Imagine, you laying on your bed. Writhing against the sheets. Your hands pulling at the sheets, moving in your hair, dragging down your face as you breathe heavy. You feel like you could cry and not even the bad kind.
The reason? Ryland Grace. One of his knees on the bed, the mattress dipping from the weight it's supporting. You can feel the warmth on your thigh from his skin. One of his hands on your stomach, pressing slightly as the other worked inside you.
Three fingers in. Dragging slowly against the inside, like he was scooping your soul out. Your hips moved under the pressure of both of his hands. A press of his thumb against your clit and you are blabbering-
"oh fuck- Grace- fuck.. oh- please, please, please- no, please -", you don't even know what you are saying. It feels like your tongue is loose. Your head tilts back. You are so close to sobbing from overstimulation or the lack of stimulation? You are sure, neither of you know.
"uh huh", he nods. You can see him lick his lips through your blurred vision, "I can't understand you. You're gonna have to use your words", he looks down at you from above his glasses.
"I wanna cum-", you whined. "You wanna cum?", he sounded way too proud.
You nodded way too eagerly, "please, please- yes, I want to", you closed your eyes. Head pressing against the sheets, lips pressed together as you focused more on the feeling of his fingers inside.
His thumb formed callouses from years of holding his pen wrong and it pressing directly against your clit. Making your jaw slack and mouth hanging open from a silent gasp.
"okay, okay", he was too proud. "You're gonna cum in five, okay?", you nodded, "nuh-uh", he shook his head. "I need words, com on. Your mouth still works, I know"
"yes- yes!", you forced out. "Good- now count with me"
"five", his thumb moved everytime he pulled his fingers out just to push it back in.
"four", every push in, he would curl them in and drag them out.
"three", your eyes felt too hooded. The knot in your stomach drawing closer and closer as you felt your hips push against his hand.
"two", the pressure of his other hand increased against your stomach. Oh, fuck.
One, didn't even have to voice it. You were already arching off of the bed. Your hand finding purchase on his arm, nails digging in as the other pressed against your mouth. Your hips moved on their own to ride the orgasm out.
After a few seconds of muscle spasm and your legs closing tightly around his hand, did you calm down. Chest still moving from rapid breathing. The hand on your mouth moved to your hair, slight damp against your forehead.
You finally glanced at Ryland when the hand on your stomach moved to wipe sweat or tears, you weren't sure, from under your eye. He had the biggest smile, "hi", he whispered. Fuck him.
can you guys tell I have a thing for hand against the stomach..
ryland with an oral fixation has me in a chokehold. like he always has his mouth on your temple, the back of your hand, he absentmindedly bites your fingers when he's deep in thought
NSFW below the cut
He realizes that your nipples are so sensitive that you might be able to get off with them alone, so he spends an evening just licking and sucking and pulling and tweaking until he has you moaning and writhing under him. He's patient, waiting your body out instead of trying to rush anything. Your chest is covered in his drool, his warm breath rushing over the wet spots and making goosebumps rise.
A harsh bite and sharp tug make your hips roll, and you feel the slow build of your release heating up your core. Your whine is familiar to him, he knows you're close. He bites again and flicks his tongue over the tip of your nipple, nimble fingers pinching and pulling the other one until your back arches.
You come with a cry, gentle waves of pleasure rolling through your body. When you open your eyes, he's looking at you with an annoying mix of awe and smugness. "That's a crazy party trick," he mumbles, flattening his tongue and soothing over your sore bud.
He brings you a cold compress in a towel later because he feels bad about how swollen and raw your skin is from his mouth and beard
I feel like Ryland would be so incredibly shy at first in bed, cringing internally at the filthy words that sit on his tongue.
He wants so desperately to give his thoughts a voice, but he doesn’t at first, nervous that they’d come out all wrong and you’d push him off of you right then and there.
It would take some coaxing from you, some time to prove that you want to hear him, but once he’s comfortable?
That man never shuts up!
“Yeah? Right there, sweetheart?” He coos, voice all breathy and syrupy sweet as he watches your reactions to his fingers working you open. Jaw slack, your hand is gripping his bicep tightly and your eyes are half closed in pure bliss as he hits that spot over and over again with ease.
One surprisingly deep push of his fingers has you gasping, fingernails pressing crescents into the soft skin that covers his muscle as you try to ground yourself. “Yeah, that’s it, baby. Right there, that’s what I thought.” He’s absolutely beaming as he watches you begin to fall apart just from his fingers alone, pride curling up deep in his chest as he sees how good he can make you feel.
His lips curl up into a permanent smile and love dances around in his eyes—he doesn’t think he’s ever seen anything this beautiful before. You’re completely relaxed in his hold, fully open and giving yourself to him. The connection he feels with you at this point is so deep that he’s sure he’s never felt it with anyone else before.
He can’t help himself, before he knows it he’s leaning in and littering kisses across your face. “My pretty girl.” He whispers between the pecks, lips moving from your cheek up to your eyelid, pressing a soft kiss against the delicate skin. Your eyelashes tickle him as they flutter under his lips. He continues working you up to your climax, fingers pumping in and out of you with purpose.
“You’re doing so good for me.” He hums, lips making their way back down to your own. The direct press of his thumb to your clit has you arching into him, soft cries leaving your lips as he rubs tight circles against the sensitive bundle of nerves. He swallows your cries down like they’re holy—he thinks that maybe if he captures all of them, they can purify him from the inside out. It’s worth a shot.
He knows you’re getting close. He knows you like the back of his hand at this point, what tells your body unknowingly gives him. He can feel it in the way your walls tighten around his fingers, in the way your breaths become shallow and quicker. It pushes him to work harder, to become more focused on pleasing you.
The pumping of his fingers becomes quicker, working to bring you to the edge of that cliff you’re on and throw you over.
Ryland will be there to catch you. He always is.
He pulls away from your face, wanting to be able to take it all in as that coil in your belly finally snaps.
“Come for me. Please, baby? Give it to me. I wanna hear those sweet little sounds you make.” He coaxes you, voice borderline begging now. His thumb continues to press against your clit, the circles he’s drawing against it becoming quicker and more precise, just the way he knows you like it. He watches as your jaw falls open and your body tenses, a high pitched cry clawing its way from your throat as you finally tip over the edge.
“There we go. That’s my girl.” He praises, voice low as he watches in complete awe at the way you fall apart so easily for him, all over his fingers. His dick twitches against his thigh as he takes you in. He thinks he could come in his pants, completely untouched, just from watching you.
He works you through it, his digits continuing to pump into you as you ride down your high. He continues the movements until your thighs begin to twitch from overstimulation, then he slows, fingers and thumb coming to a halt as he makes sure you’ve given him all that you can give.
You’re leaning into him now, chest heaving as you try to catch your breath. He catches you, one hand coming around to rub circles against your back as the other finds its way to your head, wiping the sweaty hair from your forehead.
“I’m so proud of you. You did so good for me.” He presses a kiss against the side of your head as he gives you a moment to come back down to him. The room is quiet now, except for the sounds of your breathing that’s beginning to slow.
The two of you sit together in the comfortable silence for a few minutes.
do you think ryland is gentle at first and then gets rougher as he fucks you OHMYGOOOOODDD
yes yes YES
my hand may be injured so excuse the grammar, i am on phone atm, not proofread
nsfw under the cut ;)
ryland is so painfully gentle at first it almost hurts. he’s never done this before, his relationships being few and far between, and you can feel how hard he’s trying, how much he wants to be good for you.
his hands are shaking when he cups your face, thumbs brushing your cheeks like you’re made of glass.
is this okay?
tell me if it’s too much, please
we dont have to if you dont want
he kisses you so soft it makes your chest ache, slow rolls of his hips. you can feel every tremble in his arms where they’re braced beside your head, the way his breath stutters hot against your ear.
you feel… god, you feel incredible.
all sweet, pressing these tiny little kisses along your jaw while he pushes in slowly, letting you adjust, forehead dropped to yours as he tells you how well you are doing.
but the second you moan and roll your hips up to meet him?
ask him for more?
tell him that you want to feel him tomorrow?
it's game over.
he blames it on biology taking over, his eyes squeezing shut as he processes what youre asking, that sweet boyish expression twisting into something desperate. he lets out this broken, wrecked sound and suddenly he’s driving into you hard, hips snapping forward with zero warning
he’s fucking you like he’s starving for it now, deep and rough, the slap of skin on skin loud and filthy in the room. he feels bad for how little control he has, it's been far too long since he has touched someone like this.
touched someone, and loved them like this.
sweetheart—god, l'm sorry, you just—
it makes his movements sloppy as he can't get enough, he needs to take you over and over and over til neither of you can forget this feeling
shaky hands gripping your thighs hard enough to bruise as he folds you practically in half. he’s panting into your neck, sweat dripping from his messy hair onto your skin, every thrust punching the air out of you as he apologises against your skin, but he needs this, he needs you.
eyes wet and wild, his cock is so deep and he’s hitting that spot over and over like he was made for it. the gentle boy from five minutes ago is gone; now it’s just him completely lost in you, muttering filthy broken praises between gritted teeth:
baby—i'm sorry, god—just feel so good—
and the best part? he never actually stops apologising… even while he’s pounding you into the mattress
summary: ryland has always taken things slowly, but that changes the moment he realises his sweet girl isn’t nearly as innocent as she seems… and that he rather enjoys it
warnings: 18+ smut, p in v, graphic description of sex, submissive ryland supremacy!, begging, glasses stay on during sex, desperate ryland, kind of humiliation?? (forcing ryland to talk dirty), dom-ish reader?? creampie, porn with semi-plot
Ryland had always been an early riser.
It wasn’t down to a specific discipline; it was just how his brain was wired. He woke before alarms, before the sun had fully shown itself. He liked being up just that little bit before the world had fully begun.
Years of teaching only sharpened the habit. He allowed himself to enjoy his morning coffee on the balcony, relished in the quiet of the classroom before the chaos started, allowing himself to just sit in peace for a little while longer. Quiet, he decided, was a luxury he would welcome, even if it came intermittently.
And today was Sunday.
It was a soft morning, lacking lesson plans and half-marked papers, no rushing to beat traffic or coax half-awake teenagers into caring about cell structure. Gentle sunlight poured in through the gap in the curtains, having nowhere it needed to be, much like him for a change.
You were still curled up next to him, still asleep, your breathing slow and even. He daren’t move an inch.
His arm was starting to tingle slightly, and he was itching to reach for his glasses on the bedside table, but he remained still. He could see you well enough like this—soft around the edges, a tad blurry. It was almost like a photograph on film, one that had not quite come into focus. It was an image that would be burned into his brain for mornings to come, and afternoons, and evenings, for that matter.
He feared that if he moved to sharpen the image, it might break the moment entirely. He remained still.
You’d probably tell him off, catching him in the act. He would probably think it was odd if the roles were reversed, watching one sleep, but he couldn’t feel guilt if he tried.
His attention always seemed to bend toward you; the rest of the world would have to wait a while.
The sunlight caught your face just right, tracing along your cheekbone, softening at the curve of your mouth. You were wearing one of his old t-shirts, and it swallowed you slightly, slipping off one shoulder as he tried not to stare at the bare skin.
He thought, not for the first time, that you might be the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.
Which, scientifically speaking, was ridiculous. He could list a dozen scientific phenomena that objectively outclassed a sleepy human in borrowed clothing. Mitoses. Photosyntheses. The rings of Saturn.
But you being here was slowly dismantling his entire sense of scale on the matter.
He exhaled slowly through his nose, careful not to shift the mattress, as he recalled the previous night.
The previous night.
He had been so damn nervous.
Months of careful courting, getting to know you piece by piece and always eager for more. Shared dinners that stretched far too long because neither of you wanted to leave. Walking you home under streetlights, where conversations continued to flow so easily.
Sometimes you let him steal a kiss—or three—with him always pulling away at the last minute, insisting that he wanted to take his time. He wanted to do it right.
He was old-fashioned—not in the way people tend to mean now—but in that he believed in taking his time.
You just mattered to him. More than he cared to admit. That, tied with the fact that he was years out of practise, meant that this was even more rare.
He could not mess this up by rushing anything.
Not when the first girl he had the guts to ask out in years laughed at his terrible jokes, let him ramble through every scientific theory that caught his interest, not when your cheeks warmed at his soft compliments—especially not when his did the exact same.
He was a goner from day one. Every time he got home, he felt like he was floating. In high school all over again, with the pretty girl deciding to sit next to him in class for a change. You didn’t shy away from his personality, didn’t shrink. The knowledge that he had not ruined anything by just being himself.
He knew how easily it could happen. It had before—people brushing him off as distant, too lost in his own head to be taken seriously. He’d be damned if he let you slip through his fingers, not when you understood him so effortlessly.
So he hadn’t rushed, hadn’t pushed. There was no assumption of anything physical, no reaching for more than you were willing to give. But he couldn’t stop last night, not when you had been so certain, so soft.
It was natural with you, easy in ways intimacy never quite came to him.
All the nerves he had been holding in his stomach seemed to quiet. How could he be nervous when your legs pulled him deeper? Looking up at him with those eyes of yours as you asked him so nicely?
He knew he would give you anything you asked for in that moment—everything, actually. He’d be a fool not to.
You shifted then, barely more than a breath, but it pulled his attention back instantly. Your hand slid across his chest, fingers curling slightly in the fabric of his shirt as you turned, instinctively, toward him.
He froze, every muscle going still on instinct, like any movement might break whatever delicate, unconscious decision you were making. He could feel your weight against him, solid and comfortable. Like this wasn’t new for you, even if it was for him.
He hoped that, in time, it would no longer feel so novel to him. The fact that you were still here come morning was all the reassurance he’d done his job right.
You moved slightly against his arm again. Though it wasn’t like before, your unconscious shift still shrouded in sleep. Now you move with purpose, slowly stretching your limbs as you surface, waking in layers. Your hand slid across, your body pressing a little closer as you relaxed, settling into him once more.
He was perfectly still, not wanting to disturb you further.
Your eyes blinked open, still heavy with sleep. It only took you a few seconds of looking at him before your expression softened.
There you are.
“Hi,” you murmured, almost shy, not fully awake just yet.
“Hi,” he echoed, just as soft.
His eyes traced your face again, before he finally moved his hand. His fingers traced gently along your shoulder as you began to focus on him. Your gaze sharpened slightly as you assessed him. He seemed far more cognizant, and your lips curved into a gentle smile.
“...were you watching me sleep?”
The question, entirely fair and completely reasonable. The answer, however, deeply incriminating.
“…no?” he tried, failing miserably.
You uhuffed out a sleepy laugh, barely more than a breath as you nudged him with your foot, your smile widening. “Liar.”
You got him there.
He offered you a helpless shrug before leaning over, trying to salvage his dignity. He reached blindly for the bedside table before his fingers found his glasses. He slipped them on, pushing them up the bridge of his nose, the soft image of you coming in a little clearer. Both were equally lovely to wake to.
“Well,” he said, “in my defence—you weren’t exactly in focus.”
You laughed properly at that, your nose scrunching as you gave up on berating him. You curled yourself into his collarbone, forehead brushing lightly against his skin as you nuzzled closer to him, still amused. His arms enveloped you as they were itching to do all morning.
“Did you sleep okay?” you asked, voice slightly muffled.
“Perfectly,” he replied, although to him, it was a silly question. Even if he’d barely slept, the simple act of you being right beside him would have been perfection.
“Good,” you hummed.
Your body pressed more firmly against his, your leg sliding up just enough to tangle with his, your hand tracing absently along his chest in the soft morning glow
His breath hitched.
The warm feel of you, the way your soft thighs slide higher between his, the press of your breasts against his ribs under that oversized t-shirt…
His mind was already dipping into the memories of last night.
Images flickered behind his eyes in vivid flashes: the way you’d pulled him in with your legs wrapped tight around his hips, the breathy little sound you’d made when he finally sank into you, the way you’d looked up at him with those same sleepy, trusting eyes.
He’d tried so hard to be gentle, to take his time as he’d promised himself, but you’d been so warm and wet and eager, rocking up to meet every careful thrust until his control had frayed at the edges.
He needed to get his mind out the gutter—fast. There was no way you’d be up for that so early, but his mind circled back to your skin in the pale moonlight.
Your draping over him was not helping the situation; his body was reacting faster than his brain could. His cock stiffened fast, thickening against the soft give of your thigh, the thin fabric of his boxers doing nothing to hide how quickly he was hardening for you.
Oh, come on—seriously?
He tried to distract himself, but you felt it immediately. He knew you did, because the corner of your mouth curved against his skin in the tiniest, most wicked little smirk.
Whatever he was in for, he didn’t know, but that expression didn’t put him at ease at all.
Your lips brushed his jaw first—deliberate kisses that trailed down to the sensitive spot just under his ear. Then lower, along the line of his collarbone, slow and open-mouthed, like you were tasting the morning on him. When you pushed your knee up even higher, pressing right against the hard line of his cock, he twitched visibly beneath you.
A helpless sound slipped out of his throat before he could stop it.
You breathed a quiet laugh against the side of his neck, warm air ghosting over skin, and it did terrible, wonderful things to him. His hips jerked once, involuntarily, chasing the pressure of your thigh; he couldn’t help himself.
“Excited this morning, hm?” you teased, voice still husky with sleep but laced with mischief.
This was cruel.
He huffed, but it melted straight into a groan when your mouth found the side of his neck again—this time harder, lips and teeth and tongue working over the same spot until his toes curled against the sheets.
“I—it’s biology,” he managed, voice rough, “waking up in bed next to a pretty girl, it’s not—”
Your teeth sank gently into his neck, right where his pulse hammered, and the rest of the sentence shattered. His arm shot out across your back, hand gripping your shoulder hard.
In one smooth movement, you swung a leg over and straddled him, settling your weight right over the aching ridge of him. The thin layers between you doing absolutely nothing to dull the sensation.
You looked down at him, all doe-eyed and teasing and absolutely loving how flustered he was getting. You were still laced with sleep, but your lips curled as you knew exactly what your were doing to him.
“You think I’m pretty?”
God, you were gonna be the death of him.
His head was so foggy as you grinned down at him, loving the reaction he was giving you. Last night was all chaste kisses and whispered words.
Now, you were looking at him like you wanted to devour him.
All he could do was nod up at you, glasses slightly crooked, hair a mess against the pillow.
“Sweetheart,” he breathed, voice wrecked already, “like you—like you even have to ask.”
The flush that bloomed across his cheeks was beautiful and your grin grew even wider. You wasted no time in rewarding him with a slow drag of your hips against his, rubbing along his full length through the fabric, the friction pulled a sharp groan out of his chest.
You took the opportunity to lean down, lips brushing the shell of his ear.
“Ry…” you teased as you rocked against him again.
His hips bucked up into you, trying to chase the heat and pressure like his body had a mind of its own.
He could barely think when your thighs pressed against his hips so deliciously. He didn’t trust himself to speak clearly, worried his voice would crack further.
“T—top drawer,” he managed, his words stumbling out between quick breaths.
You pulled back with the proudest smile, clearly pleased with yourself. You pressed a gentle kiss against his lips as you leaned over to grab your reward. You stretched toward the bedside table, letting the hem of his t-shirt ride up your thighs, allowing him the devastating view of your bare skin.
You chuckled when his breath hitched at the display. He was far too easy to rile up—you loved it.
The drawer slid open with a quiet rattle. You reached in, fingers closing around the familiar box of condoms before giving it a small shake.
His stomach dropped.
Goddamn it.
He groaned, cursing himself repeatedly in his head. This was mortifying. One hand dragged down his face as reality hit him.
After so long without anyone, he barely touched the damn things. Not like he was getting anything close to action these days.
He should have remembered—there had only been two left yesterday, and you’d made such sweet, perfect use of both of them last night. You’d asked so sweetly if you could say, if that was alright, and then one thing led to another in the glow of the bedside lamp.
He should have been better prepared—god, if only—but he had been selfish last night. He gave in. He wanted to memorise every sound you made, every way your body fit against his, every breathless call of his name that was suddenly flashing through his mind once more.
Now, he would be facing the consequences.
“I–I’m sorry,” he started immediately, voice thick with apology, eyes wide behind his glasses. “I should have—I wasn’t expecting—I’m an idiot, I—”
You shushed him gently, stopping his rambling. You leaned down close again, forehead almost resting against his.
You didn’t look upset, which was a good thing?
With a gentle voice, so filled with affection despite its teasing edge, so much so that he never would have guessed the filthy words that left your mouth.
“I’m protected, Ry,” you placed one hand on his jaw, keeping your lips to his ear. “If you want… we can still…”
Surely you didn’t mean….
It took every single scrap of willpower not to combust right then and there. His brain scrambled as he caught your insinuation.
He’d be lying if he said he’d never thought about it—of course he had.
He was a man, and he was stupidly, helplessly in love with you. And, at the end of the day, biology was biology. Late at night after those long dinners, goodnight kisses that left him aching in his car, his mind wandered to the most primal thought: what it would be like to feel you. All of you.
No barriers—nothing. Just the soft and slick feeling of your skin against his.
He’d always shoved the thought away, called himself delusional, told himself it was far too big of an ask to impose on anyone, let alone you.
He’d never done that before. Not once. Not with the handful of careful, cautious flings he’d had years ago. Nothing this intimate. Nothing that held like handing you every last piece of him.
But you were offering it so willingly. Sitting all pretty on his lap like it would be a pleasure for not just him. His cock gave a helpless throb against you at the mere idea.
You chuckled at his reaction, you knew the effect you had on him.
He was nodding before he could stop himself—quick, frantic bobs of his head, glasses struggling to stay still, mouth dry.
You smiled that little smile and placed two fingers under his chin, tilting his head and forcing his dazed eyes to meet yours.
“I need words, Ry,” you whispered as your thumb brushed his bottom lip. “Can’t do it unless you tell me yes.”
You were going to be the absolute death of him.
“Yes,” he rasped, voice cracking. “Yes, I want—but only if you do. Please don’t feel as though—I would never—”
You quieted him with a kiss to the corner of his mouth, cutting off the rambling before it could spiral.
“I want to,” you murmured against his lips. “Wanna feel you everywhere.”
The groan that tore out of him was completely broken and involuntary. If that’s what you wanted, that’s what he’ll give you. Gladly.
“I’m gonna be on top, okay?” you ask, but it isn’t really a question.
He forces himself back to reality, to the fact that you are going to be on top of him. That the fantasy of you riding him is unfolding right in front of his eyes. You give him a second, a small window to object as you pull your underwear down slowly—like you think he might. Like that’s even remotely a possibility right now.
You smiled down at him as you hooked your fingers into the waistband of his boxers, eyes locked on his, a knowing smile playing on your lips that made his stomach flip.
He watched, utterly transfixed, as you tugged the fabric down his hips with aching slowness. His cock sprang free, painfully hard and already leaking at the tip. The cool morning air hit his overheated skin, he hissed through his teeth.
“Eager, hm?” you murmured as your fingers brushed against his thigh.
He opened his mouth, some half-formed protest already forming, but your hand wrapped around him before he could get a single syllable out. The sudden pressure of your palm stole every thought. His hips jerked up into your grip on instinct, and all that came out was a broken, breathless babble.
“Never—never done it like this before,” he managed, the words tumbling out in a rush. “Not—not bare, I mean—”
You pulled back just enough to look at him, your expression softening in a heartbeat.
Your hand stayed right where it was, stroking him, thumb circling the slick head in a way that made his vision blur at the edges. For one terrifying second he thought you were going to stop, that the weight of being someone’s first for something this intimate might be too much.
That maybe you’d decide he was too much.
But your cheeks flushed darker, your eyes gleaming with something possessive, and your fingers tightened just a fraction around his shaft.
“Does this mean… I’m the first?”
The thought was dizzying. You were going to be the first one to give this to him, the ultimate trust. The idea sent a jolt down to your lower belly, your breath getting heavier in your lungs as you looked at his dishevelled expression.
You stroked him again, base to tip, torturously unhurried.
“Y–yes,” he nodded. “You’re the first.”
He could barely get the words out, your hand distracting him from anything coherent.
“Hm,” you hummed, low and fond. You leaned over him until your breath ghosted over his lips. Your hand never stopped its slow, devastating rhythm on his cock.
“Better make it worth it then, don’t I?”
He was gone.
Helplessly gone.
A wrecked sound tore out of his throat and his hands flew up to grip your thighs, fingers digging. His cock throbbed hard in your fist at the words, another bead of pre-cum sliding over your knuckles. He couldn’t even form a reply—just nodded frantically, cheeks burning crimson.
You sat up and peeled his old t-shirt up and over your head in one smooth motion. It dropped somewhere off the side of the bed. Ryland’s eyes went wide, pupils blown behind the lenses as he drank in the sight of you—bare, soft, perfect—straddling his hips. His mouth went dry. He stared at the swell of your breasts, the way your nipples had already tightened in the cool air, the gentle curve of your stomach, the place where your thighs pressed warm against his.
You caught the way he hesitated, his hands hovering like he was afraid to ruin the view, and you laughed again.
“You can touch me,” you said, voice warm. “I want you to touch me.”
Gladly.
His hands found you instantly, reverent and greedy. Palms sliding up your sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts, then cupping them, feeling the goosebumps rise across your skin.
He leaned up on his elbows, mouth following the path of his hands—open-mouthed kisses pressed to your sternum, your ribs, the soft underside of one breast before he dragged his tongue over your nipple and sucked gently.
It was clumsy with his adrenaline, but you still sighed, arching into him. Your hand threading into his messy hair and scratching at his scalp in that way that made his eyes flutter shut.
He kept going, lost in the taste of your skin, the little sounds you made, even as his cock ached and leaked against you.
He could have stayed there forever, worshipping every inch of you, but you gently tugged his head back by the hair. He hissed at the sting, glasses fogged and crooked, eyes dazed and glassy as he stared up at you.
Please, do that again.
You cupped his face with both hands, thumbs stroking his flushed cheeks.
“Lie back.”
He obeyed quickly, falling back against the pillows, hands still locked on your hips.
He almost felt bad, the way you took over so easily. Surely he could be doing more, giving you more. But the thought faltered under the weight of the look in your eyes.
There was something in your expression that made his stomach flip, something that felt almost dangerous in the gentlest way. Like you were about to take him apart piece by piece.
The moment he was flat, you wrapped your fingers around the base of his cock again and gave him one long, torturously slow stroke.
“Please—” he squirmed beneath you, hips twitching.
You smiled down at him, wicked and sweet.
“If I’m the first one to have you like this, Ry,” you purred, stroking him again, even slower, “I gotta take my time.”
The look on his face must have been devastating, because your eyes darkened with pure satisfaction. He whined when you kept teasing him, thumb pressing right under the head on every upstroke, spreading the slickness until his cock glistened.
“This is cruel,” he gasped, voice cracking, head tipping back against the pillow. His thighs trembled under you. “Sweetheart, please—I can’t—”
He needed to feel you—now.
You took pity on him then, because he looked so desperate, so beautifully wrecked beneath you.
“Only because you asked so nicely.”
Thank God.
You shifted your weight, guiding the flushed, angry tip of his cock to your entrance. The first brush of wet heat against him made his breath stutter.
“Oh—God—” he choked out as you started to sink down.
The slide was slow, deliberate, and devastating. Nothing between you. Just slick, perfect heat enveloping him inch by inch until you were seated fully on his cock, your ass flush against his hips, nothing separating you at all.
“Baby—I—”
He could feel everything. Every flutter of your walls, every tiny twitch and clench as you adjusted around him. The way your body welcomed him completely, hot and wet and so tight it made his head spin. His hands spasmed at your sides, fingers digging into the soft give of your hips. He watched, transfixed, as your eyes fluttered and rolled back for a second when you rocked your hips experimentally, your walls rippling around his bare cock.
“You feel that?” you asked, voice husky, one hand braced on his chest as you rolled your hips again, taking him even deeper.
“Yes—yes, I feel it,” he gritted out, the words ragged. “I feel all of you—it’s—”
Every nerve in his body was lit up, oversensitive and raw. Nothing could have prepared him for this.
All those nights he was alone, his cock in his hand as he felt guilty about what he was doing. Images racing through his head of you like this, raw, so beautiful on top of him.
All those half-hearted imitations didn’t come close to this bliss.
“I need you to move,” he begged. “Need you to move, sweetheart, please—”
He sounded almost pathetic as he pleaded with you.
You began to ride him, rising up until just the head of his cock kissed your entrance before sinking back down, taking every thick inch again. The wet, filthy sound of it filled the quiet room. His head fell back, a moan tearing from his throat as pleasure exploded behind his eyes like fireworks. Sparks shot down his spine, pooling hot and heavy in his gut.
He watched you through half-lidded eyes, completely blissed out—your head tipped back, lips parted on soft little gasps and moans that made his cock throb inside you, the way your breasts bounced with every roll of your hips, the way your thighs flexed as you rode him like you owned him.
And you did. In that moment, you absolutely did.
“Fuck, Ry,” you breathed, leaning forward so your hands braced on his chest, nails digging in just enough to sting. “You’re so deep—”
Fuck, he knew. He could feel it.
Every thick inch of him buried to the hilt inside you, the slick, velvety drag of your walls hugging him so perfectly with nothing between you. It was overwhelming, obscene, the wet heat of your pussy swallowing him whole and clenching like it never wanted to let go. His hips snapped up on pure instinct, chasing that devastating friction, but you were the one in control, grinding down slow, making sure he felt every single flutter.
You picked up the pace then, rising and sinking with purpose. He whimpered, the sound punched out of his chest as pleasure coiled tighter in his gut. His glasses were completely fogged now, the lenses useless, but he didn’t care. He could barely see straight anyway, too lost in the sight of you above him: flushed cheeks, lips parted.
You looked like sin in the morning sunlight, and he was helpless beneath you.
“Does it feel good?” you teased, voice breathy but dripping with satisfaction as you clenched around him on purpose, a rippling squeeze that made his cock throb hard inside you. “Can you feel it?”
Can he feel it?
You were killing him.
He didn’t know where this new, wicked confidence had come from—last night you’d been soft and sweet and letting him set the pace, but now you were riding him like you owned every inch of his body.
He wasn’t complaining. Not even a little. If anything, the contrast made his head spin faster.
“Yes—yes, god, yes,” he babbled, the words tumbling out in a desperate rush. “Feels so good—been thinking about it for weeks—”
The confession slipped out before he could stop it. Your movements slowed instantly, dragging to an aching crawl until you were barely rocking on his cock, just enough to keep him throbbing and leaking inside you but nowhere near enough to satisfy.
You looked down at him, one hand sliding up to cup his jaw, fingers firm as you forced his blue, glassy eyes to meet yours.
“Weeks?” you echoed, voice soft but edged with pure delight.
He was panting, chest heaving, sweat already beading at his temples. He nodded frantically, too far gone to lie. His cock gave a helpless twitch inside you at the way you were looking at him—like you wanted to devour every filthy secret he’d ever had.
You leaned in closer, lips brushing the shell of his ear as you rolled your hips with excruciating slowness.
“Come on, don’t be shy now,” you whispered, voice dripping honey and sin. “How much have you thought about this? Be honest.”
This was mortifying.
He groaned, cheeks burning hotter than he thought possible. This wasn’t fair. This was cruel. You were sitting so pretty on his cock, pussy wrapped tight around him, and now you were pulling dirty confessions out of him like it was nothing.
He wasn’t good at this—words always tangled on his tongue around you at the best of times, and now, with you clenching around him on every slow drag, it was torture. Pure torture.
“I—I don’t know, I just—ugh, please move faster,” he begged, voice cracking, hips twitching uselessly beneath you in a desperate attempt to get more friction.
You stopped moving completely. Just sat there, warm and full of him, smiling down at him with that innocent little tilt of your head that did not match the filthy way you were keeping him buried inside you.
“I’m not moving until you tell me,” you said sweetly, like you were asking him about the weather instead of demanding he spill every desperate fantasy he’d had about filling you up bare. "
His brain short-circuited. The contrast—your soft, almost shy tone against the way your pussy was still fluttering around his aching cock—was going to end him. He was so sensitive, every tiny shift of your body sending sparks shooting up his spine, his body drawing tight with the need to cum.
“Ah—okay—since the second date,” he gasped in a humiliated rush. “Just—please, honey—don’t stop—you’re killing me here—”
You had the nerve to giggle, the sound vibrating through your body and straight into his length. For a second, he thought you were going to lean back and finally ride him properly, but you just stayed there, smiling down at him like he was the most adorable thing you’d ever seen.
Just take pity on him already.
“Long time, huh?” you murmured, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Well, now we can do this whenever you want, Ry. Just gotta ask.”
Whenever he wants?
Christ.
He swore he was going to die. The casual promise in your voice sent a fresh wave of heat crashing through him.
You owned him. Completely.
You finally took mercy and started moving again, you rode him with purpose. You moaned his name, and he could barely contain himself.
He was so sensitive, every drag of your pussy around his bare cock sending him spiralling higher, the heat of you with nothing between you driving him out of his mind. He could feel everything—the way your walls squeezed, the slick slide of your arousal mixing with his, the way your thighs trembled against his hips.
“Fuck—” you groaned, voice so gone it broke him. You leaned down, pressing your forehead to his, eyes locked on his as you kept riding him deep and perfect. “Please, Ry?—Wanna feel you.”
The polite little plea combined with the filthy request shattered what was left of his control. He came with a shattered cry of your name, hips jerking up hard as he gripped your waist.
“Baby, I'm—”
The words tumbled out, even as his cock pulsed and throbbed, spilling thick, hot ropes of cum deep inside you. Wave after wave, more than he thought he had in him, flooding you until he could feel the slick mess of it already starting to leak out around where you were joined.
His whole body shook with it, oversensitive and wrecked, glasses slipping down his nose as his head tipped back against the pillow.
You kept moving through every pulse, milking him for everything he had, whispering soft praises against his mouth until the last weak spurt finally faded and he was left trembling beneath you, spent and panting and so full of love and lust he couldn’t even form words.
Slowly, the world came back into focus. His heartbeat thundered in his ears while the rest of him felt loose and heavy. You were still straddling him, full of him, but your movements had gentled into lazy little rocks that sent aftershocks rippling through his oversensitive cock. He was still buried deep inside you, the mess of his release already starting to leak out around where your bodies were joined, warm and obscene and impossibly intimate.
Your lips were on him, sweet kisses scattered across his flushed face. One to the corner of his eye where his glasses had slipped, one to the bridge of his nose, one to the corner of his mouth that was still parted on a shaky exhale. You kissed his forehead, his temple, the flushed shell of his ear, murmuring little nothings between each press of your lips.
He was still floating somewhere outside his own body, chest heaving, but the sweetness of it pulled him back down gently. His hands, which had been locked in a death grip on your hips, loosened and slid up your back in a dazed caress.
When his eyes finally fluttered open, hair a complete disaster against the pillow, he looked up at you with pure, raw apology written all over his face.
“I’m so sorry,” he rasped. “I’m so sorry, I—I didn’t mean to—”
You pulled back just enough to meet his eyes.
“What?” you asked, genuinely confused, one hand brushing damp strands of hair off his forehead. “Ry, I asked for this. I wanted it. There’s no need to apologise.”
He huffed out a half-frustrated groan, and let his head fall back against the pillow. His cheeks burned hotter.
Of course you’d say that. Of course you’d be sweet about it. But the guilt still twisted in his gut like a live wire.
He’d come so fast. Like a damn teenager who’d never touched a girl before. He hadn’t even lasted long enough to get you off, and that was the part that stung the worst.
He was supposed to take care of you—had promised himself he would, after all the careful, patient months of waiting. He was the one who was supposed to make you fall apart, not the other way around.
He’d spilled inside you like he had zero control, like the bare feel of you around him had short-circuited every rational thought he’d ever had.
Pathetic.
He could already feel the scientific part of his brain cataloguing the humiliation: refractory period probably shot, ego thoroughly demolished.
“What about you?” His voice was still shaky, but the concern was there.
You blinked down at him, all innocent again, like you hadn’t just ridden him into oblivion.
“What about me?”
“You didn’t even—” He gestured vaguely between you, cheeks flaming. “I didn’t get you there. I couldn’t even last long enough to—”
You chuckled, as you slowly lifted yourself off his cock. The wet drag pulling off him made him twitch hard, a broken sound escaping his throat as the air hit his oversensitive length. You flopped down beside him on the mattress, curling into his side, one leg sliding over his thigh.
“Well,” you said, propping your chin on his chest and looking up at him with sparkling eyes, “we have the rest of the day. I’m sure you can make it up to me later.” Your smile turned just a little wicked. “Or maybe in the shower?”
He groaned, already turned on again, and pulled you closer, arms wrapping around you.
You were unbelievable.
The way you could go from filthy and commanding to soft and playful in the space of a heartbeat left him dizzy.
“You’re gonna be the death of me, you know that?” he muttered against your hair, pressing a kiss to the top of your head even as his body still hummed with aftershocks.
You laughed softly and tilted your face up, catching his mouth in a deep kiss that tasted like morning and sex and everything he’d been dreaming about for months. When you pulled back, your lips brushed his one last time.
“I’m gonna hop in the shower,” you whispered, voice warm against his mouth. “You’re more than welcome to join me.”
You slipped out of bed and he watched as you padded toward the bathroom. His eyes dropped to your thighs, where the evidence of what you’d just done together glistened in the sunlight: a slow, shiny trail down your skin. The sight hit him like a punch to the chest, possessive and so fucking beautiful it short-circuited whatever was left of his brain.
He was out of bed in an instant, nearly tangling himself in the sheets in his rush, cock already half-hard again just from the sight of you. You glanced over your shoulder and giggled and he followed without a second thought, trailing after you like a man who had already accepted his fate.
Yeah. He was definitely going to make it up to you in the shower.
a/n: im ovulating idk i think i blacked out when writing this. two people have asked me about creampies and this is where my mind immediately went
also sub ryland is real to me and i'll do anything to write about him being pathetic <3
hopefully you enjoyed and i will hopefully have something else written by next week so keep a lookout ;))))
“i’m sorry,” clark chokes out as his hips stutter against you slowly. “i’m so sorry.” he continues to cry on top of you as his cock plunges into your tight cunt. you can’t really figure out why your boyfriend is exactly crying; you’re dazed from clark pulling two orgasms from you. he really has nothing to be sorry for.
“i’m being selfish with you.”
“it’s okay, clark.” you coo up at your whiny boyfriend, your arms wrapping around his broad shoulders, letting your fingers wrap around clark’s loose, dark curls.
“you just feel really good.” he cries out, rutting his hips against you. you couldn’t help but feel dizzy at the sight of clark crying just because you feel good around him. it was intoxicating.
the thought of your strong, heavily muscular boyfriend crying and falling apart from just touching you was overwhelming. it was exciting. you never had anyone so obsessed with you the way clark was.
“you’re perfect,” he stutters out, his hips still rocking hard. your heart swells at his words; he was always so sweet to you. clark always made sure you were taken care of; he always put you first.
“i could stay here forever.” clark’s large hand wraps around your thigh, hoisting your leg up higher around his waist as he thrusts in deeper.
you blink up at clark, his face screwed up in pleasure, his body glistening in sweat, and a single dark curl falls in front of his eyes.
“baby, i need—“ he sucks in a harsh breath, moving his hips over and over, hitting the spot that always made you shiver as his fingers dig into the back of your thigh.
“you need what?” you ask, trying your hardest to actually focus on clark and his words. “what do you need, baby?”
“use your words.” you coaxed, trying to get him to repeat himself as you wipe his falling tears from his flushed cheeks.
your words pull a shudder out of clark, his words getting stuck in the back of his throat, being replaced with a groan.
“come on,” you try again, your hand gently pulling on his hair. “tell me.”
“i need to come, please.” clark whimpers, his blue eyes looking brighter than they usually are from the crying. you take pity on him, leaning up you lazily place a kiss on clark’s jaw. “go ahead, baby.” you murmur into his skin.
with your approval clark picks up his pace, trying to reach his high he’s been chasing for the past hour. with just a few sharp thrusts, he spills into you with a deep groan.
“you’re amazing, baby.” clark slurs, his head falling onto your chest, kissing you there softly. “you’re so nice to me.”
a/n: i don’t know how i feel about this one, guys
sigh thinking about this outfit specially on professor!ryland grace. requests are open if you wanna send thoughts in !!
mdni. afab!reader but no pronouns mentioned. professor x grad!student. the suit stays ON !! protected piv. i’m new to writing smut so please be gentle with me. 1.9k words.
Professor!Ryland Grace who decides to wine and dine you when summer break hits. You finished the year off with a near perfect score in his class and he thought you deserved a reward for all of your hard work. He tells you to dress nice, maybe even sends you some money to buy something to wear if you don’t have anything. (he loves the thought of you spending his money. He already takes care of you during class as your professor to make sure you’re doing your best, why not do it a little more outside the classroom too?)
but you’re so nervous because neither of you had done something like this before. All of your time together was spent in his office or when he invited you to his house to help go over lecture notes and “study” so when you assisted him in cleaning the lab room after class like you usually do and he asked if you were busy tomorrow night, you assumed it was for something less intimate. But then he tells you to dress nicely and says he’ll pick you up that evening you're not quite sure what to expect.
Suddenly you’re tearing apart your closet in search of something that qualifies as nice—what does he mean by nice? What color do you wear? What shoes to get?
But then he sends a couple hundred to your phone and a link to the restaurant he made a reservation at and it somehow soothes everything over a little. And you do use his money! You go to a shop that has exactly what you’re looking for, getting something that makes you look classy but also reveals just enough to tease a little, but publicly unacceptable. You spend hours getting ready, checking yourself over time and time again because Professor Grace is incredibly handsome and you’re anxious about looking good for him.
When he pulls out in front of your apartment in an unfamiliar car—you assume he’s probably renting it since the only wheels you’ve ever seen him on are the ones attached to his bicycle—in a black striped suit, slightly unbuttoned red shirt beneath it, you pause to fan yourself. He looks really fucking good. Part of you wonders if there’s enough time before your reservation to take him in the backseat of the car.
Yet all those thoughts melt away when he opens your car door, hand pressed against your back when he greets you. “Hi, sweetheart. You use my money on this? It’s gorgeous on you—you look gorgeous in it. No, wait, you’re gorgeous all the time.”
The feeling of his fingers tracing along the fabric of your outfit sends goosebumps across your skin. But you laugh when he cuts off his ramble by kissing your temple, something he’s only ever done when he was fucking you into the mattress and making you tell him about your previous research project.
“You don’t look half bad yourself, Dr. Grace.”
“Ryland. Call me Ryland. Please.”
You can’t help the way you grin when he corrects you. He’s letting you call him Ryland. None of your peers call him that, you’ve only ever heard it from other professors when they talked during office hours or in the halls. “Ryland.” You amend, finally climbing into the car and letting him close the door for you.
He’s a complete gentleman the rest of the night. A little nervous, awkward quips coming from him while you eat and share a bottle of wine that sounds like it costs more than your monthly phone bill. You’ve never seen him like this. Shy, you mean. He is always so self-assured in the lecture rooms, especially when he lets some of his sass slip. It makes this feel incredibly intimate, like you’re special for being able to see this side of him. Like he’s trying to impress you even though he has a Phd and numerous published papers.
The night moves from the restaurant—where he paid the bill and gave you a look when you offered to split it—to his house. You’ve had sex before, many times actually, but this was different. You could feel it in the way he lets you press him against his front door, his hands gliding along your body like he’s trying to commit the shape of you to memory, kisses all slow and tender. It makes your heart hammer beneath your sternum. You can feel his matching the pace of yours beneath the palms you’re resting against his chest.
He guides you gently to his bedroom with sensual kisses. Letting his lips meet yours before slowly traveling along your jaw, his hand moving to cup your cheek so he can tilt your head to the side. He’s murmuring sweet things as he does it. All kinds of compliments that make an overly giddy smile bloom on your face.
He takes his time with you tonight. He undresses you and leaves kisses on each area of you he opens to himself. It’s an intense contradiction to your usual nights spent together. He’s worshipping you, and he looks good doing it. He hasn’t bothered to remove any article of his suit—much to your enjoyment—even when he has you sprawled on his mattress, bottoms gone and thighs pushed apart to make room for his face between them.
He lets his hands caress up and down your legs, his lips tracing where his fingers don’t reach. His glasses dangle from his ears in a way that is simultaneously attractive and amusing. You want to run your fingers through his hair that’s a little overgrown, something he stopped caring for so close to the end of semester. His kisses slowly trail down to your core in a way that has you almost whining from impatience. He must seem to notice because his tongue takes a long drag through your folds, pulling a quiet sound from you. He lets one hand travel down to rest on the spot where your hips meet your thighs, using it to keep your body in place when you try to squirm away. “No, baby, hold still. I skipped dessert for this.” The other one squeezes your other thigh like he’s trying to ground himself to you. He spends a long time there, slowly pulling more and more sounds from you, moaning into your slick when he feels you tug on his hair.
His lips glisten when he finally pulls away, his swiping along them in an attempt to catch the remains of your taste on his tongue as he stands. His hands move to his blazer but you stop him quickly, sitting up with a vigorous shake of your head. “No! Leave it on. Please. You look good. Really good. I like it.”
He laughs at you. Not in a mean way, the sound is laced with something incredibly sweet, like the whole idea of you liking the suit so much has him completely charmed. And it does.. He’s enamoured with you.
“I can wear it another time. It won’t be leaving my closet anytime soon.” His reasoning is sound, but the huff you let out tells him you don’t really care for a reasonable argument. And the idea makes him pulse. The ever present fact that you’re so attracted to him you want him to keep it on. “Is that it, then? You want me to fuck you like this?”
He leans closer to you as he says it, voice low as he plants his hands on your waist. You nod so quickly he wonders if you even heard what he said. “Yes.”
He guides you further back on his bed until you meet his headboard, where he gives you a kiss that lets you taste yourself on him. It’s sensual, his tongue sliding between your lips as he kneels in front of you, one of your legs trapped between his knees, using his headboard to keep him upright while he keeps your face pressed to his.
You’ve come to learn that you thoroughly enjoy his slightly overgrown hair. You lace the strands at the nape of his neck between your fingers, slightly pulling on them until he whimpers into your mouth. It’s like the sound alone breaks him from his trance, a pink tint blooming along his cheeks like he’s embarrassed to have made the sound at all.
You pout a little when he pulls away, but it’s immediately replaced after you hear him shuffle around in his dresser drawer. You don’t have a chance to peek at what he’s doing before a familiar packaged square is held by two of his fingers in front of your face. “Show me what you know.”
You nod and snatch it from his fingers. He laughs at you again, amused and a little (very) turned on by your excitement. He leans back just enough that he can undo his belt and unzip his slacks before your hands are on him. He almost moans when you guide his cock out of his underwear, his body tensing at the feeling of your hands on it before you roll the condom down his length.
Suddenly he’s the impatient one. He leans forward again, guiding you into your back, resting your head on his pillows until he’s laying over you. His hand clings to your hip as he starts kissing you senseless, swallowing down your moan when he pushes inside of you. Your hands grasp onto the back of his blazer.
You didn’t know someone could be so fucking hot—especially a man at least ten years your senior, wearing an all too appealing suit, pants and underwear undone just enough so he can fuck you in it.
“Fu—fudge, sweetheart. Always such a good listener for me. My best student,” he cuts himself off with a moan, grabbing ahold of your arm to press it against the mattress, hand sliding up until he can interlock his fingers with yours, holding your hand while he pounds into you with a new vigor. He uses his other forearm to hold himself up, resting it right beside your head. “God, you’re an angel. Perfect scores on all your work, always so helpful after class. Now look at you, taking me so well.”
“Dr. Grace!” You moan it loud when he hits a certain spot, his words sinking into your brain all nice and slow until his pace falters, slows down, and you huff. When you open your eyes, there’s less pressure from above you, your eyes barely managing to meet his piercing blue ones.
His glasses are askew, barely holding on when he speaks. “Nuh uh. What’d I tell you earlier, hm? Use that brain of yours and think back. You’ve always been good at remembering stuff for me.”
At first you’re confused. He’s said a lot of things earlier—Dr. Ryland Grace is a rambler. He talks and talks and talks, which you suppose is good for being a professor, but it’s less good now when you’re so drunk off of him.
“Wh—“ You speak, trying to blink away the fog before he rolls his hips into yours, slow and deep, like he’s trying to give you incentive.
“When I picked you up. What was it I told you?”
It’s a hint that you grab onto like a life line, because god you just want him to move, and you really, really try to think.
Ryland. Call me Ryland. Please.
“Ryland, please fuck me.”
“Good job.” He doesn’t give you another second to think before he resumes his prior pace, resting his weight back onto you with a sloppy kiss.
Maybe you're on an exploration mission to Erid, and you see him and recognize him and fawn over the savior of earth. He's bewitched, the first human hes seen in years being so kind to him and youre so pretty he is attached at your hip from that moment on; trying to impress you and rambling about Erid or the mission or anything that might keep your attention. He cant live without you please dont go back to earth. Dont leave him. He cant be alone again. He loves you so muchm
Mmmmmmm what about smut headcanons for grace when you two have sex for the first time? Love ur writing btw ❤️
Grace would be such a sweet, sweet guy who loses his cool along the way and you're left wondering just where the hell that previously saccharine demeanor of his went. [mdni]
Grace would want to spend at least fifty percent of the entire experience on foreplay. he doesn't want you hurting at all, and he also wants to "study" you, if you will. he wants to learn where you want to be kissed, fondled, and teased; whether it's at that spot under your jaw, your sensitive nipples, or something as overlooked as your knee; Grace wants to know everything; touch you everywhere and be touched by you everywhere, too.
he upholds a sense of fairness in this sense. he'll let you kiss him too, tease him, even — he'll let you know that he loves being kissed along the shell of his ear; the sensations of your fingertips running down his bare chest as his own pert nipples catch at your digits as they pass them by; and when you palm him through his underwear that's already got a darkening spot where he's leaking precum
ideally Grace would want to eat you out first; he's already satisfied his other four senses, it's only right to tend to the fifth. "wanna eat you out, baby, please," Grace murmurs desperately against your kiss-swollen lips, glistening with his saliva and yours; his blue eyes are blown with love and lust and you don't have it in you to deny him. once you give him the green light, he'd either pull you to the edge of the bed, or just lay on his stomach and dip his head down for the first taste. Grace starts with a long, broad swipe of his tongue, letting the tip linger on your clit and watching as you squirm at the feeling. you feel him smile against your pussy, his heart growing big with pride from eliciting that reaction from you, and he begins his quest to make you fall apart with his mouth and fingers.
if you offer to do the same for him, though, he's a blushing and stuttering mess, but ultimately gives in to the very generous proposition. Grace lets out a shuddering breath as he watches you come down onto your knees between his legs, so overcome with love and burning anticipation for what's to come. the sounds that he makes when you swipe your tongue from the base of his shaft up to the head are heavenly — it's like he's melting from that alone, that you almost worry he'd be a puddle of nothing but pure bliss once you've made him cum.
loves having his frenulum and/or slit teased with either your fingers or tongue. if you so much as nudge your thumb into the small opening, Grace would break — his cum will be spurting out of his cock in an instant and he'll turn beet red from his face to his chest when he realizes that you just made him react so swiftly like that. you remember that for all your future encounters, and Grace prays that you don't exploit it moving forward. (you do)
not above using lube to make the experience better if it's available; Grace loves you too much to ever see you in pain, especially if it's because of him. he prepares you so well that when he finally enters you, it's like you've already memorized the shape of him and he's left moaning at how snug you feel around him. he has to take a moment before he starts thrusting, so he spends that time by kissing you, caressing your body and assuring you that he'll go slow.
Grace takes his time building a steady rhythm, paying attention to that internal fire that you're igniting in his lower abdomen; once it flares, Grace whines, sucking in a breath before asking if he can go faster and harder. he guides your hands so you could hold onto his shoulders, and then it begins.
you have to teach yourself how to breathe again as Grace fucks you into the mattress, jostling you where you lay and effectively turning your brain into mush. you can't hold back your noises anymore at this point, and neither could he — in fact, they're all mixing into the filthy cacophony that's also made up of the bed creaking from your activities and your skins slapping against each other. the latter is what has been partially provoking Grace all this time; that and the sight of you beneath him.
Grace is still so charming even when he's fucking you senseless. his soft, dirty blonde hair is all tousled from your own doing; his blush has spread from his cheeks down to his toned chest, and the droplets of sweat pearling all over him is like glitter. captivating is the first word that comes to your half-functioning mind, but you reject that and go with sexy, instead. where the hell did that awkward nerd from a few weeks ago even go? he's still there, of course, and he's railing you like his life depended on it.
his tongue is very loose in these moments. every dirty thing that he keeps bottled up is spilling out from his lips. "you feel so good, baby," he rasps, "this pussy's made just for me, hm? agh — mmf, but I need more of you," he continues, leaning down to kiss you and swallow your moans.
Grace is a a bit of tease, too. if you so much as use dialectics on him and tell him not to thrust into that spot that you like so much, he'll just smirk at you — you see a brief flash of that snarky researcher from back in the day — and he goes "mm-mm, don't lie to me sweetheart, I know you like it here," he purrs, chuckling at your attempt to try and escape him, "I know, I know... I'll make you feel even better..."
he'd pull out in time to finish on your stomach or thighs, but if you tell him last minute to come inside you, Grace won't even second-guess. he's burying himself further into your pussy, filling you to the brim with his release until he's got nothing left. he plants his lips all over you as he comes down from the high, taking care not to collapse onto you and make you feel uncomfortable. he catches his breath before tiredly pulling you into his arms, pressing you into his chest and telling you how incredible you felt.
let him rest for a bit, and soon he'll be on his feet, cleaning you up and showering you with even more love as you lay in bed together. Grace loves nosing into you as a form of comfort for the two of you; he knows it makes you feel even more loved, and it also affirms to him just how much he adores you.
Thermal Equilibrium Ryland Grace/Reader | Explicit, MDNI | ~4.7k words
Tags: cockwarming, established relationship, humor, explicit, fully au, domestic au, one-shot, female reader insert, he will not stop talking, the experiment gets away from him
You wanted stillness. He wanted to understand stillness, which is a different thing entirely, and requires a methodology, and apparently several variables he needs to isolate. The problem is Ryland Grace has never been quiet for more than eleven seconds in his life, and right now he is very warm, very inside you, and extremely busy explaining thermodynamics.
[ Cross posted on Ao3 ] [ fic masterlist ]
There is a particular kind of quiet that only happens when Ryland Grace has run out of things to say, and you have learned, over the better part of a year, that it never lasts longer than it takes him to think of one more thing.
Right now it has lasted eleven seconds. You are counting, because counting is contagious and you have caught it from him like a cold.
You are in his lap. Properly in his lap, settled all the way down, the both of you bare and warm under the good blanket on the couch that smells like him and faintly like the lemon thing he uses on his hands. His back is against the armrest. Your knees are bracketing his hips. He is inside you and neither of you is doing anything about it.
It is a Saturday, which is relevant context. Saturdays in this apartment have a shape: he sleeps in until some ungodly hour like eight, makes coffee badly, grades a stack of seventh-grade lab reports at the kitchen table while reading the funniest answers aloud whether you ask him to or not, and then somewhere around early afternoon, having run out of obligations, he gets restless in his skin and goes looking for something to investigate. Usually that means a kitchen experiment or taking apart the toaster that works fine. Today it meant you, and a thing he read about, and a careful negotiation conducted mostly while undressing.
So now it is mid-afternoon, the light coming sideways and gold through the blinds, a half-graded lab report still face down on the coffee table where he abandoned it, his glasses the only thing he is still technically wearing, and you are sitting full and still in his lap conducting research. There is a mug of his terrible coffee going cold on the side table. There is a documentary he put on hours ago and forgot about, paused on a frame of a jellyfish. The apartment has the specific stillness of a weekend with nowhere to be, and into that stillness he has introduced the one experiment guaranteed to test it.
That is the entire arrangement. That is the whole plan. He is inside you, and you are simply sitting there, and the rule, the single rule he himself laid down with the gravity of a man chalking an equation onto a board, is that nobody moves.
It was his idea.
You want that on the record, because in about ninety seconds it is going to stop being relevant to him that it was his idea, and you intend to remind him.
His hands are resting on your hips. Not gripping. Resting, the way you rest your hands on something you are trying very hard not to touch. His glasses have already gone askew. You did not do that. He did that, somewhere in the last eleven seconds, by frowning thoughtfully at the middle distance over your shoulder.
"Okay," he says.
You wait.
"Okay, so," he says, and stops again, and his hands tighten by maybe two millimeters, and you feel the whole length of him go a little harder inside you in a way that is involuntary and that he absolutely registers, because his breath catches and then he says, with enormous dignity, "that's just data."
"That's data," you agree.
"That's the experiment working."
"Mm."
"The experiment is going great."
The experiment is going great the way a soufflé is going great in the thirty seconds before it isn't.
—
It started, as a frankly indecent number of things start with him, with an article.
You don't even know where he finds them. He surfaces from his phone roughly twice a week with some new fact lodged in him like a splinter, and you have learned to recognize the symptoms: the eyebrows go up, the phone comes down, and he turns to you with the expression of a golden retriever that has found a second tennis ball.
Three nights ago the symptoms had presented over dinner.
"Did you know," he had said, around a mouthful of the pasta, which is a sentence that has preceded some of the strangest conversations of your adult life, "that people do a thing where the guy just. Stays in. On purpose. And nothing happens."
You had put down your fork. "I'm familiar with the concept, yeah."
"You're familiar with it." He had pointed his own fork at you, delighted, betrayed, thrilled. "Okay, see, this is the thing about you. I bring you a fact and you already have the fact. How do you already have the fact."
"It's a fairly well known fact."
"It is not a well known fact, it is a fact I just learned, which by definition makes it cutting edge." He had leaned in. "But okay, here's what I don't get. Walk me through the appeal. Because as far as I can tell the appeal is, and I want to make sure I'm reading this right, the appeal is nothing. The appeal is that nothing happens. You go to all this trouble to get into a position where historically a great deal happens, and then, on purpose, like monks, you make nothing happen."
"It's about closeness," you had said. "Being close. Staying connected. It's not about the friction, it's about the. You know. The being."
He had stared at you for a moment with the specific stricken wonder of a man encountering a foreign cuisine he has decided he must understand from the inside out.
"The being," he had repeated.
"The being."
He had set his fork down entirely at that point, which is how you know a thing has truly taken hold of him, because Ryland Grace abandoning food mid-meal is a seismic event.
"Okay, but here's my problem," he had said. "And it's a methodology problem. Because everything I'm good at, everything, the whole skill set, it's all about doing. You give me a problem, I poke it, I take it apart, I build a worse version and then a better version, I run it twenty times. Right? That's the move. That's the only move I have." He had gestured with both hands, knocking the salt over, ignoring it. "And you're telling me there's a whole, a whole discipline, where the entire point is to not do the thing. To just hold still and let it happen to you. That's. I don't even have the wiring for that. That's like asking a shark to stop swimming and appreciate the ocean."
"Sharks do have to keep swimming, though."
"Exactly! Thank you! That's my entire point! I'm a shark!" He had been thrilled to be a shark. "I would die. Conceptually. If I stopped."
"It's not really a swim-or-die situation."
"Everything's a swim-or-die situation if you think about it hard enough," he had said, which is the single most Ryland thing he has ever said at a dinner table, and you had married the idea of him a little further in your head right then, the way you do about twice a week.
"I need to try this," he had said, the way other men announce they need to see a specialist.
So here you are. Being.
—
"It's basically thermal equilibrium," he says now, twelve, thirteen seconds into the quiet, because he cannot leave a silence the way some people cannot leave a hangnail.
"Is it."
"It's totally thermal equilibrium. Okay, imagine, no, okay. You've got two objects, right, two bodies, different temperatures, and you put them in contact, and heat flows from the hot one to the cold one until they hit the same temperature and then. Nothing. Net zero. No more heat moving. That's equilibrium. That's us. We're two bodies that have reached the same temperature and now there's no net flow and it's peaceful, it's the most peaceful thing in the universe, it's the heat death of the universe except cozy."
"You've made cockwarming about the heat death of the universe."
"I've made it cozy," he says, wounded. "Were you listening. Cozy heat death. That's the whole pitch."
You shift your weight. Just barely. Just enough to settle a little deeper, not even on purpose, the kind of small adjustment a body makes on its own when it's getting comfortable.
His hands clamp down on your hips like he's bracing for reentry.
"Don't," he says, strangled. "Don't, that's, you can't do that, that's against the rules, those are my rules."
"I didn't do anything."
"You did a thing."
"I breathed."
"You breathed with intent."
You hold very still, and you let your face do nothing at all, which you have discovered is the single most devastating weapon in your arsenal where he is concerned. Ryland Grace can survive almost anything except an audience that refuses to react.
He looks at you for a long moment. His glasses are now at a genuinely impressive angle. There is a flush coming up his throat that you can feel more than see, the warmth of him radiating where your chest is against his.
"You're really good at this," he says, and it comes out almost accusatory.
"At sitting still?"
"At sitting still. Yeah. You're a natural. It's annoying. I'm the one who proposed the study and you're out here being zen about it and I'm." He swallows. "I'm having a lot of thoughts."
"What kind of thoughts."
"Scientific ones."
"Uh huh."
"Rigorous ones," he insists, and then his hips do a thing, the smallest unconscious flex upward, barely a centimeter, the kind of motion a body makes entirely without consulting its owner, and you both feel it, and he says "okay that wasn't me, that was an autonomic response, that doesn't count, the brain didn't authorize that."
"The brain's not really running the show right now, is it."
"The brain," he says with dignity, "is collecting valuable data."
The thing about him, the thing you fell for somewhere around the second month, is that he cannot do anything without trying to understand it, and he cannot try to understand a thing without poking it.
So of course he starts adjusting variables.
It begins almost innocently. His hands, which have been gripping your hips like handles, gentle, and start to move. Not anywhere scandalous. Up your sides, slow, mapping. You recognize the touch. It's the same touch he uses on a problem, the same patient curious pressure he puts on anything he's trying to figure out, and the fact that the thing he's trying to figure out is you makes something low in your stomach pull tight.
"So like," he murmurs, and his thumbs have found the dip of your waist and settled there, "the interesting thing is the anticipation, right, because nothing's happening, so your nervous system is just. Idling. It's revving. It's like sitting at a red light with the engine going." His thumbs stroke once. "Everything's primed and there's nowhere for it to go."
"You're narrating," you tell him.
"I narrate, it's a whole thing, you knew this going in." His mouth has wandered to your jaw. Not kissing. Just resting there, breathing you in, talking against your skin so you feel every word as much as hear it. "The question I have, the real research question, is whether the stillness amplifies sensation or dulls it, because there's an argument both ways. Like on one hand, no new stimulus, so you'd think it'd fade. Habituation. You stop feeling your own socks after a minute, right. But on the other hand."
He goes quiet.
You wait.
"On the other hand," he says, and his voice has dropped about half an octave, "I can feel your pulse."
You go still in a different way.
"Right here," he says, soft, wondering, the wonder doing the thing it always does where it stops being funny and starts being unbearable. "I can feel your heartbeat. From the inside. I didn't, I didn't know I'd be able to feel that. It's going kind of fast, by the way. For someone so zen."
"Shut up."
"I'm just collecting data."
"Collect it quietly."
"That's not really my strong suit," he says against your throat, and you can feel him grin, and then he goes thoughtful in the specific dangerous way that means he's had an idea. His hand slides up your spine to the back of your neck, cradling. "Okay, new variable, hold on, I want to isolate one thing." And he tips his head and kisses you. Slow. Deep. The kind of kiss that has a thesis. The whole time his other hand stays flat and still on your hip, anchoring you down onto him, so the only thing moving anywhere between the two of you is his mouth on yours, and somehow that makes it worse, makes the stillness everywhere else roar.
When he pulls back his pupils are blown and he looks genuinely rattled by his own findings.
"Yeah, that's, okay, that did something," he reports, a little hoarse. "That changed the readings. The readings are way up. I felt you do that thing, the clench thing, you did the clench thing when I kissed you, don't tell me you didn't, I have direct evidence."
"That's not fair."
"Science isn't fair," he says, delighted and wrecked. "Science is just true."
"That's not what that means."
"It's what it means tonight," he says, and then, because he is who he is, because the curiosity is always going to win, his hands slide around to your back and pull you in that final fraction so there is no space left anywhere between you, and he exhales like a man who has just understood something. "Oh, that's the appeal. Okay. Okay, yeah. I get it now. I get the being."
And the worst part, the part that undoes you, is that he means it. He's not performing. He has genuinely, in this moment, with his glasses crooked and his heart hammering against your chest and himself buried as deep in you as he can get without moving, arrived at a real understanding of why people do this, and the understanding has cracked something open in him, and the something is tenderness, and it is pouring out of him at a rate his mouth cannot keep up with.
"You're a menace," you tell him, but your voice has gone unsteady.
"I'm a scientist," he says, and kisses you.
That's where it starts to come apart, and it comes apart on his end first, which is exactly how you both secretly knew it would go.
Because once he's kissing you he can't stop talking into the kisses, and once he's talking he's getting worked up, and once he's worked up his hands won't stay still, and his hands not staying still means his whole body wants to follow, and the entire structure of the experiment is now resting on the willpower of a man who has never successfully resisted finding out what happens next.
"The hypothesis," he says against your mouth, breathing hard, "the hypothesis was that I could just. Be. Be in the moment. Very enlightened. Very still."
"Mm hm."
"I want to flag that the hypothesis is in trouble."
"Is it."
"It's in serious trouble. We may need to revise the hypothesis. The hypothesis may need to be that I have the self control of a, of a, I don't even have an analogy, that's how bad it is, the analogy generator is offline."
You almost laugh, and then you make a decision, and you do not move at all.
You stay completely, perfectly, infuriatingly still. You let him do all the wanting. You sit there, warm and soft and unhurried in his lap, and you watch the experiment he designed turn around and start running him.
His hips flex again. He catches it. Stops.
His breath shudders out.
"Okay, I'm controlling for breathing," he announces, to nobody, to the ceiling, in the voice of a man clutching the last shred of his methodology. "If I just regulate the breathing, right, box breathing, in for four, hold for four, the Navy SEALs do it, I read a thing, I can bring the whole system back down to baseline and then I can. I can just." He takes a slow, deliberate, theatrical breath in, and you feel his chest expand against yours, and you feel exactly what that does to the rest of him where he's seated inside you, and so does he, because the breath comes out as a wreck instead of a four-count. "Okay, the breathing makes it worse. Filing that. Breathing is contraindicated. Who knew. Everybody, probably. Everybody knew."
"You're doing great."
"I'm doing terribly, and we both know it, and the cruel thing, the genuinely cruel thing, is that you're enjoying watching me do terribly."
You are. You make absolutely no effort to hide it.
"You could just," he tries.
"Mm?"
"You could just move. A little. Hypothetically. For science."
"But it was so peaceful," you say. "The cozy heat death. I was really getting into the being."
He makes a sound that is not a word.
"You said nobody moves," you remind him sweetly. "Those were the rules. Your rules."
"I have done extensive research since I made those rules," he says, very fast. "There's new data. The rules are out of date. I'm issuing a correction. A formal correction. I was wrong, the original parameters were flawed, I'd like to move now please, I'd really like to move, I think about thirty seconds ago I would have said I could do this all day and I want to retract that, I want it stricken from the record, please."
"You're begging."
"I am peer reviewing," he gasps, and his hands are gripping you again, white knuckled, and the flush has gone all the way up to his hairline, and his glasses are so far gone they're practically vertical, and he is the single most undone you have ever seen a fully verbal human being get, and he has not moved an inch, because the one thing more powerful in him than the wanting is the part of him that will not, ever, be the one to break a rule he set for the experiment, even as the experiment dismantles him in real time.
It is, you decide, the most him thing you have ever witnessed.
So you take pity on him.
You lean in, your lips against the shell of his ear, and you feel him go rigid with hope, and you say, very quietly, "Okay."
And you move.
The sound he makes when you finally roll your hips is not dignified, and you treasure it, because Ryland Grace has been talking for what feels like a geological age and you have rendered him, for one perfect second, completely silent.
It lasts exactly that one second.
"Oh thank god," he breathes, and then he's moving, finally, hips driving up to meet you as you sink back down, and the first real slide of him is so much after all that holding that you both make a noise into it. His hands clamp on your hips and drag you down onto him, all the way, deep enough that you feel it in your stomach, and the relief in him is so total it's almost a religious experience. He's laughing, breathless and a little wild, the way he laughs when something works. "Oh, okay, yeah, no, this, this is the appeal, I had it backwards, the appeal is when you stop, the stopping is the appeal because then there's the. The." He loses the word as you grind down hard and feel him twitch inside you. "The starting. God. The starting is the whole thing. Don't stop, do not stop, that's an official finding."
"I thought it was about the being."
"It's about the becoming," he says, which is either profound or completely meaningless, and you don't care which, because his hands are everywhere now and his mouth has found your throat and the careful, agonizing stillness of the last however-long has wound you both so tight that every drag of him in and out of you lands like something much bigger than it is. You're slick enough that there's no friction left to fight, just the slow obscene ease of taking all of him and lifting off and taking him again, and the wet sound of it fills the quiet where his voice used to be.
You set the pace. He lets you. That's the deal you've worked out over months, that he can run his mouth about variables and equilibria all he likes but in the end he goes pliant and grateful under your hands, follows wherever you take him. So you take him slow. You ride him in long unhurried strokes, drawing all the way up until he's barely inside you, until he's panting and his fingers are flexing helplessly against your skin, and then down again, slow, slow, watching his eyes roll back. The contrast, the manic brilliant chatterbox going soft and obedient and wrecked underneath you, is something you will never, ever get tired of.
"You held out," you tell him, rolling your hips in a slow grind that has him gasping. "You actually held out. I'm impressed."
"I'm a professional." His voice is shredded. "I'm extremely. Professional. I had a hypothesis and I tested it and the hypothesis was that I'd die, and I was right, I'm dying, this is what dying is, write it down," and the last word breaks in half as you clench around him on a downstroke, deliberate, just to watch it happen.
His head goes back against the armrest. "Okay, that's, you can't just, that's not in the protocol, you can't do that," but his hips are snapping up into you now, losing the rhythm, chasing it, all his careful method dissolving into want. One of his hands leaves your hip and slides between you, thumb finding you exactly where you need it because of course he knows, he has studied you the way he studies everything, and the first slow circle he draws makes your whole body jolt down onto him.
"There she is," he says, ragged and delighted and reverent all at once. "Okay. Okay, I've got data on this, I know what this does," and he does it again, steady pressure in time with the way you're riding him, and the two sensations stack and stack and you stop being able to keep your pace even. "Yeah. Yeah, there you go. You're allowed to fall apart, that's, I'd actually really like to observe that, for science, please, I want to feel it."
"You're going to make me," you manage.
"That's the entire research objective," he gasps. "That was always the objective. Come on. Come on, I've got you, I'm right here, I'm not going anywhere, I'm cozy heat death, remember, no net flow," and he's babbling now, half nonsense, his thumb relentless and his hips driving up to bury himself in you again and again, and the wound-tight pressure that's been building since the very first still minute finally crests and breaks. You come hard around him, clenching tight, and you hear him swear, genuinely swear, the fear-gauge profanity he saves for when the floor drops, because the feeling of you tightening on him is the thing that finally takes him too. He pulls you down flush and holds you there and lets go with a broken sound against your throat, hips stuttering up into you, spilling deep while you're still pulsing around him, both of you locked together at the exact point where neither of you can tell whose shaking is whose.
For a long moment there is no net flow at all. Just the two of you, joined, gasping, finding the same temperature.
When you finally lift your head he's looking at you with his crooked glasses and his blown pupils and that specific expression he gets, the one underneath all the noise, the one that you don't think he knows he makes. The one that says you are the most interesting thing that has ever happened to him and he cannot believe his luck and he is a little bit scared of how much he means it.
He gets there late. He gets there sideways. But he gets there.
"Hey," he says, soft, and for once there's no preamble, no analogy, no okay-so. Just: "I'm really glad it was you who already knew the fact."
Your heart does something complicated.
"Why's that," you manage.
"Because I would've been embarrassed to be this bad at sitting still in front of anyone else," he says, and grins, and ruins the moment perfectly, on purpose, the way he always does the second a feeling gets too big to hold, and you love him so much in that instant that you have to close your eyes.
---
You stay like that for a while, the two of you, not moving for an entirely different reason now. He's still inside you, softening, and neither of you is in any hurry to change that, which strikes you as funny given that not moving was the whole problem twenty minutes ago. His hand has found the back of your head again and he's just holding it there, thumb tracing slow shapes you don't think he's aware of, his heartbeat slowing under your cheek from a sprint to a walk to something steady.
"You okay," he murmurs into your hair. The voice has gone soft and low, the post-disaster voice, the one that comes out after the engine cools.
"Mm."
"You went somewhere at the end there."
"I did."
"Good somewhere?"
"Very good somewhere."
He's quiet for a second, and you can feel him deciding whether to make a joke, and you can feel him choose not to, which is its own small miracle.
"I think I had the appeal backwards the whole time," he says instead, slow, working it out the way he works everything out, sideways and out loud. "I kept thinking the still part was the experiment and the moving part was the reward. But it's not two things. It's the same thing. The staying still is just. It's trust, right. It's me sitting here doing nothing useful and you letting me, and neither of us going anywhere." A pause. "That's the whole experiment. That's all it ever was. Everything else was just me being a shark about it."
You lift your head to look at him, because that is dangerously close to him being cleanly self-aware, and you want to see it before it evaporates.
It evaporates. He sees you looking and the grin comes back, sheepish, reflexive, the shutter coming down over something he showed you for exactly one second.
"Don't write that down," he says. "That one's not for the record."
"Too late."
"You can't publish that, it's not peer reviewed."
"I'm publishing it everywhere."
"Devastating," he says happily, and pulls you back down against his chest, and you let him.
After, much after, when the experiment has reached its actual conclusion and you are both a boneless tangle on the couch with the good blanket half on the floor and his glasses somewhere that is going to be a problem to find later, he is quiet again.
Genuinely quiet. The rare kind. The kind that means he's run out, fully, that the engine has finally idled all the way down.
You give it eleven seconds.
You count.
At twelve, predictably, gloriously, he stirs against you, and you feel him take a breath to say something, and you brace for it.
"So in conclusion," Ryland Grace says, to the ceiling, with the deep satisfaction of a man filing a final report, "the appeal is real, the methodology was sound, and I think for the next round we should isolate some additional variables."
You don't even open your eyes.
"Go to sleep, Ryland."
"I'm just saying. For science."
"Sleep."
He goes quiet. He lasts almost thirty seconds this time.
It's a personal best, and you tell him so, and he's so pleased about it that he forgets to keep talking, which is how you finally, both of you, reach equilibrium.
⤷ ゛cockwarming him while he's in a meeting! ˎˊ˗ ⠀⠀𑣲⋆ mdni
you hummed, your deft fingers playing with the locks of his hair as you shifted ever so slightly. but by the firm tightening of his palm on your hip, you could tell he noticed.
he was in heaven and hell at the same time.
it had all started when he mentioned his afternoon meeting. he'd been complaining about it the whole day, him having to leave the comfort of your bed just to be in a fuckass zoom call with a bunch of corporate bozos.
so, you being the ever doting girlfriend you were, decided to bring the bed to him! so sweet, right? when he first heard your idea, a deep blush bloomed all across his cheeks. aww, he was as red as a tomato at just the thought!
but you knew he could never say no to those pretty puppy eyes, and so - here he was. sitting on his work chair with your tits in his mouth and his dick in your tight cunt.
you turned around to soothe your nerves and confirm that the camera and mic were indeed turned off. he took the opportunity to lick up the column of your neck. you let out a soft moan, and you could feel his cock twitch.
his lips continued his assault on your neck, kissing everywhere he could reach. you rewarded his show of affection with a slow roll of your hips, and he whined beneath you. you could tell he was absolutely gone, his brain was practically oozing out of his ears.
he muffled his face between your soft tits again, and let out a low groan. your hands raked through his hair, and he looked up at you like you hung up the stars in the sky.
Maybe it’s wishful thinking for me, but how about a soldier boy x reader, can be set in season 3 or 5 where he wakes up, meets a supe!reader and is like lovesick or basically head over heels when meeting her. Tries to show off and get her to be with him, reader likes seeing him that way and just teases along….i dark too much caffeine
LOVE IS EMBARRASSING
soldier boy x supe!reader cw old-fashioned views, nsfw mentions, sb is a softie behind all the macho stuff notes thank u anon!! based on the scene with hughie in 3x6! definitely thinking of writing more for sb and supe reader
ben wasn’t expecting to feel like this, especially not after everything with crimson countess. hell, he wasn’t even sure he’d felt this with her. he likes his women older, so this is completely new territory for him. if anyone asked him, he’d deny, deny, deny, but he’s pretty sure he blacked out while meeting you. all he remembers is seeing your face, then butcher laughing at him for his “fuckin’ puppy-dog eyes.” he can’t even remember what he said to you.
his immediate response to… whatever he feels, is confusion. he’s been shown enough tv to know that women nowadays wouldn’t react well to pickup lines he’d have used back in the fifties and sixties, maybe even the eighties, and he can't just ask to fuck you - it's not that kind of feeling. he’s not a pussy, though. he’s not about to tell you about his feelings. instead, he tries showing you how much of a man he is. puffs his chest out, brags, gives you his best blue steel, picks fights.
nothing.
in fact, he’s going in the wrong direction. you’ve both lost count of the amount of times you’ve told him to fuck off, or shut the fuck up (another thing that sends blood straight to his dick - you’re feisty, not afraid of him. he unexpectedly loves it). regardless of how much he’s enjoying the back and forth between you, he can tell he isn’t getting anywhere.
at least, not until you’re put on babysitting duty, and he spouts some emotional, pussy bullshit that somehow makes the annoyance in your eyes soften.
“i didn’t mean to kill those people.” it’s a soft murmur - he hadn’t even meant to say it out loud. he looks up after it slips out. he lifts his head to regain his manliness, but pauses when he sees how your head has tilted slightly, how your eyes have softened.
you encourage him with a small hum. "hm?"
he sighs. this is the closest he's gotten to anything with you in weeks. he can't back off now, even if he's sacrificing his masculinity.
"those people in the street... i didn't mean to kill them. i didn't blow anything up on purpose," he mutters.
"i guessed that. and you didn't really fight in world war 2, did you? or all those other wars they said you were in?" you ask. well, not really. there's a knowing look on your face that he's seen before. he sighs and glares, and you smirk.
holy shit. his heart stops.
he bites back a comment about how you should smile more. if normal women in this day and age don't like it, he can only imagine you having a visceral reaction... and probably hating him forever.
"so... big man soldier boy was just a vought prop?" you tease.
"don't start, doll," he mutters. if you were an animal, your hackles would be standing up.
your face changes and your voice is suddenly sharp. "don't call me doll."
right. princess, doll, sweetheart were off-limits to practical strangers nowadays. "got it."
there's silence for a long moment, but it's not uncomfortable, and you don't have a constant look of annoyance on your face anymore. he's getting somewhere.
you get up eventually, heading to another room. before you leave, you turn around with a small smile.
"y'know, you're not as bad as they say, soldier boy," you tease lightly. god, he loves the look of that smile on your face.
"ben," he says. he has no idea what possesses him to say it.
you nod, the smile getting softer. "ben. you're kind of alright, ben."
✧･ﾟ:ben doesn’t usually go back for seconds. Not unless he’s caught somewhere with dry pussy and no way out. Even then, he does it with a scowl and a grudge, only to get that itch scratched by someone with reliable nails.
✧･ﾟ:but with you, it’s different. There’s seconds, then thirds, and then suddenly he’s got boxers in your apartment and you’re a dirty secret he’s keeping like a vow. Neither of you label it, because you’re not brave enough and he doesn’t know how. Co-workers ask what’s up with that guy you’re seeing and you shrug and laugh. People mock Ben about slipping out the door once the sunset and coming back with a haze in his eyes, and he sneers and rolls his eyes without more than a fuck you.
✧･ﾟ:he thinks it’s better, if they don’t think he’s doing anything but running off to a strip club. There are people out there who hate that they can’t hurt him, and if they knew that he kept his heart outside his body—sitting on the bus in the morning and curled against his chest at night—they wouldn’t blink before they crushed it between their fingers.
✧･ﾟ:and he’d hurt anyone who dared touch you. That’s a given. He makes you keep your location on—shared with a burner phone he’s hidden well from Sage—and send him updates every few hours. But that doesn’t stop the nightmares, and the sudden visits when he just needed to check. That you hadn’t run out on him, that someone hadn’t stabbed him in the back and sold you out. You’re the one good thing he’s got. The last, shining little light that keeps his old heart going. It’s withered, and has kept an unsteady pattern for almost a hundred years. When you’re there, it beats in a rhythm so powerful he doesn’t know how to handle it sometimes. And he’d rather die from that, then ever live in a world without you again.
ben says you’re too sweet, and you snort, combing your fingers through his hair. I’m not sweet, you just don’t understand kindness. He chuckles, looking up at you with that silent but reverent adoration in his eyes. Trust me, doll. You’re sweeter than anything I’ve ever had before.
you flush. You always flush. Ben loves that about you. It doesn’t matter how much you have sex, or how many dirty things you hear him say in passing. The moment he really breaks out the charms, you start stumbling and giggling like a virgin. And Ben knows damn well that you aren’t. For someone who acts so fucking innocent, you sure get messy and loud when he’s got you pinned below him.
it’s just how he likes you. His, and only his. The one thing in the world he gives a fuck about, calling his name and coming apart for him in any way he can dream of. Once you mentioned an ex, and had to tackle him around the shoulder to stop him from going and pounding the man’s skull into the curb. He’d done you wrong, sure, but Ben had acted like he’d violated something scared. I’m fine, you’d murmured, kissing all over his beard until he calmed down. I fucking know that, he’d grumbled. Should still let me drop him down with the fishes. You giggle and call him old. All his fury and devotion redirects in a second, and suddenly you’re being pinned to the wall like art he’s been dying to break the rules to touch.
ben’s smarter than people give him credit for. He just puts most of his efforts into thinking about sex. And it pays off. More than anyone could possibly understand, until they were on the receiving end. He’s fucked you pinned to the wall and folded over the couch with your ass in the air, and his cum dribbling down your leg. You’ve been sat on his face until your pussy was raw and you had to claw at him to get away. He’s put you in his lap and shoved his cock between your lips, keeping your warm mouth sucking him silly while he reaches around and lazily teases your pussy. It’s always impossibly good.
it gets better when he gets possessive. When Ben comes over with a glint in his eyes and hands that grip you harder than they need to, leaving bruises on your thighs and waist. He hates the idea that one day, you’ll meet someone less complicated and leave him. It doesn’t matter how many times you tell him that won’t happen. He dreads it. And when the thought burrows itself too deep into his brain, he starts fucking you like he needs to make you remember.
that you’re his. Every inch of you, from the tits he palms and peaked nipples he swirls his tongue around, to your puffed up, soaked little pussy that eats him up perfectly every time. He presses a massive hand over your abdomen, forcing you to feel the burn of the stretch while he pounds you into the mattress. Ben whispers filth in your ear about your greedy little cunt, taking him like she knows who she belongs to.
you moan loudly, pulling at his hair and weakly grinding up, unable to get enough. The wet, hot sound of Ben pumping in and out of your pussy fills the room, covered only by his own grunts. He grabs your jaw and makes you open your mouth, spitting down your throat before kissing you dizzy. You can barely think over the stretch of him, the way he’s pressed over your chest and groping at your ass and breasts. You’re overly sensitive, but that just spurs him on. He loves the way you whimper and shiver with the lightest touch, the way you scream in delight from the harsher ones.
he’s not done until every inch of you is marked with Ben’s claim. Red handprints on your ass and lovebites covering your neck and shoulders. His cum smeared over your abdomen and thighs, his name still falling from your swollen lips.
you reach for him, in the dazed aftermath. Murmuring that you just want him close, even after being so thoroughly ruined.
then you melt, when he smiles at you. It’s why he started doing it in the first place. You say his name like it’s worth something without the suits, and he feels like he doesn’t need the powers to be the biggest man in the world.
he kisses your brow, and your eyes flutter closed. And Ben stays. There’s no conversation or drugs—the only two things that usually keep him in bed—but there’s your warm body, curling into his side. And in comparison, everything else he’s ever had pales.
he’ll die for this. For you. If he was a better man, he’d run far away and leave you to find someone with a 401k and nice little life ahead of them.
but he’s not a better man. And you’re all he has.
so he holds on, and never plans to let go.
✦Soldier Boy Masterlist - Main Masterlist - Read on aO3!✦
✦Author's Note: this is the ben that's real to me. idk who that guy in season 5 is.✦
✧･ﾟ:ben doesn’t really understand what love is. He’d never felt it before you. He probably won’t feel it after. He just knows that whatever to annoying fucking gooeyness in his chest is, it comes from being near you, and never anything else.
✧･ﾟ:you’re the best fucking thing he’s got. He’s got no plans to let you go, not anywhere he can’t follow. He knows if he lost you, he’d fucking lose it. He’s half a man when you’re not at his side. A quarter of that if he ever makes you hate him. It would be like making a big, wet eyed kitten cry. He’d rather watch fucking glass.
✧･ﾟ:he’s not good at affection. Or comfort. No one ever taught him how that shit works, but when you kiss him or brush your fingers through his hair, he feels bigger. Better. He wants to make you feel like that, so he mimics it with sudden touches and gifts. Ben pulls you tight into his chest, crushing you between his massive arms just to keep you close. You tell him it’s called a hug, he says he doesn’t fucking hug, then holds you closer.
✧･ﾟ:ben doesn’t know what the fuck girls like, so he gets you more of shit you already have. You’re almost out of the coffee you like, so he buys more. Your fancy shampoo is low, he can match a bottle in a grocery store. You complain once about your favorite lip gloss being out of stock, and he didn’t rest until he found you more. He shoves the gifts into your hands then kisses you stupid. That’s how he does most things.
✧･ﾟ:he starts to clean, because he might not be some kind of fucking maid, but you like things better when they’re clean. He’s a grown ass man, he can carry the trash better than you anyway. And he likes how you climb him like a tree, after he grumbles that he already put away the dishes. If that’s the price he has to pay for some pussy, he’s about to open a bank.
✧･ﾟ:ben used to fuck most things that move, but now it’s just you. Only you. He rolls his eyes whenever someone’s surprised by it.
✧･ﾟ:“why the fuck would I stick my dick in something else,” he mutters. “When I got a girl with heroine in her pussy?”
✧･ﾟ:you have to tell them he’s speaking metaphorically. They sometimes look a little worried. But you’re not complaining. You do get all of Ben to yourself. And he’s very good at sex.
✧･ﾟ:mind-blowingly good. So good, it’s made you wonder if you’d ever actually had good sex before him. The dirty talk alone is a sin. Dirty little girl and pretty fucking slut and good job, baby, whine for me just like that.
✧･ﾟ:his massive fingers split your cunt better than a toy. Pushing right against that soft spot, his thumb working your clit until you’re gasping for air. He eats you out like his favorite meal, with his whole face pressed into your core and tongue flicking your clit into a frenzy. When he fucks you he holds you in those strong arms, whether it’s up against his chest, pinning you to the mattress and forcing you to take it, or in a headlock as his cock sliding in and out of your dripping cunt. You cum all over him, wet and loud, and he laughs until you’re burning with a mix of shame and pleasure.
✧･ﾟ:it’s after sex, that he shows he loves you the most. His kisses get softer. He takes care of you without even a grunt, cleaning and making sure you’re totally, happily fucked out. He lights up a joint and wraps an arm around your shoulders, telling some story you’ve heard a million times as you doze off. You smile. You know he does it because you like it. The steady sound of his heartbeat, and soothing rumble of his voice.
✧･ﾟ:before you’re out, you can swear you actually hear him say it. “Love you, doll.”
✧･ﾟ:it doesn’t matter if you actually do, or if it’s just a dream. You feel it, either way.
✦Soldier Boy Masterlist - Main Masterlist - read on aO3✦
✦Author's Note: i don't care what he does in the show they gave me a sexy old man he's mine now they're writing the fanfic not me and eric kripke himself can't stop me.✦
NOTES: You cannot convince me that Ben wouldn’t be utterly obsessed with his girl. I won’t hear anything of that silliness. He’s crazy in love with you and he’d be a total wife guy.
TW: smut, romanticized ben, oral/fingering (f receiving), dirty talk, wedding ceremony, getting married, this is just such a fun time to me, ben says fuck it to tradition
You’re walking down the aisle, bouquet trembling slightly in your hands, vision hazy with happy tears and sunlight. Everything is warm. Perfect. A dream.
And there he is.
Standing at the altar, looking way too handsome in that suit to be real. His jaw’s tight, but his eyes are locked on you, dark and wild and hungry. He looks like he wants to throw you over his shoulder and disappear, which, honestly, is fully within the realm of possibility for him.
You don’t notice the lace right away, too locked in on Ben and the fact that you’re about to get married. He’ll be yours, for better or worse. Until death do you part.
Everything is a bit of a blur at first, including the soft flicker of white peeking from his breast pocket. You had picked the blush pocket square he was meant to wear yourself, spent hours painstakingly matching the color to the linens, the roses, your blush.
That isn’t it.
You blink, once. Twice.
White lace.
You recognize that lace. It’s yours. Your favorite, in fact. The soft scalloped lace, delicate and feminine. A tiny satin bow.
Your panties.
The ones you’d worn just the night before. The ones he’d taken off you the night before.
They now sat tucked in the breast pocket of Ben’s suit, like a twisted little keepsake.
You hadn’t meant to let it happen.
You’d been in your room, tucked into the ridiculous bridal suite with white sheets and pressed linens and a do not disturb sign on the door. Hair perfectly blown out, veil steamed and hanging next to your dress, a glass of cucumber water untouched on the bedside table. Your maid of honor had just left with a stern “don’t let him sneak over here, you know he’ll try.”
And you really did try to be good.
Until your phone buzzed.
-> New Messages: BEN ❤️🔥
baby
this tradition fucking sucks
i’m losing it
You smiled. That helpless, hopeless smile you only got with him.
Then came more texts:
come over here
please
i’ll behave, scouts honor
i miss you so bad i can’t think straight
And this is exactly why no one told him what your room number was—because he absolutely would have shown up and never left if he could have.
You were already blushing when he called.
“Ben-”
“Where are you,” he asked immediately, low and wrecked. “Are you wearing that ridiculous little robe? You better be wearing that robe.”
Your stomach flipped. Something you’d come to love throughout the planning process was how much he’d listened to your ideas. This one in particular being the custom, satin robe you’d ordered for tonight and the morning.
“We agreed to this, Ben. We’re not supposed to see each other until the ceremony. It’s bad luck.”
“I’ve seen you naked more times than I’ve seen you dressed, baby. You think I’m gonna up and forget what you look like because of some old-ass wedding rule?”
You snorted.
“Baby, I need you. I'm suffering.”
“You’re being dramatic, Benjamin.”
“I’m being deprived,” he groaned. “My hands are shaking. I’m half hard and fully miserable. I can’t sleep in this stupid king-sized pillow fort bullshit without you breathing next to me like a soft little kitten. I’m a wreck, babe.”
You were already halfway out of bed. “Ben, seriously.”
“You wanna be a blushing bride tomorrow? You want me standing at that altar with a straight face? Sober? Something’s gotta give, sweetheart. I won’t touch, scouts honor. Just let me see you. Two minutes.”
He was lying.
You knew he was lying.
But when you stepped into his suite just one floor down—barefoot, breathless, the aforementioned robe tied too tight (as though that’d deter him) and cheeks already warm—he looked at you like he might actually drop to his knees at the sight.
“Christ on a cross,” he rasped, stepping toward you. “You’re a vision.”
“Two minutes,” you warned.
“Sure, sure,” he said, already pulling you in by the waist. “Two minutes, maybe three. Five tops.”
“Ben-”
“You’re my girl,” he whispered, mouth against your neck. “You think I’m gonna sleep well without making you come first? Not a fuckin’ chance.”
You gasped, pointing at him accusedly despite the smile on your lips, “You promised! You said scout's honor!”
“Yeah, well, I lied. And I wasn’t a scout, so it doesn’t even count. And, if you care to remember,” he started, voice dropping, “when I asked you to marry me, I promised to get you off every single day for the rest of your life. You think our wedding day is the exception? Absolutely not, sweetheart.”
You were already laughing. Giggling against his chest like a traitor.
“Let me take care of you,” Ben muttered, voice rough, breath warm against your cheek as his hands slid beneath your robe. “Pretty little thing like you shouldn’t be goin’ to bed all tense. That’s real bad luck.”
You tried to swat at him, half-laughing, half-scandalized. “You’re unbelievable.”
“No,” he said, pulling the robe open, eyes flicking down to your panties with something hungry. “I’m in love. And I’m about to marry the hottest girl alive, and some dumb old fuck decided I’m not allowed to even see her tonight, let alone get my mouth on her.”
You giggled, flustered. “It’s tradition. It’s supposed to be romantic.”
“It’s bullshit,” he huffed. “I should be fallin’ asleep with my face between your tits, like God intended,” he muttered, already easing you back onto the bed.
Your legs parted for him automatically. You didn’t even try to pretend they didn’t.
He settled between them like he belonged there, big hands wrapping around your thighs, thumbs rubbing slow circles over your skin. His eyes locked on the spot where the lace met your inner thighs—thin, soft, soaked.
He groaned. “Fuck. Look at this.”
“Ben…”
“Lemme see her,” he said, already tugging the panties to the side. “Just for a sec, baby.”
You moaned before you could stop yourself.
Ben grinned.
“There’s my girl,” he said, leaning down and mouthing against your inner thigh. “Missed this pussy all fuckin’ day. Been tryin’ to think about anything else. Couldn’t get you off my mind.”
“Stop talking,” you gasped, face flushed.
“I will not,” he said proudly. “You’re all wet and pretty and you were tucked away in that fucking suite, hiding all of this from me. You think I’m not gonna revel in the fact I got you to break the rules and come in here?”
“You’re such a-”
He didn’t let you finish. He ducked his head and licked, slow and broad and hot—one long drag from your entrance to your clit that made your thighs twitch.
You gasped, high and breathy. “Fuck, Ben.”
He moaned into you, thick and greedy. “God, baby. You always taste this good? Or is it just ‘cause you’re about to be mine forever?”
You let your head fall back with a whimper. “I’m already yours.”
“Damn fucking right you are,” he muttered, right before his mouth sealed around your clit and he sucked.
You jerked against the bed, a choked sound slipping from your throat as your hips arched into him.
“Thought about this all day,” he went on, barely pulling away. “Your legs over my shoulders, hands in my fuckin’ hair, those little noises you make—fuck, I’m obsessed with you.”
You were panting now, thighs shaking as his tongue licked up and down your folds, slow and relentless.
“Tell me you missed this,” he said, dragging his mouth over your clit again.
“I did,” you gasped, one hand gripping the soft hotel sheets tightly.
“Tell me you didn’t want me tonight. That you didn’t hope for this.”
“I always want you,” you cried, your back arched off the bed just so.
He groaned, voice low and reverent. “You gonna come for me, baby? Make it nice and loud. C’mon, give me a fuckin’ wedding gift.”
Your fingers curled hard in his hair. “I- I’m- Ben!”
He latched onto your clit again, tongue flicking, sucking, moaning like you were his last meal. One of his hands moved to slip his fingers inside you. His grip on your thigh tightened, and the second your hips started to shake, he pulled you in tighter—wouldn’t let you go.
“Let go, baby. Be sweet for me.” He said, hot and breathy, as his nose nudged at your clit, and crooked his fingers just right inside you.
You came with a whimper, back bowing off the bed, one hand flying to cover your mouth, the other still tangled in his hair as your legs clamped around his head and shook.
Ben growled.
“I got you,” he said, licking you through it, slower now, indulgent, slowing his finger’s movements but never stopping. “Good girl. Just like that. Fuck, sweetheart, look at you. You should see how pretty you look when you come.”
You trembled under him, brain fried, mouth slack, robe slipped halfway off your shoulder.
When he finally pulled back, his mouth was slick, chin shining, and he looked so fucking smug when sucked his fingers clean.
Eventually sat up on your elbows, still dazed, and you reached for your underwear only to find that Ben had them in his fist.
You narrowed your eyes, “don’t even think about it.”
He just grinned. “Nah, I’m gonna keep em. I need company tonight.”
“Ben-”
“I need something to sleep with,” he said, deadly serious. “Otherwise I’m gonna lie awake thinking about how fuckin’ sweet you tasted, and how stupid it is that I’m not allowed to keep my mouth on you all night like a decent husband.”
“We’re not married yet.”
He ignored that statement in its entirety. “They’re mine now,” he said, folding them like a goddamn gentleman and tucking them neatly into the pocket of his sweats. “You gave them to me.”
“I did not!”
“You knew what this was, baby. Don’t act all holier than thou about it.”
And now, dressed to the nines and just half an aisles length from him, your eyes flick back up to his. He doesn’t look away. Just tips his chin like, what are you gonna do about it, baby?
Your cheeks flush, lips parting to mouth, ‘seriously?’
He gives you a smirk. Barely there. Just enough. Yeah. Dead serious.
By the time you make it to him, your heart’s pounding louder in your ears than the music. You let out a soft breath as you pass your bouquet to your maid of honor.
He takes your hand, brining it up to press a kiss to you knuckles, that smirk melting into something softer. His thumb slides slow over your knuckles, gaze dipping down your body with zero shame.
“Wasn’t gonna make it through the whole thing without ‘em,” he murmurs, low and lazy.
You blink. You try not to laugh, pressing your lips together.
“Pocket square didn’t smell like you,” he adds.
You make a quiet, shocked noise that gets swallowed up by the crowd.
“You are mentally unwell,” you whisper back to him, praying to officiant didn’t hear him, even though you were certain he did.
He winks. “And now you’re stuck with me.”
You’re still blushing by the time the officiant starts the vows.
When the time for "I do's” comes, Ben says it before he’s even supposed to—loud and clear and without hesitation, like someone might try to interrupt him.
And when he kisses you, it’s not delicate or practiced. It’s a little rough. A little too eager. His hand slides around your waist, fingers flexing just enough to remind you’re in for a very long night.
After, as the guests cheer you on as you recessed down the aisle and out of the venue to the waiting car, you lean close to whisper, “you better hope no one else noticed.”
Ben just grins and taps his pocket. “I sure fucking hope they did, sweetheart.”
And then he winks.
And you’re going to be so late to the reception if he’s got any say in it.
ok but imagine this: buying an anklet that has a ‘B’ on it and soldier boy noticing it when he’s mid stroke with your legs folded into your chest and he just loses his ever loving mind, fucking you harder into the mattress at the thought of you wearing his initial bc that man is a possessive man for sure for sure
Ben was a possessive man, there was no doubt about it. He never shyed away from it, every little moment where you’d ever have the gaze of another on you or god forbid if you weren’t with him he would always stake his claim on you in endless ways.
One of the most popular ways is of course, through fucking.
The way you were folded beneath him was a sight to behold. Tits bouncing freely, face scrunching up with overwhelming pleasure, your ankles rested against his shoulders as he pounded your pussy like it were an Olympic sport.
Ben’s gaze was intense on your own, maintaining the eye contact with a grab of your jaw, pinching your cheeks together. “Don’t you fucking dare look away-“
Then the smallest noise- a metallic clink to the left of his ear- grabbed his attention, putting a stop to his ministrations as his head turned to look, the shimmer of silver catching his eye like a crow seeing a shiny trinket.
The delicate chain wrapped your ankle, sporting a sparkling ‘B’ charm - tiny diamantés filling the fine font of the initial.
“This for me?” Ben’s low voice spoke through the pause, eyes locked onto the glinting anklet, thick fingers moving to touch the metal.
You breathed out, nodding weakly. “Yeah… got it the just today- wanted to surprise you-“ you were cut off, a whiney moan replacing words as Ben snapped his hips into you again, beginning a pace that was harder and deeper now.
The possessiveness he barely held back came in full swing- knowing that little piece of accessory was a mark of his ownership over you. The sounds of slapping skin hit harder, those little sounds you made becoming even louder in the apartment of Vought Tower- the whole damn floor could hear you two, but there was no care in the world for anyone who could be out there.
Ben grunted, gripping your calf as his lips captured the anklet, suck hard as he tasted the musk of your skin and the metal of the jewellery on your ankle- nipping the flesh harshly before he gazed back down at you as his cock pressed your cervix once more.
SOLDIER BOY — PLAYBOY BUNNY [NSFW + SEASON 5 SPOILERS]
Soldier Boy x fem!reader
summary: the hunt for V1 led you to Mr. Marathon's house. you thought this would go smoothly, until the weirdo admits that he used to jerk off to your old Playboy shoots—and Ben isn't happy to learn he is the only man in this whole country to not know about those.
wc: 2,681
tags: V1 supe!reader, smut, a lil jealousy, playboy bunny suit, making out, dry humping, implied size difference, fingering, p in v, orgasm control/denial if you squint, dacryphilia, one mention that reader has a bush, rough sex, doggy style, creampie
a/n: so... this took the whole month to write. this was pitched to me by @ukor02 in my comments and i just loved it so much. so sorry for the lack of content lately, life is rough lol
available on ao3
You haven't been to Los Angeles in... forever. Yet the California sun is still as hot as you remember.
"Well, this place still looks like a dump." Ben muttered as he walked next to you, boots crunching on gravel. "Just... shinier." His head tilted up to take a look at Mr. Marathon's luxurious home—too white and too big for a washed-up B-lister like him. Being in the Seven for a few years really did him a favor, it seemed.
You snorted. "You say that about every city."
"Because every fuckin' city is a dump." He grumbled, before lowering his voice. "Last time we came here was in—what, '81?" He bumped his shoulder into yours intentionally, and Homelander—who was walking a step behind and looking like a sulking kid following behind his father (which, fair enough)—had to suppress a sigh.
"Almost, '82." You corrected, climbing up the stairs to the front door.
You’d known Ben for decades now. Seen the kid with daddy issues playing macho man after his first shot of V1 until he became America's number one tool for war propaganda—and everything in between.
"We were supposed to come back in '84 for the Olympics but... y'know. Had to go alone." You casually brought up his betrayal and alleged death—just a couple months before your actual last trip to LA.
"Very touching." Homelander said flatly before Ben could reply to you, reaching over your shoulder to ring the doorbell with impatience.
The door opened shortly after, Mr. Marathon's jaw going slack as he took in the three famous faces standing at his door. "Oh my—holy shit." He opened the door wider, ushering you in. "Come in, come in."
The interior was just as white and detestable as the exterior, and you couldn't help but make a face when you saw the guy's self-portait hanging in the entrance.
"Homelander, it is really, uh... really—good to see you!" He stammered, vibrating with both excitement and anxiety. "W—what brings you by?"
"Relax, we're just here to talk."
"Yeah! Great, awesome—" His gaze drifted to Ben, one hand vaguely gesturing towards him. "Soldier Boy—wow, big fan, sir. I actually, uh, popped my cherry in your Underoos."
Ben was about to dismiss this awful conversation when Mr. Marathon spoke up again with renewed excitement, his gaze turning to you.
"And—you!" He exclaimed with a breathy chuckle of amazement. "God, i definitely rubbed one out to your Playboy bunny shoots more times than i can count—the pages were stuck together, i had to find another copy."
Silence.
Long, horrible, awkward silence.
Homelander looked like he was considering just lasering the place to pieces.
"...Shoots?" Ben was the first to break it, eyes narrowing at Mr. Marathon and tilting his head like he'd heard wrong. "What shoots?" His eyes then snapped towards you with not-so-subtle interest. "Playboy?"
"Ben—"
"Since when the hell were you doing Playboy?" He finally asked with a confused shrug, struggling to believe he could've missed something as juicy as this.
"Since you were busy snorting half of Nicaragua and never came back." You shrugged back, but the way he looked at you made it clear he wasn't about to let you brush this off. "It was the eighties! You did your fair share of stupid shit, too!"
He gave you a once over, completely ignoring your point. "...Full nude?" He asked shamelessly, raising a brow at you.
"Of course not!"
"They still out there?" He ignored your whining as well, already turning back towards Mr. Marathon.
"Seriously?" You deadpanned.
"Well—i might still have a... clean copy."
───
Mr. Marathon was still bleeding out on the marble floor, head crushed to pieces when Ben bent down with a grunt, plucking something glossy from under the rubble.
"No fuckin' way. He does have a copy." He muttered, thumb rubbing the dust off the magazine cover.
There you are.
Curled up on a loveseat in a black satin teddy and ridiculous bunny ears, one heel dangling off your foot while you smiled at the camera like there wasn't a single thought behind those eyes. Big hair, dramatic makeup, and a fluffy white tail to top it all off.
America's Sweetheart Finally Lets Loose!
"Oh god, burn it." You gritted your teeth in disgust, glaring at the magazine like it could bite.
"Fuck no, this is gold."
Homelander made a sound somewhere between disgust and exhaustion. "Can we focus?"
"You're insufferable." You grumbled, ignoring Homelander's complaining.
"And you were apparently more flexible than i remember." He clicked his tongue approvingly. "Jesus."
He stopped on a certain page that made him grin like a kid on Christmas Day. "Oh, now this—" He let out a low whistle. "Damn."
You lunged for it instantly. "Give me that!"
He jerked the magazine out of reach effortlessly, laughing as you smacked uselessly at his arm. "No no no, hold on—" His eyes flicked over a full-page spread. "You said no full nude."
"It's not full nude!"
"There is one ribbon covering your tits."
"That doesn't count."
"Kinda does, though."
Homelander stared straight ahead with the thousand-yard look of a man questioning every life decision that had led him here, his facial tics starting to act up.
Ben kept grinning as he finally lowered the magazine enough to look at you properly, and there it was—that smug, annoyingly entertained look that always riled you up.
"Can't believe every asshole in America got to see this before me."
Homelander finally snapped. "Are you two done flirting over a dead body?"
───
"You bought this?"
"Yeah."
You stood in your room back at Vought Tower, Ben at your side with his chest puffed out and an infuriatingly proud grin on his pretty face.
He'd been pounding on your door five minutes ago, insisting that this was an emergency—before dropping a package on your mattress and demanding you open it.
You regretted it the moment you ripped the carboard open and caught a glimpse of black, shiny fabric.
"How did you even—"
"Spent three fuckin' hours figuring out that... that jungle website." Ben shrugged with an edge of frustration.
"Wha—Amazon?" You let out a huff of a laugh, the very entertaining image of him grumbling and cursing at a screen for three hours straight popping in your mind.
"Yeah, whatever. Site kept askin' me about cookies or some shit."
"You learned online shopping for this?" You huffed in disbelief, carefully digging through the plastic bag to pull out the costume, staring down at it with conflict—and maybe a bit of pink on your cheeks.
Fighting the internet just to see you in a skimpy bunny suit was actually pretty romantic, by Ben's standards.
"Won't you put it on, sweetheart?" He leaned towards you, hand reaching to grope the meat of your ass and head ducking down until his hot breath hit the shell of your ear. "Figure if every Tom, Dick, and Harry got the photoshoot, i oughta at least get the sequel."
You folded, eventually.
And you realized you'd rarely seen Ben this invested.
Took you in his arms the moment you walked out, changed in this bunny suit—that you insisted was stupid and raunchy—hands all over your curves and squeezing flesh like he had to make sure this was real. They slid down to your waist again, pinching the soft skin through the satin fabric appreciatively.
"Stop making that face. Smile a little, bun." He teased, amused by how commited you were to looking annoyed despite how red your ears were turning. He could feel your body burning under his palms, flushed and squirming.
"This is not funny."
"Yeah? I think it's hilarious." He retorted, flicking the white fluffy tail on your lower back and tugging at the ears on your head just to rile you up some more. You were about to protest like you always did when he interrupted you, lips crashing hungrily against yours while he pulled you closer until there wasn't an inch left between your bodies.
You squirmed without much conviction when he steered you towards his bed, the empty package falling to the floor as he pushed it off carelessly and sat down on the edge, pulling you onto his lap.
"You're such a pretty bunny, i might just fuck you like one." He purred, gripping your thighs to keep you still. "Wouldn't you like that?"
The grumpy but slightly shaky whine you let out told him everything he needed to know. You're still embarrassed, but so damn into it—and it's exactly what he wants.
One finger hooked into the collar of your bowtie, pulling you in for another rough kiss just to draw more of those adorable grumbles out of you. He was as mean as you remembered, always trying to dominate with his tongue and biting on your lower lip whenever he didn't get his way.
His other hand slid to your hipbone, urging you to grind against him and guiding your movements while his own hips thrust up, the hard line of his erection rubbing deliciously against your clothed slit. He reached for your chest to caress one breast possessively, grunting at the way you arched your back and pressed further into his palm whenever he pinched your nipple through the fabric.
"Gettin' all excited just from a little rubbin'." He murmured against your lips teasingly as he felt you grind harder on your own, chasing more of that sweet friction as your heart pounded through your ribcage and against his hand. "C'mere, bun."
He never stopped kissing you as he maneuvered you onto the mattress, switching your positions until he hovered above you, forearms braced on each side of your head to avoid crushing you under his weight—not that you'd mind. He only pulled back to take you in, from your flushed cheeks to the way the satin strained against your curves. So vulnerable—and fucking delicious.
"Look at you," He muttered, his voice dropping into a rough, gravelly rumble. "All red and pouty. Actin' like you didn't want this the second you saw the damn box."
He trailed kisses down your neck, leaving harsh bites and hickeys on the way to your collarbone until he nuzzled his nose into your cleavage—leaving one last open-mouthed kiss on your sternum.
"Roll over." He ordered with a nudge to your thigh with his knee.
"Really?"
"What, you ever seen bunnies go at it in missionary, smartass? Ass up." He didn't wait for you to move, manhandling you onto your stomach and lifting your hips up, bunny ears tilting forward as his fingers tangled in your hair to keep your face down. He hooked his thumb into the crotch of the teddy to pull it to the side followed by a sharp tearing sound that made you jump, mesh snapping to form a jagged hole in your fishnets as he ripped it apart.
"Fuck," He hissed at the sight of your dripping pussy, pink and puffy under that bush of yours he loved so much. "You kept bitchin' all night, but look at that. Little bunny's soaked, just waiting for the big bad wolf to tear her apart." He let out a condescending chuckle, thumb swiping through your folds as he spread your cheeks apart. He relished the way you shuddered and let your head fall forward into the sheets, whimpering softly.
"Pathetic." He snorted, two fingers abruptly breaching past your ring of muscle—earning himself a surprised little yelp. "All tight and snug." He commented, digits already curling and scissoring inside of you while his free hand tugged his pants off, his hard cock springing free from its confines.
"Hnn, Ben—" You couldn't help but whimper as he scratched that spongy spot along your walls, voice muffled against the comforter.
"Yeah, yeah. Stop complainin', you're gonna get it." He scoffed, fingers sliding out of your pussy with a wet squelch. He watched you clench around nothing at the sudden feeling of emptiness, wordlessly begging to be filled. "You gonna be good?" He asked, one hand sliding up your spine to tangle with the hair at your nape, fisting his cock with the other to press the blunt head of it against your slick folds.
"Yes," You nodded frantically, hips twitching with need. "Please, Ben—"
"Please what?" God, you could still hear that infuriating smirk in his voice.
"Please, ngh—fuck my pussy..."
"Atta girl."
He buried himself in one harsh thrust, savoring that desperate cry you let out—something between a moan and a sob that made his dick twitch inside you.
"You like that? You like being stuffed full, bunny?" He drawled mockingly, pelvis pressing against your ass in a deep grind that made you whimper some more. He leaned down until his chest pressed against your back, body blanketing your smaller form.
"Yeah... you love takin' my big fuckin' cock. Always have." He pulled out just enough to make you whine, before slamming back inside you over and over again, the sound of skin slapping against skin mixed with your pathetic, muffled cries filling the room.
"Good girl. Good bun..." He grunted appreciatively against the side of your neck, hand sliding from your nape to grip your jaw and lift your head just enough to catch a glimpse of that flushed face and those glazed over, teary eyes.
"T—too much—" You choked out, each thrust making your body jolt forward.
"Aww, really?" He cut you off by squeezing your cheeks with his fingers a few times, thumb and index finger digging into the squishy flesh—like you were nothing but a cute pet. "Can't handle it, sweetheart?" His movements stopped abruptly, leaving you whining and squirming at the sudden loss of friction.
"You either take it all, or get nothin' at all. And judgin' by the way your legs are kickin' for more right now, i reckon you prefer the first option." He chuckled cruelly, his free hand kneading your hip. "So, are you gonna take it or not?"
You nodded desperately, chin pressing into his palm. "No no, use your words." He nuzzled further into your neck, his beard scratching against your shoulder.
"Mmn—i'll be good... i—i'll take your cock, please—" You barely had the time to beg that he was already hammering into you again, thrusts shallow but hard, balls slapping against your sensitive mound.
"Yeah you will," He grunted while you choked on your own moans and saliva, his grip on your hip tightening bruisingly. "Like the good little bunny you are."
He didn't slow down when he felt your walls tighten and your moans turning into shaky wails, pounding into you until you finally came, gushing around him with a throaty, almost inhumane sob.
"Good fuckin' girl, cummin' so hard on this fat cock—" He felt that familiar heat pool in his gut, thrusts turning sloppy and slightly uncoordinated. "I'm almost there, sweetheart—you can take it."
He came with a roar, hips flush against yours as he spilled himself as deep in you as possible, holding himself there until he was empty. "Fuck—nghh, fuck..."
Your knees gave out the moment he pulled out, goosebumps rising on your skin when you felt your pussy drool with his hot, thick release. The mattress dipped next to you as he let himself collapse, one arm sliding between your waist and the sheets to pull you closer.
"C'mere." He panted, reaching to take those ridiculous ears off your head. A miracle that they stayed on the whole time. "Let's get you out of this, hm?"
He fumbled with the buttons on the cuffs, pulled the zipper down your back and tugged the torn fishnets down your legs—until you laid bare and dazed.
"Y'know, all those dickheads probably fantasized about this," He pulled the blanket over you, tucking you in gentler than you'd expect him to, before getting comfortable himself with a proud grin on his face. "But i can say that i got the real fuckin' thing."
