It's not that you can't do it on your own, he just likes helping.
Need to brush your teeth? Don't worry, he'll cradle one side of your jaw in one palm while he uses the other to make sure your mouth is clean, and you'll spit in the sink like a good girl, and then he kisses you for a reward.
This man will hold you in the bath, and no, he doesn't care that he barely fits in the damn bloody tub. When you're about to slip your shoes on, he'll bend down even when groaning that his back hurts, which you heard pop like popping candy. He doesn't mind doing everything.
However. You will need to pick up on the slack a little. Like sucking his cock? He'll guide your head, but if you start to slow down, he'll hold you still and plug your mouth, waiting for you to resume.
John Price is telling everyone that his missus is waiting at home for him, but no one even knew he was married. Nor did they know about you, a sweet little thing he scooped up from your terrible homelife.
Never mind the news of your parents crying and pleading for your return.
cw. extreme gooner behavior... gn! reader! all characters are consenting adults synopsis. men who's brains have been reshaped by the explicit videos they watch
⤿ pt ii here!
ִֶָ. .་༘࿐ he’s so smug about being experienced, but it’s not even just confidence; it’s because his head is ruined by all the dirty things he’s seen in porn. and not the normal, heavily produced and scripted stuff, the disgusting bottom-barrel videos. grainy clips with horrible lighting and loud, sloppy sounds.
ִֶָ. .་༘࿐ the kind of stuff that's fried his dopamine receptors and rotted his brain to what it his now. he can’t even picture kissing anyone without also imagining spit dripping down their chin or tears filling their eyes from choking on his tongue shoved down their throat.
ִֶָ. .་༘࿐ he's wound himself up on every gooner video he can find, and now he can't get off to anything soft or normal anymore.
ִֶָ. .་༘࿐ he thinks spitting in someone’s mouth is baseline, cum eating, deepthroating, crying during sex, tummy bulges, choking... is all just part of “normal” sex.
ִֶָ. .་༘࿐ he’s the boy who can’t kiss without grinding his hips, can’t hug without grabbing, can’t think of you, his sweet innocent little crush without relating those porn scenes onto your body.
ִֶָ. .་༘࿐ he can't hold eye contact for long because if you look at him even a little he’s instantly flashing through ten scenarios in his head of how he can make you drool and scream instead.
ִֶָ. .་༘࿐ has no shame about being hard in inconvenient situations, like talking to you, or watching your thighs rub together when you sit, or seeing your plump ass strain in your pants when you bend over.
ִֶָ. .་༘࿐ always leaning back in his chair, legs spread indecently wide, hands shoved in his pockets like he’s hiding something. he is, his fat, drooly cock.
ִֶָ. .་༘࿐ he doesn’t even try to hide when he palms himself through his pants after a particularly bad bout of staring. smirks right at you, daring you to say something.
ִֶָ. .་༘࿐ makes everything pervy and ensures you watch him as he does. the way he eats a peach mimics eat the way he eats someone out, slow at first, tongue tracing the skin, deliberately messy, sucking until juice runs down his chin and he’s groaning like he can taste you instead. he chews pens until they’re slick with spit and then pulls them out of his mouth with a pop, twirling them between his fingers before grinning at you, like look at me, look at what i can do with my mouth.
ִֶָ. .་༘࿐ he’s a mutterer. constant mutters. “fuck, the things I’d do.” “not fair wearing that around me.” “bet you'd scream real nice on my cock”
ִֶָ. .་༘࿐ his room smells like cum. sour, musky. his sheets are stiff, his socks crusted, his pillowcase stained where he’s humped into it imagining it’s your hole. he buys the tiniest fleshlights possible too, ones that match your skin tone.
ִֶָ. .་༘࿐ he doesn’t bother covering up when you catch him. if you open the door and he’s got his pants shoved down, cock in hand, drool dripping from his lips, he grins. keeps stroking, locks eyes with you, groans louder.
ִֶָ. .་༘࿐ vocal. moans, whimpers, filthy cursing. he pants your name when he cums, sometimes gasping out the dirtiest shit.“so tight, fuck, want your throat, want your cunt, please, please. gotta knock you up.”
ִֶָ. .་༘࿐ keeps you in his spankbank for everything. you can giggle and he’ll jerk off about how your body jolted, chest and thighs jiggling from the motion. you can push your hair out of your face and he's imagining grabbing a fistful of it to fuck your face.
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synopsis. men who's brains have been reshaped by the explicit videos they watch
⤿ pt i here
ִֶָ. .་༘࿐ pervy men who take a picture of you bending over when you're not looking. a zoomed in close up of your puffy hole pressing against your tight pants.
ִֶָ. .་༘࿐ instead of jerking off to the picture like a regular pervert, they go the full way, finding an online website to make an exact copy of your hole based on the details of the picture, and their imagination. they tailor it to an exact shape, color, size, plumpness, and depth that they predict your hole can accommodate. they pick the max option for tightness, knowing that a virgin like you must be too tight to imagine.
ִֶָ. .་༘࿐ when they're satisfied, they press submit for an order and wait eagerly for the delivery to be made so they can fuck the closest thing he can get to you. don't be mistaken, though. he will fuck you. but he knows stuck up virgins like you need time to break. his cock doesn't want to wait for you, though, so he'll need a substitute while he waits.
ִֶָ. .་༘࿐ he refreshes the shipping page every couple of hours, fingers twitching with impatience. the thought that a box is on its way with you inside of it makes his stomach churn with anticipation. he’s already cleared a space on his nightstand for it. he’s already laid out the lube, the tissues, the towel. he’s rehearsed what he’ll do the first time he sinks into it.
ִֶָ. .་༘࿐ when the box arrives, his hands shake as he pulls the packaging apart, foam bits scattering across the floor. and there it is sitting in his lap, soft and pliant and obscene, molded to match the shape he’s memorized from that stolen picture.
ִֶָ. .་༘࿐ he drags it out of the plastic wrap, strokes his thumb over the lips, presses them apart just enough to see the soft insides waiting for him. he groans loudly. it looks too real.
ִֶָ. .་༘࿐ “fuck me…” he mutters. his cock is throbbing and slick has begun to bead up on his tip, smearing against his boxers. tugging both his underwear and pj pants down in one smooth swoop, he spits on his hand, pumping his cock with his slick saliva, mixing in the precum drooling down his shaft. he's not even bothering with the lube he bought special for this, and shoves himself inside.
ִֶָ. .་༘࿐ it's tight at first, hard to get his thick head inside. with a wince, he pushes through, panting as he shoves it inside the silicone toy until he bottoms out, filling it as much as it'll go. it bulges in the soft tummy portion, his head squishing upwards to make an indent in the belly.
ִֶָ. .་༘࿐ his head tips back, a raw sound scraping out of his throat. “oh my gosh, that’s it, your hole squeezing- oh fuck.” he pumps into it desperately, the way he’s imagined doing to you a hundred times. every thrust drags sticky and wet.
ִֶָ. .་༘࿐ he’s rutting into it like a starved animal, drool at the corner of his mouth, heavy balls slapping against the base as he fucks it into his desk.
ִֶָ. .་༘࿐ he talks the whole time. tells it how sweet you are, how he knew you’d feel this way, how you’re made for him. he apologizes, too. for using a copy instead of the real thing and for not waiting like a gentleman, even while he ruts harder, slamming it down to the base because his body doesn’t care about apologies.
ִֶָ. .་༘࿐ he moans your name. cries it, actually. loud and messy, hands clutched into the hips of the toy as he slams his cock forward, walls hugging him tight, squeezing the way he swears your hole would if you’d just let him in. “oh god, fuck, that’s you, that’s you,” he babbles, hips jerking, losing rhythm.
ִֶָ. .་༘࿐ but it’s not enough. no matter how good it grips him, no matter how much his cock pulses at the way it hugs his shaft, he knows it’s not real. it’s not warm and wet and trembling. it’s not you clenching helplessly around him. he cums hard anyway, spilling thick ropes inside the toy while imagining he’s painting your insides, filling you until it drips out. he’s shaking, spilling deep into the toy, stuffing it full until his cum leaks out the bottom.
ִֶָ. .་༘࿐ he doesn’t stop there. he uses it again and again, every night. he cleans it obsessively, oils it, warms it before use, treats it like it is you. every orgasm just makes him crazier for the real thing.
ִֶָ. .་༘࿐ he starts bringing it everywhere. even in the bathroom during work breaks. he jerks into it with the same shaky desperation every time, never satisfied, always finishing with a promise under his breath: “soon. i’ll have the real thing soon.”
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my princess only lets me take my gloves off for her. at all other times I must wear them, saving my flesh for her eyes and touch alone. I feel near to naked even with only my leather when my gauntlets are off, lest I am sequestered with her, and even (or especially) then, to feel revealed in that way is maddening.
"these," she tells me, trailing a delicate fingertip along the ridged hinge of my gauntlet's knuckle, "are the hands of the kingdom, the deliverers of god's will."
then she slowly unbinds and releases me from them, a task so unbecoming of her own silk-soft hands, the duty of a squire carried out by her highness—and with such grace, such unhurried dally, as if she is savouring me.
"and these," she tells me, holding up my hands laid bare in her own warm palms, the only touch that skin knows and that which I have known no comparable hunger for, she says, "are mine."
Soft early morning waking… realizing your knight has discarded the armour and slipped in to your bed. Hands which were once cold metal now turned gentle skin, eyes once hidden now warm and dazed looking upon you.
“I wanted only to see you like this… to wake you with a pleasure before both our days’ turn to yearning.”
knight who is submissive like a sheep-herding dog. gentle and sweet until something threatens their sworn ward, and then suddenly they're a predator in human skin, blood spattered up the sleek, shiny metal of their armour, plume matted and messy, prowling toward the next target faster than they'd expected, ready to sink bloodied teeth into them for daring to touch who they've sworn to protect. and when all threats are dispatched, they turn to their ward with wagging tail and hopeful eyes behind their visor, waiting for praise for their violence. and surely they'll get it. that's what they're there for, isn't it? shouldn't they be praised for doing their job well?
Knight escorting his prince/ss back to their bed chamber after a long evening of merriment and drinking. Prince/ss wobbles and struggles to stand up straight, leaning against their loyal knight’s muscled form. Knight ignoring the wandering hands and pleading coos of their prince/ss, desperate for touch. It’d be improper.
“Here we are, your highness, now let’s get you to bed…”
Prince/ss pouting and insisting that they are simply too helpless to undress all on their own, that they just need their knight’s assistance to disrobe. Knight holding his breath as he loosens ties and watches fabric fall to reveal prince/ss’s skin, soft and warm with blush. Knight clenching his jaw but letting eyes wander along the curves of their royal highness’s form. It’d be improper.
Knight tucking their prince/ss beneath blankets with a chaste kiss on their forehead and a gentle brushing of hair from their face. Knight closing the door of prince/ss room softly behind himself as he heads back to his own quarters. It’d be improper.
Knight, alone in his bed, sweaty and flustered, desperately bucking and rutting himself into his own hand. Knight growling and whining, utterly desperate, mumbling his prince/ss’s name again and again until he cums, shuddering. Knight panting and catching his breath, staring hopelessly up at the ceiling. He’s not sure how many more nights like this he can take before breaking…
pairing: John Price x gn!reader
cw: sleeptalking
wc: 903
an: price, the man you are. id forgotten my obsession with him until I found my Tumblr archives on my pc. this was SOOO fun to write, enjoy!
John Price had never been a heavy sleeper.
While it was a part of himself that had been apparent to him since before his time in the military, it would be foolish to say it didn’t play an important role in it. He rarely got more than a couple of hours of sleep, which his body had adapted to over the years—not without putting up a fight, that is.
He’d always struggled with the civvie life. Before you came into his life—a whirlwind of colour and a warmth he did not believe himself capable of deserving—he’d hated sleeping outside of the comfort of his quarters. His house was suffocating in its quiet loudness.
He had become acquaintances with the cat who rummaged through his trash at three in the morning, on the dot. He still woke up whenever the fridge clicked without explanation in the middle of the night—that sharp, sudden noise that had him shoving a hand under his pillow before he could even process the fact that he didn’t need to aim his gun at an electrical appliance. The electrical line that had been busted for almost three months, constantly emitting a loud buzzing noise, had pushed him to the edge.
Then you’d come along. Quietly, sneakily—like mould. And, God help him, he’d never been more grateful for anything in his life. A toothbrush here, spare socks there, your things all over his house. What could only be described as a parasitic infestation had never felt better.
Along with your banter over lunch and your tea in his cupboard, came your…peculiar nightly habits.
He’d heard of sleeptalkers, of course. He was guilty of his own nonsensical mumbling late at night after a string of stressful ops. But what you did wasn’t mumble or whisper softly—it was borderline paranormal.
The first night he got to witness it, you were jolted awake by the sudden weight laid over your neck. His forearm pressed against your neck, gone as fast as it had appeared. You blinked once in shock, unsure as to what the hell had happened and if you had imagined it in the first place. It’d been John, the following morning, who recalled the events for you.
“Thought someone had broken in,” he mumbled, and if you hadn’t known any better you would’ve sworn he was mad at you. “Scared the shit outta me, love.”
He acclimated—unwillingly. While his military instincts were hard to quiet down, he become almost fond of the late-night conversations and complete lunacy that came out of your mouth whenever midnight rolled around.
That night, he was woken up by the sound of you arguing with someone who had quickly become Price’s number one nemesis.
“Colonel Duck,” you whispered with a frown on your face. “This was discussed in the briefing.”
John woke the way he usually did once his body had learned to recognize your nightly conversations as non-threatening—groggily, slow, exhausted. He lay on his side, propping himself up on his elbow while his other hand rested above your stomach. Your shirt, caught in sheets and whatever else you had done to it through the night, lifted to reveal your cold skin. He flattened his palm over his stomach as he stiffened a yawn.
Outside, only the sound of a nearby creek and crickets were carried by the wind. Inside, Price watched as your nose scrunched at whatever this colonel had dared say to you—a civilian whose only contact with the army was through whatever the man shared with you.
He dragged his palm closer to your waist, twisting you effortlessly so that your chest would be pressed against his. He nuzzled your neck, his beard scratching the sensitive skin in a way that earned a quiet laugh from your otherwise serious façade.
“John, do something,” you whined against his ear. “He won’t listen.”
Despite the exhaustion, he chuckled against your neck. He pressed a quick, albeit soft, kiss to your jaw before pulling away, feeling the tiredness that clung to his bones slowly bleed into his muscles.
“M’afraid I can’t, love,” he whispered. “He’s a colonel.”
John’s smile widened at the sight of your pout—so genuine and upset he almost asked Laswell to dig through whatever archives needed to be dug to find this Colonel Duck who had plagued your dreams for the past two months.
Your arm slid over his waist as you finally closed the distance between you. You muttered something he couldn’t hear, even in the silent room, before burying your nose in the crook of his neck. He chuckled—low and revibrating against your chest.
“He’s drunk on power,” you mumbled with that voice he’d come to recognize as your finally going back to sleep voice.
John laughed, then sighed at the feeling of your body going limp beneath him. He felt your hair against his chin and your breath against his skin. His fingers dug into your hip as his lips found your forehead.
“We’ll report him,” he assured your sleeping form.
He let his lips linger on your forehead for a beat longer before he let his head fall against the pillow again, arms safely wrapped around you. Your breathing evened, and he listened to it like a lull to fall asleep to.
John Price had killed a general already. He’d taken on a bloody colonel if needed.
𐔌 cw: modern setting, intimacy and very established relationship, arthur is nasty, food used wrong .ᐟ
bundt cupcakes cooled inside their molds near the far edge of the flour dusted kitchen counter, right beside an open window. sheer, fluttering curtains bathed the room in a pale yellow glow, casting intricate, patterned shadows across the wooden floor. hours still remained before it was time to open the bakery, and various dessert preparations waited on the table, warm and sweet beneath mounds of fluffy cream.
on the stove, a pan spit and bubbled as sliced lemons simmered in caramel, the sugar turning sticky, glossy, and a faintly orange shade, though the fruit still required a final bake in the oven. sink choked with dirty bowls and whisks stacked on, awaiting their turn in the dishwasher, while every other surface lay covered in the small disasters, stray sugar, fine powders, and droplets of spilled milk.
“arthur, no” he heard you chide just as he dipped his index finger into the honey jar, the viscous, amber sweetness clinging to calloused fingertip. he brought it to his rosy lips and sucked it clean, humming in quiet delight as the nectar coated his tongue and palate, while you glared, thoroughly displeased.
the crows feet at his eye corners crinkling into a laugh, sticky mouth curving into a heavy, lopsided grin. his aquamarine eyes shone with a more dazzling azure whenever the morning sun caught them, pupils shrinking to tiny poppy seeds in the light. he had been awake since dawn, stubbornly reluctant to sleep more despite every bone heavy with exhaustion.
his heavy eyelids drooped, tawny eyelashes fanning across mole dotted, pillow sleep reddened cheekbones. sun bronzed skin lay fully exposed to the morning glow, broad, stretched out shoulders weathered and burned. pajama flannel pants hanging low on broad hipbones that peeked out, revealing skin that's never been reached, far paler than that of his hair dappled chest.
“are ya bein' stingy with meh?” that feignedly hurt lilt in his gravelly drawl forced your eyebrows to scrunch even closer, carving a sharp wrinkle between them as your hands curled into tight, bony fists at your sides. arthur thrived on your reactions, every defensive huff, glare, and the stubborn way you curled your arms right now, acting wounded by his petty teasing.
when he stepped closer, his hands outstretched toward your curvy waist, forearms corded with ropy muscle and bulging veins, you pressed backward, mumbling a useless protest under your nose. the grin on his handsome face only split wider, smile lines deepening as his large, warm palms settled flat against your stomach, pressing you flush to his brawny chest with hands sliding down your waist in a leisured, dragging caress.
“you're actually impossible” you chided in a light whisper, wriggling fruitlessly within his iron grip while your hands remained busy holding the bowl, whisking the thick cream and folding the viscous honey into the white, creamy mass until it took on an ivory yellow shade. he simply watched, his stubbled chin hooked lazily over your bare shoulder.
nightie straps thin, and he rubbed his carob brown beard across your delicate skin deliberately, the grating friction bringing a tingle that sent unbidden shudder ripping down your spine. he proved your point further, pressing an open mouthed, burning kiss to your shoulder blade and then trailing higher, his full lips gracing the sensitive skin just beneath your warming ear.
a small sound escaped your throat, body curving instinctively despite the need to work, pert ass slotting against his groin, and his cock grew heavy instantly, with no undergarments to restrain, you could feel the massive, warm outline dig beneath your round cheek through his trousers thin flannel fabric.
his broad hands slid lower, calloused fingertips drumming against your thighs as his palms kneaded into supple skin, dimpling it in his grip, bunching your nightie hem higher, delicate cotton and lace giving way to his searching, marrow hungry touch.
“don't blame a man fo' bein' en love” this one erupts through you, mouthed against sensitive earlobe, and there was no denying how treacherously your body responded to him, underwear sodden through, pulse dropping to your pussy. fingers loosening their grip around the whisk, leaving it forgotten in the bowl, head tilting slowly, tummy fluttering as if invaded by butterflies, feeling entirely too small for all the feelings to contain within.
arthur welcomes your face with a cream coated finger against your lips, smearing the sweet liquid along plump curve, and when your lower lip loosens slack in surprise, he chases the opening, leaning in to slot your mouths together, dipping inside to suck at sweet tongue. peering down at you from beneath the thick fringe of lashes, snagging on how your eyes grew caught in the haze, turning misty and hooded, breath a shallow hitch until it dissolved into a moan that sang his name.
it bothered him little that anyone might hear, even knowing that townspeople were already gathering in a row outside to visit your bakery, right beneath the open window. observant sun spilling across your skin, leaving him breathless far too soon as your fingers nestled deep into his fluffy hair, tangling in the wavy, sleep tousled strands to pull him closer still, mussing them further by knotting your digits against his scalp.
arthur stepped forward, pressing you back until your tailbone dug into the kitchen counters edge. with a waving movement to his hand, he pushed the bowl sliding across, and then hoisted your frame clean up, letting your weight settle against the cool surface. you watched as he dropped to his knees, abdomen folding as he bent one leg, littering hungry kisses across your legs.
damp lips gliding over goosebumped skin and knees bony curve, sharp canines peeking out to graze your shivering thigh with a teasing bite, right where his head lolled against you. his blue green irises were thinned to narrow rings around dilated, charcoal dark pupils, as he tracked how slick soaked through the thin cotton between your thighs. wet patch spreading through gusset that clung to puffy folds, squished together as your legs quivered, pulling taut.
“gonna postpone the opening, doll” he grunts, a distorted rumble, as his crooked nose bumped against your inner thigh, dragging upward until he found your panties waistband. catching the lace between his teeth within seconds, he tugged it down in one unhurried motion, nightie hem hovering over to cover you from wandering breeze.
but he sees it all, the way shimmering strings connect your slit with the cotton, slick beading out your pussy and gushing onto the counter, hole giving a rippling clench that has you whimpering. there's no denying how hard he is in his own pajamas, cock swollen and resting heavy over hairy, muscled thigh.
the dark trail of hair mapping down from beneath his navel and following the pudgy fullness of his lower abdomen thickened into a coarse, heavy tuft at his groin. his trousers held up only by the wide spread of his thighs, cast down in a frantic rush, roughhewn thumb pressed against your fattened up clit.
cock lengthening rapidly, standing heavy with it's crown no longer rosy, but a deeper, more urgent color. beading with pearly droplets, precum sliding in thin tacky lines along veiny girth, nudging against fluttering hole, and your swollen lips move as you suck in a shallow breath.
arthur splits you open meticulously, legs spread, sweat building across sun caught skin, beneath your thighs and across his rippling spine, pleasure already strung through every nerve. broad hips rocking in to shove himself deeper, the thick already sucked in within tight walls that draw inwards, slick weeping around, easing the slide that makes you a little breathless, feeling every ridge and throb.
there's tacky honey smeared against your peaky nipples, over the nightie, sucked clean by his tongue that teases along their shape, cleaning the sweetness and rolling your nubs within his hot, wet mouth. that's too much, his titillating tongue, his thumb on your aching clit, his gorged cock twitching inside your silken walls, pussy pulling tight and needy.
pumping into your soppy heat, setting a shallow, sloppy rhythm, losing the control over his voice, noises close to come off as pained. the fat head nudging that bumpy, gummy spot inside you, so you keen out, around tongue fed into your mouth, twisting with your own, hips bucking.
gasping through heaving chest, release syrupy liquid within your every limb, getting closer, as you watch arthur's scarlet hued cheekbones, the swimming shimmer in his droopy eyes. your pussy drooling, clutching tighter and tighter until the wet squelch and gasping moans reach the street below, his cock pushing to the hilt, balls drawn up as he spills right against your cervix.
warm seed filling you up, splattered within pulsating walls while you cum, clutching on his bunched biceps, nails digging in skin already crisscrossed thin and raw red. his spine bowed, freckled shoulders curved over, hovering above your body, one hand at your spine, panting grunts rattling his chest as he kisses away your breathy whimpers.
“reckon aah should watch ya cook more often” he purred somewhere against your chin, breath warm and humid, kiss bitten lips parted to press a heavy mark along your jawbone curve before his tongue lazily soothed the tingling bruises. arthur wore an utterly sated expression, rugged features completely softened, his limbs gone loose and his skin dewy with sweat.
a single bead hung precariously from his dense brow, and when you reached out to brush it away, the salt bit slightly at his skin, prompting him to rub his flushed face against your hand with a feline affection. you both would undoubtedly need a shower, and the hour had long since passed the usual time you fluttered about to open the bakery, but you hardly minded, consumed by the smoldering, buzzing aftermath.
cock softening gradually, pulling out your sore, still fluttering pussy, arthur's abdominal muscles coiling, a creamy ring around swollen tip. frothy mess oozing out your hole, gathering to drip down your wobbly thighs when he lowered you gently from the kitchen counter, large hands steady and grounding upon your hips, not without sneaking a pat to your ass.
as your feet found the floor and your body swayed helplessly into his embrace, he gathered you up once more. sliding one muscular arm beneath your knees, he hoisted your frame against his chest, carrying you effortlessly down the hallway toward the bathroom. missing how your soiled panties had vanished from their place on the floor, his pocket bulging suspiciously.
by the time you finished washing, the cupcakes and other dessert preparations had cooled to perfection. you gathered them carefully to be garnished with fresh cream, plump berries, and caramelized lemon slices, though a few pieces found their way into arthur’s awaiting mouth, his tongue licking your fingertips completely clean.
he helped you maneuver the heavy baking trays, holding them effortlessly in his large hands as he kicked open the back door and descended the stairs toward the bakery below. the glass showcases stood empty, but they would soon be filled to the brim with every variety of cake imaginable.
outside, the townspeople were slowly gathering, waiting for you to officially call the morning open, while arthur welcomed them through the glass with his charming, lopsided smile. he had tied some stray hair strands away from his face, and an old lady in the front of the queue was utterly unable to take her eyes off him, chuckling aloud about how lucky a woman you were.
you agreed with a tiny, knowing smile, carefully hiding a fluster at the deep ache lingering in your backside, the sharp imprint of his teeth still fresh against the pillow of your ass. his deep, raspy voice carrying across the shop as he began brewing the first pots of coffee, chest rumbling with a gravelly laugh whenever a customer shared a joke.
and you could feel that the place would soon be flooded with new reviews praising the handsome new bakery hand. only hoping none would mention how he occasionally allowed himself to steal a cheeky, proprietary swat at your ass whenever he thought no one was watching. flashing that devastating, crooked smile your way every single time he walked past you.
masterlist. back after my 5 month hiatus bc of school. graduated last week and really hope I can pump out a lot of fics to make up for the 5 months. good to be back
girl dad!nanami who is a proud father of two perfect angles and a proud husband to you. nanami was so thrilled when you first told him you were pregnant. he span you around and kissed you deeply. his daughters are his absolute joy. he has a picture of you and his daughters in his wallet and likes to show you off when he needs to.
girl dad!nanami who deals with having to flip the entire house looking for a plushie. one of them is following behind him, quiet tears rolling down her chubby cheeks and sniffling very loudly as nanami's checking under the cushions. he sighs for the nth time then looks at his daughter and carries her in his arms trying to soothe her. "it's okay darling, we'll get you another one..."
"but i want that one...". safe to say the plushie was safely tucked beneath her blankets.
girl dad!nanami who's heart swells when he's met with his two girls as soon as he comes back home. as soon as he says the words 'i'm home' the girls are quick to rush to the front door and trap his legs in a hug while you're walking up to him slowly with the prettiest smile. his daughters bombard him with questions and take his bag and one even offers to take his coat. he thinks they're absolute angels talking his ear off as they swing on his legs. his energy is quickly restored after such a tiresome shift.
girl dad!nanami who's jolted awake on the regular when one of them has a nightmare. "daddy...daddy...can you move?... i want to sleep here too". nanami hears her soft voice and quickly sits up and picks her up.
"you had a nightmare?", he asks and she nods, fisting his shirt, her breath irregular. he pats her head and kisses her forehead multiple times. "it's okay. i'm here for you...you're safe". nanami places her gently next to you and only falls back asleep when she does.
girl dad!nanami who enjoys preparing the girl's lunches. he's up before you anyways so why not bother. nanami makes sure that they have a nutritious lunch packed with enough protein, vitamins and greens. and if they've been good all week, maybe some candy. nanami also checks if their water bottles are empty after school. they have to be we'll hydrated if they want to grow up healthy.
girl dad!nanami who reads bedtime stories to both of them while they're leaning against him on either side. he's reading the story slowly and changing his voice slightly for the characters so they can have a little fun. and when they both finally fall asleep, he has no problem carrying them to their beds. he just can't get enough of them.
girl dad!nanami who put together a playhouse in their room over the course of a week. you were both out shopping with the kids at their uncle's (satoru) and he spots the playhouse. "you think the girls are gonna love this?", he points to it with a serious look on his face.
"i'm sure they would, ken. a playhouse would be great for them". and the next thing he knows, he's walking out with the huge box and quickly gets to work as soon as he's home. when the girls come back a week later they run into their room to find nanami placing the finishing touches. the girls squeal and run to nanami locking him in a hug as a bunch of thank yous and i love yous spill from their lips as his heart is quietly exploding.
girl dad!nanami who reprimands them when they do something wrong even though it hurts him. he never yells, never uses harsh words but he knows how to get the point across. the part he hates the most is when they look up at him with glassy eyes and a sad pout as they apologize for what they did wrong. nanami wants to pick them up and hug and kiss them but he doesn't because he knows that they should acknowledge what they did wrong.
girl dad!nanami who randomly says that he wants another one as you're curled up in bed. he's just tucked the girls in bed and comes up to you holding you close, face in your chest. "another one wouldn't be so bad, right honey?"
"you really want a third?? you are whipped. those girls are going to be the death of you"
from your spot stomach down on his bed, your gaze locked onto his through the mirror where tomura was inspecting his shirtless body.
“why’re you asking me,” your head cocked to the side. “do you think you should go to the gym?”
you were spending the night at his yet again (shocker!), having a more offline night consisting of eating together, watching movies and running a warm bath for your cold-running boyfriend.
whilst waiting for him to come out, you were doomscrolling, engrossed in your phone until he came out, gaining your attention with the question.
“i’ve never considered it before.”
you hummed. “well why consider it now? you barely go outside now, dearest.”
his eyes rolled. “i don’t know, was jus’ thinking. do you…like muscular guys?”
ah, you thought. you never considered he wanted to do it for you. after all, as sweet as tomura was to you, he’d known to be selfish all his life. a hard mindset to change, really.
“i like whatever you feel like being,” you rolled off his bed, hands perched on his shoulders when you got close enough. “you’re warm.”
a deep flush bloomed across his face, feeling your cheek squish into his slender back. he wondered if you felt his spine, do you feel uncomfortable that he’s built the way he is?
“i can feel you thinking.” your voice came out funny, still trying to mold yourself into him. “i like you the way you are, baby. if you wanna go to the gym, ill support you! if you don’t, nothing will change. as long as you keep being good to me, i’ll love ‘nd cherish you for as long as you’ll let me.”
love and cherish, huh.
nobody’s ever made him feel this way, at least in the memories his brain hasn’t locked away. sometimes he wishes these memories were clearer, maybe then he’d know how to tell you how he feels, how to reciprocate.
but for now, his actions will have to do the talking.
slotting his hands in yours, he turned around, flustered gaze on yours.
his lips pressed against your forehead. “thank you…”
and while he never specified what part he was thanking you for, your heart blossomed with understanding.
his ragged breathing scorched your ear as he held you in place, strong arms entrapping your waist. "too pretty," he panted, hips moving in slow yet deep strokes. each thrust was calculated, meant to savor every inch of your warmth.
"can't believe a pretty thing like you belongs to me," he lets out a low growl, punctuating each word with a particularly forceful plunge. "all mine."
his pace remained unhurried, but it intensified with each passing moment. he drove into you with unrestrained vigor, the sound of skin slapping against skin echoing in the dim space. his mind slipped deeper, your warmth pulling him under like a dream he never wanted to end. but this was real, and somehow just as exhilarating.
his grip tightened, making you gasp out a breath as he picked up speed. the wet squelching was music to his ears, your moans harmonizing with the sound. he can't help but sing along with his own hushed grunts, voice cracking when he spews out those choked gasps you love.
"h-hold still. mmhn, fuck, just a little more-"
your hands scrambled to rest on his shoulders, the pitch of your voice turning higher when he hits that spot deep within you. and of course, he makes it his mission to keep hitting it - each hit made your walls tighten around him, until you came with a loud squeal.
"holy s-shit! yeah, that's the fucking stuff-" he holds his position as he explodes, hot spurt after spurt flooding into your insides. he forces himself to give you one last thrust, a faint breathy chuckle slipping past his lips.
"mmhn, fuck, that's my pretty thing." he gently swipes away the tears of overstimulation trickling down your cheeks, peppering your face with soft kisses to make up for it. "always so good for me, so eager to take it all."
he lets you collapse against him, cradling your trembling body in his arms. then, just before your eyes flutter shut, he presses a kiss to your temple - whispering the "i love you" you hear so rarely. his grip tightens slightly, just enough to let you know he's not going anywhere. tonight, he'll stay - he'll stay warm, and you'll stay his.
₊˚⊹♡ you steal tomura's switch after a rough day and see the island he's built in tomodachi life, and more specifically, the two of your miis in love! tomura shigaraki x afab!reader
notes: i have severe cuteness aggression towards my tomura mii so here u go 😾 <333
tomura would come to learn that one of the many trials and tribulations he would have to endure in a relationship would be the fact that sometimes your partner will have a bad day you couldn't have prevented, and sometimes, you will have to put up with their mood swings.
tomura wasn't used to them with you, but on the rare occasion where you were cranky and angry at the whole world, he told himself his only path to survival would be to remain close by yet not there at all — offer his presence, but keep his remarks to himself, so he's there incase you want him, and not there if you don't.
he had gone into your room earlier and flipped through your calendar’s pages, seeing it was that time of the month. so, when you enter his room with your brows pinched together in frustration and a blanket wound tight around your shoulders, he doesn't hesitate to hand over his switch when you demand he let you play with it. you press a hard kiss onto his cheek as you snatch it from him and head back to your own room, closing the door and curling up under your blanket the moment you're inside.
you had your own switch, but when you missed tomura yet weren't in the mood to be near anyone, you'd take his instead. an odd reprieve, but it brought you comfort by having an integral piece of him with you. your eyes narrow a fraction when you notice the new addition of a game you haven't seen before — tomodachi life — before clicking on its icon.
it seems lively and far more colorful compared to tomura's normal game of choice, and you'd be lying if you said you weren't intrigued. your thumb is moving the moment the loading screen disappears, exploring the island attentively
it doesn't take you long to realize that what tomura had created was the curated society he strived for in the real world. you'd soon take notice of your familiar league members scattered across the mini world as well and become increasingly fascinated by what he'd done with the game. you'd also recognize some famous proheros and villains too, but... they all seemed to be living harmoniously.
maybe it was just your hormones, but you could feel your chest tightening. tomura was, unfortunately, stupidly endearing at times without meaning to be, and this was one of those instances. you huff and try to shake the notion off, forcing yourself to explore the island further instead before you finally notice a character that looks suspiciously like you
after clicking on the mii, you'd see that there was no doubt that it was you, because tomura had drawn out every single minuscule detail. every birthmark, every dip and curve in your skin, even the way your lashes framed your eyes and the way your hair fell around your face — and then you see his own mii enter the frame and greet yours warmly before they're off on a date.
you toss the switch onto your bed not even a minute later and grab your blanket quickly, making a beeline through the league's hideout towards your dear boyfriend's room. all the lights in tomura's room are off with the exception of his monitor, and he quickly turns at the sound of his door being opened before his shoulders relax
"yeah?" he asks, eyes squinted as if he was trying to decipher your expression and figure out what you were going to say before you said it, but you merely step forward and crawl into his lap. tomura lets out a small sound of surprise before scrambling to wrap his arms around you and help you get adjusted and comfortable as he leans back in his gaming chair
"...are you...okay?" he asks hesitantly, voice muffled by the fabric of your hoodie as you press yourself closer. tomura runs a careful hand up and down your spine, and you let out a quiet exhale through your nose before finally answering him
"you're really cute you know," you murmur, trying to keep your snicker at bay when you hear tomura let out a sputtered sound as the hand on your back tenses. he grabs your hood, pulling you back far enough so he could be face to face with you before offering you the most menacing glare he could muster with the blush dusting his cheeks
"you can't just say that and expect me to be—i don't know. normal about it." he huffs, and you offer him a tired smile before tucking yourself back into his embrace
"i saw what you did with that tomodachi life game. i like it." you say, and you feel tomura still beneath you before he lets out a quiet huff
"i spent four hours on it this weekend." he murmurs, and you giggle fondly as your fingers find the familiar blue tufts at the base of his neck to play with
"that was what you were working on? and you didn't show me?" you question with a pout
"i was going to show you it once i figured out how to build us a castle to live in." he grumbles, and you smile before pressing a quick peck onto his mole, the corner of his mouth, and then finally his lips.
tomura shoves your face back into the crook of his neck to hide his blush from you, and after a few minutes of peaceful quiet, he slowly begins to tell you his technique for building the perfect world in the game — one where every person got to live peacefully and equally, and one where the league was undoubtedly happy.
free use bottom this free use bottom that but what about a free use top I wanna get home and just ride his dick until he can't think straight then leave him hard and leaking
★ 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐰𝐛𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐲 𝐟𝐥𝐚𝐯𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐞𝐝
note ➴ another modern au arthur drabble .. . ♡ maybe dubcon warning but they're both drunk so i don't think so ? smut under the cut
arthur's love doesn't tend to boast. or, take the spotlight — it's subtle, but steady. in interlocked pinkies, the clack of your seatbelt in the taxi home before you can blink. meeting your hazy eyes over the bar with a magnetism that only married couples seem to have, already knowing it's time to call it quits. in sparking up your cigarette and slotting it between your awaiting lips.
in warming your numbed fingertips between his calloused palms, quick kisses to the peaks of your knuckles. and worn leather over your bare shoulders to guard you from the chill of the night. he told you to bring a coat, but he doesn't mind. he bites through the winter frost for just you. he'll dig your mittens out from the closet tomorrow morning.
it's fitting, then, that it's difficult to convince him to give in, when doting after you is his second language. difficult, even with your tongue desperately dragging across the column of his throat. manicured hand squeezing at his semi in the same old pair of jeans that have seen better days, fingertip trailing over the dulled brass of his belt buckle.
almost shy, arthur lets you shepard him to the plush of the couch on wobbly footing. his hand hovering over the small of your back in case you slip, swaying in the pair of pink patent heels he bought for your birthday. he can't quite decipher the limits to your kindness, but doesn't want to, now. not when your warm mouth is wrapped around his cock like mulberry silk, your nose buried deep in coarse curls.
“you got it,” he lets out a spiked exhale through gritted teeth, shallowly bucking his length deeper down your throat. you whine, muffled, spit bubbling at the corners of your mouth and flooding his slick balls.
“yeah, you got it,” he affirms sweetly, words a little slurred. it's clumsy, and real messy. you're so eager to please, so precious. bottom lashes clumping together with fresh tears, swollen, kiss-bitten lips spread tight over the base of his cock. “good girl.”
his dulcet praises make your cunt throb. you wrap your arm around his denim clad calf, rutting your slick panties against his shoe to try and alleviate the ache. you mewl pathetically when your neglected clit catches on the toe of his boot, he coos another drunken, sweet sentence at you.
your other hand white-knuckles the couch cushions, trying to breathe through the wide stretch in your mouth. the carpet imprints paisley indents to your bare knees, growing sore.
he's usually more gentle with you when he's sober. careful, more restrained. he starts delicately brushing his thumbs over your stuffed cheeks to try and make up for the roughness.
you pull off his cock with the cutest gasp he's ever heard, a spit string connecting your bottom lip to his leaky, flushed tip. he screws his eyelids shut, jaw clenched firm, trying to hold off.
struggling for air, you twist your wrist and start jerking him off. the diamond in your engagement ring twinkles, catching on the living room's dull lamplight. “you're so good f'me, shit," he gives you a strangled moan, whiskey lubricating his vocal cords.
you pant heatedly against the underside of his dick, chasing a vein with the tip of your tongue. arthur keenly watches you plant sloppy kisses all over his shaft, smearing shimmering glitters across his skin. strawberry-flavoured lip gloss. he kept sucking on your lip and licking at the inside of your mouth in the taxi.
breaths running up ragged, he moves to cradle the base of your head, hair splaying out between his fingers like spilled ink. “where you want it, sugar?” he tugs lightly at your scalp, your lips still sloppily mouthing at his tip.
“my tits,” you whimper, tugging the lapels of his coat aside, hurriedly yanking down the lace enveloping the swell of your breasts. he loves when you get all dolled up for him. “please, arthur? please?”
the two of you scramble closer in tandem. he groans, guttural, skull sloping backwards over the top of the couch while you messily pump your fist. hips twitching, arthur spills over hot your hand, splattering warm white all over your chest.
you gulp back a couple of breaths, as does he, and swipe two fingers into into your husband's mess. with a shaky sigh, you raise the pads of your fingers to your lips, suckling. “love you.”
he tucks his softening cock back into damp boxers, heart-shaped pupils still firmly affixed to your dishevelled state. your collarbones soiled with cum, drool trickling in watery globs down your chin. you never looked prettier.
arthur leans down to meet your mouth in an uncoordinated, open-mouthed kiss, thick fingers squishing your cheeks together and dimpling the fat. “love you too, sweetheart.”
★ 𝐬𝐥𝐢𝐩 𝐧 ❜ 𝐬𝐥𝐢𝐝𝐞
note ➴ more modern morgan filth 🫧♡ piv sex, dom / sub dynamics. smut under the cut
arthur only gets one day off a week. his favourite, and yours, a dedicated 24 hours to spend alongside his sweet little wife. sunday happens to be the spot in the calendar most often encircled with pink glitter gel pen, i's dotted with love hearts. mostly, he prefers the lazier ones. the sundays encompassed of all your endearing habits; how you wake first, always with a mug of piping black coffee cradled in your clasp for him, rounding the corner of the bed to kiss his cheek.
when you ask him if he slept alright, if he had good dreams? nuzzling his temple, all kittenish, cushioned over his firm lap like you always belonged there. not quite the same to a tango or a waltz, softer and slowed, but routine all the same. he's sure he must have lumbered into that old, shabby diner you used to work at on a sunday, the luckiest day. a serendipitous stumbling into you, skipping into his life with a spring in your step, so sweet you could put an overripe peach to shame.
you've ruined him. if arthur shifts the water pressure down a notch, he can faintly hear you tinkering about in the two-tone kitchen. heard the mumble of your wedding song beneath your breath before he bounded up to the bathroom. lathered up your scented soap bar, only to be assaulted with aroma of his wife; how you smell when you slip into the sheets at night, fresh out of the bath, and interlace your fingers with his. perfumed up like a damn flower field.
something so insignificant but so intimate, the washcloth long discarded at the bottom of the shower in favour of fisting his aching cock. and shit, it's wrong, he thinks — he a little feels gross, getting off while you labour downstairs, all oblivious to it. his eyebrows furrow, the thought of you devotedly whipping up breakfast for him only intensifying his impending orgasm. his clipped grunts swirl with steam, pre-cum oozing over his knuckles.
the soft click of the latch snaps arthur's misty reverie in two. honeyed sunlight spills through the crack in the door, your melodic tone ricocheting off rows of humid tile. “honey, did you want pancakes or —”
arthur stills for a second, your frame shedding a faint tenebrosity over the bathmat. he hears you choke over your sentence, startled, sending a sharp jerk straight to his dick.
your tummy twists at the sight before you, plump lips parting in a pitchy gasp. he stands, one hand braced against the shower screen, the other still lazily pumping his shaft in slow strokes. droplets trickling off the tawny tresses near his forehead, cheeks flushed hotter than the regular roseate from balmy steam.
almost casually, he simply asks. “you busy?”
his sightline shifts to watch your fidgety digits curl over the apron hem, accidentally hiking it up your thighs further and further. a couple inches from your cunt. it's cruel. you don't even know what you do to him.
“i-” you stammer, shy and shrinking, brains swapped out for cotton candy. “i was making you breakfast.” lashes fluttering as you struggle between looking, or not looking. ironic, considering the telltale ring of his teeth marks peeking out from above your nightdress.
he shudders a heavy groan, squeezing the base of his cock. “can it wait, sweetheart?”
a twinge of arousal blooms between your thighs as soon the shame from stumbling in subsides. you could have knocked, but now you're glad you didn't.
you breathe back a needy, one-word reply. “yeah.”
fumbling with apron strings and bunched-up satin, arthur gapes at the bounce of your tits as you tug the confines of your minimal clothes away. the barrier is crossed in a blur, pearly fog muddling your combined, disorderly movements. he swings the sweated glass aside with little care, thick arm abruptly anchoring you to his wet front.
a soft squeak sounds out from you when the stiff weight of his cock slaps at your tummy, pre-cum staining your skin. silently, he lifts you, the veins in his wrists flexing as he presses you you firm against cool, powder-blue tile. your perked nipples rub against his broad, fuzzed chest, fingers groping to interlace over his neck for security.
“arthur,” you whine with each tortuous pass of his throbbing cock between your cunt, barely-there friction making your hole flutter impatiently. “hurry up.”
hot water cascades across your back in dotted kisses, he melds his mouth over yours sloppily. he tastes bitter, sucking at your tongue with traces of tobacco and coffee grounds, but you moan anyways. stubble scratches at your chin, your cheeks.
“don't wanna hurt you none, sugar.” he hums, trailing his tongue over your bottom lip. two heavy hands cup your upper thighs, squeezing, grabbing greedy handfuls. calluses, earned from hot days of hard labour just for you, scrape at your bare skin. “was all sore last time we —”
“don't tease me,” you cut him off in a watery whimper, loosening one of your arms from the tie around his neck to dip down, lower. “you won't,” with two fingers, you split your glossy cunt open in a v-shape, showing him the sticky strings of arousal clinging to your puffy folds. “please? please?”
the tangible frustration in your tone, the warning of sheeny tears on your waterline, decays his resolve. you always ask so pretty, so polite. he stops slowly circling his thumb over the fading bite mark on your thigh, moving to tap his swelled cockhead over your clit. “got you this worked up huh? ain't you cute.”
you clumsily latch your grip around the curve of his bicep, soap suds sliding under your hold. he teases a little longer, dragging his cock down through your heat all too slow.
“relax f'me, sweetheart,” arthur nudges his wet forehead with yours, fat tip dilating your drooling entrance open. his voice, disarming in nature and so smoothly familiar, wills you to take in a long inhale. “i got you — yeah, i know what you need.”
“big stretch.”
you know you'll be paying the price with a sensitive, sore hole tomorrow; the sharp sting works a strangled, pitchy moan from your throat, wet squelch mingling with the dull babble of the showerhead as soon as he bottoms out.
he hisses at the soft vice of your cunt, hot pressure already hiking up with a couple of passive thrusts. arthur allows you a minute to adjust, cooing something sweet and something dirty while you mewl at the feel of him splitting you wide open.
“there's a girl,” he rumbles, rolling his hips, abusing that little sweet spot against your tight walls.
“harder,” you whimper back, wet inner thighs twitching around his waist. your head ticks down to watch the slow pull of him, in and out, your glossy fluids already staining his shaft and happy trail. “go harder, please?”
he pulls back an inch to study your face; flushed, brows pulled together, lips primed up in the prettiest pout for him. puffy clit pulsing, all blissed out. and desperate, just the way he likes.
he kisses the corner of your jaw, delicate, grinding a slow circle into your sticky pelvis. “hold on tight.”
arthur's restraint splinters. his hips rut upwards, hard, tip pressing rough against your cervix. the force of his thrusts send you further up the tile, obnoxious squeaks resonating from your fingertips over the shower screen. you sound out the first syllable of his name, calves trembling with each bounce.
“look at'chu,” he bares his canines over your throat, the sequence of pitchy whines you cry making him blow out a low grunt, clearly pleased. your pulse thrums breakneck beneath his teeth. “sweetest little thing.”
but all the bite, the fight, dies down as soon as you clamp your cunt tight around his length, making his chest constrict.
you pant pathetically, wound-up from his relentless doting and brain all fuzzy, hands scrambling at the muscles rippling in his back. “gonna — arthur, arthur, i'm gonna —”
“already? shit,” he mocks you just in the slightest, though it lacks any real malice. “c'mon, show me. show me, baby.” you match his brutal jackhammering with sloppy little rocks of your hips, spilling slick on the seam of his balls as warmth washes over your tummy. your jaw falls open over the thick of his freckled shoulder, muffled whining pressed into tanned skin.
his teeth grind together at the feel of your cunt clamping down, milking him, already loosened up long before you wandered into the bathroom. you so pliant and perfect, ditzy from your creamy release, he follows right after — unloading hot, stuffing stickiness into your fucked-out hole, spilling out at the base of his cock. the water does little to drown out his husky grunts.
arthur readjusts you against the tile, peppering long, lazy kisses to your damp hairline, spend still steadily dribbling out from your sexes. he's gentle, like he didn't just take you like his personal fuckdoll, mumbling soft shushes at you.
the jostle of his cock still buried deep in your cunt elicits another high whine from you, over-sensitive, craning your neck up needily for a kiss. he obliges, groaning against your wet tongue, then moving to nuzzle his cheek into your temple. a wordless little thank you for the sunday stress relief. the shower stream dilutes down to a lukewarm temperature, growing frosty, the flow shooting shudders into your ribcage.
weakly, you start stringing out a soft sentence, chest undulating fast up against his. “waffles, or pancakes?”
he chuckles lowly into the damp coils of your hair, bracketing your weight on one arm, leaning over to twist the gleaming tap shut. “mm, pancakes. you always make 'em real good.”
