckin' sight you are."

✎ᝰ please please pleaseeeee leave a comment/reblog!!! just getting likes makes it feel like i'm posting to the void </3

[jackrrabbot]

after hours, before the dawning

john shen x fem!reader

word count ~6.2k

summary: john shen is more nuanced than you initially thought.

content warnings/description: 18+ MDNI, explicit sexual content, AFAB reader, dubcon (shen is pushy and in love but reader is lowkey into it), power imbalance, vaginal fingering, pussyjob, on-call room shenanigans, typical show descriptions of violence

author's note: this is probably way too ooc, but i think that just means we need more shen content in s2 to find out :)

You’re scheduled for the night shift tonight. 

It’s your first time working it in ages. In fact, you can only recall working it one or two times, several months ago, with Dr. Abbot as the senior attending.

The night crew is down a resident—one who’s leaving for maternity leave for twelve weeks—and you were happy to volunteer when Robby shopped the offer around to fill in for her. 

Initially, no one seemed too keen on switching, with the exception of Santos and Mohan, who will be rotating with you after the first few weeks.

It’s not like you don’t enjoy working days, but you have always felt like more of a nightcrawler—staying up late post-shift because you don’t want the night to pass you by in a drab dream, even if you suffer the next day for it. 

With night shift, you'll be done with work just as most of the city is waking up, getting ready for it. It’s a delusory, beguiling thought, but you welcome it. Life moves on without pause for the daily terrors you face—and that gives you some comfort.

Recognition of the things that go bump in the night also gives you solace—at least you know to expect the worst. Even with a few years of working day shift under your belt, your brain still wrestles with how a bright, sunny day can coexist with the horrors you face in the ED.

Only a few minutes into your shift, and you’re faced with something you’re not prepared for: the stark contrast between the day and night shift crews. 

You don’t necessarily categorize yourself as a typical day shift type A personality—you land somewhere in between types A and B—but a good chunk of the folks working at this time are the epitome of type B personalities. 

With John Shen being the most obvious example.

You step up to him a few minutes before rounds begin. 

“Hi, Dr. Shen.” You wave in his face, drawing him from an absurdly high level in Candy Crush. “I’ll be subbing in for Dr. Williams over the next three weeks. I’m glad to be here.”

He takes a quick glance at you, looks back down at his phone, then jerks his head back up at you. “Oh, it’s you! Right on. Dr. Abbot told me you’d be starting here tonight… funny, I guess this is our first time working a shift together, huh? What’s up?” Shen puts his phone in the pocket of his top, halfway to falling out. 

“Oh, I wasn’t sure if Dr. Abbot told you or not. I’m just checking in. I believe Robby will be passing the baton to Dr. Mohan next, but I’ll be the first to step in for Dr. Williams.”

“Gotcha. Thanks for letting me know. To be honest… I’m glad you’re here. Shit gets crazy at times and we’re already understaffed. With Dr. Williams gone, things would’ve been a real headache, and I don’t want more work.”

“Uh… yeah. No problem,” you deadpan back.

Shen, ignoring your stiff response, notices your badge. He pulls it from where it's clipped onto your breast pocket, inspecting it.

“How’s R3 life been treating you, by the way? Christ, you look so damn young… in less than two years you’ll be in my shoes. ” Shen looks from between your face and your ID photo, confirming what he’s seeing is real.

“Yeah, um—I went to med school right after I got my bachelor’s.” 

“Ah… that explains it. Nice photo. The quality is usually shit, but you made it work.” He lets go of the badge, the elastic snapping it back to your pocket, and you jolt from the sensation.

You cough lightly. “Thanks. I’m actually really looking forward to becoming an attending. The weight of the responsibility is daunting, but also… exhilarating?”

“Yeah, I'm right with you there. The money helps too, for sure.” He smiles lightly.

You give him a polite smile back.

Shen bends over slightly and pats your shoulder. “Hey, that was a joke—well… not really. But what I’m trying to say is you can laugh. If you’ve never worked nights before you’ll come to understand we’re pretty good at keeping things light. Don’t let Dr. Abbot catch you goofing off, though.”

You chuckle softly and nod. “I’ve definitely noticed the difference in attitude even before rounds. Anyway… I need to head to the restroom. I’ll be back.”

Shen gives you a nod and a thumbs-up, watching you walk away until you turn the corner.

It’s nearly midnight and your gown is drenched in blood. 

You’d be annoyed that specks of it got on your face and shoes, but you're just a tad too traumatized from the case you finished to care. 

A hit and run, not an unusual scenario, but the circumstances were slightly different from what you’re used to. 

The driver was most likely drunk when they were barreling down the road and hit barhoppers who were walking along a more discreet street. They got away, seemingly unscathed, as they reversed and sped past the victim—a college senior, celebrating her approaching graduation with some friends. 

It is Friday night, after all—with good weather too. 

You, along with Dr. Shen, Ellis, and Walsh, managed to stabilize the young woman, who has a traumatic brain injury, internal bleeding with damage to multiple internal organs, and a fractured leg. Not to mention superficial injuries.

Her friends are crying, holding each other in the waiting room, and her parents are on their way, having booked the first direct flight out from her home state. 

You feel for her friends and family, but she’s lucky. She’ll recover physically and she has a support system in place to help her recover emotionally. This is really the best case scenario, considering.

What if the driver gets away? You’re a doctor, not law enforcement.

What if she doesn’t recover in time for graduation? She’s alive.

You move in a holding pattern like this for a few minutes before you shake your head and wring your hands, wiping clean the negative thoughts that are eating away at you.

If you don’t nip them in the bud now they’ll fester and haunt your waking life. So you take a deep breath, and consider yourself moved on.

This is what you expected, remember? Typical dead of night dread, and all that.

You walk out of the patient room, Shen following closely behind, with Ellis and Walsh behind him.

“Go team. Call me back if there’s anything more interesting that comes in,” Walsh says with a tight-lipped smile, walking away before anyone can respond. 

You look back at her. She's a badass. But cold. Typical surgeon meets former military energy.

Shen draws you back. “Hey, you both did great in there. We saved her—let’s remember that, alright? Her family is on the way, and everything will be fine,” Shen says, holding out his fists.

You give Ellis a side glance, and she returns it with a knowing look, as if to say Just do it.

You both fist bump him, and he grins, appeased. 

“Cool.” Shen moves his hands to his hips, and he glances down at his watch.

“Lunch room, ladies? It’s just about time for a midnight snack.” He winks at the both of you, heading to the lunch room, throwing his bloodied gown and gloves into the trash bin in the process.

Your eyes drill holes into Shen’s back as he passes by. “Dr. Ellis… um, well first I want to say thank you for guiding me through that procedure earlier… but, uh—”

“—You want to know how Shen is so laid back?”

“You caught me.” You chuckle awkwardly. “I’ve had my fair share of tough cases, but even so, I still get shaken up every once in a while.”

“Yeah, we all do. Some less than others. But Shen is definitely something else.” Ellis looks in the direction of the lunch room and shakes her head. “I don’t know. Maybe he'll tell you if you ask him.” 

Ellis points to the nurse’s station. “I have to do some charting, but keep me updated on the patient in Trauma One. He should be ready for discharge in a few hours but we still need to keep an eye on him.”

You nod. “Okay. Got it.” 

You watch her walk toward the nurse’s station then head to the break room.

Shen calls your name as you step inside. “Hey, I saved you a seat. Didn’t think you would join me. Where’s Ellis?”

You don’t bring up the fact that there’s only one table with three seats. “Oh, she’s at the station, charting.”

“Figures, she typically declines my invitations anyway. So much for being ER besties.”

“Do you typically have time for… snack time?” you ask, a bit mockingly.

“Nah, not usually. But after midnight there's a lull—it’s a lot more quiet in the ED. A few minutes won’t hurt.”

“Right… well, I should probably go, actually. I have patients—work to do,” you point behind you with your thumb.

“Hey, I know I have a don’t-give-a-shit-attitude and that’s probably off-putting, but don’t doubt that I’m still on top of things. You can put your faith in me. We’re a team, alright?”

You open your mouth in shock at that. Maybe you have been a smidge judgmental toward him thus far. 

You sigh. “You’re right, Dr. Shen. I’m sorry. You have a much different mentoring style than that of Dr. Robby or Abbot. But it’s not an excuse. I’ll be better about that from now on.”

“Good. Now sit with me for a few minutes. I want you to try this and tell me if it tastes weird.”

“Wh-what?” You gape back at him.

Shen waves you over. “C’mon, don’t just stand there. Sit.”

You go to sit on one of the rickety chairs. 

Shen slides his drink to your side of the table when he notices something. “Ah, shit. You still have a little speck of blood on your face. You didn’t get any in your eyes, right?”

“No, I was wearing eye gear—Dr. Shen, as much as I’d like to try your drink, maybe I should go to the eye wash station to get the rest of the blood off.”

“Why’d you come here if you just wanted to dip out as soon as possible?” 

Honestly, why did you? 

“Here.” Shen pulls a napkin from the dispenser, licks the corner, then reaches over the table to rub it on your cheek. 

“Dr. Sh—this isn’t protocol!” you hiss, backing away from the napkin, but he already wiped the little bit of blood on your cheek. You can feel the saliva cooling your skin from where the napkin touched it.

Is this really happening?

You know he has a reputation for being cool, calm, and collected, but this seems to be pushing outside the boundaries of what you know is professional behavior. 

He’s just too casual—almost recklessly so.

“Look—just a tiny speck. See? It’s fine, calm down. Are all residents as uptight as you?” he smirks, amused by your reaction.

You look at him, aghast. “I’m not uptight. We just need to do things the right way—it’s for good reason.”

“Whatever you say, princess. Here, try the drink,” he taps on the lid of the Dunkin cup and you notice all the buttons are pushed down and the straw is a bit chewed up.

Your face is pained. “Do you have another straw or something?”

“What, you get blood on your face and you’re really asking for another straw? Jesus, you’re killing me here,” He rolls his eyes, but his voice is playful.

“Fine.” You hold eye contact with Shen as you take a sip of the… coffee? and cough, only barely swallowing it down so it doesn’t spray all over the table and onto Shen—though you wouldn’t have minded if it did.

“What the fuck is that?” You wipe your mouth with your sleeve, already regretting trying it. Your quiet need to please and placate always seems to put you in danger. The danger—being met with the foul taste of whatever that was—in this case.

“Pistachio. I think. Man, now I’m going to have to go all shift without my caffeine. The café iced coffee isn’t nearly as good.” Shen doesn’t react to your near spit take, too worried about his stupid coffee. 

“Wait, you haven’t tried it already?” So, Shen is the kind of man who chews on his straw even before taking a sip of his drink. Noted.

“No, and by your reaction I’m assuming I’ll hate it. Thanks for putting your life on the line, by the way. I really should stop trying new things.” 

You could scream, but all you do is laugh. A real—slightly maniacal—but nonetheless real, laugh. You needed a little pick-me-up after the earlier case and Shen seems to be able to provide. Maybe you can get used to this—to him. Maybe.

“You’re welcome. I’m sure it wasn’t your intention, but that cheered me up after… you know. Just a little. Really though, I should probably get back to work now. I’ll see you—”

“Wait, you can’t leave without the snack.”

Oh, of course. Duh.

Shen goes to the fridge, pulling out a container of what looks like vanilla cake. From what you can see, it’s very plain. Most likely the kind that comes out of the box. 

“Now, this—this is actually good. I promise. Then you can get back to work, okay?” 

Shen looks inside the container and around the break-room counters as he sits back down. “Shit, I don’t think there are any forks left. I’m usually good about bringing my utensils. Do you mind?”

“Mind wha—?” Shen dips his forefinger into the frosting, and pushes it into your open mouth. 

He rubs the pad of his finger along your lower gums and tongue, giving it a few pets. 

Only once he’s satisfied that you got a good taste, he retreats, the suction of his finger between your lips making a wet, popping sound.

“Tasty, right?” Shen takes the same finger and puts it into his mouth, groaning. You aren’t quite sure if there was any frosting left on his finger after it left your mouth. 

Your face heats at the way-too-relaxed intimacy. Meanwhile Shen breaks off what he can of the cake to feed you more—as if it’s a natural thing to do between an attending and his resident.

You hear a buzzing noise and you know it’s both of your pagers going off. Perfect timing—because you need to get out of here and away from him. Fast.

He frowns a little, not wanting to go back to reality quite so soon. “Alright, princess. I guess we really do have to go back out there now. I’ll give you more later.”

Three more hours until the end of your shift. 

You’re standing outside in the ambulance bay. It’s pouring now—a freak rainstorm—on a day with otherwise good weather. The wind is whipping pellets of rain onto your face, but it’s refreshing against the muggy Pittsburgh air. 

You’re waiting. For something. Someone. Shen was right, the past few hours have been much slower than during the first half of your shift. You strain your ears for the sound of sirens, but—nothing. 

Suddenly, your heart rate picks up at the sound of a weeeooo, but what once started loud, fades away—probably a police car.

You hear the bay door open and close behind you, but you don’t turn around. Watchful eyes get the prize.

Shen calls your name.

“What’re you doing out here? It’s raining. Get back inside, EMTs will be here soon enough with a patient.”

“Oh, I just—I don’t know. It’s peaceful out here. I don’t mind waiting. Don’t worry, I checked up on all my patients not too long ago.”

“It’s peaceful, yet you’re waiting for chaos.” You turn your head back to Shen at that.

“Is there a problem?”

“No, not at all. Do what you want.” He raises his palms in defense. “I’m just saying— ‘be where you are; otherwise, you will miss your life.’”

You tilt your head at him and he rushes to explain. 

“It’s a quote—my grandparents only ever spoke to me in proverbs or idioms. I have plenty more where that came from.” He gives you a soft smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

You turn back around. “I see. Well, it’s good advice. But kind of hard to follow when you work in emergency medicine. I feel like I’m always on the lookout for something. Even if I want to take a moment to just… be.”

“Is that why you volunteered for night shift? So things aren’t as… neurotic?” Shen asks, stepping up and next to you with his arms crossed.

“Yeah—that and I like the nighttime—but now that I’m here the peace and quiet is making me restless.” You cast your eyes downward. “Ignore me—I’m just making excuses again.”

“No, it’s okay. I was like you only a few years ago. Too wrapped up in work that I couldn’t even take a breath. And when I did I felt like I didn’t deserve it. But I’ve learned to not let that happen again.”

“How?” 

Shen tilts his head toward you, admiring the softness in your tone—muted by the rain—and the way the hazy glow of the streetlights shapes your silhouette. But you’re still looking down at your feet and too in your head to notice.

“My grandparents passed away during the height of COVID. This was when I was still an intern and too busy to spend time with them. I’ve worked through my guilt—don’t look at me with those sad eyes—I’m just saying that I understand. And you’ll learn to compartmentalize. This job requires it. And as Robby says—”

“—Find balance, if you can.” You smile at him. 

Is this it? His modus operandi? What makes him… tick? But you don’t ask him. What started as a burning curiosity to understand his psychology has been tempered by the downpour. 

You like that he told you about his grandparents. It makes him seem real. You want to know more about him. For who he really is. Not as the caricature of levity you initially imagined.

“Thanks, I’ll work on it. And… thanks for telling me about your grandparents. You speak very fondly of them.”

“They were pretty up there in age when they passed—I was crushed, but I had a lot of time with them.” Shen rubs the nape of his neck. “Uh—don’t tell anyone about this, okay? Even Parker doesn’t know.”

“I can keep secrets from many people—but not Dr. Ellis.”

“Ah, well, try—if you can. I have to keep up appearances. I don’t want to be seen as too sentimental.” He pouts his lips, but is unserious.

You chuckle. “Okay. Fair enough.” 

Shen gives you a look, a twinkle in his eye. 

“C’mon, follow me. You can wait for calamity in one of the on-call rooms instead of out here in the rain.”

You follow Shen back inside and, with your luck, you see Ellis catch you two in the corner of your eye, her brow raised. 

This wasn’t suspicious at all. 

But you can’t help but trail behind him like a lost puppy, anyway.

Shen stands by the door, guiding you inside, then quickly looks in both directions before closing it, locking it with a soft click. 

You don’t hear him do it.

“So…” You chuckle awkwardly. “What did you bring me in here for, specifically? I actually realized that I have some discharge papers I have to take care of...” 

It isn’t a lie. But you're masking the real reason for your nervousness—this is too comfortable. You can’t help but want to run away. 

And yet, at every opportunity tonight, you followed him.

“I want to help you relax. Do you trust me?”

“I do... but what are you talking about?”

Shen dims the lights before taking a few long strides toward you, pulling at your waist so your body is flush against his.

“I’ve been wanting to do this all night,” Shen mumbles into your neck, nudging you toward the couch. He flips you just before you hit the cushion so that your back falls into his chest. 

“Dr. Shen—wh-what are you doing?” you whisper, not wanting to bring attention to anyone who might be walking outside the room. 

“I’m just helping you relax. You need to unwind, honey.” He licks a stripe up your neck. He really seems to have a fascination with it.

He pulls your scrubs down, just enough that he can stretch your legs over the width of his thick thighs, keeping your legs open. You shiver at the change in temperature. 

Your panties are hooked to the side with his hand, exposing you. You turn your head to lay in the crook of his neck, embarrassed. 

But you don’t tell him to stop.

This is inappropriate, you think. But… he’s your attending, he knows what you need. 

He's just trying to help you relax, right? 

He doesn’t actually like—... You don’t finish your thought. 

He’s just a good attending caring for his resident. That’s all.

“Sh-Shen—

“John—call me… John.”

His name escapes your tongue in a breathy whisper. “J-John, any—anyone can walk in,” you muffle against his shoulder. 

He has a woody scent—pine and patchouli—with a dash of stale, bitter coffee. It gives his scent a sharp edge—an acquired taste. You think you like it. 

Shen gently glides his fingers over your wet folds, throwing his head back into the couch and groaning when he spreads his digits and the slick strings break apart.

“It’s okay, baby. I locked the door. Quick thinking, right?” John looks down at you, but your head is still turned into his neck.

“You—you wanted this. From the very beginning. ‘S not quick thinking—this was your plan all along, right? To get me like this?” You turn your head slightly so you’re rasping directly into his ear.

“And what’s that?” His breathing picks up.

You’re too shy to admit it. You’re soaked. You’re more worried about getting caught than what he’s doing to you. You want him to touch you.

“...Distracted and b-begging you to keep touching me.” 

John nearly blacks out at your whimpering voice. 

He doesn’t admit to his schemes, but being the smart girl you are—you’re spot on. 

John’s taken an interest in you since you started in the ED, slyly watching you at the nurse’s station during handoffs but has always been a hairsbreadth too late to get you alone. To get to know you. To do this the right way. But Dr. Williams gave him his chance. You’re here—working the night shift with him. And he’s patient, but not patient enough that he’d miss his chance to make his mark.

From what he's already seen of you today—mind and body—he’s besotted. He wants to cut ahead to the good part. 

The one thing you get wrong is that this is just to settle your nerves. No. He needs this just as much as you do. 

You press his buttons the right way—all the right ways—not unlike the Dunkin lid from earlier.

John tucks his middle and ring finger into your cunt, slowly, so you can adjust. He nearly chokes on his spit at the feel of your warmth wrapping around him. His other hand splits your pussy and rubs tight circles into your puffy clit and you writhe in his arms.

He’s not soft nor romantic about it. He wants you to come—quick, efficient, and yet hard enough to make your thighs close in overstimulation.

And your thighs do, rather, they try to. They press against his, but his thighs are locked in place, keeping you moored. You attempt to pull his fingers away at the overwhelming feeling of your clit being stroked, but he doesn’t budge. Your cunt squelches from the insistent pace of his other hand, the lewd sound making you want to jump out the nearest window.

You come with a cry, sobbing John and “fuck” more times than you can count. John covers your mouth with his tacky fingers as you do. You twitch against him, the aftershocks of your orgasm still running through you. His scrubs are soaked from your juices, but if it bothers him, he makes no sign of it.

John lets you rest against his chest for a few seconds, petting your inner thighs, but then he’s maneuvering your body to lay across the couch. 

He’s silent, razor-focused, as he peels off your pants and underwear, your come sticking to the cotton fabric. Your legs are lifted over his broad shoulders, and he dips his head to drink straight from the source.

You’re too dazed to tell him you need more time to recover from your previous orgasm.

But he’s gentle with you, aware of your oversensitivity. And as he licks in and around your hole, he avoids your clit. He’s not trying to make you come again. He just wants to taste you.

And that makes you go hot. 

John grunts as he eats you out, eyes closed and drunk on your taste. He sucks one of your folds into his mouth, moaning, and you can feel the vibration shooting through you, making your clit jump.

He gives you a reprieve, lifting up and adjusting his cock through his scrubs—not before splitting the seam of your cunt gently with his digits, punctuating it with a light slap. You nearly seize up again.

You can make out the outline of his cock in the dark. It’s above average in length—thickening up, as it twitches against his thigh. You gulp.

John catches you staring and quirks an eyebrow at you.

“I’m not going to fuck you. Not here. I am going to spoil you a little though, okay?” He stares at you—waiting for you to respond—and you can only nod, even though you aren’t quite sure what definition of "spoil” he means.

He pulls down his scrubs, exposing his cock to you. Your breath hitches. 

The tip is wet, pre-come dribbling from the slit. You have half a mind to wrap your fingers around it and suck, but you decide against it. There’s no need to go out of your way for a man who takes what he wants like it’s owed to him, anyway.

He shuffles you down the couch a tad, and lifts under your thighs and rests them against the tops of his.

John presses his cock against your cushiony folds with his thumb, rutting the veiny underside against them. His cock slides over your clit, and you moan, wriggling against the couch. 

You lift his top just enough to place your palms on his abdomen, seeking more of his warmth.

His free hand gropes your breast over your top, and John frowns, slightly frustrated by the layers of clothing impeding his access to your nipple.

In his distraction the tip of his dick catches against the entrance to your hole, making you gasp.

“Sorry, honey—accident,” John reassures you, slightly out of breath.

He glides against your wet pussy a little faster now, too pent-up. You come again due to the friction, but it’s softer, less intense, like a seiche apologizing for the destruction its sister tsunami caused.

“Yeah—that’s it, baby. You feel so good coming on my cock like this,” John praises you, panting. You can only lightly scratch his hip bone in response—completely and utterly worn out.

After a few more strokes he comes with a rumbling groan, bearing his weight on you as he collapses into your chest—cock spurting thick, warm come over your lower belly.

You both stay still and silent for a few minutes, catching your breath in the aftermath.

John moves first.

He lifts himself from you, admiring his handiwork—spreading his come with his fingers over your soft belly—then drags his fingers down to your wet clit. He rubs mindless shapes into it, making it even shinier with his come.

You moan lightly, still sensitive and he stops, as if pulled from a trance. He brings his palms to grip your cheeks and lower jaw—pouting your lips—and tries to pull you into a deep kiss.

You push against his chest in just enough time to stop him as he nears. You clutch his shirt, unsure if you really want to push or pull him away. But you make up your mind.

“N-no kissing. I still need some of my… dignity left intact.”

He gives you a sorrowful look and you almost want to change your mind. “You’re kidding, right? You seriously won’t let me kiss you?”

You shake your head no, and he comes closer still—but he kisses you gently on the forehead instead.

“Okay, honey. Maybe another time,” he coos at you, rubbing your cheek with his thumb.

You look up at him. 

“There’s only tonight. That’s it. We—we can’t do this again. It’s… not right.” 

“Yeah, well, we do have to go back out there soon, as much as I would like to continue tonight. But you have a few more weeks on the night shift right?”

“That’s not what I meant.” You nearly tear up. He wants this… again?

He ignores you. “Get dressed, honey.” 

John lifts you up and rearranges the two of you so you’re sitting side by side on the couch and hands you a small rag from within his pocket. You don’t ask if he’s already had it prepared. You wipe the come from your stomach then pick your clothes up off the floor and shimmy into them.

He nudges your side. “So… Do you feel any better? How’d I do?”

You sigh, pouting, not willing to admit it. “Yes, what you did was… good. Really good. Um—t-thanks. I guess I did need that. I do feel more relaxed now, at least, about work.” You chew on your lip, feeling conflicted. What happens now?

“Awesome. Well, we should get back out there before anyone notices we’ve been gone too long. You head out first. I’ll wait here for a few minutes.” 

You stand from the couch and take a few steps, but turn to John. His stocky arms are fully stretched out on the couch behind him and his face looks flushed. His cock is still visibly half-hard, even now that it’s tucked into his scrubs.

“Um, that moment in the break room earlier—was that you just being friendly? You did it like it’s… normal to feed your colleagues cake like that. Was that… just for me?”

“I massaged your tongue with my finger and you think I was just being friendly?” John laughs. “No, baby. That was only for you. I know I’m a pretty lax guy, but even that’s a line I won’t cross for just anybody.”

“O-oh.” Your body temperature rises a few degrees. “Yeah… I guess that’s true.”

You walk out of the room.

You walk toward the nurse’s station, spot Ellis still there, and make a beeline for the opposite direction.

She calls your name just as you think you’re out of sight. 

“Dr. Ellis, do you need something?” you ask as you begrudgingly approach, hoping you don’t sound as distraught as you feel.

“Did you and Dr. Shen find what you were looking for in there?” She points toward the on-call room with her pen.

“Uh—yes!” You nod vehemently. “We did… we uh—we thought we heard one of the rats from that patient a few weeks ago. We gave up on searching for it after a while…”

She chuckles. “Okay, whatever you say. It’s not like Shen is the only attending I know looking for rats with his resident,” she mumbles under her breath, looking at the computer screen.

Ellis knows. Ellis knows—but you don’t focus on that.

Instead, your eyes open wide in shock. No… not… Dr. Abbot and Samira?

“Um,” you cough, trying to appear indifferent, but failing, “Not that I’m admitting that anything happened in the on-call room, but are you referring to a certain night shift attending and another R3 perhaps?”

Ellis jerks her head back, now pointing her pen at you. She whispers, “How’d you know about that?”

You whisper back, “Samira and I are pretty close… but she’s only told me about a ‘silly little crush,’ her words, not mine. Thanks for confirming my hunch, I guess?”

“Shit. Don’t tell anyone else got it? I don’t need all this to somehow blow up in my face. And don’t think you’re off the hook. I know what happened in there with you and John.”

“Okay. I won't. I promise.” You give in, there’s no point in denying it.

You nod at each other, in sync. What you don’t tell her is that you plan to ask Samira about this. You won’t mention Ellis, though.

Ellis sees John stepping out of the on-call room from behind you. He catches her eye, brings a finger to his lips, then speeds away.

She looks back at you. “How're you liking the night shift? Thinking about maybe making a permanent switch? We need more bodies. Plus you’re not too bad a doctor… for an R3,” she winks.

“I’m… considering it. The case with the college girl earlier threw me a bit off—but Jo—Dr. Shen helped me calm down a bit.” You still need to be professional.

“Yeah, I bet.”

You nod, a bit embarrassed. “Well, I have to get back to some patients. I’m going to let the social worker know that the patient in Trauma One is ready for discharge now.”

A few seconds pass. “Are you going to—?”

Ellis cuts you off.“—Consider it forgotten. Like I said, I really don’t need the drama to impact my work. But a word of advice? Give the poor guy a chance. It’s so obvious that he likes you. But definitely take that shit home—it’s just uncouth and bad luck.” She says that last part with a shake of her head and a smile playing on her lips.

It’s good advice. And you realize you still have a lot to learn about John Shen.

Obvious? 

“Duly noted. Thank you, Dr. Ellis, really.” You smile wide at her before leaving the station.

It’s quitting time and you search for John before he leaves for the day. He’s managed to evade you for the last few hours but you want—need—to talk to him.

You’ve made a mistake. And now you want to set things right. 

You hear him before you see him, whistling a forgettable tune, as he leaves a patient’s room. You call his name and he blows out a single high pitched note in acknowledgement.

“Yo, you alright? Shift was over a few minutes ago.” 

Again, his casualness? After fingering you in the on-call room? This man is giving you whiplash.

“Dr. Shen—

He sighs. He wanted to avoid this conversation. “—Look, I understand if you want to switch back to days. I can let Robby know. I think Dr. Mohan is next, right?” He gives you a wrought smile and maneuvers around you to head to the locker rooms.

You stop him with a gentle touch on his shoulder. “No—I was just going to say… I had a good time working with you today. I—I hope we can continue to work together even after Dr. Williams comes back. And, uh—I really did enjoy our one-on-one earlier. I hope my skittishness hasn’t offended you.” 

You look down at your shoes, more interested in the laces that have fallen loose. You almost bend down to re-tie them before John interrupts you.

He knocks his fist under your chin, making you look up at him. His face lights up as he meets your eyes. “Huh, wasn’t expecting that, to be honest. No offense taken… really. So, what changed?”

You sigh. “Things happened so fast and I just got caught up in my own swirl of deprecating thoughts. But I see now that you really just wanted to help me… in your own way. But not because you think I needed help. But because… well—.”

“—Because I like you?” John says in a low voice, frightened of what you might say next. He can’t hide behind jokes or excuses this time.

You nod. “And I guess—I guess I’d like the chance to get there too… not that I don’t like you. Uh—what I meant is—” 

John holds his hand up, stopping you from over-explaining. “—I get it. And I’ll take that. Does that mean I can kiss you now?” 

“No! No, not—not here. Whatever this is,” you whisper, pointing between the two of you, “it stays outside the hospital, got it?” You whip your head around, scandalized and afraid someone might overhear. 

John just gives you a hearty laugh. He’ll try, but he’s not making any promises. “Say, want to grab breakfast together? My treat.”

You give him a blank look, caught off-guard from the change in topic. “Oh! Uh—sure, let me grab my stuff from the locker room… I’ll meet you outside?” 

He nods and you turn away from him, but not before giving him a shy smile. 

You’re so cute, he thinks to himself, lovesick.

He grins as he watches you speed walk down the hallway and only slightly regrets not doing this in a more conventional way, but maybe now he can make up for lost time.

[scuddisher]

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOH

[neverinadream]

ten minutes, kid (ja)

summary: no one knows you've been fucking jack, especially not your stepdad (and jack's best friend) robby.

pairing: dr jack abbot x fem!reader

word count: 1.1k+

warnings: 18+, minors dni, age gap (reader is late 20s/jack is late 40s), dad's best friend, robby's stepdaughter fem!reader, no use of y/n, reader is however referred to as 'kid', semi public sex/bathroom, forbidden, quickie, oral (reader receiving), hand over mouth, spanking, unprotected p in v (safety first always), trying not to get caught, finishing inside

kinktober masterlist / previous post

a/n: wanna know what's better than an age gap fic? an age gap + dad's best friend, ultra forbidden and so so sexy!! i hope you enjoy, likes, reblogs, and comments are always welcome!

His nose drags down against you, down between your cheeks, finding your slick and puffy lips, his tongue darting out to lick through your folds. A primal growl roars from his chest, taking a deep breath. He's more alive when he's like this, down on one knee, you bent over any surface - tonight it was Robby's bathroom sink, your stepdad and mom downstairs, entertaining other guests - every bit of your arousal, intoxicating as it is, flooding him, heading straight for his cock stuffed tight and uncomfortably inside his pants.

“How long do you think we've got, kid?” He asks, his question half-formed, the words melting to your skin, his lips skimming across your left cheek with a chaste kiss. He pulls at his belt, the buckle pulling loose, leaving the black strip of worn leather to hang from his waist as he unfastens his pants. “Five? Ten minutes?”

He could make you come in three, but he wasn't looking to brag right now.

“Depends; Mom's still telling Dana about hers and Robby's three week stay in Paris, and after that, she'll probably drag her off to the kitchen, or start talking about Stockholm, leaving Robby and Benji to sit in awkward silence-”

“It's a simple answer,” Jack cuts you off, “you're not solving some math equation.”

You glare at him through the mirror. “Kinda hard to think when you keep sticking your tongue in my cunt.”

He chuckles, the sound deep and dark, and it rattles around the back of his throat, before driving home your point by seeing how deep he can get his tongue inside your aching hole. Your head drops, your chin nearly touching your chest, and you whimper out nothing but utter nonsense, taking his tongue.

From below, there's a chorus of laughter - Robby probably just told Dana and Benji the joke he heard from another tourist - snapping you back to reality.

“Ten minutes,” you breathe out, nearly knocking off the toothbrush holder, your body jerking as Jack loses himself in the moment, his hand striking your bum. “Jesus-!”

“Just me,” Jack quips, grinning against you.

You roll your eyes. “God, you're insufferable.”

He just hums, lapping his tongue against you, meeting your clit with soft flicks, and caressing the skin he had just swatted.

“Can't spend all the time down there, Jack.”

“Just a little longer,” he mutters, curving his arm under your body, reaching to toy with your clit. Your back arches as he rubs it with lazy circles, the pressure just enough to contort your body. He was playing you like you were an instrument and he had you singing all the right notes. “Wanna play with her first, don't want it to hurt.”

You bite your lip. “Oh, because you're soooo big.”

His fingers slap against your clit, making you gasp. “We both know I am, kid,” he retorts, before slotting his mouth back on your cunt. His tongue drives deep, groaning at the sweet taste dripping into his mouth, moving his tongue slowly to both savour and tease you. “Fuck-!” He growls, ripping himself away. “It's just so addictive.”

His hands grab your hips, spinning you around, and you hoist yourself up onto the counter, your dress still bundled up around your waist.

“Come here,” he mumbles, hooking his rough hands under your knees. You gasp, getting pulled to the edge. “Been thinking about this all day.”

“You've been thinking about fucking me in Robby's bathroom all day?”

His lips twitch. “I've been thinking about fucking you all day,” he corrects, shoving his pants down just past his bum. He untucks his cock, the tip a deep red, swollen and weeping tears of precum, and he spits a glob of saliva into his hand, wiping it over and down the shaft. “It just so happens that it's happening here,” he says with a shit eating grin, winking as he catches your eye.

He guides the head along your slit, teasing out a soft gasp as he nudges it against your clit. Wanting to hear it a second time, he does it again, but your face just twists with annoyed scowl.

“Okay, okay,” Jack chuckles, notching himself against your entrance, pushing forwards with a quick thrust, plunging his whole cock inside. His hand slaps over your mouth as he does, catching a loud moan. “Look at that,” he directs his gaze down, the sight of you stretched so beautiful to him, “taking it all, kid.”

Your knuckles hurt, your grip on the counter edge tightening as he fucks you, and you whimper, but any and all sound is muffled by his large palm.

“Shh, shh, shh,” he shushes you, pulling out until the tip is the only thing left inside, before thrusting back in with a hard snap. It's a painful sting, quickly fizzling out to pleasure shooting up your spine, and he repeats it again and again, watching your eyes roll back in a pleasure induced agony.

He fucks you with an intensity that solidifies that you are his, taking you fast, frantic and unforgiving.

Between Jack's grunts and your muffled cries, you hear the squelch of your pussy, the slapping of skin against skin, and the faint hum of a conversation happening in the room below you.

“Ignore them,” Jack grunts, reading your thoughts, the crease of your brow giving them away, “focus on us.” He snaps his hips forward, hard and fast, forcing the air out of your lungs. “Focus on that.”

Your mouth forms an o shape against the underside of his palm, his fingers on your clit toying with the bundle, rubbing it in fast circles. All the whilst watching you with a smirk as you squirm and clench around him.

“Close, baby?” He removes his hand, wanting to hear you answer. “Gonna come?”

You nod, biting your bottom lip, whimpering out, “yes.”

He rubs his fingers faster, cradling your body as you curl into him, your legs wrapping tighter around his waist. and your face disappearing into his neck. “That's it, let go,” he encourages, “give it to me.” He dips, kissing along your shoulder and up your neck, his teeth nipping at your lobe. “Make me come.”

It rips through your body fast, shaking you, rendering you breathless. Jack follows quickly after, the hard groan vibrating his chest, triggered from the pulsing of your walls with the aftershocks of pleasure. And you stayed there for a moment, skin sticky with sweat and smelling like sex, his cock still twitching and spilling out the last few drops.

When he pulls out, you whimper at how empty you feel.

“That was definitely longer than ten minutes,” Jack spoke first, fixing himself, the fastening of his belt seemingly louder than it actually was. He grabs some tissue and tries his best to wipe away some of the mess.

“You go down first,” you throw out the suggestion, “they think I'm on the phone with my boss.”

Jack leans in and kisses you, his thumb softly stroking your jaw. “See you down there, kid.”

tagging: @livinginastory

[scuddisher]

[spikedfearn]

One-Shot

☼ pairing: Paddy Mayne x fem!reader

☼ summary: Embedded in the North African desert to write about the infamous SAS, you, a young war correspondent, quickly realizes you're out of your depth among the reckless “mad bastards” of the camp. When the men discover it’s you birthday, the teasing is loud and crude—but Paddy Mayne’s attention is the only one that matters.

☼ wc: 5.9k

☼ a/n: Happy Birthday to my pookie Luna @iceemochaa I started writing this a few days ago as a little gift, this one’s for you—smutty, dusty, and absolutely feral, just like our beloved Paddy Mayne. Hope this makes your day extra special babe!! I aged reader in the fic but other than that it's completely ambiguous <333

☼ warnings: smut, rough sex, power play, semi-public sex (thin tent walls), coercive dirty talk, orgasm denial, overstimulation, unprotected sex, praise/degradation mix, alcohol use, smoking, war setting, birthday fic

☼ likes, comments, and reblogs are always appreciated, please enjoy!!

☼ Main Masterlist

The desert had a way of swallowing everything—sound, light, even the notion of time. By dusk, the horizon was a bleeding ribbon of orange and red, fading into the bruised indigo of night. The wind shifted with a low, restless hum, carrying with it the sting of grit and the bitter tang of fuel.

You’d been in warzones before, but nothing quite like this. The SAS camp was alive in its own tameless way—ragged tents pitched against the elements, vehicles stripped down and bristling with improvised modifications, men who looked half-savage and wholly untouchable. They laughed too loud, drank too hard, and carried themselves like they’d already made peace with the fact that none of them would last long.

It was a world away from the clipped efficiency of the units you’d shadowed in Europe. There, soldiers marched in neat lines and polished their boots until they shone. Here, boots were scuffed down to leather scars, men sprawled in the sand with bottles of whisky like gods at the end of the world.

And at the center of it all was him.

Paddy Mayne didn’t blend in the way others did. He was shorter, broader, moving with a predator’s kind of ease even when he was lounging in the glow of the fire. His shirt hung open, sun-kissed skin dusted with sand, scars stitched into his knuckles like medals earned the hard way. He laughed when someone told a joke, but it wasn’t the careless laughter of the others—it was low and sharp, like a blade drawn partway from its sheath.

When his eyes found yours across the firelight, the breath in your chest stuttered. It wasn’t that he looked through you. It was worse. He looked at you like he’d already figured you out—your soft city hands, your pencil and notebook, your careful posture betraying the fact you didn’t belong here.

You shifted, clutching the strap of your satchel tighter, as if that might anchor you. The air smelled of sweat and smoke, whisky sharp on their breath. Someone shoved a cup into your hands, grinning as they shouted over the din about “the scribe” who’d come to see if all the mad tales were true.

You managed a smile, though your throat was dry, your mouth coated with desert dust and dirt. You didn’t tell them about the letter stuffed in your pocket, folded and refolded until the paper softened. You didn’t tell them that today, of all days, you would’ve given anything to be anywhere else.

But then you caught Paddy’s grin in the firelight—wolfish, unreadable, dangerous. And for one wild second, you weren’t so sure.

The desert night pressed down heavy, the kind of silence that had weight, broken only by the crackle of firewood and the sharp clink of bottles knocked together. The men of the SAS sprawled in loose knots around the flames, smoke curling from their lips and laughter breaking jagged into the dark. They looked like they’d been cut out of the earth itself—skin burned by the sun, uniforms torn and stitched, eyes that burned a little too brightly after too much drinking.

You tried to take notes, your pencil trembling over the page, but the words felt shallow, hollow against the rawness of what surrounded you. The official line would call them soldiers. What you saw was something closer to wolves.

And the one they orbited, knowingly or not, was Paddy Mayne.

He didn’t have to speak to command the space. Even when he leaned back on a crate, boots planted in the sand, a bottle dangling loose from one hand, the camp bent toward him. His voice carried low across the fire when he did speak, something in the rhythm of it drawing men in like moths. He didn’t look like a man bound by orders. He looked like one who wrote his own.

You tried not to stare, but the desert made everything sharper—the cut of his bearded jaw in the firelight, the line of his throat when he tilted the bottle, the flex of scarred knuckles when he passed it on. His gaze swept over the camp, lazy and sharp all at once, until it landed on you.

Heat licked up your neck, hotter than the fire. He didn’t look away.

The moment broke when one of the men stumbled past, clapping you on the shoulder hard enough to jolt your notebook from your lap.

“Tell me, sweetheart,” he slurred, grinning, “you gonna write down how bloody handsome we are? Or just how bad we smell?”

The camp roared with laughter, easy and crude, and you forced a polite smile. “Both,” you answered, though your voice cracked against the smoke in your throat.

That seemed to satisfy them. A chorus of jeers followed before the bottle came your way, whisky sloshing dangerously near the rim. You hesitated—your editor back home wouldn’t care much for you drinking on assignment—but out here, refusing would’ve marked you softer than you already looked. You tipped it back, the liquid burning down your throat, eyes watering.

They cheered like you’d won a medal.

It was then, in the middle of the noise, that one of the men bent down to grab the notebook you’d dropped. His thumb dragged over the cover, and when he flipped it open, a folded sheet of paper slipped out.

“Oi, what’s this then?”

Your stomach dropped. The firelight danced cruelly on the page as he unfolded it, scanning the lines. His face split into a grin.

“Well, would you look at that—birthday girl!”

The shout carried across the camp, and suddenly they were all on you again, voices overlapping—questions, teasing, demands for a toast. The word birthday rang like a bell, echoing too loud in your ears.

You reached out quickly, trying to snatch the letter back, but the soldier only laughed harder, holding it out of reach.

“Twenty-three, eh? Or is it twenty-four?”

Your protest was lost under the rising clamor. Someone grabbed a tin cup, sloshed whisky into it and thrust it toward you. Another clapped you on the back so hard it nearly made you choke on your own spit. They were all grinning, all pressing in, their cheer rolling rough and unstoppable.

All except one.

Paddy.

He hadn’t joined the shouting. He hadn’t even moved. He just watched, eyes fixed on you through the flames, unreadable. When the soldier finally stuffed the letter back into your hands, still laughing, Paddy pushed up from his crate. The air shifted. The men quieted without being told.

He crossed the space in a handful of strides, and suddenly he was in front of you, close enough you caught the scent of nicotine clinging to his uniform and whisky on his breath. He glanced at the cup in your hand, then back at you, and for the first time his mouth curved—slow, deliberate, dangerous.

“We don’t celebrate birthdays out here,” he said, his voice a low growl that carried all the same. “But maybe—just maybe—we’ll make an exception.”

The men whooped at that, raising bottles, banging metal cups against their knees. But Paddy didn’t look at them. He looked only at you.

And for the first time all day, you weren’t thinking about your notes, or your editor, or even the desert itself. You were thinking about what exactly an exception meant in his mouth.

The men took Paddy’s words as permission, roaring their approval, bottles lifted high. One of them struck up a half-sung birthday song, but it dissolved into laughter before it reached the second line. The desert didn’t care for sentimentality; it cared for booze and noise and the brief illusion that the war was far away.

A cup was shoved into your hand again, filled nearly to the brim, amber liquid catching firelight. You raised it, more out of necessity than desire, and drank. The burn was instant, ripping a line of heat down your throat until you coughed. That only made them cheer louder, slapping each other’s shoulders, as though your discomfort was part of the entertainment.

Paddy hadn’t joined the chorus. He stood just beyond it, expression unreadable, bottle still loose in his grip. When the cup was passed back, he moved—slow, unhurried, as though the fire itself bent to make space for him.

“Here,” he said, offering his flask instead, the dented metal catching the glow. His gaze didn’t waver. “Better than that piss they’re pouring.”

Your fingers brushed his as you took it, rough skin against yours for the barest second. The contact was electric, and judging by the curve at the corner of his mouth, he’d felt it too.

The whisky inside was smoother, stronger. You swallowed carefully this time, meeting his eyes over the rim.

“That’s better,” he said softly, low enough the others might not hear. Then louder, to the men: “Careful, lads. We’ll have her under the table before midnight.”

That set them off again—jeers, whistles, crude suggestions tossed across the fire. You felt the heat rise in your cheeks, part from drink, part from the weight of their eyes. Paddy didn’t flinch from it. He leaned back on his heels, arms crossed now, watching you navigate the storm he’d stirred.

“Bit soft, aren’t you?” he drawled when the noise died down, his voice carrying easy. “Paper and pencils in a place like this. Doesn’t take much to rattle you.”

You bristled, squaring your shoulders. “I’ve seen enough warzones to know how to handle myself.”

The words left your mouth sharper than you’d intended, but they drew another grin from him—wide, amused.

“Handle yourself, eh?” His eyes glittered, the fire catching blue in them. “We’ll see.”

Another soldier elbowed him, laughing. “Don’t scare her off, Paddy. She’s here to make us look good.”

But Paddy didn’t laugh with him. He just kept watching you, that grin carved into his face like he knew something you didn’t.

The night stretched long. Bottles emptied, men slumped against crates and each other, laughter fading to the low hum of tired voices. Your notebook lay forgotten at your side. Every time you glanced up, you found Paddy’s eyes already on you, steady as a predator watching the dark.

By the time the fire burned down to embers, you’d almost convinced yourself you’d imagined it. Almost. Until he moved again—uncurling from his seat, stretching broad shoulders, stepping through the circle of dying light. He didn’t look at the men now. He looked at you, only you.

“Walk with me,” he said, no question in the words.

The desert wind rose, carrying the smoke away, leaving only the smell of sweat, dust, and liquor clinging between you.

The men barely noticed when Paddy rose, too drunk, too tired, too deep in their own stories and laughter. A few cast lazy glances, muttered goodnights, but no one questioned it when his shadow fell across yours. He didn’t need to explain himself.

The night was colder than you expected once you left the fire’s ring of warmth. The desert had its own cruelty—searing heat by day, sharp chill by night. The wind lifted your hair, tugged at your clothes, carrying the dry bite of sand. You hugged your arms around yourself, but Paddy walked loose, unbothered, strides long and easy.

He didn’t speak at first. The silence stretched, punctuated only by the crunch of boots in the sand and the distant clatter of a half-empty fuel can rattling in the wind. The further you went, the smaller the campfire grew behind you, its light dwindling until it looked no bigger than a star.

You were alone with him now. Really alone.

“Don’t like a crowd?” you asked, your voice soft against the dark.

He shot you a sidelong glance, his mouth twitching around a grin that wasn’t entirely kind. “Crowds are fine. But they’ve had enough of a show.”

You swallowed. “And I haven’t?”

That earned you a low laugh, rough and genuine. “Not yet.”

You hated the way your pulse jumped at that, hated that he seemed to hear it in the quiet. He slowed his steps just enough that you fell in beside him instead of trailing behind. He smelled of whisky and sweat, of smoke sunk deep into fabric. It should’ve been unpleasant, but it wasn’t. It was grounding, real, solid in a way ink and paper never were.

“Why are you really here?” he asked suddenly.

The question cut sharper than the wind.

You blinked at him. “I told you. I’m writing—”

“Don’t piss about.” His voice dropped, not harsh but blunt enough to knock the words out of you. “There’s plenty of people back home who could write it. They send you out here instead. Why?”

You gripped your satchel strap tighter. “Because I can handle it.”

His grin widened, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Handle it.” He rolled the words around like he was tasting them. “You barely handled a cup of whisky without choking.”

Heat prickled your skin. “That doesn’t mean—”

“It means you’ve got something to prove.” He stopped walking. Just like that—dead halt. You stumbled to a stop too, the sand shifting under your boots.

The campfire was a smudge on the horizon now, the desert swallowing all other light. He stood close, closer than was necessary, his shoulders blotting out the stars.

“And to who, exactly?” he asked, quieter now.

You tried to hold his stare, but it was like bracing against a storm. His eyes were sharp, hungry, lit from within by something reckless and impossible to name.

Your mouth went dry. “Myself,” you whispered before you could stop yourself.

That seemed to please him. His grin cut slow across his face, dangerous and sure.

He leaned down, his voice brushing warm against your ear. “Then let me give you something worth proving.”

The air shifted, heavy with something unspoken, undeniable. The distance between you was nothing, his presence overwhelming, filling every corner of the dark. Your breath caught, heart pounding in your ribs loud enough you swore he could hear it.

When he finally straightened, he didn’t move away. His hand brushed your wrist, rough fingertips dragging over skin just long enough to make your whole body jolt.

“Come on,” he said, turning again, as though the exchange had been nothing at all. But it wasn’t nothing, and the burn of his touch lingered as surely as the whisky.

You followed, because what else could you do?

The flap of the tent rattled in the wind as Paddy pulled it aside with one broad hand, ducking into the dark space without waiting to see if you’d follow. You hesitated only a second before stepping in after him, the canvas closing you off from the desert night with a soft snap.

The air inside was warmer, thick with the smell of leather, sweat, and lamp oil. A single lantern burned low on a crate, its light painting everything in shades of gold and shadow. The sand shifted under your boots as you moved further in, brushing past hanging jackets, weapons propped against poles, maps scattered in careless rolls. It was his space, lived-in and sharp-edged, yet still claustrophobic compared to the endless sprawl of the desert outside.

He didn’t turn to face you right away. He crouched near the lantern, striking a match against the crate. The flare of sulfur briefly lit the scars on his knuckles before he touched it to the wick of another lamp, doubling the glow. He moved slow, deliberate, as though he knew the silence pressed heavier the longer it stretched.

When he finally did look at you, it was over his shoulder. That grin—wolfish, sharp—curled at his mouth. “Not the sort of tent you were expecting, is it?”

You shook your head before you could think better of it. “No. I thought…neater, maybe.”

That earned a laugh, low and rough. He straightened to his full height, the lantern light cutting across the breadth of his chest as he shrugged off his jacket. “Neat doesn’t win wars.”

You swallowed, trying to find your footing in his presence. “But it makes for a better story.”

That drew him closer, slow steps across the sand-scattered floor until he stood in front of you, close enough that you could see the faint sheen of sweat on his skin, smell the whisky on his breath. His hand lifted, not touching yet, just hovering near your chin.

“You here to write a story,” he said, voice quiet, “or to live one?”

The words lodged in your chest. Your tongue felt thick in your mouth. “I—”

He closed the space before you could answer, fingers curling under your jaw, tilting your face toward his. His touch was rough, calloused, but not cruel. He studied you for a long moment, eyes narrowed, like he was deciding what to do with you.

“Soft,” he muttered, thumb dragging over the line of your throat. “Too soft for this place.”

Your pulse jumped hard under his hand, and his grin widened. He pressed you back until the tent pole caught between your shoulders, the wood digging into your spine. The lantern flickered as the canvas shifted with the wind, shadows swaying across his face.

“I’ll toughen you up,” he said, voice a growl now, something dark and certain.

The words stole the air from your lungs. The hand on your jaw tightened just enough to remind you how much stronger he was, how easily he could hold you there. The other braced against the pole near your head, caging you in. His body heat radiated, swallowing the thin strip of space left between you.

You didn’t move. Couldn’t.

He lowered his head, lips brushing so close to your ear you felt the tickle of his beard. “Consider this your first lesson.”

His mouth was on yours before you could draw another breath.

It wasn’t a careful kiss, not a testing one. It was hard, bruising, a clash of teeth and liquor that stole the ground out from under you. The hand at your jaw tightened, keeping you tilted up against him, while his body pressed you back into the tent pole until the wood dug deep into your shoulder blades.

You gasped against him, and he swallowed it whole, tongue sliding against yours like he owned the space. He tasted of smoke and heat, the sharp bite of alcohol still clinging to his lips. Your fingers curled reflexively in the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer even as his laugh rumbled low into your mouth.

“Thought so,” he muttered against your lips, voice hoarse. “All that talk about handling yourself…you’ve been waitin’ for someone to knock the breath out of you.”

The words cut straight through you, as much a claim as a taunt. His hands were already moving, rough palms dragging down your sides, skimming over your hips like he was mapping you by touch alone. Every place he touched felt branded, searing even through the thin fabric of your clothes.

When he caught the hem of your shirt, he didn’t ask. He pushed, fabric bunching in his fists as he shoved it higher. The cold air licked at your skin just before his calloused hand settled on bare flesh, the contrast making you shiver. He grinned against your throat, teeth grazing sensitive skin before his mouth latched there, sucking hard enough to make you bite down on a moan.

“Quiet,” he warned, voice a growl against your neck. “They’ll hear you.”

You tried, but it was near impossible with the way he moved—fast, unrestrained, like he fought the way he kissed: with no wasted effort, no thought for consequences. His thigh slid between yours, forcing your legs apart, pressing up until you were grinding down on hard muscle without realizing it. The friction shot fire through your veins, your head tipping back against the pole with a muffled gasp.

He chuckled, the sound dark, triumphant. “That’s it. Birthday girl knows what she wants.”

His hand trailed down, over your stomach, fingers slipping under the waistband of your trousers without hesitation. Rough fingertips brushed over the thin cotton beneath, teasing, circling until your knees went weak. He held you upright with his other arm, body pinning yours so there was nowhere to go, nothing to do but take what he gave.

“Hot already,” he murmured, lips dragging back to yours. “All this desert heat and you’re still burning for me.”

Your reply broke against his mouth—half a protest, half a plea—but it melted into another gasp as he pressed harder, fingers sliding exactly where you needed them. The tent spun, shadows swaying wildly, the whole world narrowed to the rough drag of his hand and the bruising insistence of his kiss.

Your breath came in shallow bursts, every muscle taut as his hand worked lower, rough fingertips dragging maddeningly slow. He didn’t rush. He pressed just enough to keep you trembling, never enough to let you tip over.

“Jumping out of your skin already,” he murmured, teeth grazing the shell of your ear. His voice was hoarse, thick with amusement. “And I’ve barely touched you.”

You tried to angle your hips against his hand, desperate for more pressure, but he caught the movement instantly. His grip on your jaw tightened, forcing your face up to meet his gaze. The lantern light carved his features into sharp relief—eyes bright, mouth curved in that predatory grin.

“Greedy,” he said. “Is that what they’ll print back home? Birthday correspondent couldn’t keep her legs shut in the desert?”

Heat flushed through you, shame and want tangled in equal measure. You opened your mouth, but no words came out—only a gasp when his fingers pressed harder through the thin cotton, just long enough to taste what you were craving before pulling back again.

“Not yet,” he growled, low and dangerous. His thumb traced idle circles against your hip, deliberately avoiding where you needed him most. “You’ll take it when I decide you’re ready for it.”

Your hands fisted in his shirt, knuckles straining, but he only laughed—short, sharp, triumphant. He leaned in, lips grazing the corner of your mouth without sealing the kiss. The denial was worse than anything.

Every nerve in your body screamed for more. He knew it. He thrived on it.

“Tell me,” he said, voice a rasp. “You want me to give you a present, don’t you?”

The word—present—hit like a shot of whisky, raw and burning. Your throat felt tight, the word you wanted to say stuck fast. He teased the edge of your waistband again, fingers dipping just beneath and then retreating, a maddening rhythm.

“Say it,” he urged, his mouth hot against your ear. “Say you want it. Or I’ll walk out of here and leave you to the sand.”

Your breath hitched, torn between pride and need. His grin widened when he saw the conflict written all over your face.

“Come on, birthday girl,” he murmured, dragging the words out. “Prove you can handle it.”

The tent was too small for the air you needed. Every breath came sharp, shallow, like you were drowning under the weight of him. His body caged yours, his hand still teasing at the edge of your waistband, every slow drag of his fingers designed to unravel you without ever granting release.

You shifted again, desperate, trying to grind against the press of his thigh. His laugh was low and cruel in your ear.

“Thought you could handle yourself,” he drawled. “Now look at you. Can’t stand still without chasing it.”

Your nails bit into his shirt, clutching at the rough fabric like it could anchor you. The words you wanted—needed—were there, pressing at the back of your teeth, but pride held them tight.

He knew. God, he knew. His grin told you so as he leaned in, lips brushing against yours but never sealing the kiss.

“Say it,” he murmured, his breath hot on your mouth. “Say you want me. Or you’ll get nothing.”

His hand pressed harder for a fleeting second, the friction making your knees buckle. A strangled sound escaped you, muffled against his chest when he caught your jaw again, forcing your face up. The lantern flame flickered, shadows sliding across his sharp cheekbones, his blue eyes burning.

“I’m not a patient man,” he warned, voice like gravel. “But I can drag this out until you’re begging me. Is that how you want it? To beg?”

Your chest heaved. The thought of giving him the satisfaction burned, but the ache between your legs was worse. You tried to shake your head, to cling to silence, but his hand dipped suddenly lower, fingers pressing right where you needed them most through the thin fabric.

Your breath shattered. The sound that tore out of you wasn’t a word, just a broken gasp.

“That’s better,” he rasped. His thumb stroked once, deliberately slow, before retreating again. “Now use your words.”

The silence stretched, unbearable. His smirk sharpened, his patience dwindling with each second. He shifted his grip, thumb grazing your lower lip, pressing just enough to part it.

“Say it,” he ordered again, softer now, more dangerous for it.

It broke you. Pride cracked under the weight of want.

“I want you,” you gasped, the words spilling out rough, desperate. “Please—Paddy—”

The grin that split his face was feral, victorious. His mouth crashed down on yours again, hotter, hungrier this time. No more teasing—his hand shoved fully under your waistband, fingers sliding against slick heat at last, dragging a moan from your throat that you couldn’t smother even if you tried.

He groaned into your mouth, rough and low, like the sound pleased him as much as your words. “Good girl,” he muttered against your lips. “Knew you’d say it.”

And then there was no more waiting. His fingers moved with ruthless purpose, circling, pressing, sliding just enough to push you further, higher, until every muscle in your body trembled. His other hand kept your jaw tilted up, forcing you to meet his gaze even as your vision blurred.

“Birthday present,” he growled, working you harder. “And I’m not stopping until you come on my hand.”

His hand moved with purpose now, no more circling just out of reach, no more games. Calloused fingers slid slick and steady over you, the roughness of his touch making every nerve sing. The tent blurred around the edges, nothing but heat and shadow and the relentless drag of him between your thighs.

You tried to hold in the sounds, but they clawed out anyway—gasps, broken moans, your head tipping back against the pole as your hips bucked helplessly into his palm. He swallowed the noise with his mouth on yours, kissing you hard, bruising, as though he could drink every sound straight from your throat.

“That’s it,” he growled against your lips, his voice ragged. “Let me hear you. Don’t you dare hold back now.”

Your knees gave, but he caught you easily, his body the only thing keeping you upright. His thigh pressed harder between yours, doubling the friction as his fingers worked faster, rough and skilled, like he’d known you for years instead of minutes. The sharp scrape of his stubble against your neck as he kissed down over your throat only wound you tighter.

Every nerve stretched thin, pulled taut, threatening to snap. You clutched at him, nails digging through the fabric of his shirt, dragging a low groan from his chest that only spurred you closer to the edge.

“Come on, birthday girl,” he urged, teeth grazing your collarbone. “Show me what I’m giving you.”

The words tipped you over. Heat exploded low in your belly, white-hot, tearing through every inch of you until you broke with it, body convulsing around his hand. The moan that ripped free was raw, shameless, muffled only when he clamped his mouth hard against yours. Your toes curled in your boots, vision blotting out with stars as the orgasm rolled through you, relentless and consuming.

He didn’t slow until you were shaking, whimpering against him, your body spent and trembling. Only then did he ease his touch, dragging his fingers back slow, leaving you empty and aching in the aftermath. He pulled his hand free and looked at it for a beat, slick shining in the lantern light.

Then he licked it off, one finger at a time, his eyes locked on yours.

“Sweet,” he said simply, that grin curling his mouth. “Best thing I’ve had all week.”

Your chest heaved, lungs struggling for air, legs still weak beneath you. You should’ve said something—anything—but the words refused to come. All you could do was stare at him, skin still buzzing with aftershocks, while he leaned in to press one last bruising kiss to your lips.

“Happy birthday,” he murmured against your mouth, rough and triumphant.

You were still trembling when he dragged your shirt up over your head, rough and impatient, tossing it aside without looking. The desert night pressed cold against your skin for a heartbeat before his heat swallowed it whole—broad chest pressed to yours, mouth hot and claiming.

Your hands fumbled at the buttons of his shirt, but he was quicker, shrugging it off with practiced ease. Scars and muscle caught the lamplight, his skin smelling of smoke and sweat. He caught your wrists before you could reach lower, slamming them back against the pole, holding them there with one hand.

“You’ve had your present,” he rasped, voice thick with hunger. “Now I’m taking mine.”

The words sent another shiver ripping through you. His free hand yanked at your waistband, unfastening, tugging, dragging the fabric down rough over your hips. You kicked free of them clumsily, breath stuttering, and then he was there—hard against you, already pressing, already demanding.

The lantern threw wild shadows as he shoved your legs apart with his thigh, stepping between, pinning you in place. His mouth crashed back onto yours, all teeth and tongue, swallowing every gasp as his hand wrapped around himself, guiding, lining up. The blunt head of his cock slid against you, hot and heavy, making your whole body jolt.

“Fuck—” you choked, head tipping back as the first push stretched you.

He groaned low, deep in his chest, the sound vibrating against your skin where his mouth pressed to your throat. “Tight,” he muttered, almost to himself. “Christ, you’re tight.”

The intrusion burned at first, sharp and overwhelming, but he didn’t stop. He pressed deeper, inch by inch, until you were full of him, until there was no space left between your bodies. His hand tightened on your wrists above your head, his breath ragged in your ear.

“Mine now,” he growled, voice shaking with restraint he barely held. “Every fucking inch of you.”

The first thrust knocked the air out of you—hard, brutal, the pole creaking against your back. He set a pace with no hesitation, no mercy, each stroke rougher than the last. The tent seemed too small for it, canvas shuddering with every movement, lantern flame stuttering wild shadows across his face.

You gasped and moaned against him, each sound louder than you meant, each one swallowed when he clamped his mouth to yours again. His tongue forced its way past your lips, dominating, demanding, leaving you no choice but to take it.

He pulled back only to speak, words torn out between thrusts.

“You wanted a story—” slam “—I’ll give you one worth writing.” slam “Birthday girl, fucked stupid in the desert—” slam “—screaming my name.”

The rhythm broke you down piece by piece, every thrust dragging you higher, rougher, until you were clinging to him with everything you had. Your wrists ached where he pinned them, your thighs trembling from the strain of holding him, but you couldn’t stop—didn’t want to stop.

Your vision blurred, sounds collapsing into raw sensation: the slap of skin, the rasp of his breath, the creak of the pole under your back. He bent his head to your neck, teeth sinking just shy of breaking skin, biting hard enough to leave bruises.

“Say it again,” he demanded against your throat. “Say you want me.”

“I want you—” the words broke out raw, desperate. “Fuck—I want you, Paddy—”

His answering growl was pure victory. He slammed harder, deeper, relentless, fucking you against the pole like he was determined to carve himself into your bones.

The rhythm broke you down to pieces—his thrusts pounding through you, stealing breath and thought until there was only heat, pressure, the raw slap of skin against skin. The pole groaned with every slam of his body, tent canvas shivering around you like it might give way under the violence of it.

Your moans spilled uncontained, no longer sharp gasps but full, broken cries. Each one seemed to fuel him further, his grip on your wrists bruising as he drove harder, deeper, until your head spun and your vision blurred.

“Look at you,” he growled, his voice raw, shredding. “Fucked open on my cock like you were made for it.”

The words hit like a strike of lightning, tearing another wave of heat through you. You clenched around him, body giving in to the brutal pace, building again—too soon, too much. He felt it, groaned low in his chest, his forehead pressing hard to yours as he slammed into you.

“Come for me again,” he ordered, teeth bared, sweat dripping down his temple. “Now. Do it.”

And you did. The second orgasm ripped through you like detonation, every nerve alight, your body seizing around him with frantic, helpless spasms. You cried out, a raw sound you couldn’t hold back if you tried, and his snarl answered it.

His thrusts turned ragged, pace breaking. He yanked your hips up, grinding deep, holding you tight against him as he buried himself to the hilt.

“Fuck—” he groaned, voice cracking as his release tore through him. His cock pulsed hot inside you, each spurt searing, filling you until you swore you could feel it in your bones. He held you pinned through every shudder, his breath harsh, his body shoving hard one last time like he needed to brand the moment into you.

Silence fell in the wake of it, broken only by the rasp of your breaths tangled together. The lantern flame guttered, throwing wild, trembling shadows across the canvas, painting his face in sweat and sharp lines.

He stayed pressed to you a moment longer, chest heaving against yours, cock still buried deep. When he finally eased back, he didn’t go far—just enough to look down at you with that feral grin, blue eyes still burning.

“Happy birthday,” he rasped, voice shredded, triumph thick in it. “Bet you’ve never had a present like that.”

Your legs were useless, trembling, your back damp against the pole. He caught your chin in one rough hand, dragging your mouth to his for one last bruising kiss, stealing the last of your breath before he let you slump against him.

He pulled out slow, hissing as he did, and stepped back only far enough to drag his shirt off the ground. He wiped the sweat from his brow with one hand, then offered you the flask with the other, as though nothing had happened.

“Drink,” he said simply, grin sharp. “You’ll need it.”

The whisky burned going down, but it steadied you, grounded you in the haze of smoke, sweat, and sex. When you lowered the flask, he was already lighting a cigarette, watching you through the smoke with something dangerous still alive in his gaze.

And when the desert wind rattled the canvas again, you knew you’d never write this part down. Some things weren’t for print.

[scuddisher]

[roomiesoreo]

The Dog at the Door

read part two here

remmick x fem!reader

18+/MDNI

w.c: 7.9k (i am just as surprised as you are)

Summary: Based on this concept that I posted awhile ago that really took off. I don't know when I developed the intense need to destroy this man, but here we are. I needed to exorcise this from my brain, so...enjoy.

Warnings: Smut!! Should also add that I have never written smut before lol so sorry if it sucks. Vampirsm, blood sucking, oral sex (f!receiving), sub!Remmick, pathetic!Remmic, begging kink, control kink, praise kink, p in v sex, intense power dynamics, pet names, mentions of religion, obsessive behavior, hair pulling, dom!Reader (sort of), torture, burning skin, cutting, knife play, spit play, drool, monsterfucking, treating Remmick like a dog, I really just want to inflict as much pain on him as is humanly possible.

Reblogs, comments, and likes always appreciated! Please reblog if you like what you read; it helps keep writers engaged in fandom spaces and creating cool shit for you!

Special thank you to @spikedfearn for not only being one of the best writers in the Freaks for Remmick community, but also for beta reading this and encouraging me to write it! Please check her stuff out, she's a fantastic writer!

Tags: @001-side @slasherflickchick @plutoniumwritten @parasiticatholic

You sat on your porch in the late evening sunlight, sipping your sweet tea and listening to the soft song of the crickets all around you as they settled in for the night. It wouldn’t be long now. He was fairly consistent; true, if he needed to feed, he’d be a little longer. Crawling up to your door, well into the night, covered in drying blood, claws still showing, fangs barely hidden. Other nights, he’d stroll up right after the sun dipped below the horizon, looking like a true gentleman– clean, composed, in control. You couldn’t tell which version of him you would get on any given night. And that was part of what made it so exciting.

It had gone on this way for months. The sun starts to set. He comes to your door. The two of you fool around– sometimes. Other nights, you didn’t fool around so much as…play games. Oh, you knew what he was. No question about that. There was just something so delicious in denying him. Keeping him on your porch like a hungry dog, begging and crawling and clawing to get in. Knowing that, no matter how desperately he whined or how violently he dug his nails into the floorboards, he could not enter without your permission. He hung on your every word, waiting to hear those two little words that beckoned him in, inviting him to worship at your altar. It was deliciously fun, riling him up, tearing through his humanity, before letting him in. But sometimes…sometimes you just let him sit there. All night. Whimpering. Starving. Deranged. Just for fun.

The sun was just starting to kiss the edge of the horizon. You glanced from the setting sun back towards the parting of trees that opened from your long driveway into the clearing around your house. He would be here soon. You could feel it. 

The soft sound of creaking wood catches your attention.

You glance at the clock above your kitchen cabinets. 9:47pm. He’s later than you anticipated.

You freeze. Listen. You can hear him shifting his weight from one foot to the other, the boards of your porch sighing underneath him. You hear his breath, soft and sweet, before–

“Sweetheart. Ya there?”

You don’t say anything. He knows you’re inside. Hell, he could smell a human being from miles away. It gives you an idea.

You quietly walk over to your old recliner and silently lower yourself into the chair. On the ground just next to the chair is where you keep your sewing kit. While you were no expert, life in the Delta necessitated a few basic sewing skills. Thorns snagging at your dress, threadbare patches blooming in pieces of clothing passed down through the generations. But tonight, you don’t reach for any thread– just a needle. You can still hear Remmick breathing just outside your front door, confusedly listening to you move around inside. You take the sewing needle and quickly, painlessly, jab it into your left index finger. Outside, you hear his breath catch in his throat, a sound like he was being strangled.

Wordlessly, you creep towards the door. You wrap your hand around the doorknob, twist, and pull. He’s standing there, as if he had just had his forehead pressed to the door. Eyes wild, fangs barely peeking out from behind his lips. Those lips twist into a stupid, happy grin.

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

“Just, uh, come ‘round to see ya.” 

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Sorry, didn’t hear ya. I seem to have made a little bit of a mess.”

You hold your finger up in the tiny space there is between you. It’s beaded with blood, the tiniest bit starting to drip down the side of your finger.

“Oh, uh,” he stutters, eyes now transfixed on your wound. “I could…help ya, y’know…clean that up.”

He’s staring at the blood inching its way down your finger. You’re staring at his eyes, pupils blown huge, black and gaping. You’ve got him.

“Oh, no, that’s okay. I wouldn’t want to make ya clean up after me.”

Slowly, deliberately, you lift your finger to your mouth. You lick up the stripe of blood running down the length of your finger before taking your fingertip in your mouth, sucking lightly. His face twists with pain, like he’s just been kicked in the stomach. You gently release your finger, examining the tiny injury, no longer dripping red.

“All better,” you smile wickedly. Your heart is already thumping hard in your chest. You’re certain he can hear it– it’s the one secret you wish you could keep from him. Telling him how badly you want him, even as you torture him, sweet and slow.

“Let me in, sugar.” And so it begins. Your favorite game. “Let me in, please?”

“I don’t know…townsfolk always whisperin’ about somethin’ out there in the dark. Somethin’ evil.”

“Oh yeah? Why don’t you let me in, I’ll show you how evil I can be.” 

The grin returns to his face, but you can tell it takes effort this time. His hair is damp, sticking to his temples with sweat. He’s clean of blood, so you know he hasn’t fed tonight. But he’s covered in sweat and dirt, the gentle kiss of the Mississippi heat. 

“I don’t know…” you tease. Blood starts to swell from the prick in your finger again. You gently rest your hand on the doorframe, noting the way his cocky grin fades as his eyes follow your hand.

“C’mon, baby, let me in. Let me be good to you,” he murmurs, his composure hanging on by a thread.

Wordlessly, you take a step back into your house and grab hold of the door. You go to shut it before–

“Wait.”

Slowly, he sinks to his knees, your porch groaning underneath his weight.

“Please, I don’t want to play like this tonight, baby. Please.”

His eyes stare up at you, still huge, still black. Not a trace of his usual blue left. But no hint of that reflective red yet, either. Hm.

You slowly lower yourself to your knees, eye level with him, never breaking eye contact. His breathing comes in quick, ragged breaths. You lean back, slowly sitting on the floor, right in front of the threshold. The invisible line keeping him away from you, like an electric fence, sizzles under the weight of his want. You raise your left foot to the doorframe, sending your nightgown down towards your hips. Your right knee is crossed in front of you, the last obstacle between the two of you. His hands fly to the outside of the doorframe, connecting with such force that you feel the shock wave travel through your foot and up the length of your leg. 

“Play? Who’s playin’?” you drawl, with a sweetness that you know only intoxicates him more. You notice a bead of drool at the corner of his mouth. 

“C’mon, sugar, lemme– let me in now, please.” He stumbles over his words. Fucking pathetic.

“You want to come in?”

He’s almost shaking. He nods his head slowly, eyes never leaving your center, as if he could make you move your leg just by focusing hard enough. A wicked idea flashes through your brain. As if sensing it, his inquisitive, almost fearful, eyes dart up to meet yours. You smile slowly, baring your teeth to him as you sink back onto your elbows. You drop your head back, exposing your neck to the incoming cool of the night air. He’s breathing through his mouth, raw and ragged, as if he can’t get enough oxygen into his lungs.

“Pl-please…please…” The word almost sounds like a prayer on his tongue, something uttered over and over, falling on deaf ears.

You let yourself sink so you’re lying completely on the floor. You move your right knee, torturously slow, until you’re entirely exposed to him. You hear a sound, a strangled choking sound, like an animal caught in a trap. Slowly, you bring your hand down between your legs.

“No, no, please, baby, please, let me in, I’ll be so good to you, please, don’t do this, don’t–” his begging is cut off by the gentle sigh that escapes you, and the tortured cry that rises from him in turn. You drag your fingers between your folds while he writhes on the ground, just inches from you. His hands snap from the doorframe to the ground with a loud crack. His forehead kisses the ground as if he’s a sinner begging for forgiveness. You just smile.

You delicately toy with yourself, just out of his grasp. Your eyes roll back in your head as your fingers rub your clit. And the whole time, he’s crying for you.

“PLEASE, baby, I can’t take it no more. Please let me in,” he begs, face still connected to the floor. He sounds wounded, as if you shot him. The raw need in his voice just fuels your fire. You quicken your movements, working towards your release. Your moans, quick and breathy, sting in his ears. 

“You want to come in here?” you coo quietly. Affectionate. As if you’re considering it.

He lifts his head to look at you. There’s a string of drool connecting his lips to a small puddle on the porch. He looks like a wreck. Sweat, dirt, heat, drool, desire. Sickening. Delicious.

His eyes gleam red in the darkness.

“Yes,” he rasps. “Yes, please.” 

He sounds like a man who’s crawled on hands and knees through the desert, only to be met with a mirage. You grin. His fangs are protruding, like they’re too big in his mouth. His claws are out, and you can see the scratches he’s made on the porch, like a dog locked in a room trying to dig its way under the door. Seeing him like this, undone. A monster, a killer, completely at your mercy.

You drop your head back again as you finish. Your ecstasy washes over you in waves. A choked moan escapes him– half desire, half agony. When you finally come back down, you sit up slowly in the doorway. He doesn’t have any more words. He just sits, stares, pants. You bring your fingers, still wet with your slick, to rest gently on the inside of the doorframe. He presses his cheek against the outside, that invisible line keeping him back by barely a centimeter. His tongue gently grazes over his fangs, his eyes locked on your fingers.

“Please, darlin’, let me clean ya up. Please, I’ll, I’ll be gentle. No teeth. I’ll be good. I promise.”

“You’re pathetic, Remmick.”

Finally hearing your name from his lips, he groans, eyes screwed shut, in that limbo between torture and pleasure.

“I know,” he sighs. “Fuck, I know. Just…please, I gotta taste ya. Please. Just this, just your fingers, just one taste. You’re killin’ me sweetheart, please.” 

You almost pity him. You would pity him, you think, if it wasn’t so divine seeing him beg.

You push yourself up to your knees, eye level with him once more, your noses almost touching. The invisible line. The electric fence. 

“Goodnight, Remmick.” Your breath blows gentle and sweet and cruel across his face. His features contort in torment as you bring yourself to your feet.

“No, no, please, sugar, please don’t lea–”

Click. You cut him off as you close the door. You cross the floor towards your bedroom, tired and still a little wound up. You swear you can hear him gently sobbing as you tangle in the cotton sheets.

Beautiful sunset.

The oranges, yellows, reds and pinks, all mixing together as if on a painter’s palette. It’s one of your favorite things about living outside of town: this view. Nothing for miles. Just the woods, the creek, the sun, hell, you didn’t even mind the critters. Raccoons, possums, foxes, deer…but your favorite one walks on two legs and whispers your name like it could save him.

You take another sip of your sweet tea when you hear a twig snap off in the growing darkness between the trees. You grin to yourself. He had a tendency to do that. If he showed up late and you decided to torture him, he would be at your door the next day the second the sun disappeared from the sky. Like he was atoning. Like you’d forgive him for making you wait. Putting on a show now, you lift the cool glass up to your temple. The cold condensation dissolves across your skin, bringing at least a little relief in the Mississippi heat. You move the glass down to your neck, letting the ice cold water drip down your neck to the space between your breasts. The woods fall silent. Unnaturally silent, like every living thing has vanished from the dense forest that surrounds your house. 

You glance back towards the setting sun. You stand and cross back into the house, letting the screen door slam behind you.

There’s a gentle knock at the door. 8:24pm. That’s more like it.

You don’t move. Don’t even breathe. The knock comes again. You hear him under his breath:

“Shit.” 

You can’t help the grin that creeps across your face.

“Baby. It’s me. Let me in?”

He shifts from one foot to the other, the porch creaking under him. He sighs, antsy and frustrated.

“Please, darlin’. Don’t make me keep doin’ this.”

The pain in his voice makes your insides melt. You slink over to the door and gently pull it open.

“Make you do what?”

He’s neat, composed. Light blue button up tucked neatly into his trousers. Suspenders taught over his shoulders. Gold chain barely visible at his throat. No trace of the inhuman mess he was last night. At least, not in his clothes. Not in his body. But the suffering in his eyes tells you everything. 

His voice is barely above a whisper.

“Please don’t make me beg.”

“Fine,” you sigh playfully. “I won’t make you.” He’s eyeing the grin on your face.

“But you will anyway,” you whisper, your cruelty crackling through the space between you. “You’ll beg and cry and drool like the filthy animal you are.”

Instantly, he falls to his knees, groaning. He looks up at you through those long eyelashes. You can already see the outline of his cock pressing against his trousers. 

“Please, darlin’, I’ll do anything you ask–”

“You will?” you cut him off sharply.

He nods his head with such ferocity you’re almost worried he’ll pull something in his neck. Suddenly, you find a new way to play the game.

“Yes ma’am, anything you ask, just say the word and–”

“Take your suspenders down.”

He reaches up to his right shoulder and gently, slowly, pulls the strap off his shoulder, letting it fall to the floor at his side. He does the same with the left.

“Good. Unbutton your shirt.” Your commanding surprises even you. You’ve never played with him like this before, but something about it lights you aflame. Seeing him do everything you instruct, with the reverence of a dog obeying its master. He fumbles with the top button, despite his claws still being sheathed for now. Just the shape of his hands, his once-human-hands, shaking at the buttons, shaking from need.

His shirt unbuttoned, you stare at him, looking him up and down, while his eyes bore into your skull. When your eyes fall back to his, you can see the question in them. He’s asking you, silently: please?

“Tell me what you want.”

He leans forward, bracing himself on all fours.

“Please, baby, let me in. Just wanna come inside, be with ya, feel ya, anything you want, please.” He presses his forehead to the floorboards, reverent.

“No. Tell me what you want to do.”

“Wanna…” he’s struggling to catch his breath. “Wanna lick that pussy so good you’ll lose your voice. Drink every drop of ya. Wanna feel that pussy, so tight, so warm, on my cock, over and over again, all night, give you so many orgasms you lose count, forget your name…please, sugar. Wanna make you mine. Wanna be yours.”

He slowly raises his head to look up at you. He looks like a fucking mess, eyes almost entirely black, sweat and dirt caking his face. There’s thick ropes of drool dripping down his chin, collecting in a dark puddle on your porch.

“What’s that?” you ask harshly.

“Oh, I–”

“Lick it up.”

He stares up at you for a second, uncertain. Finally, he lowers his head to the porch in front of him. He holds your gaze as he sticks his tongue out and slowly laps up his drool.

“Good boy.”

He presses his eyes closed involuntarily, humming in pleasure at the praise.

You smile.

“Come…”

His eyes snap open, all attention on you. His breath hitches in his throat. The sound almost makes you laugh.

“...here.”

His eyes flutter closed and the breath falls out of him, his hope immediately extinguished. Still, he crawls, on his knees, as close as he can to the threshold. You dart your hand out as quickly as you can, giving him no time to react. You snatch his gold chain under one finger and pull it towards you, as close as the laws of…what? Physics? God? The Devil? Whatever force kept that electric fence up. You pull him as close as he could possibly be without being shocked. Your finger and the chain on one side of the fence, the tight skin of his throat on the other.

He gasps, a divine cocktail of shock and desperation.

“You want to come inside?” you tease. He nods again. “Words,” you spit sharply.

“YES. Yes, ma’am, please.” He's starting to sweat, little beads of moisture dotting his forehead. “Just wanna please you. Please. Let me taste you, darlin’, I promise, I can make it so good for you, just let me–”

You give his chain a sharp tug to shut him up. He cries out.

“I don’t let animals into my house, Remmick.” 

He drops his head. You feel something wet drip onto your finger. A teardrop falls from his eye to your hand.

“Please.” He shivers, voice almost completely inaudible. The volume reserved for sinners talking directly to their god. “I’ll be good.”

“My, my, my…sweat, drool, and now tears? You’d make a mess all over my floors.” You drop his chain and slowly start to wrap your hand around his throat. His head shoots back and his eyes roll into the back of his head with a moan so vile and animalistic you silently thank whatever God there might be that your closest neighbors live miles away. 

You smile. As your fingers close around his throat, he hisses and pulls away. He stares up at you, hurt. The burn on his neck sizzles softly in the damp night air. His gaze darts to your hand. 

“Oh, you are evil, ain’tcha? Sweet little girl like you, thought ya had e’rybody fooled.” 

“What? You don’t like ‘em?” You coyly show him your hand, fingers adorned with silver rings.

“Fuck, sweetie.” He’s rubbing at his neck, now almost entirely healed. The tiny amount of silver in your rings isn’t enough to do much damage, you know– just enough to get his attention. “You tryna kill me?”

“Maybe,” you coo softly, the sweetness evaporating any lingering trace of his shock.

“Please, baby, let me in. Let me fuck ya proper. Like you deserve. Please. Wanna see those thighs around my head, over my shoulders, fuck, wanna see–wanna see you…” His eyes flutter closed again, like even the image he was conjuring in his head would be enough to make him cum right there.

“Tell me.” Your tone is even. Not mean, not kind. Part of you wants to hear him out.

He leans back on his haunches, his face is wet with sweat and tears. 

“I’d take you right here on the floor. Bury my face between your legs. Make you cum more times ‘n you can count and thank you for each one, fuck, whatever you want, I’d do it all night. Then I’d come crawlin’ back tomorrow night, beggin’ you to let me do it all over again. Please, sugar, just say it. Just let me in. Can’t stand these fuckin’ games no more.” 

“You know,” you say, crouching down in front of him, still behind the door frame, “when I first moved in here, e’rybody told me about the big bad monster lurkin’ in the woods.”

His eyes meet yours then, huge, sad, pathetic. You can still see a hint of the iris, just barely, the tiniest ring of blue surrounding the endless black of his pupils. 

“They said it only came out at night, and the only way to protect yourself was to stay inside. Garlic. Silver. Sunlight. A stake–” you press your palm flat against his chest, feeling his heart thunder beneath his ribs “--right to the heart.”

His eyes roll back and he moans, obscene and filthy and desperate. Before he can think to snatch your wrist and yank you out onto the porch with him, you pull your hand back behind the threshold. You rise to your feet, standing over him.

“And now here he is, the Big Bad Wolf, on his knees, slobbering at my door like a dog. Ain’t that somethin’?”

He stares up at you, almost like he knows what comes next.

“Please,” he whispers, pitiful. You smile wide.

“Goodnight, Remmick.”

Click.

The next night, he doesn’t even bother knocking. Doesn’t bother announcing himself. He just sits, cross-legged, on your porch, staring up at your door as if he could will it open with his mind. What he doesn’t know is that you’re sitting just on the other side of the door, a mirror image of his desperation. You don’t know how long you sit like that. Silent, just listening to the soft sound of the cricket song and his gentle, even breathing behind the door. Finally, you give in. You reach up and twist the knob, torturously slow. The door creaks open.

“Hey sugar.”

He looks rough. Not to the untrained eye, of course; his shirt is clean, tucked in, his hair fairly neat, even his boots look pretty clean. But you see deeper than that. The slightly sunken look around his eyes that tells you he hasn’t fed in days. The subtle hollowness that carves out his cheekbones, collarbone, even settles around his knuckles, when he’s gone too long without blood. The hungry glint in his eyes that he can’t help, like an animal looking for its next kill.

“You look like shit.”

“Aw hell, come on now, cut a fella some slack. I tried my best for ya, sweetheart.” His voice sounds the way his clothes look–a façade, a too-perfect, lighthearted sound, disguising something darker underneath.

“When was the last time ya fed?”

His eyes drop to the floorboards below him.

“Remmick. Look at me.”

His eyes shoot up to meet yours, that hungry look winning out above the pretenses. His voice drops, too, into something dark and sickly sweet.

“Five days ago.”

“Then what the hell ya doin’ here?” Your voice, barbed and venomous, cuts straight to his heart. “Go find ya some poor bastard to drain ‘stead of wastin’ my time.”

“I can’t, baby. Can’t do nothin’ else. I walk in circles all night, and I keep endin’ up down this road, endin’ up here. Please, sugar, all I’m askin’ for is–”

You let your head roll to one side, pulling the skin of your neck tight over your veins. His sentence stops in his throat as he watches you, swallowing thickly. His eyes have the dull, hypnotized look of hyperfixation as he stares at your neck.

“All you’re askin’ for is…what?”

“Please. Let me in.” His voice is low, but not quiet.

“Why should I?” You drawl, knowing he’s hanging onto your every word.

“I’ll be anything ya want me to be, please. I’ll be so good to you. I’ll be wicked. I’ll–”

His words catch in his throat again as you, on all fours, crawl closer towards the door.

“Y’know, I went to church this mornin’,” you tease. “Preacher said somethin’ interesting. He said…you dance with the devil…one day, he’ll follow ya home.”

Remmick’s breath, coming in short, ragged gasps, inches from your face, was the only sound flooding your senses.

“That what you are, pretty boy? You the devil?”

His eyes dart down to your mouth and back up to your eyes, his pupils blown huge and black.

“Yes, ma’am.” His voice is half whisper, half confession. “Yes. I am the Devil.”

“That’s what I thought.” You stand slowly, gripping the door frame for support. You leave the door open, but cross the floor into your kitchen, always aware of his eyes on you. 

You reach for the smallest paring knife that lives in the knife block sitting atop your counter. His eyes don’t leave you for a second, but now, from the darkness, you see his shiny red pupils reflected back at you. You smile. The Devil at your door, begging to do unholy things to you. At your mercy.

You cross back to the door and stand over him, knife in hand. His hair, sweaty, sticking to his temples, looks almost black in the darkness. 

The quiet in the air lingers between the two of you. You want him so badly it aches. You want to torment him, to make him cry again, to stand above him while he worships the ground beneath your feet. Your heart hammers in your chest, and you can feel it thundering in your neck. He notices.

Slowly, you begin to undo the buttons at the lacy neckline of your nightgown. Drool begins to drip down his chin as he stares at you. 

“Don’t make a mess all over my porch, now.” 

He mindlessly wipes at his chin with the back of his hand, wetting the cuff of his sleeve. Done with the buttons, you drop your nightgown around your ankles. A choked sound gets stuck in his throat. You take a step out of the nightgown, kicking the garment to the side.

“Please, baby. Please, I’m dyin’ out here. I can be anything you want. I’ll follow you around on a leash, goddamn it, just don’t make me sit out here no longer.” His begging hits your ears like a symphony. You bring the knife up to your chest and gently press the tip of it between your breasts. 

He whines like a dying thing. A strangled, agonized sound,that, again, makes you grateful for the secluded location of your house.

You drag the blade down, slicing one clean line between your cleavage, just deep enough to break the skin and draw blood, just enough to sting. 

“Preacher said the best way to ward off the devil was to wear a cross,” you say innocently.

You bring the blade back up. You carve one shorter, perpendicular line through the first. A cross. A mark. A brand. Beading with drops of blood, collecting and trickling down your chest, across your stomach, towards your heat.

You don’t know when it happened, but his claws are out now. Long, caked in dirt, and scratching at the boards of your porch like a bad dog. The sound of the wood shredding under his claws makes you grin, sweet and sadistic. He pulls his head up, like just the effort of that simple movement is enough to drain all the life out of him. He braces himself with his hands on the doorframe. His eyes glow red, tears pricking at the corners. His fangs poke out of his mouth, sharp and wet with saliva. Drool slicks his chin and foams at the corner of his mouth. This is the monster. This is what you wanted.

Then, quietly, so quietly you almost think your mind might be inventing it, he whispers:

“Please, mo chuisle. Let me in.”

You sink slowly to your knees in front of him. He’s not looking into your eyes anymore. He’s staring at your blood, red, hot, and wet, dripping freely just inches from his mouth.

“Tell me what you want.”

“Want you to let me in, please–”

“No. That’s what you want to happen. What do you want?” 

“You. I want you.” His voice is ragged. Broken. Like he’s been screaming at the top of his lungs for his whole life. “Please, please, I don’t know any other way to ask, to beg, to scream, to cry for you sugar, please–”

You cut him off when you press your hands to the door frame, just on the other side of where his are. You’re palm to palm, almost, in this half-formed way, dancing along the electric fence. You bring your forehead to the invisible line, so you’re face to face with him, taking in the sight of him unravelled before you. 

“You want me?” you whisper cruelly.

“Yes,” he says through shaking breaths.

“Come get me, then.”

It’s all he needs. His hands fly to your waist as he topples you over. He presses his tongue to the blood that’s dripped down to your stomach, working his way up to your chest. When he reaches the incision, he sucks and laps at the cut. At the spot where the two cuts meet, the center of the cross, he presses a kiss, soft and gentle to your sternum. It makes you gasp.

“Gonna treat you so good, darlin’. Gonna make you forget your own fuckin’ name,” he rasps against your chest. You rake your nails across his back, careful not to let yourself touch him too much–not yet.

When he’s done sucking the blood from your chest, he begins to leave a trail of kisses back down your stomach. Sitting back on his knees, he grabs your thighs and traces his claws across the flesh, making you shiver. He hoists your legs just enough to nestle himself in between them, pressing a gentle kiss to the inside of your left knee. 

“Dreamed of this every night, every fuckin’ night, you slammin’ that door in my face. Kept dreaming of this. Of you.” He works his way up the inside of your thigh, kissing and licking your skin. “Taste so fuckin’ good.”

“If you think that’s good, I got somethin’ I think you’re really gonna enjoy,” you drawl, deliberately grinding your hips upwards in a small circle, catching his attention.

He growls. Like a fucking animal standing over its kill. It almost makes you sob. The pure, electric feeling of his desire.

He licks one slow stripe up your center, making you cry out.

“Sweet girl. You think you were the only one playin’? I could smell you every night, every night you shut that door in my face. Could smell this sweet little pussy cryin’ for me.”

His grip on your legs tightens as he picks up the pace. Lapping and kissing at your core, he devours you like you’re water in the desert. What was that saying? Something about well-fed sinners and famished saints?

He presses one thumb to your clit and your head begins to spin. The only sounds in the heavy air are the crickets, your gasps, and the obscene noises coming from where the two of you are connected. He slowly rubs circles on your clit, not even coming up for breath as he does. Your fingers tangle in his dark curls. He hits a particularly sensitive spot and you jerk him back by his hair.

“Ah, ah, easy, sugar. Not gonna hurt ya. Not unless ya ask real nice.” The smile he gives you is enough to nearly send you over the edge. Your drying blood at the corner of his lips. His fangs covered in your slick. His chin wet with– well, it was impossible now to tell where his drool ended and your juices began. You shove his head back down with a huff and he just chuckles, attaching himself to your cunt once more. When he opens his mouth, you can feel the tips of his fangs ghost over your clit, over and over, as he devours you.

Electricity lights up your entire body, starting in your core and sizzling through your limbs. You grip his hair as if it’s the only thing tethering you to Earth. Your legs twitch around his head, and Remmick? He just continues lapping you up, desperate, as if you might kick him back out onto the porch the second your orgasm passes.

When your breathing finally returns to normal, he’s over you, his hands on either side of your head, his chain dangling in your face. 

“How was that? Was it good?”

You stare up into his face, so desperate to please you. His eyes are wild, his chin still wet. 

“So good. Such a good boy for me,” you coo, melting him instantly. He hums in pleasure. You bring your hands back to his hair, and he leans into your touch, letting you play with his sweaty locks. You scratch behind his ear and his head drops in ecstasy. You trace a finger over the top button of his shirt.

“Ain’t you hot? All these clothes on…?”

He growls again, animalistic and raw. He sits up and rips his suspenders from his shoulders, letting them hang down around his sides in that way he knows you like. He goes to unbutton his shirt, but his claws make the dexterous movement impossible. You sit up, still under him. Gently, you place your fingers over his. You trace the length of one of his claws with your fingertip gingerly. He rests his forehead against yours, sweat mixing on your skin, your breath hot and mingling between you two as you delicately undo the buttons on his shirt.

“The Devil ever had anyone be gentle with him?” you whisper, almost afraid to break the silence.

“No,” he whispers.

You tug the shirt from his shoulders. He finishes the job and tosses it aside. He grabs at his tank top, torn and already soaked with sweat, and adds it to the pile of clothes that will, hopefully, go neglected until morning. His chest heaves with every labored breath, the gold chain glinting and reflecting in the moonlight. You rake your nails down his chest, making him drop his head back again. He groans again, loud, lewd, and lustful. 

A grin creeps across your face. When your fingers reach his waistband, you flatten your palms against his stomach and drag them back up towards his chest, pressing firmly against the taut skin, slick with sweat.

“FUCK, baby, shit!” 

He curses and snaps his head forward. When he does, you grab his jaw between your fingertips and hold him still, forcing him to look at you. The skin on his chest sizzles quietly.

“You’re a little fuckin’ sadist, ain’tcha?” he spits, somewhere between furious and turned on. You press the silver ring on your finger to his jaw in response. He hisses and bares his fangs before you shove his face to the side.

“Fuck. Fuck, sugar, I–” he breathes, still recovering. You stare down at the burns that are streaked down his chest, your hunger growing. You want to run your tongue over the burned skin.

“Let me…let me feel you darlin’. Please,” he gasps. It makes you smile. He’s still begging.

“Didn’t realize you needed permission to enter down there, too,” you tease. He doesn’t waste any more time. His hands fly to his trousers, undoing the button and zip as you lie back. You see him then, long and hard and already weeping for you. The feeling of him lining himself up makes your breath catch in your throat. 

He pushes in gently, like he’s still asking permission for every inch of closeness. When he’s finally inside, his eyes, red and gleaming, roll back into his head. “Ah–ahh, feel so fuckin’ good sugar. Feel like you were made for me.”

“Ya gonna gab all night or ya gonna fuck me like you promised?”

He laughs, the vibrations sinking in all the way to your bones, as he begins to move.

“Gonna make you cum so many times you lose count. Gonna fuck you so good you’ll be stumbling for days.”

And fuck, you think he might be right. He’s stretching you, hitting deeper than he ever has before, hitting a spot that’s making your cheeks flush and your head spin. Pleasure builds in your center as you reach up for him.

“Ah, ah. Keep those hands to yourself, pretty girl,” he scolds. You chuckle.

“Afraid of a little silver?” you coax.

He stills inside of you. You whimper, frustrated.

“That’s what I thought. Keep those hands to yourself and that pretty little mouth in line, and I’ll fuck ya like the good girl you are,” he promises. You groan under him, but whether it’s from pleasure or defeat, even you don’t know.

He resumes his pace, relentlessly ramming into you. You turn your head to the side. You see his right hand, bracing against the floor next to your head. You stick your tongue out and lick one clean stripe from his wrist up his forearm, as far as you can reach. He moans above you.

“Fuck, ‘s what I’m talkin’ ‘bout sugar,” he croons. “So good to me.”

He leans down over you until his forehead is pressed against your collarbone.

“Let me taste you, darlin’, please. Haven’t fed in days, let me be full, let me have you, please…” He pulls back just enough so you can feel his hot breath on your neck, desperate. “I’ll be gentle, I promise, won’t bite too hard. Please.”

Before you can speak, he leans into your neck. 

“Remmick–”

He recoils from you as quickly as if he was bit by a snake.

“FUCK!”

You can see the burn searing on his chin in the shape of a cross. He looks down at your neck to see the only thing you’re wearing– a silver cross on a silver chain. You smile up at him wickedly.

“I guess there’s somethin’ to be said about askin’ permission, huh?” you whisper. His glare looks like he’s contemplating ripping your throat out with his teeth. 

“You really want me dead, huh?” he asks hotly.

“Maybe just a little bit,” you retort through a devilish grin. 

Then, his gaze softens. He looks down at the necklace and back at you.

“Will you take it off?” he asks weakly. “Please. Wanna taste you…please?”

You reach up and grab the cross, playing with it daintily between your fingers. His eyes follow your every move. You could toy with him like this forever. Finally, you firmly grip the cross and tug. The chain snaps behind your head, and you toss the silver aside. You smile up at him.

He sighs, a sound of pure bliss, and falls back down to your chest, resuming his rhythm one more time. His breath is hot in the crook of your neck. You feel his fangs ghosting over your throat, his lips brushing against your pulse point. Then, something wet and dripping. He’s drooling all over you, thin, warm, wet ropes of his spit dribbling onto your neck. You tangle your fingers in his hair and yank him back so you can see his face.

The creature looking back at you barely looks human. His eyes, wide and red, darkness lurking behind them. His fangs, spilling out of his mouth as if they’re too big for his jaw. Drool all over his chin.

“What?” he growls, frustrated from being interrupted.

“Just wanna see you like this,” you whisper.

“Like what?” “Like the goddamn animal you are. Like the desperate, whiny, pathetic creature that keeps comin’ to my door. Like the Devil that’s lovin’ me so good it’s sendin’ me to Hell.”

It sends him over the edge. He snarls and bites down on your neck, hard. He thrusts up into you with similar ferocity. The pain, the pleasure, all building in you, sending heat through your body. He reaches down with one hand and drags the tip of one claw across your clit. You’re seeing stars.

“Oh God–” you moan, your orgasm rocking through you.

“No God here, darlin’, ‘member?” he teases, darkness in his voice. “Just the Devil, fillin’ you up this good.”

You have no idea how much blood he drains from you. Enough to make you lightheaded, even as you come down from your high. He follows you soon after, detaching from your neck and rutting into you, chasing his own release. You feel it a second later, hot spurts of warmth shooting inside of you. You claw at his back, anchoring your nails into his flesh, certain that he’ll have marks there for at least a few days, accelerated healing be damned. You can feel him go soft inside of you, but he doesn’t pull out. He stays there, above you, panting, eyes still wild, chin dripping with your blood. A drop falls from his fangs to your chest. He leans down, still holding eye contact, and slowly, obscenely, presses his tongue to your skin, licking it up, making you shudder.

“Thank you,” he whispers, face buried in your chest. “Taste so good when you’re cummin’, heart fuckin’ beatin’ for me, pussy hangin’ onto me, fuck, baby, thank you, thank you…”

You hum in response. He picks his head up, looking at you desperately.

“Was that good? Was I good?” he asks, still craving your approval. You laugh, your hands flying up to cover your face. He stares down at the silver rings still decorating your fingers. You reach for his face and he instinctively pulls back.

“Oh,” you say gently. As much as you love torturing him, all you want right now is to touch him, sweet and soft. “You want me to take these off?”

He nods wordlessly, eyes huge, looking like a wounded thing.

“Why don’t you take them off?” you coo. “Those teeth oughta be good for more’n just this.” Your fingers graze over the bite on your neck. It’s oddly smaller than you expected. 

You raise one finger. Slowly, he opens his jaw and takes your finger in his mouth, careful not to graze the metal. He bites down, his fangs gripping your ring, and pulls your hand back by the wrist, gently working the ring off your finger. When it’s completely free, he turns and spits, sending the silver clattering across the floor. He does this a second time, and a third, until you can feel him start to get hard inside of you again. You smile up at him.

“Good boy,” you praise as he works on the fourth ring. His eyes gently flutter shut. 

When he’s successfully removed all the silver from your body, you grab his face between your hands. Your foreheads pressed together, breath leaving his mouth and entering yours. You press a kiss to his mouth, wet and sloppy, tasting yourself all over him– the sweet, coppery taste of slick and blood. His hands ghost all over you, as if he’s trying to memorize your body so he can reconstruct it the next time you shut him out.

He starts to move again, gripping your hips and pressing into you. He takes your hand and places it over your lower stomach, pressing gently.

“Feel me? Right here? Fuckin’ tight, fuckin’ sweet, fuck sweetheart, you have no idea what you do to me.” His voice is dripping with lust and something else, something like gratitude.

You feel him hitting you slow and steady and deep, and the sinful sound of him fucking his own cum deeper into your pussy makes you feel faint.

“Please don’t make me go. I’ll stay here, I’ll be your dog, your animal, walk me around on a leash, leave my water in a bowl on the floor, please, I’ll do whatever you want. Just don’t make me leave, sugar. Can’t stand it, please.” He sounds close to tears. Your eyes glance up to his face, contorted somewhere between pleasure and agony.

“Remmick,” you say, forcing his eyes open, making him look at you. “You gonna keep grovelling, or ya gonna fuck me like ya mean it?”

A wicked grin illuminates his face. He picks up his rhythm. You have a feeling your back is going to be giving you hell for a little while.

You wake in the morning, and there he is. You don’t remember how late it was when you both finally tumbled into the bed. He looks peaceful. You’re struck with something– not sympathy, not pity, something else. A feeling, deep in your chest, seeing him lying there. Looking…human.

You roll over and check the alarm clock on your nightstand. 1:37pm. Damn. Well, you suppose, to be expected after a long night. The curtains are drawn in your bedroom. On instinct, you swing your feet down to the floor, pull your robe around you, and cross to the window to open them. You grab the two pieces of fabric and pause.

The only thing between him and sudden death. You. The only thing keeping him from frying alive. You. The only thing taking enough pity on him to let him keep sleeping. You.

You cross out of the room and shut the door quietly, sealing in the darkness. In the kitchen, you pour yourself a glass of water and gulp it down. You prepare your coffee, filling the old iron pot with water and setting it on the stove. You turn the heat on as you wander across the room, opening the curtains at each window, letting daylight stream into the room. It’s like something from a postcard, you think, the warm afternoon sun, the gentle underscore of birdsong, the familiar and comforting smell of fresh coffee. The pot whistles on the stove and you take it off the heat, pouring yourself a cup. You hear a stirring from the bedroom. A delicious idea takes root in your mind.

You quietly pad across the floor to the bedroom door. Gingerly, you turn the knob, and throw the door open. Sunlight bathes across the first few feet of the floor, but doesn’t reach the bed.

He screams. Screams with true terror in his voice.

“Mornin’ darlin’!” you crow. “I made coffee, if you want any.”

His eyes, terror-stricken but slowly adjusting to the sudden light, peek up at you from the sheets. It’s odd, seeing him during the day. It’s like two separate pieces of yourself colliding at once. You turn from the door, leaving it open, and jaunt back into the sunlight of the kitchen.

“You gonna stay in bed all day?” you call. When you stick your head back into the bedroom, he’s out of the bed, on all fours, on the floor. He’s as close to the patch of light on the floor as he possibly can be without catching any of it. You chuckle darkly and turn to sit on the couch, in full view of the bedroom door. 

You lean back on the couch, coffee steaming from your mug on the coffee table. Your robe falls open just a bit at your chest. You see his eyes, not yet red, but gleaming in the darkness. You let your hand fall between your legs and let your head fall back against the couch, soaking in the afternoon sunlight.

“Please, sugar. No more games.”

Thanks for reading! Check out part two here and part three here. As always, likes, comments, and reblogs highly appreciated!

[remmicksgf]

Sweetest Sin (nsfw 18+)

❤︎ Remmick (Sinners) x female reader ❤︎ Remmick fucks you dumb enough to ask if he enjoys having sex with you/if it feels good and he nearly strokes out ❤︎ came home after watching sinners for the 9th time and decided who needs sleep! wouldn't be getting much of it if he were here anyway

His tongue met the edge of your hip. A wet moan muffled against your skin, Remmick dragged it toward your belly button, then trailed messy kisses and sloppy bites up to your breasts, where his mouth found the raised flesh of your nipples, darkened with their hardening. Your fingers burying themselves in the locks of black curling around his ears and matting to his forearm, your chest lifted as he suckled needily on one then the other, switching with a crude popping sound and a hurried exhale. His saliva dribbling onto you and smearing his cheeks, the next he lifted up, you cupped his cheeks and brought his face to yours, squirming beneath the weight of his body.

His gold chain dangling from his neck, your fingertips then danced down the back to his spine. As soon as your touch dragged further down his back, your arms wrapping around his wide torso, Remmick buried his nose into your neck and began inhaling your scent in between deepened groans. You wriggled your hips upward some more, kissing and biting his shoulder as he had done to you, until he pushed his knees beneath your thighs and lowered himself enough you felt the hard edge of his cock slide across your wet belly. With a shiver at the contact and the flex of his lower back, arching his ass back before grunting and glancing down the length of you to make sure he was angling himself properly, you ached to feel him stretch you open and hold himself inside the way he always did, slowing his breath and adjusting to the feeling of your walls clenching around him, never totally used to the sensation of your pretty cunt damn near weeping for him.

Nonetheless, despite this need and the racing of your heart to dizzy you with the anticipation, your hands met his neck and chest and you stilled him with a hush of his name, distracting him just long enough you could turn your shoulder, then tuck your hands beneath you and push up against him, turning to lay of your belly. Remmick's calloused hands slid down the curve of your back and swept downward to cradle your abdomen, his long fingers and hard knuckles groping at your supple flesh while he cursed beneath his breath and realigned himself to your swollen entrance, this time hurriedly. His other hand moving from your hip to reach up and grab a fistful of the hair at the back of your skull, he craned your jaw back and as soon as the gummy head of his leaking cock disappeared between your folds, he punched his pelvis upward and sheathed himself completely inside, nearly buckling forward over you as you simultaneously tightened so much the delicate tissue almost squeezed him out, yet with the hollowing of your lungs, he felt he couldn't have been able to pull out if he tried. His mouth hung open, and another string of saliva trickled down his chin; his eyes darkened and dilated. Jagged teeth revealing themselves when he clenched and bared them, he knotted his fist again and earned a high-pitched whimper from you as your breath hitched and your blurry gaze looked upward.

He began thrusting hard, a rough exhale matching the increasing tempo until he left bruises where his hands met you and he released your hair to wrap his palm around the front of your throat. Finally falling forward to wrap his opposite arm around your chest, you felt his teeth meet your scapula and the back of your neck before he sat back on his knees and brought you up with him onto his lap, never ceasing his thrusts, only changing how much he pulled out before snapping back to the hilt with a squelch of your wetness mixing with the sweat and precum glistening on his skin. He was surprisingly quiet while fucking you, too concentrated to turn his thoughts into words, instead letting you hear the open mouthed sounds that escaped and were choked from him, strangled from his strained and striated throat as his eyes squeezed shut. When he fell forward again, releasing one arm to shoot out beneath next to where where your hands fell from his forearm, you stretched out and rested your head against the ground, sucking sweet air into your burning lungs through flaring nostrils while Remmick took hold of your waist again and used the curve of your hips between his palms to yank at you until the quivering burn of his thighs and the yanking tension deep in his belly came undone, causing him to bury himself as deep as he could get one last time and lean his shoulders back, wincing while hot seed spurted against your cervix, sticky strings of it feeling like an extension of each heavy kick of his throbbing cock as his hips tensed and rolled forward each time his balls contracted.

Tenderly, his chin to his chest and his panting sounding like a dog's, Remmick pulled himself out and immediately fell to your side, collapsing on his back with half-lidded eyes following yours while his fingers stretched out and beckoned you to nestle into him.

You pressed small kisses just beneath his jaw to his cheek, then asked quietly, "You alright?" When he remained silent. You touched his forehead and swiped some hair away, observing his expression. He had a habit of drawing back into his thoughts, his memories, but rarely when the two of you were being intimate--which was more often than not. You began to feel like there was something else to the way he fucked you hurriedly, like it was a task to get himself off, until Remmick caught your wrist and lifted his face in the same motion, catching your cheek in his other hand to kiss you like it was taking a needed breath. He tugged at you so your chest pressed to his, before you swung your leg over him and straddled his waist. When he planted his hands on your ass and tugged at the plush meat, your sore folds separated, and a glob of his cum dripped like cream onto his abdomen.

His lips hovered only centimeters away from yours when he finally responded. "You're fuckin' unbelievable."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You--m'lass, askin 'bout if I'm alright as soon as I get done fuckin' ya as if I ain't flutterin' down from heaven on earth at this very moment. And as if I ain't plannin' on gettin' righ'back in there." His words melted into a grumbly purr, then a soft moan once he kissed you again.

"I just wa..." he kissed you, and kissed you, and kissed you, barely letting you get another word out. You had to sit up to do so, although he followed to his elbows and tilted his head with doe eyes that made your heart twist. "Want you to enjoy yourself--with me, to enjoy me. It feels good, doesn't it?" The statement hadn't sounded that serious when it crossed your mind, but there was a change in Remmick's expression as soon as he heard it out loud.

It was like blasphemy to hear you even for a flinch of a second doubt if he enjoys you. You could see the frustration, the agony in the scrunch of his eyebrows and nose, the opening and closing of his lips like he couldn't even begin to adequately express how wrong you were--and the stupidity in thinking it wouldn't feel good. His Adam's apple shot upward when he swallowed, and frustration became determination.

At the same time he cupped your face, smashing his mouth against yourself, full of sharp teeth and with a red glint to his eyes, he hoisted your waist up so he could force you beneath him again, this time pinning you on your back and slinking down to bury his face between your thighs. He would make you apologize, of course, but first he would make you fucking grateful his manhood needed a break before achieving another erection. Although his vampirism sped up the process and enabled him to go more times in a row than the average human male, his increased stamina and endurance be damned with you. There were times he thought he would cum not a minute into fucking you.

The sound of his name choking in your throat was sweet, but it wasn't enough. His fingers curved upward and buried in your core, his tongue flicked over the already overstimulated bud of your clit, and he would continue to do so until your clenched your legs around his head and pushed at his skull, curling upward and trembling as if he were about to exorcise demons from your pussy and swallow them whole. He wouldn't stop until tears ran down your cheeks, and you would think him cruel for this punishment.

Only at that point would he push your legs open again and grab your jaw with slick fingers to keep your eyes locked on his while he slowly, deliberately slid back inside you, fucking you nice and good and slow, cradling one of your legs open in his other arm all the while not letting you turn away from him so you could see each twinge and strain of his face and hear loud and clear the obscene words that could set a whole church on fire from its sin if uttered within a mile radius. But he didn't just utter it, he commanded it, as if it hadn't been centuries since he'd even thought it, longer since he doubted it even existed. Oh, but it did, and it trickled from his tongue, breathless, vicious and biting.

"I love you. I love you--I love you."

[remmicksgf]

call to the devil (nsfw 18+)

❤︎ remmick (sinners) x female reader ❤︎ some thoughts are more dangerous than others. and (un)lucky for you, you can't get the stranger lurking outside out of your head ❤︎ sorry to everyone but that man is coming inside. at least three times

You could still hear the thump and pulse of what seemed now to be the Juke's heartbeat. It reverberated through the soil and gave the earth life as you disappeared into the darkness surrounding. But you weren't alone. He'd left the other two where they lurked at the corner of the lot, his footsteps not too far behind yours. You straightened your shoulders back and sighed, pretending as you could to not know he was following you, failing to pretend even more that you hadn't purposefully exited the warmth and safety of the place for the cold blue shadows and chill of a man whose eyes had caught yours with the metallic twinge of ravenous hunger.

Once you were far enough down the road and down the edge of it nobody could see you even if they passed by with their headlights, you slowly turned to press your back against the nearest tree, finally looking the man, Remmick, up and down--his presence an admittance that was as telling as the fact you had cornered yourself for him.

"Heard you wanted to be let inside," you tilted your chin up as he closed the gap between you. His hands swiping down the front of his torso once he let the instrument fall from the string across his shoulder, it made an off-tune thump before he cleared his throat and caged you in, just as you wanted.

"Yeah? That what you heard?" He whispered back, his nose already dipping toward the crook of your throat. You heard him inhale deeply, and if he were to turn his face toward yours again, you would have seen the bright red glow of his other hunger coming forth, the thick drool smearing his chin. But he didn't, and with your fingers squeezing his forearm, his hand slipped around your waist to pull your hips against his before his fingers began dancing down the side of your thigh, and you hummed. "How 'bout it then, darlin... you gon' let me come inside?"

The drawl in his tone had become as gravelly as it was Irish, the change in his accent matching the raggedness of his next breath. The scratch of a day's worth of scruff against your jaw, and you could feel your heart jump further up your throat, not only at the implications of his words, but the swirling fuzziness of your head that his touch, once he slipped it beneath your skirt, caused. You pressed your cheek to his, then let your forehead fall to his shoulder when his knuckles brushed over the front of your flushed mons, his fingers curved and stroking it like a cat's head, nice and soft. You began to feel him press harder against you to push you against the tree as your hips instinctively flexed and your knees turned outward. He grunted and moved his own leg forward to keep you pinned.

"You gotta use your words, now, like a good lass." You fought the shiver that ran down your spine, flat palms now pushing gently at his chest. Your fingers fumbling with the buttons of his shirt to push it aside, alongside the straps of his suspenders. When you didn't respond, he slid a single finger along the middle of your folds, stopping the pad once he found the stiff tissue of your clit. The gasp he earned was followed by an involuntary flinch of your pelvis and a whimper, your core tightening, and movements seizing once your eyes were squeezed shut. "What was that?" He asked, "Had somethin' you wanted to say?"

Before the words left your mouth, you turned your face and found his lips, letting him taste the sweetness of your hot breath and a moan when he deepened the kiss. Your tongue lapped over the wetness of his chin and bottom lip, a string of saliva clinging between you before your head dipped back again and you finally stuttered, "I want you... inside--me. Please."

Your imagination suddenly flickered, the image of Remmick's hands taking your hips and turning you around so your nails chipped the bark of the tree as he bunched the skirt of your dress over the small of your back, letting you feel the length of frustrated, impatient erection that had begun to twitch and grow heavier seemingly with every step following you down the road until he pulled himself free of his zipper and groaned from between clenched teeth as you arched your spine and pushed yourself back onto him fading into the pale sight of him remained seated alongside the other two, fully clothed, his narrowed gaze watching the door, mouth hanging open from the ache of his gums as he shared in these fantasies, your thoughts calling to him as clear and hot as daytime.

The door to the Juke shuddered with the force of rapid knocking. You could hear it over the music--your back to the wall, you turned your head and looked down the entryway with the twist of your gut, already knew who was on the other side of it, standing in the center with his boots at the threshold once Cornbread swung it open to confirm your suspicion, but Remmick didn't pay him a single glance.

His head tilting slightly to the side, he instead locked eyes with you and shouted loud enough there was no doubt you could hear, "Now, I think that lassie righ'ver there has somethin' she wants to tell me!" before his tongue rubbed the pointed edge of a canine. When he smiled again, his brows lifted with eager anticipation and gross pride.

[writing-my-time]

Meet Me in the Bathroom

Donald Pierce X F!Reader This is the first time I've ever posted anything I've written to Tumblr! This is written for @toxicanonymity's Boyd-a-thon, which was almost perfect timing considering he's become my new blorbo. Word Count: 1.7k Warnings: 18+, Smut with minimal plot, alcohol, semi-public sex, fingering, light spanking, over-use of pet names, unprotected sex. Summary: Not even five minutes into your drink, Donald invites you to 'catch-up' in the bathroom. You agree.

Tap tap tap. Tap. The sound is aggravating, the sight even more so.

Donald Pierce slides next to you, practically peacocking his chest out as his robotic digits thrum against the bar table. Each tap of his fingers on the wood makes your eye twitch. Apparently, there’s no escaping the Reaver’s ringleader, not even in a bar right on the outskirts of Laguna Vista. You’ve only been nursing your drink for about five minutes, before he’s made his way over to you. Not even enough time to feel a buzz. He’s got that stupid grin on his face. The one where his gold tooth glints, contrasting his otherwise pearly whites. As the man leans forward, pulling down his red shades to reveal his steely blue eyes, you can’t help but roll your own. Your wordless exchange is one you’ve shared before, though it’s far too early for the two of you to make your way back to wherever he’s staying.

“Oh, c’mon, angel.” He clicks his tongue before sipping his whiskey. “Ain’t like you to refuse a piece.”

You almost choke on your drink, not wanting to stroke the man’s ego with a laugh. Watching as he folds his glasses and tucks them into his jacket pocket, you can’t help but rest your eyes on his chain necklace — Donald notices, chuckling to himself as he leans a little further forward. The chain you’d been admiring now dangles gently off his skin, glimmering slightly as the dim lights of the bar catch it swaying. Soon enough, his whiskied breath hits the shell of your ear, breaking you from your trance.

“I ain’t asking for you to stay the night, princess. Just hoping you’d meet me in the bathroom in a minute or two.” He’s almost pouting, the dirtbag. “Like old times?”

“The fucking bathroom, Don? That’s disgusting” You growl through a whisper.

“Didn’t stop you in New Mexico. Or Lake Charles, or-” “Christ, fine. I’ll be there in a minute.”

God damn it. You chew down on your lip, shutting your eyes to avoid the cocky eyebrow wriggle he’s most likely doing. Why did that work on you? Why does he work on you? Goosebumps pimple your skin as he pulls away. Like you expected, he’s wiggling his eyebrows. Without another word, he shifts off of his seat, swaggering away to the bathrooms, looking back at you with a smirk, he slips an ‘out-of-order’ sign onto the door of the disableds. You swing back your drink with haste.

---

It takes about two minutes for you to convince yourself to actually follow him. Quickly, you make your way across the room in an effort to stay unnoticed by the bar’s other patrons - though, they all seem too wrapped up in their own business to notice two people entering the same bathroom. As you push open the creaky door, you’re met almost instantly with the strong frame of Donald Pierce. Both flesh and cybernetic hands make their way down your sides, and his predatory grip tightens around your waist. Pulling you into the bathroom entirely, Don kicks the door closed with his foot before pressing you up against the cold wood. You still have enough time to look around the bathroom before his lips latch onto your neck. Like you suspected, it wasn’t exactly clean. 

The walls have some kind of mold growing up the side, and in truth, the floor is no better. God knows what the actual amenities look like. There’s a faint droning of the harsh fluorescent light above you, but that holds nothing in comparison to the sound of Don’s throaty chuckle as his hands begin to guide you over the sink.

“You’re not bending me over that thing.” You try to dig in your heels, but you know he’s far too strong to be stopped. That, and you don’t really want him to. “Don, it’s filthy.”

“Stop whining.”

“Don, you’re not fucking me-”

“-I said stop whining.” He cuts your protests off short, turning and forcing you to grip the sides of the decrepit sink as he pushes you against it. “Now, be a good girl and look in the mirror.”

Hearing his order makes your cheeks burn, and you lift your head to catch his image in the mirror. You watch the reflection with shaky breath as Don hikes your skirt up and drags your panties halfway down your thighs. With your eyes focusing on Don, you catch him throwing his head back, growling in frustration to himself before he unbuckles his belt. He drags his tongue over his teeth, flitting his eyes between the sight of your warmth, slick and wanting, and your blushing face in the mirror.

“Wish I could take my time with you.” He admits with a growl, lazily pushing the waistband of his pants under his balls, pumping his cock a few times in preparation. “Shit, I’d worship your pussy if you let me, angel. But we don’t got time.”

You’re about to quip back to him that it was his choice to fuck in the bathroom, but the air is forced out of your lungs as he delves two freezing cold metal fingers into your pink slit. Already, you know he’s not planning on keeping his cybernetic digits there for long; simply working your wetness enough to make room for his thickness. When a moan threatens to escape your lips, you have to remove your gaze from the mirror entirely. Don clicks his tongue, hastily pulling his hand away from your core. “Thought I told you to look, pretty girl.” The southern man reaches forward and grips your jaw, steering your head back to the direction of the mirror. 

Once again, you’re met with your own reflection. You watch through half-lidded eyes as Don grips his length in his hand, coating it in the slick he had gathered from your core. It’s mesmerizing, the way his tip is already red and weeping in his tight grasp. He knows you’re looking, and rewards your focus with a gentle love tap of his cock against your folds. If you weren’t so worked up, you’d bark at him to get a condom, but that’s more time you don’t want to lose. After a heated exhale from Don, he pushes forward. 

While this isn’t the first time his girth has invaded your walls, the pure thickness of him forces a choked gasp from deep within your chest. The man has yet to move, instead he dips his head down, clearly in his own bubble of ecstasy while your wetness envelops him with ease. Don’s hands grip your hips with enough strength to leave bruises, and without warning the Reaver pulls himself completely out, only to ram himself back in. His pace is vicious; the sound of skin slapping against skin echoes through the dingy bathroom. All you can do is bite down on your lip in a desperate attempt to stay quiet, watching through glassy eyes as Donald’s reflection fucks into you with a snarl. 

“Fuck, angel,” He rasps, catching your eyes in the mirror. “Don't you look so pretty takin’ my cock like this?”

You nod, earning a harsh slap to your ass with his flesh hand.

“Words, baby. You know I like that pretty lil’ voice of yours.”

“I look pretty.” You manage to squeak out through high-pitched whimpers.

“Good girl.” 

His praise is accentuated by his cybernetic hand snaking around your waist and slipping between your soaked folds. Finding your clit, he circles it with an equally brutal pace as his thrusts. There's a knot in your stomach, and already you’re feeling it begin to snap. It's as if he knows, digging his free hand in your hip for better leverage to fuck you even harder; now hitting deep enough inside you to make you need to scream. Instead, you clamp your teeth down around your hand, moaning into the bitten skin. You're so close it hurts.

“Does my pretty girl wanna cum?”

Again, you nod. This time you don't get spanked. When you focus on the mirror, you see Don's face begin to twist into pure bliss. He's close too. In his one moment of being a gentleman, he clearly wants you to cum first, or at least at the same time. Throwing his head back, Don lets out a low growl.

“Cum for me, pretty girl. Let me feel it.”

On command, your body spasms, a quick and powerful release clamping down around him while you whine into your hand. You can't help but squint your eyes shut, feeling the final staggered thrusts from Don before he pulls out with barely enough time to spare. All you can hear is his throaty grunts, right before thick ropes of his release coat your ass. He slumps over your body for a moment, syncing with your own heavy breaths before finally pulling back and admiring his work. The reaver gives your left cheek a gentle smack before pulling your skirt back down over it. He's pocketed your panties. Jerk. As you pull back with shaky legs, you aren't surprised to see he's already tucked himself back in, zipping up his fly as your eyes meet his. Can't exactly have pillow talk in a disabled bathroom, can you? The look he gives you isn't one you've seen before, but you can guess what it means.

“Gotta go?” You assume, finally exhaling a stable breath.

“You know it, angel. Nature of the job.” He shoots you the same shit eating grin as before, making sure to add in a wink this time for good measure.

With that, Donald exits the bathroom without so much as a goodbye. You rest your arms back against the sink, shaking your head as you laugh at your own expense. A minute later, you follow suit, creaking open the toilet door and removing the out-of-order sign. The man is nowhere to be seen, leaving an empty feeling you’d much prefer to drink away than acknowledge. When you head back to your original seat at the bar, the tender sets down a pretty pink cocktail with a note.

See you later, pretty girl. - D. x ---

Thank you for reading! Feedback, thoughts, and other ideas welcome. Maybe more Holbrook boy fics in the future :) Big thank you to @justeverythingprettymuch for hyping me up to post this <3

[scuddisher]

[cinnxmxngxrl]

Dbf!Johnny Davis x f!Reader

“Best In Town”

Summary: What will it take for you to convince Johnny that you give the best blowjobs in town?

WC: 5.2k

Warning/ Tags: Smut, minors DNI, age gap (unspecified) oral (m!receiving), deepthroating, Johnny refers to reader as kid a bunch of times, some misogynistic comments (it’s the 60s😭) spitting, slapping (but with his dick?), degrading and humiliation, Johnny is a bit of a dick (but only when they fuck) downright nasty smut.

It wasn’t the first time you’d found yourself at Johnny’s house on your own. Just you and him, late at night. You knew Johnny was the one you could trust whenever you needed a ride after a party, whenever something went sideways and you needed someone to help you out, like that time you caught the guy you were dating making out with another girl in the dark, or when a girl tried to start shit with you after accusing you of sleeping with her boyfriend. (You did, but in your defense, he told you he was single. Not that she’d ever believe you.)

Johnny always came to save you. No matter the hour, no matter where you were. He was your father’s best friend, and he felt some sort of responsibility for your well-being, as if he owed it to your dad after him saving his ass so many times in the past. He had this need to protect you, he couldn’t quite understand it, it wasn’t in a father-daughter way, Johnny wasn’t the type to scold you for sneaking out or for being drunk the way your father would, he wouldn’t punish you either, but he still cared, he still wanted you safe.

In your head, things always ended differently between the two of you. You imagined him picking you up after some boy broke your heart, carrying you inside, and whispering that you shouldn’t waste tears on some sorry ass loser, not when he was right there, not when he was so much better. When he was real man who could make you feel like you deserved. But things never quite went like that. Sure, he’d take you to his place, because he knew your father would kill you if he saw how drunk you got after parties. He’d lend you one of his shirts and send you to sleep on the couch. And you tried, every single fucking time, you’d sprawl on his couch, stretch your legs out over the coffee table, hoping the sight of your soft skin might tempt him. You’d squirm until your little skirt rode higher, showing him more and more of your thighs. But you could never tell if Johnny didn’t notice, or if he did and just didn’t care. Maybe he wasn’t interested. Or maybe he was, and he just had some kind of crazy self-control.

“Alright, out with it. What kinda shit you get yourself into tonight?” Johnny asked, dropping into his worn-out armchair across from you, after setting a glass of water for you on the table. “Your old man knew half’a what you been runnin’ around doin’, he’d drop dead right there in his chair.”

You rolled your eyes, sinking back into the couch. “Party was borin’. Needed a ride.”

Johnny leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Party was borin’, huh? You really call me up at three in the damn mornin’ ‘cause the party was borin’?”

“Cut me some slack, okay? You always pick me up.” You spoke defensively, your fingers tracing the hem of your dress, the fabric bunched high above your knees.

He scoffed, jerking his chin toward the glass of water. “Drink it. ‘Fore I dump the whole fuckin’ sink over your head. Drunk don’t look good on you, kid.”

You muttered something under your breath about him acting like a dick tonight, before shrugging off the leather jacket he’d lent you for the ride. The warm lamp light washed over you, and it was then Johnny saw it, clear as day now that his jacket wasn’t in the way. A trail of purple marks littered the side of your neck. Not bruises. Hickeys.

Johnny’s gaze locked on the hickeys, scanning your neck like a laser. His jaw flexed, and before he even realized it, the beer can in his hand buckled with a loud crunch.

“Who did that?” The words were forcing their way out between his clenched teeth.

“Hm?” you asked, feigning innocence, even though you knew exactly what he meant. You’d seen the way his grip had crushed the can the second you let your neck show. Was it protectiveness? Jealousy? You didn’t know. But it was something, and if it was causing a reaction in him, you weren’t about to waste the opportunity.

“You heard me, kid. Who gave you that?” His voice was rough, not so much a question as a demand.

Before you could even form an answer, Johnny pushed up from the chair and closed the space between you. Towering over where you sat, he reached down, his fingers brushing lightly over one of the dark marks on your skin.

“Must be a rash or somethin’,” you murmured, trying to play it off like it meant nothing. But of course, he didn’t buy it. Johnny Davis knew exactly what a hickey looked like.

“You think I’m stupid, do ya? That ain’t no damn rash.” His stare was incredulous, like he was dissecting every inch of your neck. His thumb hovered at your throat as he demanded, “I asked ya somethin’. Who the hell put that there?”

“Jesus, relax, Johnny.” You bit your lip, trying to hold back the grin tugging at your mouth. Seeing him this worked up, and over you, was messing with your head in ways you couldn’t ignore.

“Don’t give me bullshit,” he snapped. “Some guy at that party? Huh? That it?” And that was your chance. You saw it clear as day, the way his jealousy flared, the way he was barely keeping himself in check. So you pushed, wanting to see how far you could take it.

“Gee, it was just some guy. I don’t know why you’re makin’ such a big dea—”

“Just some guy?” Johnny’s voice broke into a harsh bark. “How many fuckin’ guys had their hands on you tonight?”

You smiled back at him, your lips curving in defiance. “Just him.”

Johnny was practically glowering down at you. You could see the vein in his neck straining, bulging from the effort of holding himself back.“Just him? Yeah? And what else? What other spots he leave his dirty prints on?”

“Why you ask? You wanna inspect me, Johnny?” You slipped into that teasing, sultry tone you always used on guys, the one that usually had them eating out of your hand. Not Johnny though, he’d never reacted to it before. But now? Now you had him right where you wanted him.

His hand shot out, gripping your chin and forcing you to look at him. He leaned down, close enough that his breath ghosted across your lips. “How far, huh? You let him kiss ya? Put his hands on ya?” His grip tightened until it almost hurt, his thumb digging into your jawline, and it was obvious, clear as day, that just the thought of another man’s hands on your body was driving him insane.

You met his eyes, let the silence stretch, then bit down on your lip before muttering the words that would push him over the edge.

“I sucked him off in the bathroom.”

Johnny’s hand turned vice-like on your chin for a split second before he released you. He raked a hand through his hair in frustration, his jaw was so tightly clenched it was a miracle his teeth didn’t shatter.

“You what?” he snarled. “You’re tellin’ me you’re runnin’ around parties, givin’ head to random assholes in bathrooms? You even think what your old man’d say if he heard that?”

“Well, my father doesn’t know,” you shot back smoothly, “and you sure as hell won’t tell him. Johnny had always kept your secrets. You were certain this time would be no different.

“Maybe I will,” he said. “Maybe I oughta tell him. Maybe someone should let him know his little girl’s been whorin’ herself all over town.” His face twisted between rage and disgust, like the image of you kneeling on a filthy piss-stained bathroom floor with some stranger’s cock in your mouth was enough to make him sick.

“Don’t be such a prude. It was just a stupid blowjob.” You smirked, almost taunting.

“You proud’a that?” he was staring at you like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to shake you or… something else. “Proud’a bein’ on your knees for whoever lines up next?”

“Maybe.” You tilted your head, gave a nonchalant shrug. “He seemed pretty damn happy about it.”

“Jesus Christ, kid.” His jaw flexed hard. “That somethin’ you braggin’ on now? Bet that prick didn’t give two shits ‘bout you. Just used your dumb little mouth and walked.”

“He couldn’t stop groanin’. You wanna know what he said, Johnny?” You smiled wickedly at his confusion. “Said it was the best head he’s ever gotten. A lot of guys say that. Well, actually, all of them say it.”

“All of ‘em?” His voice dripped venom. He took a step back like he needed space before he did something reckless. “Christ. How many’s it been? You don’t give a damn about yourself, huh? No respect at all.”

“There’ve been a few,” you admitted coolly, shrugging like it meant nothing. “And it has nuthin’ to do with self-respect.”

The living room went quiet except for Johnny’s pacing, the floorboards creaking under his boots as he moved like a caged animal. When he finally turned back to you, his eyes were sharp. “You listen real close now,” he growled. “That kinda shit? Gets around fast in this town. Next time some prick even thinks about touchin’ you, you tell him Johnny Davis’ll have him suckin’ dinner through a straw.”

You didn’t take it seriously for a second. Instead, you smirked. “Oh, please. You jealous, Johnny? Maybe wished it was you instead of some random guy in a bathroom?”

The question froze him for half a second, it caught him off guard. Because it hit too close to home. Of course he fucking wished it was him. He was only a man, for fuck’s sake. And even though he always tried to be the adult, the gentleman (well, his version of a gentleman) there was only so much a man could take. And you didn’t make it easy. Sprawled on his couch every weekend, those little dresses leaving nothing to the imagination. He’d done a decent job ignoring the peek of your panties when you shifted, or the way your tits pressed against his back whenever you rode on his bike. But now? Now you were baiting him on purpose. You were making it impossible.

“Jealous?” He let out a bitter laugh. “You think I’d want that used-up mouth on me? Please. I got higher standards.” He prayed you couldn’t see straight through his bullshit. But you could.

“Bet you’d really like it if I got on my knees right now.” Your voice dripped with confidence, something about tonight giving you the reckless courage to shoot your shot. “Don’t try pretendin’ you haven’t thought bout it.”

Of course he’d thought about it. Every damn time he tossed aside a Playboy magazine, jerking himself raw while imagining you spread out under him, moaning his name while he fisted his cock at lightning speed.

Johnny’s whole body stiffened. He pinched the bridge of his nose, like maybe blocking his vision of you would give him the strength to resist. “Goddamn… you really are a stupid kid.”

“I’ve definitely thought about it,” you said, leaning back like you had all the power in the world. “My mouth on you. Bet it’d be the best head you’ve ever gotten, too.” You looked at him with hungry eyes, as if you were already savoring the taste of him on your tongue.

His shoulders tensed, his grip on the armrests of the couch so tight his knuckles turned white. “What—what the hell is your problem? What’s gotten into—”

You cut him off before he could finish. “You wanna know the technique, Johnny?” Your voice dropped. “You get on your knees, you look up at him… right in the eyes. You hold his cock in your hand, and you look at it like it’s the best thing you’ve ever seen. Like it’s a goddamn gift from heaven.” You paused, locking eyes with him. “That’s what drives them insane.”

Johnny squeezed his eyes shut, trying to breathe, trying to stay calm. But it was impossible, every filthy word you spoke carved an image into his brain he couldn’t unsee. You. On your knees. His cock in your mouth.

“You’re your old man’s kid. You know how fuckin’ filthy that is? How that looks on you? Jesus Christ.” His voice was sharp.

You ignored his comment, and continued with your mission: Making him fall. “They usually like that I have small hands, you know, ‘cause it makes their cocks look bigger,” you said with a sly grin. “Although, I don’t think that’s goin’ to be a problem with you… you look like you’re packin’.”

“Shut your goddamn mouth,” he ground out. “Shut it.”

“Why?” you chuckled, enjoying the way he was unraveling. “Am I makin’ you hard? And I haven’t even started. You wanna know how I’d do it with you?”

“Ya think runnin’ your mouth about suckin’ dick’s a joke?” His breath came heavy. “You sound like a fuckin’ whore. Last warnin’, kid. Stop talkin’.”

But you only smiled, leaning forward. “I’d start real slow. That’s the trick. Teasin’.” You trailed your fingers over your own thigh, illustrating every word. “I’d rub you over your jeans, feel you gettin’ harder, thicker, just for me. And when you’re strainin’ in them, I’d take my sweet time, unbuckle your belt real fuckin’ slow, pull your zipper down… with my teeth.” You swore you heard a broken sound he made in his chest, like a wounded animal. “And when I finally got you out…” You slid your tongue over your lips, then flicked it out, mimicking. “I’d lick you slow. One long stripe from the base… all the way up. By the time I got to the tip, I know you’d already be leakin’, ‘cause ’m just that good. So I’d swirl my tongue around it… fuck, they always lose their minds when I do that.”

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ. Stop it. Right now. Or I swear to God—” His words came out desperately, as if he was in physical pain. And maybe he was, because every word out of your mouth was a punch to his cock, and he was so hard it hurt. His jeans felt like they were strangling him, his balls so tight he thought he might explode if you pushed him even one step further.

“I’d open my mouth wide for you,” you whispered, “take just the head at first, nice and gentle. But not for long, most guys can’t handle that much teasing. So I’d stroke you with my hand, suck you deeper and deeper until you feel how warm my throat is wrapped around you. And when you look down?” You let your gaze drop, eyeing the tent that had already formed in his jeans. “You’d see my mouth stretched wide around your cock, and I bet you’d fuckin’ lose it.”

Johnny, drenched in sweat, his pulse hammering so hard he swore you could hear it, couldn’t hold back anymore. The last shred of his self-control finally snapped. He shot to his feet, and in two long strides he was on you, hauling you up by the arm until you stood in front of him.

“I’d hollow my cheeks, suck until you’re groanin’. I’d let spit drip all over your cock, make a mess on purpose, ‘cause I know you’d like that. You’d hold my hair, wouldn’t ya? Push me down harder, make me choke on it.” You continued.

Johnny’s chest heaved. “That smart mouth’s gonna get you killed one day. You hear me?”

“It ain’t smart, Johnny. It’s talented.” You smiled, tilting your chin up at him. “You wanna know if I swallow or spit?”

The muscle in his jaw twitched as he stared down at you, like he couldn’t decide if he was more furious with you for driving him insane, or more turned on by your shamelessness.

“Whenever I feel them gettin’ close,” you whispered, leaning in so your lips nearly brushed his ear, “I take them all the way. Gag on it a little. And when they can’t take it anymore, when they cum? I don’t pull off. I swallow. Every last drop.” Before he could even process the filth coming out of your mouth, your hand slid down and cupped him through his jeans, palming the thick, straining bulge. “Wouldn’t ya like that, Johnny? Me on my knees, swallowin’ every drop o’you?”

He let out a ragged hiss the instant your hand pressed against him. The ache had been gnawing at him for minutes, torturing him, and now the pressure of your palm over his swollen cock felt too good, it wasn’t the relief he needed, but the friction made him see stars. If just that, through layers of denim, was enough to make him throb, he knew he’d fucking lose it once your mouth was actually on him. With a guttural growl, Johnny’s hand shot to your throat, fingers wrapping firmly around it, enough to make your breath stutter. And then he crushed his mouth to yours. The kiss was brutal, all tongue and teeth and pent-up rage. You arched against him instantly, your nails digging into his shirt as you clung to him, tugging and pulling him closer.

“You drive me fuckin’ crazy,” he groaned against your mouth. One hand clamped tight on your waist, dragging you flush against him, while the other slid down to grab a handful of your ass, squeezing hard, grinding your body closer until the hard length of him pressed against your lower stomach.

“Talkin’ to me like that… makin’ me picture—” He cut himself off with another savage kiss, his tongue shoving into your mouth, swallowing every sound you made.

“Makin’ you picture what?” you teased.

“You. On your fuckin’ knees f’me.”

Before he could protest or say another word, you were already kneeling on the floor in front of him. His belt clinked as you worked it open beneath your fingers, teasingly slow, just like you’d promised him you would. Every second made him tremble with anticipation. He hissed a curse, running a hand down his face like he could scrub the moment away, but he didn’t stop you. He couldn’t, even if he tried.

“Fuck,” Johnny muttered. “This is wrong… this is—your dad—”

You tugged the zipper of his jeans down with your teeth, flashing a little wicked smile as you pulled it slowly. He had a front-row seat to your little show, and with every passing moment, he grew more desperate to finally feel you. His cock sprang heavy into your hand, it was big and thick, exactly as you’d imagined, standing rigid and flush against your palm. You hummed softly, noting the slick pre-cum glistening on the tip, just from just your words and kisses.

“Damn, you’re playin’ with fire,” he growled. “I ain’t like those little boys you been fuckin’ with. I don’t bark—I bite.”

“Well, lucky for you, I don’t… unless you ask nice.” You chuckled, leaning closer so your breath brushed over his sensitive skin. “Fuck, Johnny… leaking already, and I haven’t even touched you yet.”

“Keep talkin’ shit,” he warned, exhaling sharply through his nose, “and I’ll shove it so far down your throat you’ll forget how to breathe. But you’d like that, huh? Bet you would.”

“Oh, you know I would.” You smirked as you wrapped your fingers around the base, giving him a slow pump, feeling the heat and weight of him. You let your lips brush against the thick head of his cock, then dragging your tongue up the underside, savoring the taste of his skin. “Gonna give you the best head of your life, Johnny.”

“Prove it, then.” His fingers threaded into your hair, not yanking but holding you firmly in place like he owned you. you. “Show me. Let me fuckin’ see that famous mouth of yours put to better use, or you just gonna play with your food?”

And then you took him in your mouth. Just the tip at first, and he cursed immediately at the warmth, the wetness, the way it stretched over him “Sensitive?” you teased around him. “Told ya I was good at this.”

Johnny couldn’t deny it, you were right. You knew exactly how to wear that look. That look that said this was the best cock you’d ever laid eyes on, like it had been personally delivered by god himself.

Your tongue circled the tip of him lazily, like you had all the time in the world, completely ignoring the fact that he was dying on the inside. You let him feel the teasing little suctions, the soft drag of your lips over him, inch by inch.

“Stop… fuckin’ around,” he ground out raggedly. “You wanna play whore? Then suck it like one.”

Gone was any trace of the Johnny who once averted his eyes, who tried to respect you, to protect you, who always held himself back, who cared about you. That controlled man no longer existed. Now, if you wanted to be a slut, he was going to show you exactly how good a little slut you could be for him.

You’d barely even started, and already he was losing his mind. Not even the guys you’d blown in bars had ever been this anxious, this desperate. It was clear as day, you had a completely different hold on him. Sliding further down, you hollowed your cheeks to take him inch by inch until he hit the back of your throat, making you gag slightly. Your eyes watered, and you pulled back with a wet, loud pop, just to do it again.

“Ohhhh, fuck. Fuckin’ hell,” Johnny groaned, burying his hand deeper into your hair, his fingers gripping tight. “You’re—shit… you’re fuckin’ filthy.”

You moaned around him, the vibration of your throat making him hiss like a wounded animal. And if he thought that was filthy, he had no idea what was coming next, no clue how good you could be for him. One hand wrapped around the base of his cock, stroking what you couldn’t fit inside, because even with a practiced gag-reflex he still was a lot to take, while your other slid lower to cup his balls. They were already slick from how much he was leaking and from all the spit dropping down from your mouth. You knew how much guys loved it messy, and Johnny was no exception, he was staring down at you, utterly idiotized by the sight, the eyes of a man who’d just lost a battle.

You massaged his balls gently, rolling them in your soft palm, squeezing just enough to make his knees buckle. He cursed again, his hips were jerking forward despite himself.

“That’s it,” you purred, finally pulling back for a breath, more spit dripping down your chin. “Push it down my throat. Use my mouth. Use me.”

“Good fuckin’ girl,” he rasped. “You like it, huh? Bein’ a little cocksucker for me?”

“Love it.”

His control snapped again. Johnny’s hand tightened in your hair, forcing you back down onto his thick length. This time, he made you gag harder, feeling your throat convulse around him. Spit dripped onto your shirt, and the sight was too much for him. He wouldn’t admit it out loud, but it had been a long, long time since he’d felt the warmth of something that wasn’t his own hand wrapped around him.

“Fuck… fuck—look at ya,” he growled, staring down at you, rutting his hips forward into your mouth. “Talkin’ about suckin’ some punk in a shithole bathroom… nuthin’ like this. This… this is a man’s cock, sweetheart.”

You swallowed him again, choking on him with deliberation, one hand stroking him in time with his thrusts while the other kept cupping and squeezed his balls, adding to the overwhelming sensations rocking his body.

“Goddamn,” Johnny groaned, his head falling back. “You’re—fuck, you’re killin’ me. Dirty fuckin’ mouth… made to suck cock.”

You pulled back with a gasp, dragging a long, filthy stripe up his shaft with your tongue, smirking wickedly. He was barely holding on. “Told ya I was the best.”

His nostrils flared. “You don’t know when to shut up.”

You smirked, stroking him fast and sloppy before swallowing him down again, moaning so the vibrations would make him shudder. You bobbed your head quicker, until he was groaning, cursing, his hips jerking up into your mouth.

“Fuck—fuck!—” His voice was wrecked. “Fuckin’ whore,” Johnny growled. “That’s what you want, huh? You want me to say it? You’re my little slut.”

His gaze locked on you, torn between shame and hunger, cock twitching in your hand and throat. You didn’t give him time to recover, you let your throat work around him as you gagged on purpose, making that wet glock glock glock sound you knew was making him crazy. His groans mixed with your gulping, drove him closer to the edge. He couldn’t stop himself, he was fucking your throat with rough and uneven thrusts.

Johnny was already panting like he’d gone ten rounds in the ring, one hand shaking in your hair from the tight grip he couldn’t loosen. “You don’t… fuckin’ know what you’re doin’ to me,” he rasped.

You smirked around him, inhaled through your nose, and sank him deeper until he was buried in your throat.

“Fuck!” Johnny’s voice cracked. “Jesus—That’s it. Mhmm… like that. Just like that.”

You pulled back just far enough to catch a breath, a string of spit connecting your lips and his cock, then slammed down again faster, swallowing him whole. Each brutal thrust made tears stream down your cheeks, smudging your mascara.

Johnny cursed, dragging his free hand across your face. “Goddamn… takin’ it like you were built for it. Shit… mouth made for my cock.”

You pulled back with a gasp, stroking him slowly. “Yours tastes better than that guy at the party,” you whispered, teasing. “So much better.”

Something broke in him then, jealousy and anger, his hand fisting tighter in your hair as he guided you back down onto him, hips thrusting roughly into your mouth.

“Yeah?” he panted. “That right? This cock better than those boys you been runnin’ with?”

You tried to nod but gagged again, choking messily. Johnny wasn’t sure what to focus on, your cute face with your lips wrapped around his cock, tears streaking your cheeks; your small hand massaging his balls; the way the back of your throat clenched around his tip. All of it wrecked him.

“Don’t stop,” he groaned, his hips driving harder. “You keep goin’, you take it—fuck, take all of it, you dirty little cocksucker… ahhh, shitshitshit, you’re gonna make me blow.”

That was exactly what you wanted. You moaned around him, drooling and gagging as you deepthroated him over and over, choking hard and still swallowing down every inch he shoved into you.

Johnny’s voice turned ragged, breaking apart. “You fuckin’—ohhh fuck, kid, you’re—Jesus Christ—” His whole body shook like he was trying to hold back but couldn’t. Your eyes watered, spit dripping down as you looked up at him one last time before forcing yourself all the way down to the base, nose pressing against his pelvis, holding him there until your throat convulsed. Johnny felt you squeezing, spasming around his cock, and it broke him. “FUCK—” he growled, yanking your hair back in a fist as his body snapped forward like an animal. His cock pulsed violently, spilling hot and thick bursts of cum straight down your throat, flooding you.

“Take it,” he rasped, as he emptied himself. His grip locked you in place, making you choke and swallow around him until every last drop was forced down your throat. “Fuckin’ take it, don’t waste a drop.”

You obeyed, gulping greedily, your throat working to milk him dry. You refused to pull back until his balls were drained, until his cock had twitched out the very last hot spurt. When you finally pulled off him with a wet pop, spit and cum leaked down your chin in filthy strings. You knew the sight was obscene, and he confirmed it when his glazed eyes stayed glued to your wrecked face. His chest heaved, sweat plastering his shirt to his skin, his whole body trembling like he’d just been knocked out in a fight.

Johnny yanked you forward by your hair, making you look up at him from your knees. His cock, slick with your spit and the last of his release, twitched heavy in his hand. “Open that mouth.”

You obeyed instantly, tongue out, lips parted. Johnny let out a ragged laugh at the sight of your empty mouth, proof that you’d swallow it all. “Fuckin’ perfect.” His cock slapped wet against your cheek, a lewd, sticky sound that made your stomach clench. He dragged it across your face, painting your flushed skin with spit and cum, tapping the swollen head against your lips, your chin, even across the bridge of your nose.

“Look at ya,” his voice dripping with filth. “Cum-drunk little slut, just sittin’ here lettin’ me use your pretty face like a rag.” He slapped the length against your cheek again, harder this time, the sting sharp but quick, leaving behind a wet trail. “You like bein’ my little cumrag? That all you’re good for?”

He gave your face another sharp slap with his cock, grunting when you flinched. “Hear that? That’s the sound of what you’re good for.”

He dragged the thick head across your bottom lip, smearing it. His cock slid up over your cheekbone, until it rested right under your eye. He grinned,“Gonna leave you so messy you’ll be wearin’ me home.” He slapped it across your mouth again, and you moaned around the sting, lips parting wider, tongue chasing him. Johnny shoved the head back against your tongue, teasing it across the flat of your mouth without pushing back in. “Can’t get enough. Just had my load down your throat, and you’re still sittin’ there hungry. Fuckin’ cockslut.”

He leaned forward, grabbed your jaw with one hand, and without warning he spit. A thick string of it hit your cheek, sliding hot down toward your mouth. You gasped, but before you could do anything, he pressed the head of his cock right into the trail, dragging it slow across your face, smearing it lazily.

“Good girl,” he rasped, voice like gravel. “Wearin’ my spit.” He smeared it across your lips, your nose, marking you. “Open up. Lemme see that filthy tongue.”

You obeyed, mouth falling open again, tongue stretched out eagerly. Johnny angled his cock and slapped it down across your tongue. “Fuckin’ whore. That’s what you are. You love it, don’t you?Wonder what your old man’d think, seein’ you on your knees, lettin’ me use your face as my fuckin’ cumrag. Think he’d still call you his sweet little girl?”

Another glob of spit landed on your other cheek, sliding down slow. Johnny grinned, using his cock to rub it in, back and forth across your face until your skin was wet and sticky.

Johnny laughed again. “Nah. He wouldn’t recognize ya. Not like this. Sloppy, cock-drunk, beggin’ for me to spit on ya. What’d he say, huh? That I turned his girl into a biker’s slut?”

He spat again, right on your tongue this time, and rubbed his cock through it, grinding the swollen head over your taste buds until you moaned “Fuckin’ eat it,” he growled. “Eat my spit like the whore you are. Eyes on me.”

You swallowed, never breaking eye contact, and Johnny’s cock twitched in his fist. “Hungry little bitch. Can’t even let me catch my breath fore you’re beggin’ for seconds.”

“Told ya,” your voice was hoarse from choking on him so hard. You licked at your lips, tongue scooping up what was left of his release, savoring it. “I’m the best.”

Johnny finally let go of you. He collapsed onto the couch, still catching his breath, his cock twitching weakly in his hand, glistening with your spit and the last streaks of cum. He let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “You’re full o’yourself, kid.”

You tilted your head, smirking as you slowly dragged your tongue over your chin, licking the mess off your skin like you wanted him to watch every second. “I’m full of you, actually.”

He tried to straighten up, to pull that smug attitude back on, but the red flush on his cheeks gave him away. “You were good. Pretty fuckin’ good. But not the best I’ve ever had.”

You snorted, leaning back on your heels. You’d never seen a man that desperate before, moaning and cursing as loud as he had when you worked your mouth on him. You knew you were the best. “Liar.”

His lips curled into a lazy smirk, leaning back like he was back in control, like you hadn’t just wrecked him. “Nah. Was good. Real good. But best? You gotta work a helluva lot harder for that title.”

“If I wasn’t the best,” you purred with mock innocence, “then why’d you blow in my throat in…” You tapped your chin like you were thinking hard. “Five minutes? Less, actually. That was the best head you’ve had in your life, so don’t lie to me.”

He chuckled, his cock twitching against his thigh like he wasn’t ready to admit he wanted more already. “I been around a long time, sweetheart. You don’t just waltz in here and call yourself queen’a blowjobs.”

Your eyes narrowed as you crawled up closer between his spread thighs, hand sliding slow over his denim-clad leg until your fingers brushed the head of his cock, just enough to make him twitch.

“That’s why you nearly broke my throat in five minutes? ’Cause you’ve had better?” you shot back, wiping your chin with the back of your hand, still tasting him.

Johnny’s smirk faltered. “Go clean yourself up. Can’t take you back to your old man lookin’ like some dive bar hooker.”

“You know, Johnny, it’s a little sad, actually,” you teased. “A grown man like you, supposed to be this tough guy, the big bad Vandal, but you couldn’t even last long enough for me to really show off.”

Johnny’s hand shot out, grabbing your wrist before you could stroke him again. He wanted to tell you you were wrong, to shut you the fuck up, to remind you who the hell he was. But you were right, and the glint in your eyes told him you knew it too.

“Shut up,” he growled, though the twitch at the corners of his mouth gave him away. He was fighting a smile, fighting you. “You try havin’ some pretty thing like you, no gag reflex, big eyes starin’ up, beggin’ to choke on it. Bet any guy’d blow in two minutes flat.”

“I know,” you taunted. “They usually finish pretty quick. Guess I just expected more from you.” You laughed softly. “You couldn’t even hold back. You lost it the second I looked up at you. The second you saw me look at you like a whore.”

“You don’t fuckin’ know what you do to a man,” he sounded almost pained. “No one can hold out against that. Not with you starin’ up, mouth stretched full’a cock, lookin’ real sweet, like you were born for it.”

You crawled higher, straddling his lap, pressing your body down against his chest as your teeth nipped along his jaw. “So you admit it,” you whispered, lips brushing his ear. “You couldn’t last… cause of me.”

“Damn right,” he growled, both hands clamping down on your hips to grind you harder against his lap. “Takin’ it like a slut and still lookin’ innocent. Any man’d crack in five.”

You laughed. “Guess I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“Don’t flatter yourself.” Johnny’s cock twitched again beneath you, betraying him, straining against your heat. “You ain’t that special. Any girl can suck cock. Gotta try harder next time.”

“Maybe next time you’ll last longer.” Your smirk widened.

“Maybe next time I’ll fuck that bratty attitude right outta you.” His voice was a growl against your ear. “Then we’ll see who’s laughin’.” His grip tightened on your ass as he pulled you flush against his cock. “How many dicks you been on, huh? How many guys you practice on?”

You laughed, deliberately evasive. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

“Gonna erase every fuckin’ one of ‘em,” Johnny snarled, biting down hard on your neck where the purple bruises already marked you. “Make ya forget their names. Make ya forget their faces. All you’re gonna remember is me.”

And god, how badly you wanted to only remember Johnny.

Join the Johnny tag list

A/N: Whoop, forgive me for always saying it’s gonna be a short smut and then my inability to shut the fuck up makes me write 5k words of sucking Johnny’s dick, lmao, guess the mind of a girl ovulating has no limits. I know not everyone’s into when a character gets written a little out of canon, but I am, and I think it’s kinda hot when he treats reader a little mean lol.

Anyway, hope you’re as deranged as me and enjoyed this not-so-little fic. Will I write for him again? I don’t know, wait till my next ovulation and we’ll see lololol.

Thank you so much for all your love and support🫶🏻🩷

dividers by: @/bbyg4rlhelps

[scuddisher]

[writing-my-time]

Daddy Ain't Home

Images taken from @boydholbrook-fan's gifsets, and pinterest x

Pairing: Clement Mansell X F!Reader Word Count: 3.6k Warnings: 18+, Smut with plot, age gap (Reader is around 19 to early 20’s, Clement in his late 30’s/early 40’s), swearing, morally dubious actions, coercion, unhealthy power dynamics, oral (m/receiving). Reader has grabbable hair, but otherwise nondescript. Summary: When your dad’s so-called ‘friend’ needs to stay at your family home for a few days, using the excuse of “in-between” places, you find his incredibly forward nature hard to resist. Your temptation only worsens when your dad goes to work Author's note: My beautiful babies have been SO sick. Needed to be a full time Mama for a bit but now I’m back in action!

The older you got, the less sure you became of your father’s previous lifestyle. You’d grown up relatively normal, but the occasional tale he’d tell after a few beers often left your imagination running wild. He’d speak of something far darker than youthful tomfoolery; recounting memories of guns, cash, and deals gone wrong. At some point in his life, your dad had turned himself around, leaving whatever rough and tough lifestyle he’d had behind. Today, he’s a blue collar man with a family, in other words, completely unspectacular. Sure, he’d become a friendly face in the neighborhood, shoveling snow and fixing gutters, but other than that, the peers of your parents wouldn’t exactly blink twice at the man. Which is why when his ‘old friend’ stops by uninvited, it opens a can of worms you never thought imaginable.

It’s past midday, you know that much. You’ve only been back a week, in your family home in a remote town just outside of Detroit, having come back to enjoy the semester break without the bleak surroundings of your college campus. A small group of your friends never left; staying home to take over their parents’ business or wait tables. Still, having some friends in your hometown pays off. That is, until you’re nursing a headache courtesy of your latest reunion. In a place as small as this, everyone knows everyone; meaning that even in your less than perfect state, you can tell the blond man in front of you is an outsider. He’s standing opposite your dad in the middle of the kitchen, unintentionally blocking your access to any form of sustenance as you approach from behind. Bleary-eyed and weak-willed, you fail to recognize the brewing tension in the room, stepping around the stranger with a grumble.

“Well, shoot.” The blond nods in your direction, cocking his brow as you manage to stumble past. “The apple sure doesn’t fall far from the tree, does it?”

There’s an audible huff from your dad, and you reach the fridge as he grabs the stranger's arm and hauls him into the living room, slamming the door behind them. If you were sober, you’d be outwardly surprised by your dad’s aggression. Right now your sole focus is to hydrate using whatever bottle your hand grabs first. Judging by feel, you’ve picked up some type of juice; gulping it down greedily right from the lip of the bottle. As the sweetness trickles down your throat, you feel a morsel of the raggedness from your night before wear away. Leaning against the kitchen counter, you drag a hand down your face, taking note of the mascara very much still crusted against your lashes. Apparently you had come home coherent enough to get into bed, but not enough to get your makeup off. Just as you’re about to make your return to your room, the sound of your father’s hushed muttering permeates the closed door.

“Absolutely not.” He grumbles, saying something else but you can’t quite make out the words. “Clement, I won’t-”

“-Don’t forget now,” You can hear the other man loud and clear. “You do owe me a favor.”

A prolonged silence follows. One which is only filled by the sound of your own heartbeat thudding in your ears. This time, you fight the haze just enough to get a better read on the conversation going on in the next room. Hearing the clearly strained resignation of your father come through the door, you decide to hover in the kitchen a little longer. Whoever this Clement character is, he’s got intimidation down to an art.

“You can be here for one week.” You’ve never heard your dad sound so defeated. “That’s all. One week.”

“Now that wasn’t so hard, was it?” The southern drawl of the man rumbles through the door. “You always had to be so serious about things.” 

“Just don’t bring my family into it, yeah?”

“Now, now. Terrorizing families was more your style.” Clement clicks his tongue. “I will be on my best behavior, of that you can rely.”

Your brows furrow upon hearing what appears to be the end of the exchange. They’ve come to an agreement; one you don’t truly understand considering the ominous accusation thrown your father’s way. Your dad, a terror? The man who mows old ladies’ lawns on the weekends for nothing more than a cup of tea and a sandwich? That’s enough eavesdropping for one day, you decide, shaking your head. You begin your retreat, eventually climbing up the stairs toward your room.

Neither of your parents had changed anything about your room since you had left. You still had the same gaudy palm tree wallpaper your mom had picked out, only saved by the amount of band and movie posters you’d covered it up with. All the furniture was the same as it was, too. A mix of things your dad had either built or bartered for over the years, leading to an eclectic mess of clashing styles; something you’d come to miss when your dorm room was nothing more than a bed and a desk. Your shins meet the foot of the bed, and you flop down face first onto your pillows. Still in the throes of a hangover, now layered with the strange pit of uncertainty embedding itself into your stomach, you tuck the blanket up above your head and fall asleep.

—

It’s early in the morning when your dad knocks gently at your door. Of course, you’d slept the entire day away; a habit you aren’t exactly happy you’d picked up while at college. You slowly peel yourself out of the blankets, sitting up as your dad steps softly into your room. Dressed in his usual work clothes of his boilersuit over a white t-shirt, you gauge that it must be almost time for him to leave. He’s holding your favorite mug in his hands, bringing in a coffee just for you. The thought is lovely, even if you both know you’ll forget about it until it’s already gone cold. Your dad sets it on your nightstand before kneeling down beside your bed. There’s a reserved look in his eye, one you aren’t sure you’ve seen before.

“Morning, princess.” He speaks softly. “Thought I’d say hi. Since I didn’t see much of ya yesterday.”

“Sorry, dad.” You mumble, looking away in shame. It wasn’t like you to drink so hard that you wasted an entire day. “I think I went too hard.”

“Don’t be sorry. You’re young. It’s good that you’re having fun and still coming home safe.”

There’s another flicker of something in his eyes when he speaks. Despite his kind reassurance, you can tell his mind is elsewhere, perhaps reminiscing on something. His nose scrunches for a brief moment, and you shift slightly under your sheets. You watch as he presses his lips together, evidently trying to find a way to word his thoughts.

“I need to let you know, we have an old friend staying with us for a week.” He explains with a smile. A smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “His name is Clement. I knew- I’ve known him since before you were born.”

“How do you know him?” You ask him quickly, watching him shift his weight on either knee as the question rings through his mind.

“You know, that’s a good story.” Your dad pulls back just as quick, sucking in air between his teeth as that forced smile reappears on his face. “Maybe just not when I'm leaving for work, yeah?”

In response, you nod, earning a kiss to your forehead from your dad. Since coming back home, he’d gone right back to treating you like his little girl, and the affection had been greatly missed. He pulls himself back up to a stand, brushing his knees before he looks at you one last time.

“He’ll be hanging around the house, but don’t feel like you have to keep him company, okay?” He raises his eyebrows at you, waiting for your response.

“Is that code for ‘don’t talk to him’?” You ask, receiving a pause in return.

“You can talk to him, just… don’t go outta your way to make him feel welcome.” He explains with a sigh. “I love you, honey.”

“Love you too, dad.”

His exit leaves you in a befuddled silence, pressing your lips together in thought. You stay in place as your father’s footsteps begin to trail off, eventually dulling once he reaches the bottom of the staircase. Minutes later, the house rattles ever so slightly at the opening and closing of the front door. Your father has left for the day, leaving you alone in the house with mystery man Clement. What you remember of yesterday’s overheard conversation lingers in your mind. How do they know each other? Why didn’t your dad want him to stay? And why does he owe him? In a rapidly-failing attempt to take your mind off of it, you pull the covers back over your face. Thoughts swirl around your mind while no answers come to call. Clement had claimed your dad had a terrorizing schtick. It just didn’t match up. 

Not wanting to give in to the oncoming spiral, you bring yourself to a stand. A shower will help. Or at least, that’s what you’re telling yourself as you close your bedroom door behind you with a sturdy thud. Lazily, you trudge down the hallway until you find yourself standing on the cold bathroom lino. After a few minutes of mincing around, you slip under the gentle caress of the showerhead. Streaming down your face, neck, and shoulders, the warm water does wonders in quelling your nervous mind. Even after you'd moved out, your parents still kept the bathroom stocked with boujee products far out of your price range. It’s a dramatic change from the discount bath and body works garbage you’ve got littering your dorm shower, and you smile to yourself as you lather the coconutty soap over your body. For the first time in what feels like months, you have a long, warm, relaxing shower.

Eventually, you force yourself out of the cocoon of warmth you’ve created in the bathroom, stepping out with a fluffy towel wrapped around your chest. The house is silent, eerily so. You wonder if it means that Clement had also gone out, leaving you alone for the time being. With light-footed steps, you pad along the hall back to your bedroom. Thoughts of having the house to yourself cause a dopey smile to paint your face, and you eagerly wrap your fingers around your doorknob. With the door ajar, a gentle push is all it takes to enter your room. You stride in, humming a tune under your breath as you seal yourself back in your bedroom once more. You’re about to peel the towel away from your dampened skin when a low whistle beckons from your bed.

“Ain’t that a pretty sight.”

You flinch and desperately twist your hands into the fabric of the towel, keeping it as close to your body as humanly possible. With wide eyes, you turn towards the graveled voice. There lies Clement, completely reclined on your bed, wearing nothing but what appears to be your father’s navy robe. He’s got one of your books in his hands, open on the page you had bookmarked and forgotten about a few nights ago, now. The older man isn’t shy in his staring, dragging his tongue along his teeth as he raises a cocky brow. He rests the book in his lap, allowing him to rest his now free hands on the back of his head, unabashedly ogling your towel-cladded form. There’s nowhere for you to hide yourself while the intruding man remains confidently splayed on your bed.

“What’re you doing in my room?” You ask, swallowing down the nervous lump in your throat. 

“Shoot.” He raises his hands defensively, though his eyes still sparkle with a dark sense of mischief. “Your daddy said to make myself at home, and I wanted a good book to read. Nothin’ downstairs caught my attention - but this?”

Clement holds up the open book, waving it around long enough for you to remember exactly where you had left off. Fuck. The arrogant smirk sprawled on his face isn’t just to revel in your scantily clad form, but also your perverse taste in literature. Very perverse taste. He clicks his tongue, pretending to make a stern face as he drags his slender finger along the page.

“This is definitely something worth a read.” The blond furrows his brow, reading the very extensive smut you had bookmarked for when you were alone. “You, you pretty young thing, are into some extreme shit.”

“Can you get out of my room, please?” You attempt to speak with confidence, though there’s something about him making you shiver.

“Why? Voyeurism not your thing?”

“Not really, no.”

“No?” He begins to climb off the bed, his tall frame already towing over yours as he begins to stalk towards you. “It didn’t seem so bad in your book.”

You shy your gaze away from Clement as he comes toe-to-toe with you. While none of his fingers touch your soft skin, there’s a clear intention swirling in the air. Your heartbeat pounds in your ears as he chuckles to himself. It’s a dark, throaty chuckle. Creases form around his eyes as he laughs. Is it at your expense? You can’t tell. You barely hold your ground as he continues to talk.

  “Girl in your book liked older men. Wasn’t interested in boys. What about you, little lady? You like real men?” He runs his finger across the seam of your towel. “I think you just might.”

He’s not wrong, and unfortunately, your outward lack of fear towards his grotesque intimidation is only proving his point. There’s some part of you that’s enjoying this, perhaps it’s because fortunately, he’s not exactly unattractive. As he stands before you, his newly acquired dressing gown begins to slip open, and you find yourself admiring the tattoo decorating his chest. You know you've gotten lost in your own ogling when his finger begins to slip through the seam.

“My dad would kill you.” You try to slap his hand away, but he grabs your wrist just in time.

“I don’t know if you noticed, but your daddy ain’t home, sweetheart. He left you all alone.” His voice lowers into something akin to a growl, while his breath hits hot against your face. “With me.”

Clement’s hand travels away from your wrist to the back of your head, making a tight fist within your damp hair as he sneers. It sends an involuntary shiver down your spine, going as far as to make you gasp through clenched teeth. You close your eyes, not wanting his piercing gaze to make you squirm more than it already has. He lets out another breathy snigger, baring his teeth as he cranes your head back with ease. A weak exhale escapes your trembling lips.

“Knew you were into dark shit.” He hums in your ear. “This ain’t even that bad, little lady.”

Before you can respond, the man pulls harshly on your hair, sending you crashing to your knees in front of him. For a brief moment, he keeps you there, doing nothing but glaring down at you while his lips continue to curl into a perverse smile. Your eyes flit to his other hand, watching it glide down until it slips underneath the seam of his dressing gown. Slowly, tauntingly, menacingly, Clement pulls the gown open. It’s just enough for you to get an eyeful of his white briefs, and the significant bulge growing beneath them. His eyes stay focused on your face, watching with twisted delight as you wet your lips.

“See? I had a whole plan to convince you, and you don’t even need it, do ya?” Clement taunts with a low voice. “If only your daddy knew how easy it is to get you on your knees.”

He loosens his grip on your hair, knowing you won’t do anything other than sit pretty on the floor. Clement’s other hand now slips into the waistband of his briefs. Of course, he doesn’t bother to take them off, instead opting to tug the fabric underneath his balls and taking his twitching cock into his fist. Though his underwear left little to the imagination, he’s girthier than you anticipated. Your eyes are glued to it, observing the way his hand trails up his veiny shaft, then back down until it meets the unruly hair decorating his pelvis. A bead of sticky pre-cum glistens at his tip, and you stay transfixed on the image as he drags his palm up his shaft one last time. Clement clearly notices your ogling, letting out a breathy chuckle before he begins to push your head towards it.

“Go on, baby.” He urges, watching with bated breath as your lips begin to part open. “Put your mouth on it, yeah, there you go.”

You glide your tongue up the bottom of his shaft, dragging from base upwards until you wrap your lips around his tip. His sharp intake of breath is enough to encourage you further, eventually sliding your mouth down until you’ve taken him whole. As his hand steadies your movements, a low, satisfied hum leaves his lips, and you look up just in time to watch him throw his head back.

“Fuck, I knew just from lookin’ at your pretty face that you’d have a mouth on ya.” He grits out as you begin to hollow your cheeks, sucking him slowly yet eagerly. “Shit. Didn’t think you’d be this obedient. Like a fuckin’ dog, you are.”

Doing as you're told, you don’t change up your movements right away. Instead keeping a slow, languid pace. Each bob of your head creates a rich mixture of your own drool and his slick, letting his taste be savored on your tongue. He tastes of salt and sweat and musk. When you’re about to bob back down, Clement guides you by pushing on the back of your head, and forcing you to take him right into the back of your throat. Your nose is almost embedded into his pubes, causing you to splutter around him from the lack of oxygen. Even so, he doesn’t let up. Clement clicks his tongue, giving you a surprisingly affectionate look.

“Now that’s a sight I could get used to, little lady. Look at you, chokin’ on me.” He holds you there for just a second longer, before letting you lift your mouth off of him completely. A string of drool connects your bottom lip to the tip of his cock, and before Clement can speak, you’re already diving back in. 

This time, you don’t suck him with lazy strokes, no. As your lips wrap around his head for the second time, you hollow out your cheeks and wrap your hand around the base of his cock. Your mouth pumps in time with your hand, all the while Clement doesn’t shut up, grunting out praises, as he rolls his hips in time with your movements. He fists your hair again, keeping your head still for his oncoming onslaught of hard thrusts. Drool coats both his shaft and your lips, bubbling and spilling out of the corners of your mouth as he fucks it with enough force to make you gag. Tears prickle the corners of your eyes, threatening to spill over as you keep choking on his length. He doesn’t stop, instead grinning as you continue to struggle around him.

“Keep your lips on me,” Clement rasps out, almost lost in the moment. “That’s it. That’s it, thaaat’s it.”

“Knew from the moment I saw you that I needed this.”

He squints his eyes shut.

“Knew that you’d give it to me.”

He throws his head back.

“Knew your daddy would make a good girl.”

He fucks himself down your throat.

“Good. Girl.”

Clement pushes your head back down to the base of his cock, holding you tightly in place with your hair as his hips begin to buck without rhythm. Your only other warning to what might be coming is the chesty moan that leaves his lips. You flinch as the hot, thick ropes of his release spill down your throat, coating your tongue with a salty, bitter taste. There’s no other option but to swallow it all, having his hand forcing you into position. Once the last drop is gone, Clement pulls you off him, eventually letting go of your hair entirely. As if nothing had happened, he tucks himself back into his briefs, and re-wraps the gown, covering his body once more. You look up, slightly dazed as air finally makes its way back into your lungs. With your lips pink, wet, and parted, you must be a sight to behold - earning a cocky chuckle from Clement.

“Thanks, little lady. Just what I needed to feel welcome.” He grins, swiping some of the drool off your bottom lip before heading towards the door.

“That’s it?” You can’t help but feel short-changed, watching as the man exits into the hallway.

“For now,” He states, dragging his fingers through the coarse hairs of his beard. “I’ve been really wantin’ a shower, and now it’s all freed up.”

He looks you up and down one last time, scrunching his nose as he sniffs with what almost seems like indifference. Then, before you know it, he’s closing your bedroom door, leaving you alone on the floor as you come to terms with what’s just happened. You drag the pads of your fingers over your lips, closing your eyes as you grunt in frustration. He’s still here for an entire week, and you caved already. What would your dad think?

---

A very big thank you for reading. As always a big thank you for those that encourage me - @justeverythingprettymuch, and those that inspire me - @toxicanonymity!

[cinnxmxngxrl]

Pleeease can you write something where reader takes care of Alfie's psoriasis?? Like he's trying to act super macho about it, like it doesn't bother him but then gets super soft when she starts treating it 🥺

Alfie Solomons x Wife!Reader

“Loving you”

Alfie’s Masterlist Join the tag list

Summary: Alfie can’t help but let his guard down — and his softer side show — when you tend to the skin condition he usually keeps hidden.

WC: 5.1k

Tags/Warnings: smut, minors DNI, unprotected piv, dirty talk.

The cold air filtered through the open windows of the Solomons’ home. The moonlight painted the room in hues of pale blue, casting long shadows over the heavy wooden furniture and the worn rug underfoot.

Alfie trudged into the sitting room, you noticed how his broad shoulders seemed to sag slightly, it was as if the day’s weight could be visible in the furrow of his brow. But you noticed something else too, the way his hands flexed at his sides, and the subtle shift in his stance. You instantly noticed it, he was uncomfortable, you could see it clear as the day, you knew your husband. And you could also see the irritated skin on his neck, it looked raw and red, flaking with scales that trailed down along his flesh.

“Let me guess,” you began to say, tilting your head to appraise him. “It’s acting up again.”

He stopped short, his face was like an unreadable mask, trying to cover up his exasperation. “Dunno what you’re on about, woman.” His voice was gruff and dismissive, as if pretending nothing was going on. “I’m bloody fine, ain’t I?”

“Alfred Solomons,” you said, standing to meet him, your hands on your hips like you did everytime you scolded him like a little kid. “You’ve been scratching yourself like a dog with fleas for days. Let me see.”

“Look,” he began to explain himself, throwing up his hands up in the air defensively, “this ain’t a bloody… what’s the word… interrogation, yeah? Just got home, haven’t I? Thought we’d sit down, have a nice supper, maybe a drop o’ rum after, yeah? Not get a bloody inquisition.”

“Come on, Alfie,” you said gently now, realizing the scolding would get you nowhere with him. “Sit down.”

He turned to look at you, furrowing his brows, a little annoyed over you making a scandal over this. “I told ya, love, it’s nothin’. Just a bit o’ skin, right? Nothin’ to fuss over. I’ve lived with it this long, ain’t I?”

You sighed, folding your arms across your chest now. Alfie could be stubborn, but you were more, so you wouldn’t let him win this time. “Yes, you have, and you’ve done a fine job of ignoring it, but it’s bothering you, I can see that. Now, sit down and let me help.”

Alfie’s lips pressed into a firm line, his pride warring with the truth of your words. You’d seen him win fights with men twice his size, talk his way out of impossible situations, but here he was, hesitating like a child caught misbehaving. It was almost endearing if you ignored the fact that he was internally suffering.

Alfie stared at you, as he weighed his options, he could refuse—he was, after all, Alfie Solomons, a man who answered to no one— but there was only one person who always made Alfie give in, and that was you, his wife. So, grumbling under his breath, he lowered himself onto the armchair, sprawling out like a man whose kingdom had just fallen.

“Woman, you’re bloody relentless,” the way he said it lacked any real heat, it was more a gruff acknowledgment of defeat.

“Take off your shirt,” you said softly.

Alfie cocked his head, as a smirk began to slowly form on his lips, no matter the situation, there was never a bad moment for Alfie to tease a little. “Right, well, love, if you fancied seein’ me bollock naked, yeah? You could’ve just said so, straight up. Saved us all the fuckin’ theatrics. I’d have you up against that fuckin’ wall by now, makin’ a goddamn mess of things.”

You didn’t even blink, you knew how Alfie’s defense mechanism had always been humor, he’d crack a joke to avoid taking things too seriously. But you knew that behind every laugh, every sarcastic remark, there was a man scared to take a hit to his pride by asking for help. After all, he was forced to carry every burden on his own all his life, that until he met you.

“I’m serious, Alfie,” your voice was flat, no smile this time. You didn’t take the health of the man you loved lightly“Take the shirt off.”

Alfie huffed, but even then, his fingers worked at the buttons of his shirt slowly, as if each button was a defeat. “You’d think I was some feeble old man the way you’re carryin’ on,” he grumbled. “I don’t need lookin’ after, love. I’m a bloody force of nature, yeah?”

“Yes, you’re a force of nature,” you agreed with a smile, “but even storms need a bit of care sometimes.”

His shoulders stiffened, but he said nothing, his shirt finally came off and landed in a crumpled heap beside him. You bit your lip as your eyes roamed over his body, the patches of red, inflamed skin were stark against his otherwise light complexion. Some areas were cracked and dry, while others looked painfully raw.

“Alfie,” you said with concern. “It’s worse than last time.”

“Don’t,” he cut in sharply, his tone was rough. He knew how bad it was, he felt how bad it was. Didn’t need you mentioning it. “Don’t you bloody start, right? I know what it looks like. Just a bit of dry skin, that’s all.”

You leaned in, pressing a kiss to his shoulder as if trying to calm him down. “I’m not starting anything. I just want to help. Dry skin doesn’t look like this.”

He relaxed under your touch, though he still looked straight ahead, not wanting to meet your gaze in a moment of weakness like this one. “Fine, then. Do your worst.”

You knelt in front of him, settling between his legs as he sat back in his armchair, the lamplight cast a soft glow over his battered chest, the heat radiating from his skin palpable before you even touched him. He’d ignored it, neglected it for so long that it was the worst you’d ever seen it, and it must be hurting him so much, those angry red patches that bloomed across his torso and shoulders, the edges raw with peeling skin, irritated and roughened by days of stubbornness must be killing him.

Your fingers moved carefully, barely grazing his side at first, but even then his muscles tensed beneath the contact, a little flinch more from instinct than actual pain, as if he was used to bracing for something harsher.

“Not so bad, you said?” you teased, glancing up at him.

He grunted. “I’ve had worse.”

“That why you haven’t even taken your shirt off when we fuck?” you asked. Your didn’t want to make him feel self-conscious, but you knew the lengths Alfie would go to avoid showing how serious it was. “’Cause you didn’t want me to see how bad it got?”

There was a pause, a flicker behind his eyes, something he tried to smother with a scoff. You knew you’d hit a sensitive topic by saying that.

“Well, aren’t you a fuckin’ detective now, eh? Bloody Sherlock Holmes,” he let out a dry, sharp laugh. “Didn’t think you needed to see it. S’not pretty. Nothin’ romantic about it.”

"You shouldn’t feel insecure about it," you said.

"Pfff, insecure? Bollocks, that is," he scoffed, waving a hand dismissively at that idea. "Men like me… we don't do insecure, right? That's for… for poets and posh lads with too much time on their hands."

But you saw the truth behind his eyes, that little crack in the armor. Alfie would never admit to feeling insecure about the way he looked, not even to you, his biggest confidant, the only person he’d ever trusted. And so you decided not to push the subject, you knew it wasn’t just about the psychical pain on his skin, but about how insecure it made him feel to look at himself naked and see those patches there. But you also knew better than to fight a war you couldn’t win with words, besides, you had better ways of proving how handsome he was to you, like worshipping him with your mouth… or your cunt.

“It must be driving you mad.”

He shrugged, like he didn’t care, like it was no big deal. “Got more important things to worry about than a bit o’ itching.”

But you weren’t fooled, beneath his bravado, the ‘I don’t care’ attitude, you could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers twitched as though resisting the urge to scratch.

“Stay still,” you instructed as you scooped a dollop of ointment onto your fingers.

He flinched when you began to apply the salve, his usual boldness was faltering. “Bloody cold, that is,” he muttered, finding something to complain rather than the ache and itchiness on his skin.

“It’s supposed to be soothing,” you said, your voice full of patience for him. You leaned in, working the ointment into his skin with slow movements, trying not to make it worseZ

His skin felt hot to the touch, the irritation on it beneath your fingertips angry and inflamed. You moved with care, smoothing the salve in small circles, avoiding the worst of the raw spots. Alfie exhaled through his nose, his body twitching beneath your hands before slowly relaxing, like he couldn’t help but lean into your touch once the sting eased, giving way to relief.

“That stuff smells awful,” he said, wrinkling his nose. There it was that stubbornness again, like accepting help, or letting you soothe the ache, meant weakness. You found it amusing, how in so many ways, this big and dangerous man reminded you of a little boy.

“Doesn’t matter how it smells. It’ll help,” you replied, working your way across his chest, thumbs grazing the curve of his collarbones, tracing along the tender edges with a gentleness that made his throat bob in a tight swallow.

“Still feels like I’m being fuckin’ punished,” he whispered, his eyes moving down to where your hands moved over his ribs. He loved feeling your touch on his skin, loved seeing how much you cared, how soft and careful you were when you touched him, like he was something precious.

“You’re not,” you murmured, catching his gaze briefly before he looked away. “You’re being looked after. Big difference.”

For a moment, the room was silent save for the crackling of the fire. Alfie’s eyes were fixed on a point just above your head, his jaw tight as though willing himself not to react. As you spread the ointment slowly over the worst of the irritation, you felt it happen, the first shift in his breathing, from shallow and tense to something deeper. The slow drop of his shoulders, no longer braced against the tenderness. The subtle release of his clenched fists, his fingers unfurling where they’d been pressed into his thighs.

“You don’t have to do this, you know,” he said quietly, his voice softer than you’d ever heard it.

“Of course I do,” you replied without hesitating it for a minute. “You’re my husband.”

He huffed a laugh, one full of disbelief. He couldn’t understand how a woman so magnificent like you was willing to put up with someone like him. “Yeah, well. Don’t reckon you signed up for all this, did you? A husband with bad skin and worse manners.”

“Maybe not,” you admitted, smiling up at him. “But I wouldn’t trade you for anything.”

“You’re good at this,” he mumbled after a moment, even after all these years married you weren’t fully used to hearing Alfie’s voice being so soft.

“Good at what?”

“Lookin’ after me. Puttin’ up with me. All of it, really.”

He was so stubborn sometimes, too caught up in his own worries to realize that you didn’t do this out of obligation, you did it because you loved him, because giving him this kind of comfort was something you’d gladly offer every single time he needed it.

“It’s not putting up with you, Alfie. It’s loving you.”

He turned his head fully this time, his piercing blue eyes meeting yours. For a moment, the vulnerability in his gaze took your breath away. He made your heart flutter like the very first day.“You’ve got a heart too big for your own good, woman,” he said.

“And you’ve got a heart you try too hard to hide,” you replied, leaning forward to kiss his temple. Alfie was a big sucker for your little kisses all over his face.

He closed his eyes at the touch, letting out a deep breath. “Don’t tell anyone about this, yeah? Got a reputation to maintain.”

“All your secrets are safe with me,” you promised him with a smile.

For the next hour, you worked diligently, your fingers gentle as they massaged the ointment into his skin. Alfie, for his part, remained unusually quiet, his usual sharp wit replaced by a rare, unguarded vulnerability. When you were finished, you sat back on your heels, surveying your work, you could see how the redness had diminished slightly, the skin was looking less angry now after your care.

“There,” you said, capping the tin. “That should help.”

He looked down at his chest, his expression was one of a grateful man. Then, without warning, he reached out, his large hand cupping your cheek. The contrast of his calloused skin with the softness of his touch, made you shiver.

“You’re a good woman,” he said gruffly while his thumb brushed against your porcelain skin. “Don’t reckon I tell you that enough.”

“You don’t,” you agreed, leaning into his touch.

He chuckled. “Yeah, well, don’t let it go to your head, eh?”

The tin of ointment clattered against the wood floor as Alfie pulled you up into his lap, the gruff tenderness in his hands made your breath hitch. He didn’t bother with words, not at first, he simply held you there, his palms trailing up and down your back.

“Come here, pet,” he muttered, quietly, like if he spoke too loud, he’d ruin the rare tenderness of this moment between you too.

You settled on top of him, your knees bracketing his thighs. His beard scratched deliciously against your cheek as he pressed his face into the crook of your neck, breathing in the faint lavender oil you always dabbed behind your ears before bed.

He buried his head against your chest, breathing deep like he needed to memorize the scent of you to survive. He made a sound low in his throat, something between a sigh and a purr, like a satisfied cat curling up in a patch of sunlight. There were only a handful of moments in his life where Alfie Solomons had let the world slip far enough to be this soft, and all of them had been with you, the only person he trusted enough to see this side of him.

“You smell good,” he said, the words muffled against your skin. Relaxing moments like this always softened the sharp lines of his face, making him look younger, almost boyish. You reached up, brushing your fingers along the edge of his beard, and he sighed, the sound contented.

He shifted beneath you, his hands tightening on your hips as though anchoring himself. “Dunno what I’ve done to deserve you,” he said, the words were sincere.

“I don’t like when you say that. You’re not bad, Alf” you replied with a small smile. “Under all that grumbling and growling, you’re a good man.”

It was the truth. Yes, maybe he’d done bad things, things he couldn’t forget, things that haunted him every time he looked at his reflection in the mirror. But you saw more, so much more. You saw a man who had raised himself from nothing, who’d survived when the world tried to break him, who’d watched his friends die in trenches and still found the strength to carry on. You saw a man who’d opened his heart to you, who’d bought you your dream house and treated you like a queen in her own palace. Who had only ever been gentle with you, patient, kind, giving, even when he didn’t know how to be those things with himself.

His laugh was almost self-deprecating. “Not sure half the blokes around here would agree with that one, love.”

“Don't care what they think, they're not my husband,” you said simply. “You are.”

That seemed to strike something deep in him. His eyes softened, and his hands moved to cradle your face. “Yeah,” he murmured, his thumbs brushing over your cheekbones. “I am, ain’t I?”

Before you could reply, he leaned in, his lips finding yours in a kiss that was both gentle and demanding at the same time. He kissed you like a man who knew how fleeting happiness and peace could be, who understood the weight of a moment like this.

The kiss deepened right away, it was always this way with him, nothing could stay soft, his animal instincts would always come up. His hands were now moving with more urgency as they traced over your body, making you melt into him, your fingers tangling in his hair.

“Christ, woman,” he muttered against your lips, you could hear the need in his words. “You make me feel the same way you did all those years ago.”

You laughed softly, a sultry sound that seemed to vibrate right through your chest when he leaned to capture his lips into another kiss, your tongues sliding together with unhurried precision. His hands kept wandering, greedily roaming all over your body, gripping the small of your waist to ground you, kneading the soft flesh of your ass, tracing the dip of your spine, splaying wide across your lower back as if trying to brand you to him.

The hard length of him beneath you was impossible to ignore, thick and insistent against the thin barrier of your underwear, and when you shifted again, rolling your hips, dragging your cunt over him with maddening friction, he let out a broken sound that made your core clench.

“Gonna ride you,” you murmured. Alfie was a man who thrived on control, sure, but when it came to you, he had no problem handing over the reins now and then. In fact, he loved it. Watching his missus bounce on top of him, taking every bit of pleasure she deserved? That was a big, fat yes for him.

You grinned at his reaction, at the way his eyes had gone half-lidded, his pupils blown wide, his jaw tight trying to restrain himself. You reached between your bodies to undo the fastening of his trousers, unable to wait one second more than necessary to finally feel your husband inside you.

He chuckled. “Yeah? Right, well—fuckin’ hell, woman—’course you wanna ride it.” He spread his hands, leaned back like he was a king on his throne. “I’m all yours, ain’t I? Go on then, fuckin’ take what’s yours. Ruin me proper.”

He watched you, his eyes were locked on your hands, and on how they were working his pants open, making his chest rise and fall with breaths of anticipation. His own hands didn’t stay behind, he needed to touch your body, his rough fingers were now roaming over your ribs, up your sides, then down again to knead your thighs, your ass, as if he truly didn’t know where to land next.

“You’re too bloody good at this,” his voice was hoarse, like he couldn’t quite believe his luck, how he’d landed such a beautiful woman, convinced her to marry him, and now had her on top of him eager to please him.

"It's the experience, been riding you dumb for ten years," you said with a smirk.

"Mhm," he huffed. "And you get better every fuckin' time, pet."

He loved this, especially on those days when he was bone-tired, when his skin was on fire, his back ached, his knees throbbed, his hips screamed, or the days when he had to deal with “fucking cunts,” as he’d put it. Nothing would make him happier than leaning back, letting go, and having a damn good orgasm by doing absolutely nothing, just watching you take control and do all the work for him.

You’d barely gotten his trousers down before his cock sprang free, it slapped against his belly, so thick, so heavy, and flushed, glistening at the tip like he’d been waiting all fucking day for this moment. The second your fingers wrapped firmly around him, he gasped and his hips jerked like he didn’t give a toss about dignity anymore.

“You’re too bloody impatient,” you shot with a teasing smirk, stroking him slowly, twisting your wrist just how you knew he loved, just enough to make him curse under his breath.

You shifted your weight, lining yourself up, your thighs bracketing his hips as you positioned yourself over him. His hands flew to your hips, holding you steady, as the head of his cock brushed against your slick heat. Your breath hitched at the contact, at how easily your soaked folds parted to welcome him, at how swollen and desperate you already were.

“Impatient?” he repeated dangerously. “Love, you’ve been teasin’ me for the past ten minutes. If anyone’s impatient, it’s you.”

You rocked your hips just enough to let his head catch at your entrance, not yet taking him, not fully, just dragging your wetness over him, back and forth, until he growled.

“Fuckin’ hell, woman,” he snapped, his hips jerking up, desperate for more friction, to be buried inside you once and for all. “You tryin’ to kill me? Playin' this bloody games with your poor 'ol husband? My fuckin' heart can't take this teasin', It's delicate, It is.”

“But it's too fun to tease you,” you whispered, lowering yourself just an inch more. The stretch made you gasp, thick and delicious as always, and you swore you could feel every ridge and every vein of him.

He was watching your face now, intently, like it was the most sacred thing he’d ever seen, but you could see how hard he was fighting the urge to slam up into you. “Don’t fuckin’ tease,” he growled. “Be a good girl and sit on it proper.”

You obliged, how could you not when he talked like that? You sank down in one slow, torturous motion, your walls clenching around him inch by inch. The sound he made was filthy, a half groan half praise, guttural and deep. His head fell back, teeth gritted, chest rising with labored breaths as you took every last inch of him, seated fully, snug and wet around him.

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” he rasped. “That’s it. That’s my pet. Perfect fuckin' cunt, still as tight as the day I first filled her up, yeah?"

You moaned, rolling your hips in a slow circle, grinding down with a filthy little twist at the end that made his cock drive right up into that sweet, aching spot inside you. Your breath caught sharp in your throat, eyes going hazy, Alfie groaned low like the wind had been knocked clean out of him, his hands clutched at your hips, guiding you with a kind of reverence, like you were something holy and he was the lucky bastard who got to worship at the altar.

He was trying hard to let you do your thing, let you take your time and move at your own pace, riding him how you wanted, but God, you were squeezing him so tight and dripping all over his cock, that it was almost imppossible to stop himself from thrusting up into you like a beast.

“Look at you,” he whispered, voice frayed and reverent. “Ridin’ me like you were fuckin’ made for it.”

“Maybe I was,” you shot back, voice breathless, your lips brushing his ear as you leaned in.

Alfie met your movements with thrusts of his own, rolling his hips up hard, deep, making you bounce in his lap with every needy grind. His hands gripped your hips, firm but never too harsh, thumbs pressing into your flesh like he needed to memorize every curve, every quake of your body under his. The coarse trail of hair beneath his navel rubbed right up against your clit with every thrust, each drag of his body with that maddening friction made you jolt and shudder.

"Ohh, Alfie... feels so good," you moaned gasping into his mouth, clawing at his shoulders like you couldn’t get close enough. "Please don't stop, don't stop fucking me like that."

“Not stoppin'. Can’t stop when you’re so bloody perfect,” he rasped, his eyes dropping to where your soaked cunt was swallowing him again and again, wet sounds filling the air with each slap of skin against skin. “Perfect cunt. Perfect tits. Perfect wife.”

His head snapped forward so he could bite at your throat, not hard, just enough to make you whimper. His hands slid up your sides, pushing your slip up with urgency, bunching it around your waist until the fabric was out of his way and he could have a better view of everything, from your body glistening with sweat, your thighs shaking, to the way your soaked pussy kept taking his cock like you needed it.

That was the thing with Alfie, he never knew where the fuck to look, it was all too good. Your supple breasts, so soft and perfect, jiggling with every thrust, just begging to be grabbed. Your face, fuck, your face was so hot, those little pouts you made, the way your eyes fluttered shut when he hit a good spot deep inside you. And the way his thick cock slid in your cunt, coming out so wet and slick, your juices coating his navel and trickling down to coat his balls.

“Jesus Christ, love,” he rasped, voice thick. “You’re grippin’ me so tight—fuckin’ hell…”

You leaned forward, your hands braced against his chest, hair falling around your face as you found the perfect rhythm, grinding down in slow, greedy strokes that made both of you moan. His cock filled you perfectly, thick and hot and stretching you with every thrust of his hips.

Alfie’s attention was drifting, his eyes moved from the place where you two were connected, to the soft bounce of your breasts with every motion, your nipples peeking through the thin, rumpled slip. He licked his lips, rough hands sliding up your waist, over your ribs, until they cupped your breasts and gave them a slow squeeze.

“Look at these fuckin’ things,” he muttered. “Drivin’ me mad, the way they bounce when you ride me like that…”

Then he surged forward, mouth latching onto one of your nipples through the damp fabric, the hot drag of his tongue and the sudden suck of his mouth made you cry out, your hips stuttering as the pleasure hit you like a jolt.

“Alfie—” you gasped, hands flying to his shoulders as he pulled the slip down, baring your chest fully. He didn’t hesitate, he wrapped his mouth around your nipple and sucked hard, filthy sounds filling the air as he groaned against your skin. His tongue flicked over the stiff peak, then he moved to the other breast, biting down just enough to make your back arch.

"I'd kill a man for your left tit," he mumbled, voice muffled, barely undertandable with his mouth still sucking around your nipple. "And then I'd kill another for the right one. Fuckin' perfect things."

“Shit—Alfie—Feels... so good… so full.” you moaned, grinding harder now, the added stimulation on your nipples sending you spiraling, and if that wasn’t good enough, you felt your clit catching on his pelvis with every thrust down, making your walls clench even tighter around him.

“Fuckin’ ride it—show me how needy you are. You like me suckin’ on your tits while you fuck yourself on my cock, don’t you?”

You nodded frantically, you were so drunk in the pleasure he was giving you that it was impossible to articulate words, you just let that intense pleasure ripple through you.

“You are mine. Mine, yeah? All fuckin’ mine.”

“Yours,” you choked out, your voice breaking on a moan as he angled his hips just right, hitting that spot inside you so perfectly that your body jolted, eyes fluttering shut, vision blurring with pleasure.

“Good girl,” he murmured. “That’s my good wife. So sweet and tight for me, drippin’ on me lap.”

The praise hit you like a shockwave, heat coiling in your gut, your body was desperately trying to chase your high. Just like as if he’d read your mind, sensing what you needed, his hands gripped your hips with force, lifting you up and slamming you down on his cock over and over again at the same time he thrusted up to meet you with rough, almost desperate violence. You weren't riding him anymore, he was fucking you through it.

“That’s it, love,” he muttered, his voice rough and unraveling. “Take it, my filthy little missus. Show me how good I make you feel. Ride it like you mean it.”

You cried out, the pleasure now becoming unbearable, forcing your body to clench hard around him, making your thighs tremble, the slick sound of your cunt milking him was louder now, filthier, wetter with every thrust. His cock throbbed inside you, thick and hot and perfectly angled to build your orgasm.

“Cum for your husband. Let me know I’m the only bastard who can make you feel like this. Just me. Just your fuckin' man.”

You snapped. Your head fell back, your mouth dropped open in a cry of pure ecstasy as you came hard. Your cunt spasmed around him, soaking him in a rush that made him curse and grip you tighter.

“Fuckin’ hell, that’s it, pet,” he groaned, voice strangled. “Milk it. Milk my cock just like that. Gonna leave that pretty cunt drippin’ my cum for for weeks. Fuckin’ ruined.”

Alfie followed you just a couple of thrusts later, his eyes squeezing shut as his hips jerked up one last time, burying himself as deep as he could go. He came with a low, shuddering groan, his cock pulsing inside you, flooding you with his cum as he clutched you tight, holding you in place like he couldn’t bear the thought of you ever pulling away.

You collapsed onto his chest, both of you panting, bodies slick with sweat and sex, his release leaking out of you slowly as his softening cock stayed inside. His hand stroked lazily up and down your back, while his lips pressed a kiss to your temple.

“Ahhh—fuckin’ hell, yeah—that’s what a man needs, innit?” he groaned, voice thick and slurred like he was drunk on you. “To come home after a long day of dealin’ with cunts and madness, yeah, and have his sweet little wife sittin' pretty on his cock—riding him like it’s her god-given job.”

"Glad to hear I'm good at my job," you teased, voice raspy, still trying to catch your breath.

"Ohhh, you're the fuckin' best, pet. Not one fuckin' soul like you," he muttered, still breathless. "God broke the mould when he made you, thank fuckin' Christ he did."

His heartbeat thudded beneath your ear, slowing little by little as his breathing evened out. For a long moment, there was just the sound of your shared breaths, the creak of the armchair as he adjusted to hold you closer, with his nose buried in your hair.

Then, softly, quieter than you were used to hearing him, he spoke.

“Thanks for takin' care of me,” he said, a little raw. “Proper, like no one ever has. Not just the shaggin’, love, though—don’t get me wrong, yeah, that’s… exceptional.” He smirked faintly, and you laughed. “But it’s the other things. All the little things you do for me.”

Your throat tightened as he continued, getting to hear this sweet side of him was something you’d never get used to, not because it was rare, he gave it to you more often than he probably even realized, but because it always felt like a little secret, meant only for you.

“I’m not easy, right? I know that. I’m rough and moody and loud as hell. And yet you—you’re always there. Calm. Warm. Always fuckin’ takin’ care of me.” He pressed his forehead to yours. “So I just wanted to say thank you. For stayin’ even after all these years. For seein’ the worst of me and lovin’ me anyway.”

You kissed him then, slow and tender, the kind of kiss that spoke louder than words could ever manage, and when you pulled back, your voice was thick with emotion.

“You’re not the worst, Alf. You never were.”

He huffed a soft laugh, pulling you tighter against him. Looking at you with eyes that said “I love you. I’d be lost without you by my side.” You felt it in your chest, in your bones. He made you feel like the most loved woman in the world.

“Well, I’ll tell you what you are,” he murmured. “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

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AN: Thank you so much for your request!! You gave me the perfect opportunity to write this cause I’ve actually been thinking for a while about a fic where the reader takes care of Alfie’s sciatica, but I absolutely loved your idea🩷🫶🏻

I hope that you and everyone else enjoyed this. Your support means the world to me!!

One more Alfie fic to go and then I’m officially done with requests heheh😮‍💨

@ficthots

dividers by: @/saradika-graphics

[tiredoffeelinglost-writes-shit]

Fire in My Blood

Bane x Fem!Reader (no use of Y/N)

Word count: 4908

Warnings: 18+, Non-con drug use, fuck or die (sort of), slight dub-con (but not really), unprotected sex, mainly PWP, unbeta'd

A/N: my first time writing smut so be gentle

You woke up in bed, slow and groggy. The pain in your head was rolling through you in waves and you thanked your drunk self for at least closing the curtains so there wasn’t too-bright sunlight burning through your eyelids. Idly, you hoped that whatever you couldn’t remember doing last night was worth a hangover this size. You shifted to cradle your head in your hands but your hands didn’t move. Panic washed over you, sudden and icy. Your hands were trapped above your head. 

Forcing the panic aside, you tried to take in your surroundings. You didn’t want to open your eyes yet, in case you were being watched, so you listened hard for something, anything, to tell you where you were. 

No footsteps, no shuffling, no breathing outside your own. Aside from our hands, you were lying comfortably on what you assumed was a bed, complete with a pillow under your head and a blanket that smelled freshly laundered. The room felt bigger than your bedroom and you could hear a kind of white noise outside the walls, getting louder and softer in intervals like–

Waves. Water. 

You must be near the docks. Probably one of the abandoned warehouses frequented by one of Gotham’s handful of criminal enterprises. 

Speaking of criminals, you thanked your lucky stars for the recent training in analyzing and understanding your environment from the man that still sent chills down the spine of most Gothamites. 

You didn’t understand how you had caught Bane’s attention but you couldn’t deny that you enjoyed it. It took some time between your underground meetings and the handful of times he visited your apartment through the fire escape but you had molded a sort of companionship. He was gentler with you when you weren’t training. The glimpses you got of Bane the Man and not just Bane the Weapon had inklings of longing for something more worming their way into your heart but you squashed them to the best of your ability. You knew who Bane was and knew he could never see you as something more than what you had. 

Taking a steadying breath, you slowly opened your eyes. Only a sliver of the room was visible through your eyelashes at first but you didn’t see anyone else around. You blinked your eyes open and looked toward your hands.

Plastic zip ties held you to the metal headboard, biting into your wrists. You flexed lightly, testing their strength, when a door to your left opened and a man in a long white lab coat walked in.

Jonathan Crane was an objectively handsome man. The whole evil mad scientist thing left a lot to be desired although, knowing him, he probably had a drug for that too. His attention was on a clipboard he was carrying. Talking to himself in soft murmurs, he strode confidently over toward your bed. 

“Ah look who’s awake!” He finally looked up at you and smiled, full and genuine. “Perfect timing.” His gaze raked over you, cool and calculating, and it made your skin crawl, suddenly aware that you were dressed in only your bra and panties from the night before. The thought of Crane undressing you while you were unconscious had bile rising in your throat. 

“What am I doing here?” you fought to keep your voice steady. 

“I needed a guinea pig for something I’ve been working on lately. I was out looking for suitable candidates last night and saw you out with your friends.”

Something must have shown on your face because Crane waved his hand dismissively. “They aren’t here. They had too much alcohol in their systems and it would’ve taken too long for it to metabolize. I couldn’t risk that altering my results.”

Now your blackout made more sense. You had been out with a small group of friends at a bar just celebrating the end of the work week. Things had gotten a little fuzzy but you just assumed it was due to one too many margaritas. Crane must have slipped something into your drink.

Anger flooded you. “You kidnapped me to use me as a test subject?”

“You shouldn’t sound so ungrateful! You’re helping the cutting edge of science! Of understanding the human brain!” He sounded so earnest as if he truly believed in his work without a care in the world that he kidnapped you for it. 

The panic you had been fighting down, hit you like a train. You were trapped on a bed with a madman who had plans for you and no one knew where the hell you were. You wondered how long it would be until anyone found your body. You had to get out. 

“I needed you to be awake before I started the test, though,” he explained. “It will be much easier to judge how quickly the effects start if you're conscious.” He slipped a hand into his pocket and pulled out a syringe and vial. The pale purple, syrupy liquid in the vial seemed to swirl as Crane pulled it into the syringe, his brow furrowed in concentration. 

With the dose measured out, he turned back to you. You shifted as far away as your binds would allow, inadvertently pressing yourself further into the mattress.

“You’re a smart man,” you tried to reason with him, “You know who I spend my time with.” 

Explicitly connecting yourself to Bane wasn’t something you wanted to do - whatever you two had felt tenuous at best - but desperate times call for desperate measures. No one would be dumb enough to touch someone with any direct connection to the man, right?

“Oh, yes, I know,” Crane’s smile was predatory, “and I’m counting on him coming to save his little pet.”

His palm pressed the side of your face into the pillow, keeping your neck extended even as you thrashed against the bed. The needle pierced the tender skin and Crane’s eyes glittered in the dim light as he released the drug into you. 

“You crazy bastard!” Your wrists were bleeding freely now, slow trickles running down your forearms and dripping onto the sheets as you continued to try and pull yourself free.

Whatever he gave you didn’t hit all at once. It started in your chest, warm and slow, and radiated outward, but warm grew into too hot all too quickly, curled around your lungs and ribs, and squeezed. Your breath stuttered on the next exhale. Part of you expected to see smoke trailing out between your lips. Liquid fire pooled low in your stomach and you were suddenly, painfully, aroused.

“What the fuck?”

Your heart pounded in your ears, overpowering Crane’s monologuing no matter how hard you tried to concentrate on it. Fire raced in your veins and you pulled against your restraints, sparks licking your wrists. 

Through the haze in your brain you could barely make out Crane talking about Lust and Fever and Sex and Orgasm and Death. Even firing on all cylinders, you didn’t know if you could find a good combination of those words. 

Something in the distance caught his attention and he grinned like a shark, all predator and sharp teeth. Crane knew what it meant too. 

“He’s gonna tear you apart,” you hissed. 

“Oh, on the contrary,” he spoke slowly and looked in your eyes, making sure you understood every word, a condescending lilt in his tone, “I think he’ll send me a thank you gift after this.”

He left with a chuckle that sent a chill down your spine even with the growing furnace inside you. 

With Crane out of sight, you squirmed to try and break the zip ties again but the new sensations had you gasping. Your wrists didn’t hurt so much anymore and what little pain made it through to your awareness landed just on the side of pleasurable.  The blanket underneath you rubbed against you everywhere, everywhere, and your cheeks flamed when you noticed the wetness in your panties. You tried to force yourself to lay still - to stop and think about your next move - but your hips rolled anyway, searching for friction you wouldn’t find. 

You squeezed your thighs together, chasing the orgasm you could feel rushing at you just beyond your reach. The coil snapped and it flowed through you like cool water down your parched throat. It broke the haze just briefly. You gasped a breath like coming up out of water.

If it was possible for you to blush further, you would’ve when you opened your eyes and were met with Bane’s. How much had he seen? 

The man stood over you, stoic as ever, and gave nothing away. He watched you silently, taking in everything.

“This is not one of his usual toxins.” He finally spoke. It wasn't a question but you shook your head anyway. 

“He said it was something he had been working on.” You swallowed hard, fighting a shiver. "He didn't start really talking until he had already drugged me and I couldn’t focus. Something about fever and sex and death but..." you trailed off, nervous and unwilling to really finish that sentence. Shaking your head was a mistake you learned as nausea hit you. “Needed a test subject.”

Bane nodded slowly, hard eyes glinting off the light as he looked around the room. “There’s a camera,” he mused. “He’s watching.”

“Sick fuck,” you seethed. 

Bane huffed out something that could’ve been a laugh and wrapped his fingers around your wrist. You startled both of you by moaning lowly. His touch was like a soothing balm and lit match against your nerves at the same time. 

His eyes were on your face but his fingers didn’t move.  

“Fuck, I’m sorry- I don’t know-,” you stuttered. “Can’t think- Too fucking hot.” You clenched your teeth, cutting off the half-formed thoughts you couldn’t stop.

Calloused fingers brushed across your forehead and you bit back a whimper. 

“You have a fever.”

You nodded, eyes shut tight. There was a heavy pause.

“You are…aroused.”

You turned your face away from him but nodded again, shame rocketing through you. Tears fell against your will.

“Please just get me out of here,” you whispered.

The zip ties snapped easily under his hands and you had to clamp down on your mind straying to thoughts of feeling those rough fingers on your skin again. Your core throbbed at the mental image alone. You couldn’t help rubbing your thighs together, breath hitching. Vaguely, you realized you were gasping out a string of apologies when Bane shushed you, just a hiss leaking out of his mask.

“You are not in control of your body. Do what you must.” The words came out stiff, barely contained anger tingeing them but you knew it wasn’t aimed at you.

Dark eyes met yours as you searched his face, needing to see if he was serious. His sincerity was open and unwavering. The weight of his hand settled on your stomach, the warmth of his palm bleeding into the coil inside you and snapping it just as soundly as the zip ties. 

Your eyes rolled back and you groaned as that cooling wave shook through you, quieter this time. 

“It will be easier if I carry you out but it may be…uncomfortable for you.”

“Do what you must,” you parroted his words with a weak smile, hoping for levity.

A silent nod was the only reply and he was wrapping you up in the blanket you had been laying on. The texture was scratchy and it insulated the heat of your skin but you bit your tongue. Strong arms lifted you effortlessly. You buried your face in the blanket and settled against his chest as he moved. 

It was a position you had found yourself in before. You had a habit of falling asleep in places you shouldn’t and he often carried you to a place that wouldn’t have your back or neck screaming at you when you woke up. On one particular occasion, you had fallen asleep slumped over on the couch in your apartment and floated to awareness being lifted and carried to your bedroom. You felt like a child again, protected and cared for. Your nose pressed into his jaw, just under the line of his mask. He had laid you gently on your bed, still unmade from the morning, and brought the duvet up to your chin. You had tried to fight your way to full consciousness.

“Stay,” you breathed, afraid he wouldn’t hear. Afraid that he would hear and leave anyway. After a beat, the other side of your bed dipped with his weight, half laying, half sitting up against the pillows. You had rolled into him, soaking up his warmth. Later, you would  blame pressing your face into his chest on the fact that you had still been on the wrong side of consciousness.

His hand tentatively rested on your shoulder as if he didn’t know what to do with it. You let out a light hum, hoping to reassure him. A smile almost slid over your lips when his palm slid down along your spine to settle at the center of your back. 

Just before you slipped back into sleep, you swore you felt him press his mask against the crown of your head. 

“Little one,” Bane’s voice brought you out of the fog in your brain, “Are you with me?” 

You blinked your eyes open and lifted your head from the blanket cocoon. 

“Always,” you replied. You became mildly aware that you were in your apartment but you didn’t remember how you got there. How long had you been lost in your head?

“My men are taking care of Crane,” he said. You both knew what he meant but the fewer specifics you knew, the better. “Barsad will make sure that nothing from the camera he had in that room will be seen by anyone.” His grip on you tightened. “He will never touch you again.”

He deposited you on your bed and was standing over you once again. He didn't show any outward emotion. You didn't know what to say or how. 

"I'm sorry." You said anyway. It came out small and weak. Hell, you weren't even sure what you were sorry for. Getting kidnapped? Not being able to get out of the situation yourself? 

Your head was too full of feelings you didn't understand. You couldn't think straight. You had never been more aware of your own body before. The lingering feeling of Bane’s arms around you, the godawful blanket. You swore you could feel your blood flowing in your veins. 

Light fingertips ghosted across your forehead, pressing lightly on the creases between your eyebrows, and your eyelids fluttered closed. You bit your lip. 

"Does it hurt when I do this?" He moved his hand from your forehead to your wrist. His thumb rubbing just under the wound that the zip tie left. 

You shook your head, not trusting your ability to make any noise that wasn't wholly embarrassing. 

"I need to hear you say it." 

You swallowed hard. "No, it doesn't hurt. It’s like my body can't decide if it feels amazing or like I'm holding it next to an open flame." You rushed out. 

“What do you need?” he asked after a heavy pause.

A simple question that had your head spinning. Rapid fire flashes of his large frame over you, under you, those rough hands all over you, inside you. You bit down on a moan, nearly biting through your lip.

“Just talk to me. Please.” It came out shaky and too vulnerable. 

His brows furrowed. “That will not help with the effects of the toxin.”

Resolutely keeping your lips shut tight, another tear escaped down your cheek. He brushed it away with his thumb. 

“I cannot just sit by and do nothing when you’re suffering.”

You shook your head, the action making your head swim. “I can’t ask that of you. I won’t.”

His hand settled on your stomach. The pressure sent waves through you. The fire in your core roaring anew.

“You don’t have to ask. You just have to let me.”

Your glassy, tired eyes met his dark, earnest ones as you searched for something, anything, that would give you reason to say no. You weighed the option of just letting the toxin do what it would instead of ruining what you and he had. 

But you couldn’t deny that you wanted what he was offering.

“Okay.” You nodded lightly. 

You hissed as he shifted the blanket off of you. It felt like sandpaper against your highly sensitive skin. His gaze flicked up to you but kept on his mission, lightly tracing his fingers up your thighs. It might've tickled a little if you had a better handle on your nerves. 

There was only a slight pause in his movements before he was bending down to pull his boots off and then joining you on the bed, kneeling in front of you. His eyes searched your face as he spread your thighs, placing one of your legs on either side of his hips. You fought down every bit of embarrassment you could feel burning red on your cheeks and looked away.

“No,” he spoke softly but clearly. A calloused finger under your chin turned you back to meet his gaze. “Don’t look away, little one. You need to stay present and tell me if I do anything to hurt you or if you need me to stop. I want to help, not cause more harm. Understand?”

Only after you gave a small nod did he release your chin and return his hands to your inner thighs, higher than before. His thumbs rubbing small circles mere inches from where you needed him.

His eyes caught on the damp patch darkening the fabric of your panties. He made a single slow pass over your center with his thumb. You bit down on the inside of your cheek and let out a rough exhale, your fists curling into the sheets.

“Try to relax,” he rumbled, gaze flicking up to your face and back down. “I understand this must be unpleasant for you but fighting the toxin will prolong the effects and may make it worse.”

A whine escaped your clenched teeth as you forced your muscles to relax. His thumb began slow, even circles over your clit, like a reward. Pleasure rose quickly now that you had stopped pushing it down. 

 “Nothing said or done here will leave this room,” he assured you. “You are safe to do what you need to get through this.” He hooked a finger around damp fabric and pulled your panties to the side. The first brush of a callused fingertip sent a jolt up your spine. “Tell me that you understand.”

Your hips rocked minutely, chasing his touch. “I understand.” 

“Good girl.”

His finger slid inside you in one push and your walls tightened around him, sending you over the edge again. You couldn't be embarrassed about the noise you made even if you tried.

The toxin’s haze faded marginally again. In all honesty, you had hoped that an orgasm brought on by someone else would have been all it would take but, of course, Crane’s concoctions are never that simple.

As many times as you indulged fantasies of Bane in your bed, though you would never admit it aloud, you didn't want it to happen like this. Not when it was only like an obligation for him. 

The finger steadily pumping inside you became two and the stretch brought you out of your thoughts with a whine. 

Bane slowed but didn’t stop. “Does it hurt?”

You shook your head quickly. “No, no, it’s just a lot,” you reassured him, moaning around the last word when picked up his pace again. “It’s like I’m feeling everything double or triple.”

“It’s good then?” 

He curled his fingers slightly, searching. 

“So good.” You choked on a gasp when he found the spot inside you that made your toes curl. Those rough fingertips massaged tight circles around it while his thumb copied the movement around your clit. 

Moans flowed from your lips unhindered. One of your hands reached down to clutch at his wrist while the other tightened in the sheets. 

You could feel the crest coming but it was just out of reach. Your head thrashed on the pillow, grinding your teeth. 

"Fuck, I can't. It's not-" you stopped with a whine, tears gathering in your eyes. Your hips rolled of their own accord in search of friction.

“It’s not enough,” he finished for you. 

"Crane told me that you'd send him a thank you gift for this." You blurted out. "Like this was something you wanted."

He froze. 

“He’s wrong, right? Of course he is,” you rambled, squeezing your eyes shut tight. “You don’t want this. Why the hell would you? I’m just me. An annoyance even on a good day, a hindrance on any other. I’m not-” 

Pressing his hand over your lips, he stopped your rambling. 

"Not like this." It was quiet but you heard it, you knew you did. Your gaze met his again and you just stared at him for a heartbeat then two, willing yourself to take a chance. Telling yourself it would be worth it. 

Fuck it. If it goes wrong, you can just blame it on the toxin.

You wrapped your legs around his hips, pulling yourself further toward him. Your heat pressed against the obvious tent in the front of his pants. His hand fell from your lips as you dragged yourself up to him, close enough to share breath.

“Please.” You ran your nose along his cheek and quickly unhooked your bra. His eyes flicked down briefly once the lace was removed and laying on the floor.

“Little one,” he murmured.

"You're the only person I would trust with this." You pressed a firm kiss to the front of his mask.

A harsh breath hissed out from behind the grate. He took only a brief pause to gather himself before moving off the bed stripping quickly. Your eyes raked over every inch of newly exposed skin. Lightly tanned, criss-crossed with scars, and stretched over his wide frame and well-built muscles. You’d seen him shirtless before under much different circumstances and it was a sight you had guiltily used on nights when you were alone and you knew this was something that you would add to your shameful late night fantasies until the day you died. 

His cock slapped against his stomach as his pants hit the floor. The sight alone had a whimper crawling up your throat. He was thick, flushed red and leaking, and you couldn’t tell if the need to feel him inside you was more the toxin or your own. 

Your breath caught when his fingertips curled into the top hem of your panties. His gaze held yours until the lace joined his pants on the floor and he returned to his spot between your thighs.

He wrapped a hand around himself, teasing your entrance with the head of his cock.

“Are you with me?” His eyes searched yours.

“Always,” you breathed. 

He filled you slowly, measured, careful, and watching your face the entire time. The last thing he wanted to do was hurt you and he was acutely aware of the size difference between the two of you. His fingers flexed against your thighs, keeping you still in his grasp. 

Even with the toxin’s effects on you, the stretch of Bane filling you had a twinge of discomfort filtering through the pleasure otherwise washing over you. 

He finally bottomed out and you let out a low groan. You couldn’t decide where to keep your hands and they flitted from his shoulders to the bedsheets to his forearms to his abs, anything you could touch. Maybe if you found something to hold on to, you could keep yourself from floating away. 

Bane grunted as you clenched around him and minutely ground his hips into you. 

“Shit, move please,” your fingers dug into his forearms. 

You expected him to be rough and fast. Simply chasing release with his mission as a sole focus. But this was something else entirely. He was still focused but his mission was you, not just getting off. He was curled over you, forehead pressed into your shoulder, caging you in with his forearms and rolling his hips into you. It felt amazing.

But it wasn’t enough. You could tell he was holding back, even if it was for your sake, and, if this was the only time you got to experience Bane like this, you wanted all of him.

“Bane, baby, please.” You gripped the back of his neck and pulled his face up from its hiding place. Flicking your eyes up to meet his wild ones, you planted a firm kiss onto his mask, running the tip of your tongue along the grate. “I’m not gonna break.” You dug your heels into his ass, urging him on. His eyes darkened at your words, pupils already blown wide. His hips snapped forward with a grunt, forcing a gasp from between your lips. He levered up on his knees, towering over you, as he pulled out almost entirely and wrapped your hips in a bruising grip. 

A growl slid out from behind his mask as he looked down at you.

“Fuck yes,” you moaned out. Your eyes rolled back when he filled you again, impossibly deeper than before. 

Long gone was the caring pace he had set before. Every one of your favorite fantasies of rough sex with Bane couldn’t compare to the real thing. Part of you was already excited to see the vibrant bruises you’d find on your hips later. 

Bane’s angle was perfect, the head of his cock rubbing against your g-spot with devastating precision. 

“Oh fuck, right there, please.” Your fingers curled around his wrists and your back arched up off the bed. 

You bit your lip hard to try and stop the string of embarrassing whines escaping with every powerful thrust. 

“No,” something akin to a snarl clawed out of Bane’s throat.

He pinned your wrists above your head, holding you fast with one hand. He ran the thumb of his other over your bottom lip, spit-slicked and bitten red, and pulled it from between your teeth. 

“I want to hear every single noise of pleasure you make,” he growled. 

You caught his thumb between your teeth and curled your tongue around it. His fiery gaze dropped to your lips as you sucked, drawing the calloused pad deeper into your mouth.

“I’ve heard those pretty sounds fall out of your lips countless times, I’ve heard you call my name at night, don’t you dare hide them from me now.”

He hooked his thumb behind your teeth and pulled down. A hard snap of his hips forced a loud cry from between your lips. 

“Good girl.” He chuckled darkly.

He released your jaw and trailed his hand down your neck. His fingers found your nipple, spit-slick thumb circling the bud before pinching it between rough fingers. You squirmed beneath him as he twisted and pulled, the bite of pain only serving to amplify the pleasure coursing in your blood. He showed the same treatment to your other nipple and you fought weakly against the hold he had on your wrists. 

“Please, fuck, please,” you moaned. At this point, you didn’t even know what you were begging for. Your head was fuzzy with the tightening of the coil in your stomach. Each drag of his cock inside you, each grind against your clit, feeling wholly and solely overwhelmed by the man above you, nothing else existed outside this moment. 

“Let go, little one,” he purred. He reached down and rubbed tight circles over your clit. “Give it to me. Let me feel you come on my cock.”

You screamed his name as the knot in your core snapped hard and your vision went white. Bane snarled and buried himself to the hilt finding his own release as you lost yourself in the waves of your orgasm crashing one after another. 

Floating back to yourself, you felt a firm body under your cheek and tentative fingertips tracing along your back. 

The toxin had burned itself out, no longer smoldering in your core. Now, you were afraid. Was all that just because of the toxin? Had Bane just reacted to you? Of course, he had offered but what if none of it really meant anything to him? Hell, it probably didn’t. Just a means to an end.

You didn’t realize you had started shivering until Bane moved you to lay over him and wrapped his arms and the duvet around you. 

You slid your hands under his shoulders and pressed your face into his neck. 

“Are you with me?” you whispered, fighting to keep your voice steady.

A beat of silence and his arms tightened around you. 

“Always.”

The talk that both of you knew needed to happen, could wait just a little while longer. For now, you were content to stay in the moment. You placed a slow line of kisses down his neck and pressed your nose into the juncture of his shoulder instead. 

“Sleep now, little one,” he rumbled beneath you. 

Just before unconsciousness took you, you felt him press his mask into the crown of your head. 

[zablife]

Take a Ride

Johnny Davis x gf reader

Johnny Davis Masterlist

Summary: Johnny returns from a trip too exhausted for sex, but you have another idea meant to tease. Unfortunately for you, so does Johnny.

A/N: For @alfiestreacle

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, thigh riding, orgasm denial

The low scrape of boots scuffling across the linoleum instantly captured your attention amidst the quiet of the bar, indicating the return of the Vandals after a torturous week of waiting.

"I gotta go, Johnny's home," you rushed out in a single breath, slamming the receiver against the hook on the wall before your friend could even say goodbye. You scrambled off the stool, rushing past the row of pool tables to reach Johnny's office as quickly as possible.

You found your boyfriend slumped down in a chair, one hand resting at his temple as his heavy eyelids closed to the world around him.

Without saying a word, you climbed into his lap and snuggled deep into his warmth with a contented sigh.

He jumped slightly as your cold hands dove beneath his leather jacket, a surprised grunt escaping his lips which made you giggle.

"Welcome home, baby," you whispered, placing a tender kiss to the patch of gray in his beard. As you inhaled the scent of motor oil and musk lingering in the coarse hairs, you couldn't help continuing your trail of kisses which ended at the corner of his mouth. Licking against his plump lips for entry, you waited for his greed to overtake him as it always did.

Normally he would take you by the throat and push you against the desk for a quick fuck, but tonight he remained still, a look of defeat washing over his face.

Taking your chin in his palm, he ground out an apology in a rough, gravel filled voice. "M sorry, doll baby, too tired for that tonight," he explained, rubbing a thumb against the apple of your cheek.

Unable to stop the pout creasing your brow, you grasped his forearms, legs swinging to the ground with a huff.

"Don't do that," he warned, opposite hand spanking your bottom harshly.

Spurred on by his taunt, you leaned forward to press your breasts against him, wrapping your arms snugly around his neck. Lips grazing the shell of his ear you whispered sadly, "But you've been gone so long, baby." Rolling your hips over his muscular thigh, you attempted to remind him what he'd missed in his time away.

His hand stroked along your back, a knowing smile tugging at his lips as he reached for a pack of cigarettes off the desk. He took his time lighting one as he watched your hips rise and fall over the coarse material of his jeans, skirt riding up toward your waist with each pass.

As an unintentional moan ripped from your throat, Johnny couldn't help but chuckle. You were only succeeding in teasing yourself with this display. It was then that he decided to have a little fun with you.

"Tell you what, baby girl, you wait for me to finish this cigarette and I'll give you what you want, okay?" he assured you, rubbing his nose against yours and sealing his promise with a chaste kiss.

"You mean it?" you gulped, already feeling the heat rising in your core.

"Yeah," he nodded slowly, smoke billowing from his nostrils to hide the twinkle of mischief in his eye.

"O-okay," you practically panted, fingers scrambling for purchase along the slippery planes of his jacket. The drag against your cotton panties was unbearably delicious and the occasional bounce of Johnny's knee, sent electric shocks through your clit. It was enough to keep you undulating over him in a steady rhythm despite the reward of his touch waiting for you.

Heart beat rising steadily in your chest, your eyes darted to the ash growing at the end of the cigarette wishing it would burn faster. You tossed your head back to keep from thinking how much longer it would be until it singed his fingertips, reminding him of your need for him. Couldn't he see it in your clenched teeth and the way your thighs trembled?

You attempted to put your mind anywhere except your aching leg muscles which were beginning to burn from the repetitive motion.

As you continued to ride him, your little yelps of pain and pleasure melded together so sweetly. Johnny almost hated himself for the way he was torturing you...almost. Though he tried to talk himself out of it, watching you ruin yourself was far too much fun to stop now.

Waiting for a moment when your eyes closed to the overwhelming sensations, he reached for another smoke. Lighting it with the end of his burning cigarette, he bit the inside of his cheek to keep the amusement out of his voice.

"Little longer, darlin'. You can do it," he goaded you, watching a sheen of sweat coat your brow.

You whined pathetically as a tear threatened to spill down your cheek, Johnny leaning in to sweep the sticky strands from your forehead lovingly.

"Such a pretty girl," he cooed. "You ain't gonna cry are ya?" he asked patronizingly, placing a kiss to your temple.

"N-n-no," you stuttered, wanting to be good for him. The last thing you wanted to do was disappoint Johnny.

"That's real good, darlin'," he said, wedging his thigh between your legs harshly and making you cry out.

Then just as suddenly, he left you completely bereft, arms falling to his sides without the slightest touch. He sat back and watched your efforts with a proud look on his face, his sweet little thing so desperate for him she’d get herself off on his thigh while he smoked without a care.

But your movements soon stalled, unable to bring yourself to climax and Johnny realized he'd pushed you too far.

Collapsing against his chest, the tears fell hard and fast as you admitted, "I can't...can't do it on my own."

Johnny swiftly extinguished his cigarette on the desk, not even bothering to find the ashtray. All condescension gone from his voice, he spoke to you gently as his strong hands gripped your waist.

“S'okay darlin, gonna make you feel good just like I promised.” His fingers dug into you like anchors, dragging you against him in a soothing rhythm. In no time sparks reignited against your needy pussy as Johnny picked up speed, his fervor renewed by the glimpse of your slick coating his broad thigh.

When your tear stained face rose to meet his earnest look, he took one hand away to massage your breast, fingers teasing your pert nipple through the flimsy material of your top.

That's all it took for you to fall apart, lips parting in ecstasy as your whole body shook in pleasure.

"There's my girl, take what you need, sweetheart," he urged, feeling your small hands push against his chest willfully.

"Feels so good," you moaned against him, clutching his shirt in your hand.

He cradled the back of your head in his palm, pulling you in for a sloppy kiss as he rocked you.

“Keep goin’,” he mumbled against the press of your lips, helping you prolong the feeling as long as possible.

As you came down from your high, your heavy limbs began to hang loosely over him like a rag doll and Johnny held you close to keep you from tumbling off his lap.

He waited for the sound of your contented sighs before lifting you up into his arms and taking you home.

[scuddisher]

[zablife]

Long Distance

Johnny Davis x reader

Johnny Davis Masterlist

Summary: Johnny calls from the road to check in on you. He can tell from the sound of your voice, you're desperate for him so he decides to help you...but only if you're a very good girl.

A/N: Sorry for all the requests I have piling up in my inbox! I will get to them soon. This was giving me brain rot tho. 18+ MDNI, guided masturbation, use of the term "daddy"

The phone trills once, then twice as you scramble to reach it, knocking the heavy receiver from its cradle in your eagerness. "J-johnny?" you falter softly.

"Hey, babydoll," he hums. If he closes his eyes, he can almost picture you in a pastel nightgown, brushing your hair in front of the television set as you do every night.

"Waited for your call," you simper, despite your drooping eyelids. "I needed to hear your voice tonight."

"You waited for me, huh?" he asks, a smirk audible in his voice as he realizes the need present in your voice.

"Course I did," you coo back at him and he can envision that look in your doe eyes, large and glossy as you listen to his every word with pure adoration.

"That's right, cause you're my sweet girl. So good for me," he praises, knowing how wet that makes you.

"I am," you nod obediently as though he might be watching.

"You ready for me?" he asks, even though he knows the answer to the question before he asks it.

"Want you so much," you murmur, hips rocking against the sofa involuntarily, a vain attempt to gain some kind of friction.

"Oh, sweetheart...you don't sound so good," he can't help but tease, knowing you haven't had a release in over a week. "Tell daddy what's wrong?"

You want to touch, fingers sliding down your abdomen and stopping at the band of your underwear. However, you freeze as you remind yourself it isn't allowed when Johnny's not home. The more you try to talk yourself out of it, the worse the torture becomes. The fire burning beneath your skin simply won't abate so you decide to beg. "The tingles are too bad tonight," you whine pathetically. "Please let me touch, daddy."

Johnny hums for a moment as he considers it, relishing the power he holds and then his mind is made up. "Only if you listen to my voice very carefully, little one."

Your heart leaps at his permission, chin nodding against your chest vigorously before you've even heard his terms. "Yes, yes, yes," you pant, tracing your hand along the gusset of your panties in expectation. It draws a tell tale whimper from your lips which doesn't go unnoticed.

"You're breakin' the rules, darlin'," he warns in a low growl, making you gulp and jerk your hands from your body, head turning to see if he might be peeking through the curtains.

Then you hear a good natured chuckle rumble from his chest followed by honey coated words of praise, "Just joking, sugar, want my girl to feel good all the time. But you gotta let me show you how, okay?"

You sink back into the sofa with a sigh, eyelids half closed as Johnny gives you the okay to slide your panties from your legs.

"Pull your nightie up and let it sit high on your waist now," he instructs in a thick whisper. "Spread your legs so you feel that nice, cool breeze on your pussy....But don't touch her yet."

You pant into the receiver and hear him laugh at you. "Johnny, don't!" you scold him as your crimson nails dig into the cushions, head tossed back in agony.

"Sorry, angel," he corrects himself. "Can't help but imagine you spread wide, dripping on the couch cushions," he defends himself. "My lonely little baby making a mess just cause she misses her daddy."

You bite your lip, his filthy words making you warmer by the minute. "Pl-please," you whimper.

"Oh, angel..."Johnny breathes down the line and you can practically hear him palming himself to your frantic panting. "Go on and touch. Tell me how wet you are f'me."

You trill in exquisite delight as your hand slides between parted lips, your slick coating your eager fingertips. "So wet," you echo back to him.

"Wish I could have a taste'," he murmurs in appreciation and you can vaguely hear a smacking sound in the distance. "You go on and taste for daddy like a good girl, won't ya?" he asks with a deep sigh.

"Uh-huh," you slur out in promise.

"Slow now, leave a trail up that perfect body before you suck those fingers. Got two in your mouth now?" he asks.

"Mmmmm," you confirm, pursing your lips and licking your juices.

"You taste sweet or salty tonight?" he prods, wanting to know every detail.

"Sweet," you taunt, middle finger popping from your pouty lips audibly.

"Then you're ovulatin' darlin'. Gotta get back to ya soon," he grits out, the wet sounds on his end growing louder. The idea of breeding you always a turn on for him.

"Daddy?" you whine.

"What is it, honey? What you want?" he begs to know.

"I ache," you remind him.

"Gonna take care of that right now, sugar," he promises lowly. "Rub for me like you I taught ya."

Your hand slides to your clit, fingers tracing circles feverishly now that you've been given permission. A wanton moan escapes and Johnny knows you've complied.

"Feelin' good?" he asks.

"S-soo good," you slur as your back arches off the sofa to meet your own hand.

"I know, playin' with that pussy feels like heaven, don't it?" he reminisces to himself, thinking of your soft, warmth clutching his fingers and milking his cock. "Can make you feel drunk," he adds with a sigh.

You nod in agreement, fingers fumbling against your swollen bud in satisfaction until he adds soberly, "But that's why you gotta stop when you can't think straight. Stop and count to ten."

"Wh-what?" you mutter, feeling your pulse throb in your clit painfully the moment you cease movement.

"I said, hands off," he instructs sternly. "Start countin."

You nearly cry as you begin in slow uneven breaths, Johnny humming his approval and hushing the tears he knows are threatening to spill over your beautiful lashes.

When you come to the end, he soothes you, "Good girl, I know that was hard. Wish I could see that pretty pussy clenching for me, I do," he sympathizes in the softest voice you've ever heard. Yet somehow you still want to hit him, claw at him for keeping you from your release.

"Johnny, please..." you whimper. "N-need it," you beg.

"Smack it first," he answers. As your knuckles tighten against a cushion without verbal reply, he coaxes, "S'okay, little one, didn't say I was gonna ruin it, did I? You're gonna cum hard for me in a minute. Hang on, now."

And you know he wants to hear the sounds of your palm meeting your wetness, giving you just enough stimulation to keep you on edge. Brow furrowed as your hand raises in the air, you whine against the sting, his chuckle your only answer to the question if he's satisfied.

After a long pause he sighs deeply over the line, imagining the jaw dropping sight of your red, puffy lips. "Go on, slide your fingers in," he tells you breathlessly, wishing he could feel the heat against his own hand. "You deserve it, angel baby."

"Thank you, thank you," you mutter to him as you pump your digits into your throbbing cunt, needing something, anything to help you peak.

But it isn't enough and your frustrated grunts soon prove it. Johnny knows it before you can express the thought and he whispers a solution in your ear like a savior. "Hairbrush, darlin'. Use the handle to fuck yourself," he offers.

The relief is instant, reaching further than your small hand ever could and you're a whimpering mess, dropping the receiver from your shoulder before you realize you're cumming hard.

That doesn't matter to Johnny though. He's listening to every harmonious sound over the static filled line, spilling over his hand just as you seem to crest. "My perfect babydoll," he grunts in complete satisfaction.

When you recover, you find the phone and place it to your ear. "J-johnny?" you repeat much like the beginning of your conversation.

"Did daddy make it better, darlin'?" he asks with a smug grin on his face.

"So much better," you huff out, still experiencing aftershocks as your hands trace over trembling thighs.

"Sleep tight. I'm comin' home tomorrow and I want you well rested," he reminds you, thoughts of everything he wants to do to you in the forefront of his mind.

---------------------

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