[sweetpogue]

✧ ˚ . welcome to my side blog ˚ . ᵎᵎ by @maybanksbaby

🍬 here you'll find:

re-blogs of my fav one shots, one shots of my own, graphics of my readers, shitty just-a-girl-reposts, graphics that remind me of my fav characters, miserable thoughts, and more. . .

[blues-main]

sean JJ

bf!jj maybank x gf!reader | word count: 1.8k

You moan someone else's name in your sleep, and JJ is not having it.

cw: smut, possessive behavior, JJ's a little mean (teasing), unprotected sex (implied birth control cause long-term relationship)

JJ wakes up to the soft sound of your voice. His eyes open slightly, peeking over at you. Your tiny white sleep shorts have ridden up, exposing the curve of your ass. Your matching top barely covers anything, nipples peaked through the shirt. You’re moaning in your sleep, rubbing your thighs together subconsciously. JJ smirks to himself, having woken up to this before. You were having a sex dream. He’s in nothing but his boxers—the summer heat making it unbearable to sleep in anything more. The duvet had been kicked to the ground, both of you sticky with sweat.

You were mumbling in your sleep, soft whimpers escaping your lips. He rolls over to you, about to wake you up, knowing just how needy you'd be when you woke.

“Mmm, Sean…”

JJ freezes, heart beating out of his chest. He feels his face burn with anger, the jealousy rising hot and fast. JJ moves off the bed quickly, waking you in the process.

The first thing you notice is his face, angry and red. “Baby, what's wrong?” you mumble, wiping the sleep from your eyes.

“Oh, baby? Shouldn't you be saying that to Sean?”

You freeze at your ex's name coming from JJ's mouth. Shit.

“What?” you feign innocence.

“You were moaning Sean's name in your sleep.” JJ’s pacing back and forth, hands on either side of his head like he can physically erase the sound from his brain.

“Fuck, JJ, please it was just a dream, it doesn't mean anything.” You’re sitting up now, fully awake.

"Just a dream, huh? You have any idea what it feels like to wake up hearing your girl moaning some douchebag's name?” His tone is angry, biting but his eyes give him away, full of insecurity and worry.

“JJ, hey look at me, it means nothing, it was a dream, I can't control that. You're the only one I want, I'm yours, completely.” You gently tug on his hand.

He’s silent, refusing to look at you.

“Hey, I'm yours, I mean it, no one has ever made me feel the way you do.” Your eyes are soft, pleading. You know this is about more than just the dream, know that JJ doesn’t need an excuse to feel less than. He’d been told it all his life—teachers, his dad— and you were kicking yourself for putting even the slightest doubt in his mind.

“JJ, I swear it means nothing. I haven’t even thought about him since we’ve been together. Longer than that. You’re the only one for me. The only one who makes me feel so good. The only one who knows how to fuck me just right.” You add in the last bit for good measure—smirking, tugging on his hand, trying to lighten the mood. JJ knows how good he is in bed—the way he’d have you coming, over and over, spoke for itself. You watch the gears turn in his head as a slow smirk comes to his face. Got him.

“I think you need to be reminded of that.” His voice comes out low, rough—his hand cupping your jaw, running his thumb across your bottom lip. You gasp against his hand, eyes fluttering shut.

The look in his eyes is a familiar one—it sends heat curling into your lower stomach as you smirk slightly. You’re perched on the edge of the bed, looking up at him with doe eyes as his thumb continues tracing your bottom lip.

"Don't give me that look, I'm going to fucking ruin you.” His hand traces down your neck, down your chest, barely touching, resting both hands on your bare waist, running his fingers back and forth—touch featherlight—before gripping your sides and throwing you back onto the bed. You let out a gasp before he crawls over you. He holds himself away from you, lips hovering over your stomach, hot breath fanning over you. His rings dig into your thighs. You gasp.

“JJ, please.”

“Please what, baby? You want me to fuck you?” He punctuates his words with slow, soft kisses to your inner thighs. You moan, soft and sweet.

“Use your words, come on.” He places a kiss to the wet spot forming on your sleep shorts. You gasp and grab his hair.

He moves your hand away, pulling away from you completely.

“Why don't you call Sean? Huh, can't use your words with me?”

“JJ,” you whine, pouting at him—lips parted, face flushed, hair messy.

“What do you want baby?”

“I want you, JJ please.”

“Yeah?” He pushes you back down onto the bed, kissing you hard—possessive, not letting you take a breath. You didn't want to, wanted the only breath to be him. His mouth on yours. His hands on your waist. His hips pressed into yours, his hard length giving the perfect amount of friction. He’s kissing you so hard—so fucking good—you get dizzy with it.

“I'm going to fuck you so hard until the only thing you'll be thinking is my name, the only words that will come out of this pretty mouth is my name.”

You can barely think, barely process his words, you’re so turned on. Your hands roam over his abs, tracing the waistband of his boxers. He leaves hot, wet kisses to your neck, sucking to leave a mark.

“I want everyone to know who you belong to.” JJ pulls your top off, starting to work your nipples between his fingers.

“What do you think? Should I fuck you in front of Sean?”

“JJ,” you moan desperately, hips lifting off the bed, looking for friction. He pins your hips down, looking at you darkly.

“Not yet baby, not yet,” he chuckles.

He drags a finger ever so slightly over your shorts, while the other hand has your hips pinned to the bed. He pulls away, laughing.

“JJ please,” you whine, grabbing at him, pulling him into a filthy kiss. It’s sloppy and messy, all teeth and tongue as your fingers move over your clothed clit. JJ lets up, rolls his hips down into yours, the only thing separating you being his boxers and your very thin sleep shorts, making you moan out at the sensation.

He pulls back, pulling your shorts off, smirking at your glistening pussy, before pulling his boxers off. He moves between your thighs, placing soft kisses there, teasing. Every time his lips near your pussy, he pulls away again — leaves a quick kiss to your clit before moving back to your thighs. You whine, pushing your hips up to meet him.

He finally caves after teasing you for what feels like forever — tongue lapping at you as you writhe under him, legs kicking out when it all gets too much. You don’t know how many times you come, losing track after the first two, crying out JJ’s name until he finally fucks you, slipping the tip of his dick through your soaked folds.

His hips move fast and hard against yours, his cock reaching so deep inside you — you see stars, your mouth falling open silently as your head goes limp. He pulls your hair slightly, wrapping a hand lightly around your neck, the cold metal of his rings brushing the sides of your neck. He doesn’t put any pressure, just leaves his hand there, staring down at you as you can barely open your eyes.

“Who do you belong to?” He groans, punctuating his words with a deep thrust of his hips.

“Fuck JJ, you, you,” you manage to let out as he fucks you into the mattress.

“Say it.” His hand moves back down, taking a handful of your tits and squeezing—his other hand resting next to your head, holding himself up.

“I'm yours JJ.” Your hands pull at his hair, trying to anchor yourself.

“Yeah that’s it baby, say my name.” He thrusts into you, hitting that spot deep inside you, making you cry out.

“JJ,” you practically shout it as his hips slam against yours, the lewd sound of skin slapping driving you crazy.

“Again.”

“JJ!” Your fingertips dig into his back, sure to leave marks.

He pushes into you, going impossibly deeper, kissing you frantically as he feels himself get close.

“JJ, JJ, JJ, JJ, JJ fuuuuuckk,” you chant his name, eyes rolling back, practically sobbing as your mind goes dumb on the pleasure he’s giving you. He’s consuming you, taking over all your senses. It’s almost too much when his thumb comes to rub at your clit, his other hand tugging at your nipple, lips lost in the crook of your neck, muttering soft praise.

“Doing so good f’me baby—so good. You take me so fucking good. Fucking made for me, weren’t you?” His forehead rests against yours, eyes staring deep into your soul as his hips snap against yours.

“JJ please it’s too much, I can't—I can’t—” You pull him impossibly closer, hips lifting off the bed to meet his. He’s everywhere, hands running up and down along your sides, chest pressed into yours, and you still need more.

“Oh you're going to fucking take it baby, you should have thought of that before you moaned another man's name in my bed.” His words say one thing, but the way he’s looking at you — so much fucking love and just pure adoration has you reaching your high.

You come again, clenching around JJ's cock, head falling pathetically against his shoulder as you say his name, over and over again.

“Fuck, m’gonna come, where do you want me baby?” JJ grunts, his eyes rolling back as he feels you clench around him, practically pushing him out of you.

“Inside, please JJ.”

JJ groans, pushing into you one last time, before spilling himself inside you, riding out his orgasm, collapsing on top of you.

You lie like that for a while—catching your breath, your chests rising and falling against each others—before JJ pulls back, kissing your forehead.

“Did so good f’me baby.” He pushes the hair that’s stuck to your forehead with sweat off your face, kissing you softly as he pulls out of you.

You whine softly, humming happily when he kisses you again. You smile up at him, soft and spent. He lies back on the bed, before pulling you on top of him, your head coming to rest against his chest, soothed by the sound of his heartbeat under you. He runs his fingers up and down your spine, kissing the top of your head.

“You okay, baby?”

“Mhm, so good Jay, just tired,” you mumble against his chest.

“I love you. Go back to sleep.” He kisses the top of your head and sighs happily when you nuzzle your face into the crook of his neck.

“Love you too JJ. So much,” you mumble into his neck, placing a soft kiss there as you drift off to sleep, dreaming only of him.

read my other works here: masterlist

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© daggersanddresses est. 2025

[pearlzier]

hiii! i hope you’re having a good day/night ^_^ i was wondering if you could wirte either sam or dean winchester with a bimbo reader!! smut or fluff i dunno ahhh TY!!

☆ ┆.ᐟ ᰍ ︵ this took me so long m'so sorry ml !! ۫ .

☆ warning ; tad bit suggestive i mean. it's dean ,,

“pass me the fuckin’ uh..” dean ran his hand through his hair, crouched beside baby. it was a one in a million day where dean had no shit to do, so he found himself doing checks on baby even if she was in perfect shape. doesn't mean he can't check in on his girl, whilst his girl is sat on the precariously stored chair. yeah, he'd told you if you fell he'd absolutely laugh at you however he knew full well that he'd literally perform an act of magic on you to keep you safe.

“uh, screw driver?” you bat your lashes at him, legs rocking as you typed on your phone, snorting out a laugh at the emoticon that charlie had sent you. of course, you liked to help dean out. but the weather was so good, and the sun was good for your skin, or so that forum that you read at the library when you went with sam said. also, you and charlie had a lot of gossip to catch up on, so.. you weren't on your game as much as you usually were.

a soft laugh slips past dean's lips as he shakes his head, looking back at the toolbox in your lap. you watch as he gets up, his hands a little stained with car oil, which in fact, does not suit the white colour of your babydoll top, clinging to the curve of your chest. which dean took much pleasure in, but besides—so you squirm back a little when he comes closer, “dean, you cannot touch me with your hands like that, i love you, but no—”

“relax, sweetheart, just tryna get a wrench,” dean teases, “can't a guy get a wrench? jeez,” he raises his hands teasingly before he carefully grabs a wrench from the tool box. not before swiping his thumb over your nose which causes you to squeal, and he quickly makes his way back to baby before you can retaliate.

“dean!” you gasp, rummaging for your pocket mirror in the pockets of your baby pink hoodie, finding it and soon looking at yourself in the mirror. a little smudge of darkness glistens on your nose and the pout you give dean makes him cackle a little.

“c'mon, it adds character, don't you think?” he does a little tinkering under the car, to which you have absolutely no clue what he's doing. did you want to know? no, not really. you wanted to know why you had oil on your nose! you knew why, but why dean did it was a mystery, and you huffed.

“you'll know what character is when i'm done with you,” you mumble back sassily, giggling when you see the surprise fill dean's gaze. so, he rises from where he is, and saunters his way back over, having used a rag to wipe down his hands so you wouldn't throw a little hissy fit.

“is that right, hm?” his green eyes lift to yours, and leaning against the chair, he bites his bottom lip. hell, he likes when you get fiesty with him. “gonna show me character?” his low, gravelly voice cooed softly as his hands brushed over your sides.

this knocked you down a few pegs, because to be fair, if your bombshell of a boyfriend is speaking like that and holding you like this, well, who isn't gonna get a little flustered. “uh—yeah, character.” you do notice how his eyes flit down to your cleavage for a vague moment, and you speak up, a little uncharacteristically but in a way dean adores—“eyes are up here, deano.”

a groan slips past his pink lips, and you soon find his green, piercing eyes hooded and looking up at you. “tease,” he mutters under his breath, and a flush dusts his skin that he never expected to happen. “think i know where your eyes are, doll, just enjoying..” he traced a finger over the lace containing the spill of your tits, “the view. know you're enjoyin’ mine.”

you thought he wouldn't notice! you'd been staring at him for a while now, considering the fact he'd blessed you with the sight of not only his arms in a tank but sweats? your man was a slut, you couldn't even deny it. “dean, stoppp,” you mumble, getting a little heated as he brushes his fingers over you. “shut up.”

he pouts playfully, pressing his forehead gently against yours. lifting his thumb to your glossy lips, he pulls it gently before letting it go, a giggle slipping past his lips. “now you're being mean, pretty baby,” his hands slide down from your chest to your thighs, squeezing them gently. “mean to your ol’ dean?”

you push at his chest playfully, tapping your acrylics against his chest with a little laugh. this causes dean to dig his fingers into the meat of your thigh a little and pull you against him. “you were bein’ mean to me first, dean!” his brows raise, “you know exactly how. oil? nose? coulda’ gotten it on my top!”

he rolled his eyes at your behaviour, it's not like that top was expensive anyway. you two got it when dean had literally stolen 20 dollars from a wallet he found on the floor this one time. but that's besides the point. “can always get you a new one,” he shrugs his shoulders, flashing the signature winchester smirk. “kinda always been itchin’ to rip this one anyway. doesn't do that body justice.”

“dean,” you two were literally outside the motel, you couldn't do anything like dean was absolutely suggesting. and judging from the way his hand was sliding up under your skirt to cup your ass, well, he was suggesting a lot. he gives a gentle squeeze, growling softly before he lifted you up off of the chair, causing you to squeal. “dean!”

he swung you over so you'd sit on the hood of the impala, watching as your little skirt hiked up. a grin played on his lips and he sighed softly. “how'd i get so lucky, huh?” dean lifted ring clad fingers to brush the side of your face. “grumpy hunter like me.”

“fine ass hunter like yourself,” your retort was instant.

“i didn't say it, you did, so it ain't braggin’,” dean wiggled his eyebrows instantly, drawing you impossibly closer as his hands groped at your thighs gently. he was clearly a big fan of your body.

“dean, there are people walking past,” you nudge him, not before placing a glossy kiss to his cheek. he shrugs, glancing over at a passing woman and her boyfriend on the street. in usual dean fashion, he gives your ass a pat and winks at the couple, not that you realise.

“well, maybe, they wanna piece of this fine ass,” he squeezed, looking up at you through his lashes. “they'd have to go through me, first though,” literally before you can even realise it, you've been hiked up over his shoulder with your ass practically out.

“dean, my skirt!” dean acts oblivious, but slides a hand over you to keep the view at bay, a laugh slipping past his lips. “relax, sweetheart, i got you,” does this calm your nerves? no, not really, but, you relax into his grasp.

“you're the worst,” as you shake your head, your earrings shimmer under the dim lights of the motel as you make your way in. dean's practically a deer in headlights looking at you before he focuses again, and taps the doorframe of where sam's in.

“keep an eye on baby, alright? got some uh, things to be doin’, sammy,” it's like sam didn't even have to ask as he saw dean give you a playful swat on the ass, herding you to the bedroom. 

“yeah, sure, whatever,” sam was ninety-five percent sure he might have to go do his research in the impala because knowing you two? you were loud.

tags ┆.ᐟ ᰍ ︵ @onlynextdoor ۫ .

☆ 𝜗𝜚 ( your honor, i loveeee himmmmmmmmm.... lmk if u wanna be tagged in spn works lolz

[sweetpogue]

STILL OBSESSED .ᐟ jason todd x fem!reader ⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪

warnings.ᐟ smut, established relationship, postpartum body appreciation, breast/nursing kink (soft), obsession with reader’s chest, penetration, breeding-ish talk, possessive jason, praise kink, soft!dom jason, aftercare, smut with feelings

⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪

The quiet in the safehouse was a new kind of quiet. It wasn’t the empty silence of a long patrol or the tense stillness before a fight. This was a soft, sacred hush, punctuated by the tiny, snuffling sounds of the three-months-old baby finally sleeping in the bassinet beside the bed.

You were propped up against the headboard, bathed in the low glow of the lamp, and Jason couldn’t look away. Couldn’t stop looking.

Motherhood looked good on you.

It looked… fucking incredible.

Your skin had a new glow, your eyes held a softness he’d never seen before, but God above, it was your tits that were going to be the death of him.

They were… more. So much more. Plump and heavy and full, straining against the thin, soft cotton of your nursing tank. He could see the faint map of blue veins beneath your skin, see the way they swayed with your every breath.

They were a fucking miracle, and he was utterly, completely obsessed.

He’d been watching you all evening. Watching you nurse your son, his heart doing something strange and tight in his chest at the sight. Watching the way you’d winced just a little when the baby latched, a reminder of the sweet, aching sensitivity. He’d brought you glasses of water, pillows, anything you needed, his focus a laser beam on you.

Now, with the baby asleep, the focus had shifted. The reverence was still there, but it was curdling into something hotter, something desperate.

You felt his gaze, heavy and dark, and looked up from the book you were pretending to read. “What?” you asked softly, a small smile playing on your lips.

“Nothing,” he murmured, his voice a low gravel. He was sitting in the armchair across the room, but he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. His eyes were fixed on your chest. “Just looking.”

You shifted, a faint blush coloring your cheeks. You knew what he was looking at. You could feel the weight of them, the persistent, low thrum of need that had nothing to do with milk and everything to do with the man staring at you like he wanted to devour you whole.

“They’re a little… much,” you said, a self-conscious hand coming up to cover the deep cleavage the tank top revealed.

“Don’t,” he said, the word sharp, almost a command. He stood up, crossing the room in two silent strides. He knelt on the bed beside you, his large frame making the mattress dip. “Don’t you dare hide them from me.”

His hand came up, not to move yours, but to cover it, his fingers lacing through yours. His touch was calloused, rough, a stark contrast to your softness.

“They’re perfect,” he breathed, his eyes burning with a intensity that made your breath catch. “You’re perfect. I can’t stop thinking about them. About how you look. About how you must feel.”

He guided your joined hands away, his gaze dropping to the exposed swell of your breasts. He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing.

“Can I…?” he asked, his voice ragged. “Please. I need to.”

You nodded, wordless, your own need coiling tight in your belly. You’d been touched so carefully, so clinically for weeks. This… this was different.

He didn’t rush. He was worshipful. He leaned in, nuzzling the valley between your breasts, inhaling deeply.

“You smell different,” he mumbled against your skin. “Like you. And milk. And… mmm, home.”

His mouth was hot and desperate as he kissed the upper slope, his tongue tracing the line of a blue vein. A shiver wracked your body. He moved to one straining peak, his mouth closing over the damp cotton, sucking gently. The fabric was instantly wet, plastered to your skin, and you cried out, your back arching off the headboard.

The sensation was electric, a direct line to your core, which was already clenching with empty, aching need.

“Jason…” you gasped, your fingers tangling in his hair.

He pulled back, his eyes black with want. “I need to be inside you,” he growled, the words raw and honest. “Right now. I can’t wait. I need to feel you.”

He was on you then, his mouth crashing down on yours in a searing kiss as his hands shoved the straps of your tank top down, baring you to the waist. The cool air hit your wet, sensitive skin, and you moaned into his mouth.

He handled you with a new kind of possessiveness, his hands cupping the heavy weight of your breasts, his thumbs circling your nipples, which were already hard and aching.

“So fucking perfect,” he chanted between kisses, between bites along your jawline. “Mine. You’re all mine.”

He yanked his own shirt over his head, not even bothering with the rest, just fumbling with the button of his jeans, shoving them and his boxers down just enough to free his cock. He was already rock-hard, leaking, his length straining against his stomach.

He positioned himself between your legs, which you opened for him willingly, desperately. He didn’t enter you yet. Instead, he leaned down, taking one nipple into his mouth, sucking deeply, hungrily, while his hand worked the other.

You sobbed, the dual sensations overwhelming, your hips bucking against nothing, seeking friction. “Please, Jason… please…”

He released your breast with a wet pop, his breath coming in harsh rasps. He looked down at you, your breasts glistening in the lamplight, your face flushed with pleasure, and he lost the last shred of his control.

He drove into you in one smooth, powerful thrust, sheathing himself to the hilt in your wet, welcoming heat.

You both cried out—a guttural groan from him, a sharp, pleasure-pained gasp from you. You were still so tight, so perfect for him. He stilled for a moment, buried deep, his forehead pressed to yours, both of you panting.

“Fuck,” he breathed, his voice shaking. “I’ll never get enough of you. Never.”

Then he began to move, a slow, deep, rolling rhythm that had you seeing stars. His hands were everywhere—gripping your hips, palming your breasts, thumbing your clit. He was relentless, consumed, his entire world narrowed down to the feel of your body around his, the sight of your full breasts bouncing with every one of his thrusts.

“Touch them,” he demanded, his voice a harsh rasp. “While I fuck you. Play with them for me.”

You obeyed, your own hands coming up to knead and squeeze your sensitive flesh, your fingers pinching and pulling at your nipples, and the sight of it pushed him over the edge.

With a broken shout of your name, he came, pulsing deep inside you, his body shuddering violently. You followed him over, your own climax crashing through you, milking him through every last wave of his pleasure.

He collapsed on top of you, careful to keep his weight on his elbows, his face buried in your neck. His breath was hot against your skin. You could feel his heart hammering against your own.

For a long time, the only sound was your ragged breathing and the soft, sleeping sounds of your son nearby.

Finally, Jason shifted, pulling out of you with a soft groan. He didn’t go far, just rolled to his side, pulling you with him, tucking you against his chest. One of his big, rough hands came up to gently, reverently, cup one of your breasts, his thumb stroking over the oversensitive nipple.

“Still obsessed,” he mumbled, his voice already thick with sleep. He pressed a soft, drowsy kiss to your shoulder. “Always will be.”

And as you drifted off in his arms, surrounded by the quiet and the scent of him and milk and sex, you knew it was the truest thing he’d ever said.

[rafeslvbug]

fk!reader CONSTANTLY asking Rafe if what she’s wearing is fine or oversharing about where she’s going cus she’s worried from past stuff 😓 pretty please

“Rafe..”

His head snaps up as your voice interrupts the silence in his office.

“Hey baby..” he says softly, like he’s trying not to scare a baby deer or something like that. “What’s up?”

“Am i interrupting anything?” You ask timidly, still hanging by the doorway. “Because I don’t need anything important–”

“Nothing- I’m doing nothing!” He pushes his work aside as if to emphasise the point, and even draw a little smile from you- although that’s a little hopeful.

“Really?” Your eyes brighten, and Rafe’s sure he could drink that look forever.

“Really.. what’s wrong?” He leans forward, forearms braced on the desk. But you don’t move. You just stand by the door, still.

“Is my.. is my dress okay?” You ask, eyes flicking down to the outfit you’re wearing. It’s white, flowy down below your knees and with little ruffles at the sleeves. “Y’know for the party tonight?”

Rafe opens his mouth to say: it’s gorgeous, perfect, but you continue speaking.

“I know it’s like a kook event, but Sarah said it was very informal! and if anything it was very picnic-y. So I mean- we picked the dresses out together, but I wanted to run it by you just in case you thought it was too–”

“Y/N,” his voice cuts through your ramble, though his tone isn’t harsh, it’s soft. He finds you all too endearing. “The dress is perfect..” he says softly. “You look amazing, c‘mere.” He beckons you forwards, eyes following you as you hesitate, then move around the desk to him.

His hands don’t fall to your hips, he doesn’t hope to make you uncomfortable, instead he lets his palm cup your cheek. “You excited for tonight?” He asks, it being the first time you’ve attended a - as you’ve put it - ‘kook event’.

“Yeah.. Sarah and stuff are gonna come, I think JJ’s gonna be a waiter,” you giggle, and Rafe bites back his annoyance at the mention of the pogues- but they’re your friends, after all. “I like the dress,” you add. “I think it’s nice, but y’know the shoulders keep slipping down- I forgot to mention that- and I’m not sure if that’ll be a problem–”

“It won’t.”

You breathe out a slight laugh, though it doesn’t sound as genuine as Rafe would like. “Okay then,” your murmur. “I’m gonna change out of this, then me and Kie we’re gonna go to the mall- not the one down the road, but it’s only a five minute drive from here,” you explain, and Rafe simply nods, thumb brushing your cheekbone. “We won’t be long, she just wanted to get something, and I’ll come right back–”

“You don’t have to, you could stay, I’ll be busy for sometime,” he reassures you.

“Uhm maybe I’ll ask her, but I’ll text you whatever we decide.”

“You’re grown Y/N, you don’t need to text me,” he chuckles, and his face softens to a smile when yours fades so you’re simply blinking at him.

You always had to text. Your ex used to always have to come with you, or meet the friend, or tell you when to come back– sometimes you couldn’t go out at all, or even have friends.

“Oh..okay..” you say slowly, then finally smile again. “Thank you, Rafe,” you add, softer.

He brings your head down, enough for him to press a kiss to your forehead while he murmurs against your skin, “dunno what for.”

[sweetpogue]

HALLOWEEN COSTUME .ᐟ dick grayson x fem!reader ˚⟡˖ ࣪

warnings .ᐟ — smut, teasing, fingering, dom!dick, sub!reader, grinding, degradation, praise kink, mm costume kink???, unprotected sex.

⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪

You didn’t think it would get to him this much.

Really, you didn’t.

Okay, maybe you hoped it would.

The tight leather corset, the dark blue stripes over your chest and sides mimicking his Nightwing emblem, the mask framing your eyes—everything about the outfit screamed him. Only you’d twisted it into something softer, sexier, and much more revealing than the one he wore.

You step into the living room, boots clicking on the hardwood, and lean against the doorframe casually as if you’re not standing there in a scandalously short skirt and fishnet tights that definitely didn’t come with his actual suit.

“Ta-da,” you say, twirling slowly so he gets the full view. “What do you think? Recognize it?”

Dick Grayson is halfway through drinking water when he looks up. The glass pauses at his lips. For one single, glorious second, he looks like you’ve knocked the air out of him. His blue eyes flick over you, and then—

He chokes.

You fight the grin threatening to burst across your face as he coughs, putting the glass down too quickly.

“Babe,” he manages, his voice a little strangled. “What the hell are you—”

“Halloween,” you interrupt sweetly, tilting your head as you run a finger down the blue stripe of your corset. “I thought I’d try something new. Do you like it?”

He swallows hard, jaw tightening. He tries—tries—to play it off, leaning back against the couch with his arms crossed, but the muscle in his cheek twitches when you saunter closer.

“You can’t just…” He gestures vaguely at your outfit, eyes darting anywhere but your bare thighs. “…walk around dressed like me and expect me not to… notice.”

Your grin turns wicked. “You noticed then.”

“Obviously I noticed.” His tone is sharp, but it’s cracked down the middle, a giveaway. He shifts in his seat, adjusting slightly as if trying to relieve pressure from—well, exactly what you think.

You kneel on the couch beside him, close enough that he stiffens but doesn’t move away. “Don’t like it?” you tease, feigning innocence.

His breath comes out shaky, and he pinches the bridge of his nose. “It’s not that I don’t like it. It’s that you—” He cuts himself off, groaning under his breath. “God, you’re killing me.”

You tilt closer, lips brushing his ear. “That’s kind of the point, Nightwing.”

The low growl that leaves his chest is the only warning you get before he snaps—hands grabbing your waist, pulling you flush into his lap. His control slips, all the restraint breaking in one fluid, desperate motion.

“You think this is funny?” he asks, voice low, eyes blazing now that he’s given up pretending.

You smile, heart racing. “A little.”

He presses his forehead to yours, his lips hovering just above yours, hot breath fanning across your mouth. “Then I’ll make sure you remember exactly what happens when you play dress-up like this.”

And when he finally kisses you, it’s hungry, frustrated, and full of all the tension he’d been trying so damn hard to hide.

He pulls back, letting you breath for a moment.

“Thought you were clever, huh?” His voice is rough, gravel edging into it as he stares at the corset hugging your curves, the fishnets clinging to your thighs. “Walking around in my symbol, looking like—” He swallows hard, biting back a groan. “—that.”

“You like it though.”

His jaw tightens, but the way his hands roam your hips says enough. His fingers dig into the leather, thumbs brushing the strip of exposed skin above your skirt. “You have no idea what you’re doing to me, baby.”

“Oh, I think I do,” you lean closer, lips grazing his jaw as you whisper, “Nightwing.”

That single word breaks him.

His mouth crashes into yours, all teeth and heat, kissing you like a starving man. His hands slip under the edge of your skirt, palms greedy, dragging over your ass and yanking you forward until you feel just how hard he is beneath you.

You gasp into his mouth, and he growls, grinding up against you. “This what you wanted?”

“Maybe,” you pant, tugging at the collar of his shirt, needing more of him, all of him.

He smirks, dark and dangerous. “Careful what you ask for.”

In one swift motion, he flips you beneath him on the couch. His body cages yours in, his thigh sliding between your legs, pressing up against the thin fabric covering your heat. You moan, arching into him, and his grin turns feral.

“God, that sound—” he breathes, kissing down your neck, biting lightly at your pulse. “I could listen to you all night.”

Your fingers tug at his shirt until he rips it over his head himself, muscles flexing, skin warm against yours. He grinds into you again, harder this time, making you cry out.

“You dressed up like me just to drive me insane?” he murmurs against your collarbone. “Because congratulations. It worked.”

You whimper when his hand slides down, fingers brushing over your soaked panties through the fishnets. He smirks at the mess he finds. “Look at you.” His voice drops, husky. “Already this wet for me?”

“Dick—please—” you whine, tugging at his hair.

He chuckles low, biting at your lip before slipping his hand beneath the fabric, finally stroking you where you need him. The relief makes you moan his name, and he curses under his breath.

“Say it again.”

“Dick—”

His lips smash into yours again, kissing you hard, fingers working you faster, curling inside you until you’re gasping, trembling beneath him.

When you finally come undone, it’s with his name breaking from your lips, his smirk pressed into your neck as he whispers, “Good girl.”

But he’s not finished. Not even close.

Before you can catch your breath, he’s tugging the corset down, freeing your breasts, his mouth latching onto one while his hand keeps teasing the other. You cry out, clutching at him, nails dragging down his back.

“Take it off,” he orders, tugging at the straps.

“What if I don’t want to?” you tease breathlessly.

He grins wickedly, already unbuckling his belt. “Then I’ll fuck you in it.”

And from the way his hips pin yours down, the outline of his cock pressing hard against you, you know he means it.

He doesn’t wait for you to answer. His belt hits the floor with a heavy clink, pants shoved down just enough to free his cock, thick and hard, flushed dark at the tip.

Your eyes widen, a soft gasp slipping past your lips, and he grins like a wolf. “Yeah,” he says low, stroking himself once as he looks down at you sprawled out beneath him in that teasing little version of his suit. “That’s the reaction I wanted.”

“Dick—” you start, but your voice cuts off into a whimper when he pushes your skirt up and tears straight through your fishnets at the center.

You yelp. “Those were—”

“Replaceable,” he interrupts, too focused, too desperate. His hand cups your soaked pussy through the ruined fabric, fingers brushing your folds before shoving the scrap aside. “This, though? Not replaceable.”

Then he’s lining himself up, eyes locked on yours, and pushes in with one hard thrust.

“Fuck—!” you cry out, nails digging into his shoulders as your body stretches around him. He groans into your neck, shuddering at the tight heat.

“Shit, baby,” he pants, kissing you fiercely. “So tight… feels like you were made for me.”

Your reply comes out broken, breathless: “You feel so good—oh my god—”

He sets a relentless pace, hips snapping against yours, the sound of skin meeting skin filling the room. Every thrust makes your body jolt against the couch, every movement pressing the leather of the corset tighter into your ribs.

And he loves it. Loves that you’re still half in costume, his symbol stretched over your chest as he fucks you into the cushions.

“You wanted to play dress-up?” he growls, grabbing your wrists and pinning them above your head with one hand, his other gripping your thigh to push it higher. “Then you take it. You take every inch of me like this.”

You moan helplessly, back arching as his cock hits deeper, harder, until your vision goes hazy.

“Look at you,” he rasps, leaning down to kiss the corner of your mouth, then your jaw, then biting at your ear. “All pretty in my colors, falling apart on my cock. Gonna let me ruin this little costume?”

“Yes—yes, please, don’t stop—” you babble, bucking up against him.

He growls low, kissing you harsh and messy, sweat slicking both your bodies. His thrusts get rougher, desperate, chasing that edge.

When your climax hits, it rips through you—your cry muffled against his shoulder as you tighten hard around him. That’s all it takes.

He curses, hips stuttering, and spills inside you with a guttural groan, holding you tight against him. For a long, shuddering moment, he stays buried deep, breathing ragged against your neck.

Finally, he pulls back just enough to look at you—hair mussed, lips kiss-swollen, Nightwing-blue stretched across your chest. His grin is smug, satisfied, but his eyes soften.

“Never,” he says, brushing your cheek, “ever wear this for anyone but me.”

You laugh weakly, still trying to catch your breath. “I wasn’t planning on it.”

“Good,” he murmurs, kissing you gently now, like he hasn’t just fucked you senseless. “Because next time, I’m not stopping until you can’t even walk in this suit.”

[scarletttries]

Adrian who drags you onto his lap whenever he gets the chance, and always ends up grinding himself against you. 

He looks so sweet and innocent as he whines that you always sit way too far away from him, any seat other than his thighs taken as a personal slight by your adoring and desperate Vigilante. His eyes are wide and pleading as he holds both arms straight out in front of him expectedly, only satisfied when they're wrapped snugly around your waist and his face is nuzzling into your shoulder. 

He thinks he'll be content like this forever, but you know better. Soon his lips have replaced his nose as they trace the curve of your neck and one hand has slipped down from your waist to your thighs, pawing at the soft flesh there as his hips start to buck up against your ass of their own volition. 

If you point out that he's doing it, he'll say you're just too smoking hot to ignore, and he promises you'll barely notice him as a hand slips under your shirt and presses against your soft stomach, keeping you exactly where he needs you as his hips work faster. If you ask him to stop, he'll do it in a heartbeat, but it's so much more fun to moan out his name and see how quickly you can get him to cum all over the inside of his pants, and how soon after that he can get your clothes off. 

...

If you liked this check out my Adrian Chase Masterlist and let me know if you want more ❤️

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[sweetpogue]

DON'T MENTION IT .ᐟ nathan scott x rival!fem!reader ⟡˖ ࣪

summary .ᐟ as the captain of the basketball team and the captain of the femenine voleyball team grow to hate each other, sometimes there's still little things that connect them. little things that makes them more alike. . .

warnings .ᐟ comfort, reader plays voleyball, soft banter, reader's friends being ass honestly, rivals to lovers ;)

⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪

The rivalry between you and Nathan Scott was the stuff of White Hills High legend. It was a constant, simmering thing, a battle of wits in the classroom, a clash of wills in the hallways.

He was the arrogant, unfairly talented jock; you were the sharp, fiercely competitive academic (who also happened to have an insane jump and quick reflexes). You traded barbs like currency, and the only thing you both agreed on was that the other was insufferable.

Which was why it was so utterly humiliating that he, of all people, was witnessing your complete and total meltdown.

You’d been buzzing with nervous excitement all week. First game of the season. You’d practiced your spikes until your shoulder ached, you’d diagrammed plays in the margins of your notebook.

You’d even, in a moment of uncharacteristic vulnerability, personally invited your closest friends. “You have to come! It’s a big deal! I might even start!” you’d gushed, and they’d promised, pinky-sworn, they wouldn’t miss it.

The game came and went. You played your heart out, stealing glances at the stands between every point. The spot where they were supposed to be remained empty. A hollow feeling started in your chest, growing with every missed save, every point lost. You fumbled a receive you could normally make in your sleep, the ball thudding dully against the court just beside you.

You lost. Badly.

The final whistle blew, and the hollow feeling was now a gaping chasm. You forced a tight smile for your teammates, muttering excuses about needing air before practically fleeing the gym, not even bothering to shower, just pulling a hoodie over your sweaty jersey.

You ended up on a deserted bench around the back of the school, where the dumpsters were, because it was the last place anyone would look for you.

The tears you’d been stubbornly holding back finally broke free, hot and angry. You weren’t just crying about the loss. You were crying about the empty stands, the broken promise, the feeling of being completely and utterly forgotten.

You were so lost in your misery you didn’t hear the approaching footsteps until a pair of familiar, scuffed basketball sneakers came into your downcast line of vision.

You froze, your breath hitching painfully.

Of course. Of all the people in the world.

“Go away, Scott,” you mumbled, your voice thick and wet. You refused to look up. The last thing you needed was his smug, triumphant face seeing you like this. “Come to gloat? Heard we got creamed. Add it to your list of reasons I’m pathetic and basketball is better, or some shit.”

There was a long pause. You expected a sarcastic retort, a jab about your failed receive. Instead, you heard a soft sigh, and the bench creaked as he sat down, leaving a careful foot of space between you.

“Saw you inviting your friends in the cafeteria yesterday,” he said, his voice uncharacteristically quiet. “You looked really happy.”

No mockery, no edge. Just a simple, observational statement.

A fresh wave of tears welled up. You swiped at them angrily with the sleeve of your hoodie. “So?”

“So… they didn’t show.”

It wasn’t a question. He’d seen it all.

He’d seen your eager, excited face yesterday and he’d seen you scanning the empty bleachers today.

The humiliation burned so brightly it almost overshadowed the hurt.

“What’s it to you?” you snapped, finally turning to glare at him. “Enjoy the show? Nathan Scott, star point guard, witnesses his nemesis’s social demise. Must be a great day for you.”

Your face was blotchy, your eyes red-rimmed. You looked a mess, and you wanted him to feel uncomfortable, to leave.

He didn’t flinch. He just looked at you, his blue eyes serious, all traces of his usual arrogance gone.

He was holding two water bottles, and he held one out to you.

“Here. You looked like you could use this.”

You stared at the bottle like it was a foreign object.

This wasn’t the script. He was supposed to be cruel, to lean into the rivalry.

This… this quiet kindness was disarming.

Hesitantly, you took it. Your fingers brushed against his, and you both pulled back a little too quickly.

“It sucks,” he said simply, looking straight ahead at the brick wall of the school. “When people let you down like that.”

You unscrewed the cap and took a sip, the cold water a relief to your raw throat. You didn’t know what to say.

The silence stretched, but it wasn’t entirely uncomfortable.

“We lost because of me,” you whispered, the confession torn from you. “I messed up that receive in the second set. It all fell apart after that.”

Nathan shook his head.

“Nah. I watched. Your setter was off. Your libero was slow to cover the line. It was a team loss,” he glanced at you. “And for what it’s worth… that cross-court spike you nailed in the first set? That was legit. Almost looked like you know how to play.”

A surprised, watery laugh escaped you. It sounded more like a sob. “Almost? You wish you had my vertical.”

A corner of his mouth quirked up. “There she is.”

You fell silent again, but the tears had stopped.

You just sat there, two rivals on a bench behind the dumpsters, listening to the distant sounds of cars leaving the parking lot.

“Why are you doing this?” you asked finally, your voice small. “I thought you hated me.”

Nathan was quiet for a long moment, spinning his water bottle between his hands.

“I don’t hate you,” he said, and it sounded like the truth. “You’re annoying. And you argue with me about everything. And you think you’re always right.”

“I am always right,” you interjected automatically, and this time he full-on smiled.

“See? Annoying.” The insult had no heat. He sighed. “But you’re also… I don’t know. You care. A lot. About everything. It’s kind of…” He seemed to search for the word. “…Exhausting. But also… I saw how excited you were. And it sucks that no one else saw it.”

You looked down at your hands, your heart doing a strange, fluttering thing in your chest that had nothing to do with volleyball and everything to do with the boy sitting next to you.

“Thanks,” you mumbled, the word feeling inadequate.

“Don’t mention it,” he said, standing up. He stretched, the motion effortless. “Seriously. Don’t. I have a reputation to uphold. If anyone finds out I was nice to you, my street cred is toast.”

You managed a real smile this time. “Your secret is safe with me.”

He nodded, shoving his hands in his pockets.

He took a few steps away before stopping and turning back. “Hey.”

You looked up.

“Next game… I might swing by. You know. To make sure you’re not embarrassing our school with your almost-good spikes.”

The offer—disguised as an insult—was so perfectly him that your smile widened. “You do that, Scott. Maybe you’ll learn something.”

He shook his head, a laugh finally escaping him as he turned and walked away, leaving you on the bench.

The hollow feeling was gone, replaced by a confusing, warm buzz. The disappointment was still there, but it was quieter now, soothed by an unexpected ally.

Your friends had forgotten. But your enemy had seen you. And for the first time, you wondered if you’d been reading Nathan Scott all wrong.

[maybanksbaby]

if i wrote some love and deepspace fic, would you read it? 😭

i'm obsessed lately

cause honestly caleb and zayne are messing with my heart

[rafesteddy]

The frat house car wash makes Rafe a TikTok star… and you a little jealous. But he’s ready to remind you whose attention he’s really after…

frat!rafe x gf!reader

c/w: pet names, jealousy, semi public sex (car), language, dirty talk, praise kink, spanking, established relationship, teasing, + recording during sex

2K

Based off this ask and this video

You don’t mean to pout. But it’s not your fault. You’d had to sit through three back-to-back classes while your entire FYP was flooded with slow-mo thirst traps of your boyfriend glistening in the sun, shirtless, soap dripping down his abs. A devastatingly smug smirk slapped across his lips. The one that makes every girl on campus lose their mind and he knows it.

By the time you finally walk into the frat house he’s already inside, towel slung over his bare shoulder, hair still damp, cheeks rosy from the sun.

He grins when he sees you standing there, arms crossed, trying your best to look annoyed. “Baby.”

“Don’t ‘baby’ me.”

That makes his smile go crooked like he already knows. “Oh no,” he murmurs as he steps closer. “The fuck’s gotten into you, huh?”

“You know—”

“Bullshit. I don’t,” he chuckles playfully.

“Car wash… Manwhore activity, Cameron.”

Rafe raises a brow, completely amused. “What, you jealous?”

“Obviously.”

He looks down at you as he steps into your space, voice dropping as he fights back a wide smile. “M’sorry, baby… it was for charity,” his southern drawl hangs heavy on each word.

“It was for attention,” you correct him.

He snorts out a laugh and sighs. “You know the only girl I care about watchin’ me is you.”

“Didn’t look like it.”

Rafe draws you in a little closer by the lower back, pressing his lips against the corner of your mouth. “You were watchin’ videos of me all day?”

“Shut up.” Your cheeks burn with heat as he nuzzles closer, big hands grabbing two fistfuls of ass and fabric.

“That’s cute.”

“Stop,” you whisper, trying to keep up the act but the mumble of his voice vibrates against your neck sending chills down your spine. “I only watched them once…”

“Totally believe you, pretty girl,” he hums as his breath ghosts across your throat. “Totally…”

“Totally,” you mock his deep tone and he slaps your ass for it, toying with you some more.

“You missed me that bad, huh?”

“I did… You’re mine,” you whisper, his lips quickly finding yours.

“Only ever been yours,” he breathes as his lips brush against yours. “Let me make it up to you.”

You tilt your head, looking up at the man before you as butterflies swirl in your stomach. “With what?”

The sun’s dipped down, pavement damp from the day, the sharp tang of soap swirling through the air. Rafe drops a few quarters into the car wash self-service machine and the carport comes to life.

“You wanted your turn,” he grins, voice warm and teasing. “Private show,” he smiles as he sprays some water in the air, letting it fall down on the two of you, making you shriek and giggle from the cold bite of the water on your hot skin.

His hair falls in damp strands over his forehead; droplets of wet bleeding onto his white button down.

He digs in his pocket, pulling out his phone, propping it against the brick wall.

“You said you saw what, ten videos?”

“At least,” you bite your lip and smile, waiting for what he’ll say next, the water sprayer clutched in his big hand, and trouble in his baby blue eyes.

“Gotta let ‘em know who I belong to.”

Your stomach flips and before you can say something smart the cold spray catches you again.

“Rafe!”

“Just helpin’ you cool off,” he says with a wink. “S’hot as fuck out here.”

“Stop,” you giggle as you swipe your hand across the back of your car, flicking him with water.

The next few minutes are a blur of laughter and soaked cotton; suds slipping down your legs. Your dress clings to every curve as his shirt hugs every muscle, jeans soaked clean-through.

He peels off his shirt. Just a chain and a tan on his chest as he sprays down your car, missing half the time on purpose just to get you wet.

Bubbles start to fly, floating and popping as the water runs in little rivers down the ridges of his abs. Rafe’s hands find your waist, pulling you into his chest, brushing a soapy thumb over your cheek.

His mouth crashes into yours and you melt as your hands slide up the wet muscles of his back. He hoists you up, lifting you onto the back of your car as he deepens the kiss.

His hands are warm against your bare skin sliding with the soap as he grins against your mouth, the both of you breathless and soaked. Rafe tugs you right to the edge, wet panties pressing against the chill of his belt buckle making you shiver.

The water drips down your legs, soap sticky on your skin, laughter echoing faintly through the carport. He draws back, breathing hard, resting his forehead against yours.

“We gotta get the fuck out of here now.”

“What are you thinkin’?” You ask as your fingers play with the hair at the nape of his neck.

“There’s nobody here, baby,” he whispers. “Lot’s empty… You’re so, so sexy—already fuckin’ wet for me,” he mumbles between kisses. “Thinkin’ what I’m thinkin’?”

You giggle and nod, a breathless “yeah” fleeing your lips into his.

You’re still catching your breath when the car door slams shut behind you. Rafe peels out of the car wash and into the lot fast, fingers wrapping around the gear shift, yanking it into park, headlights cutting as he kills the engine.

“Backseat,” he grins in the dark; teeth and chain sparkling in what little light you have.

You barely get the door open before he’s behind you, pushing you back inside. Your knees hit the cushion and then he’s right there peeling off his wet jeans in the dark, shoving them down his thighs with a grunt before tossing them onto the floor. He’s already half-hard; cotton clinging to every inch of him, soaked and translucent.

“Watchin’ me all day,” he murmurs, cocky as hell. “Still watchin’ me now—”

“Shut up,” you giggle, dragging your nails down his bare chest as you kiss along his neck, feeling his deep laugh rumble against your lips.

“Let me see you,” he says, tugging at the hem of your soaked dress.

Your heart stutters as you climb into his lap, the wet cotton of your clothes peeling from your thighs, clinging to your ass. Rafe groans when you settle over him, soaked center pressed to his cock, separated only by two thin, wet pieces of fabric.

He watches with heavy eyes and parted lips; hands roaming up your back to undo your bra in one quick snap.

“Fuck me,” he mutters, hands cupping your tits as you straddle him. You gasp when his thumbs brush your nipples, body arching into his hands. His mouth latches on, hot and greedy, as you grind down against the outline of him through his boxers.

You keep him pressed right there, tucked up under you, letting his cock throb against your soaked panties as you roll your hips in lazy circles.

“Baby…” He groans, watching the print of himself work against your body.

“Mhmm,” you taunt, hips rolling slow.

“Need to be inside you.” he huffs, voice already hoarse. “You’re makin’ me lose my fuckin’ mind.”

Your pulse spikes as his rough fingers skate up the inside of your thigh, tugging your panties to the side. He moans at the feeling, and you whimper in reply, head falling back to the ceiling as his thumb finds your clit, fingers teasing your drooling hole.

“You know you’re mine, right?” He breathes. “Always mine. Doesn’t matter who’s watching. Only thing that matters is you, okay? Know you’re just bein’ a brat before but I’m serious.”

You nod frantically, thighs shaking.

“Gonna let me film you, pretty? Just gonna keep this one for myself… No one else gets to see you like this but me,” he hums as his hand comes down on your ass, smacking you hard enough that the sound cracks through the car.

“Yes—Fuck,” you moan.

“Good girl.”

You hear the faint sound of him setting his phone in the cupholder, angling it down as his boxers slide low and his cock springs free—hard and heavy between you.

Rafe’s mouth falls open when your hips start to move. Just the tip of him pressed right against your soaked entrance as you roll your hips with a practiced sway, dragging his cock through the slickness.

“Jesus fuck,” he groans; his head thudding back against the seat. “Ugh, that’s it. That’s my fuckin’ girl,” he hums as you sink down on the first few inches, lifting off just enough to show off the sheen of his cock from you.

“Feels so good,” you sigh, playing with the depth, feeling his hips lift off the seat to chase your warm cunt. He’s done with the teasing, biceps and forearms flexing as he pushes you down, taking what he wants, making you cry out from the stretch.

Rafe’s eyes sink to a lust-laced daze, watching your body move in the dark, every bounce of your tits, the flutter of your lashes, the way your breath catches when your clit rubs against his tight body just right.

He palms your ass; massive hands sliding up your thighs, gripping your hips as you keep grinding. “Rafe,” you whisper, pressing your forehead to his with a breath shaky. “You’re so—fuck, you’re so big.”

“Yeah?” He breathes, one hand coming up to fist your hair, the other guiding your hips down harder and faster.

Your eyes pinch shut as he ruts up into you—stretching you wide, splitting you open as he pushes his cock deep.

“Rafe! Fu-uck,” your voice comes out in a sob that has him clenching his jaw, fighting off his climax it sounds so pretty.

“There we go. There’s my girl,” he coos. “You hear that?” He asks as the wet slaps clap through the car. “You’re fuckin’ soaked. Pussy’s mine—you’re fuckin’ mine.” You nod pathetically, so close to your release that’s all you can manage but he wants more—“Say it,” he growls as you tremble in his arms. “Whose pussy is this?”

“Yours,” you gasp. “Only yours.”

“And who’s my girl,” he breathes as his thrusts get harder, chain catching on your wet chest with each punch of his hips.

“I’m—Me. I’m your girl.”

“Yeah? And you feel that, huh?” He pants, drilling up into you. “Nobody fucks you like this. No one even gets close. This is what I need. You. This pussy. This fuckin’ look on your face when I’m buried inside you—when you’re about to cum.”

“Sh-Shit,” you sniffle and stutter. “Right there—fuck, Rafe. Don’t stop. Don’t stop—”

You cum hard with a cry of his name, falling forward as he groans into your shoulder and follows with his own release, cock throbbing and spilling inside you in hot, slow spurts.

You tuck yourself into his neck, breathing heavy together, panting as your body trembles in his big arms. His hands gently smooth up and down your back; lips pressing soft against your skin.

“Damn…” He whispers his voice low and raspy. “I don’t wanna leave.”

You hum in agreement, half-gone, whimpering when he shifts under you.

“My bed sounds so nice right now though,” he chuckles softly, tipping your chin so your gaze reaches his. Rafe’s lips linger with yours, soft and slow now. “Stay with me tonight.”

You smile and nod as you fix the chain resting against his strong chest. Rafe catches your wrist, kissing the inside gently as he watches you with lidded eyes.

He tilts in, hating the space between you. “We can upload this… Watch the other one… Maybe make another one…” His words leave his lips lazily between tender kisses.

“Another one?” You giggle.

“You called me a manwhore. Just livin’ up to the name,” he chuckles as he runs a hand through his wet hair.

“Sounds perfect, baby.”

“You’re perfect. Love you,” he whispers. “Love bein’ yours.”

Your hands cup his face, thumbs brushing against the stubble on his jaw as you soak it all in. Living in the moment with the man that just wanted to make you feel what he felt inside.

You are the only one who gets this…

“I love you too.”

🏷️ @rafesthroatbaby @babygoddam @cherrywriterrr @chriscroissant @littlelamy @imakeepers-world-blog @rafesbabygirlx @bisexualcvnt @love-4-rafey-lando @slut-4-rafey @prettybabyyyy @maybankslover @rafecameronswhoore @leather-n-velvet @user25786433455 @wtfdudesblog @i-love-dilfs @tatoda @krissy455 @mymelii @angelicameron @chem1cali @missmookie @rafespeach @heyitsmewee @taliescapes @lolasangelz @cokewithcameron @k4yr14 @starkeyjoseph @daddyrafeslittleslut @leviathan0000 @luvrcndy @mrswidowjohansson @vanessa-rafesgirl @sapphiresighs @atpeacee @alexxavicry @sithapprentice @spideysimpossiblegirl @dilflover72567 @esmerai-artemis @littleshinythoughts @apricityxoxo @rafecamlovr @sabrina-carpenter-stan-account @boopiesmif @st8rkey @randomdupe @mqndi1

[maybanksbaby]

FIRST DATE .ᐟ sarah cameron x deer!reader ⟡ ˖ ࣪

warnings .ᐟ fluff/comfort, wlw couple ( cause i love girls so much ), basically sarah being so, so sweet with deer ☹️

a/n: finally wrote a sarah fic that isn't smut!!!! never went out with a girl ( or a boy, lol ) but THIS is how i would want it to be

⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪

The invitation hadn’t been for a party, or a bonfire, or a crowded kegger at the Twinyard.

That was the first clue.

Sarah Cameron had asked, with a nervousness that was entirely new for her, if you’d like to go for a drive with her.

Just the two of you.

You’d said yes, of course, your heart doing a frantic, hopeful tap-dance against your ribs.

Now, you were in the passenger seat of her car, the windows down, letting the warm, salty Kildare air whip through the cabin. The radio was on low, playing some classic rock station her dad liked. She drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the gear shift, her fingers tapping a rhythm.

You watched her, the way the setting sun gilded her profile, and felt a familiar, gentle shyness settle over you. You pulled your knees up to your chest, resting your chin on them, content to just observe, to exist in her orbit.

She glanced over, a soft smile playing on her lips. "You good over there?"

You nodded, offering a small smile of your own. "Yeah. It's nice."

She’d driven away from the town, away from the crowds, until the paved roads turned to packed sand and the manicured lawns gave way to sea oats and dunes. She parked where the beach was wide and empty, the only sound the relentless crash and pull of the waves.

“C’mon,” she said, killing the engine.

The sudden silence was profound. She popped her trunk and pulled out an old, worn quilt and a paper bag.

“I didn’t make a five-course meal or anything, so don’t get excited. But I did bribe Kie into letting me raid the fridge at the Wreck.”

She led you to a flat spot just beyond the reach of the waves, spreading the quilt out. The contents of the bag were simple: a container of cut fruit, two bottles of Cheerwine, and a couple of turkey sandwiches from the Wreck.

It was perfect.

You sat cross-legged on the quilt, the soft, worn fabric familiar under your hands. You ate in comfortable silence for a while, listening to the ocean. You were nibbling on a piece of watermelon, careful and quiet, when you felt her watching you. You looked up, meeting her gaze.

She wasn’t smiling her usual dazzling, performative party smile. This was smaller, more real. Her eyes were soft.

“I like this,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper, competing with the waves. “It’s… quiet. With you.”

You felt a warmth spread through your chest that had nothing to do with the setting sun.

You ducked your head, a little flustered by the intensity of her look. “I like it too. Thank you for bringing me here.”

“I wanted to,” she said simply. She shifted closer, until her knee was brushing yours. “I feel like… at parties, you get a little…" She gestured with her hand, searching for the word.

“Overwhelmed?” you offered softly.

“Yeah. Overwhelmed. And you kinda hide in the corners. Which is fine!” she added quickly. “I always find you. But I wanted to do something where you didn’t feel like you had to hide. Where I could just… have you to myself.”

The honesty of it stole your breath away.

This was the real Sarah, the one she kept hidden beneath the glitter and the noise.

The one who noticed things.

The sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in streaks of violet and orange. As twilight deepened, the first fireflies of the evening began to blink in the dunes behind you. One drifted lazily onto the quilt, right between the two of you.

You went perfectly still, your eyes wide, watching its tiny light pulse on and off. You were captivated, all your attention focused on the little insect. You slowly, carefully, reached out a finger, not to touch it, but just to hover near it, your expression one of pure, unguarded wonder.

Sarah didn’t watch the firefly. She watched you.

She watched the way the fading light caught in your eyes, the soft part of your lips, the absolute stillness and gentleness of your entire being. In that moment, you seemed like something magical, something wild and quiet and beautiful that had wandered out of the dunes and onto her blanket.

Her heart ached with a fondness so fierce it was almost painful.

The firefly lifted off and drifted away. You let out a soft sigh, a happy little sound, and turned back to her.

And found her already looking at you, her expression so tender it made your breath catch.

“Hey,” she whispered.

“Hey,” you whispered back.

She leaned in slowly, giving you every chance to pull away. You didn’t. You leaned in too, until your foreheads were touching, your noses brushing.

You could smell her perfume—sunset and salt and... Sarah.

“Can I?” she breathed, her words a ghost against your lips.

Your answer was to close the tiny distance between you.

It wasn’t a dramatic, movie-perfect kiss.

It was soft.

A little hesitant. A first discovery.

Her lips were warm and tasted faintly of Cheerwine. You brought a hand up, not to pull her closer, but to rest it gently on her cheek, your touch as light as a firefly’s landing.

When you pulled apart, the world seemed to have gone even quieter, the ocean holding its breath. You rested your forehead against hers again, both of you breathing shakily, smiling shyly.

Sarah let out a soft, breathy laugh. “Wow.”

You giggled, the sound nervous and happy. “Yeah. Wow.”

She wrapped an arm around your shoulders, pulling you against her side so you could both watch the stars begin to pepper the darkening sky. You tucked your head into the crook of her neck, feeling safe, and seen, and utterly, completely cherished.

It was the best first date you could have ever imagined.

[sweetpogue]

SEVEN MINUTES IN HEAVEN .ᐟ clark kent x bitchy!reader ⟡˖ ࣪

summary .ᐟ clark kent isn't a party guy like most. well, he's not like most guys either. . . he's not used to drinks, and loud music or party games. he's not used to being locked down with his big, evil crush in tight clothes and leather. . . but, let's just say, it really was heaven for clark.

⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪

The bass from the stereo in Whitney Fordman’s basement was so loud it vibrated in your molars. You were leaning against a wall, sipping a disgustingly sweet punch and watching the pathetic spectacle of Smallville High’s “elite” trying to dance.

This party was a dumpster fire, and you were seconds away from calling your dad to come get you.

Then the music cut.

Lana Lang, ever the perky hostess, clapped her hands together. “Okay, everyone! Time for a game!”

A collective groan went up, mixed with a few excited squeals. You rolled your eyes so hard you saw your own brain.

Of course.

A childish party game. Just what this night needed.

“Seven Minutes in Heaven!” Lana announced, holding up an empty soda bottle. “Classic!”

Your stomach dropped. No. Absolutely not. You’d rather French kiss a tractor.

The bottle began to spin. You held your breath, sending a silent, venomous plea out into the universe. Not me. Anyone but me. I will literally cause a scene.

The universe, it seemed, had a truly wicked sense of humor.

The bottle slowed, wobbled, and came to a dead stop, its neck pointing directly at you.

A hush fell over the basement. Then, a wave of giggles and whispers.

Of course. The universe hated you.

Lana’s smile was sickly sweet. “Okay! And for the boy…”

She gave the bottle another spin.

You didn’t even watch. You just stared daggers at a water stain on the ceiling, already planning your revenge on every single person in this room.

The bottle slowed, stopped. A different kind of silence descended. A shocked, almost pitying one.

You looked down.

The bottle was pointing at Clark Kent.

He was standing in the corner, holding a red plastic cup like a shield, his face already turning a spectacular shade of crimson. He looked like he wanted the floor to swallow him whole.

He looked, in a word, pathetic.

“Oh, this is perfect!” Lana trilled, clapping her hands again. She was loving this. “You two, in the closet! Now!”

A chorus of “ooohs” and laughter followed. You saw Whitney Fordman clap Clark on the back with a force that made him stumble, a mocking grin on his face.

Pure, undiluted rage flooded your veins. This was humiliating.

Being trapped in a closet with Clark Kent? The shy, clumsy farm boy who blushed if you so much as looked in his direction?

This was social suicide.

You shoved yourself off the wall, your heels clicking on the concrete floor as you marched toward the storage closet under the stairs. You didn’t look at Clark. You didn’t look at anyone. You yanked the door open and stepped into the pitch-black, cramped space, smelling of old laundry and mildew.

A second later, Clark was gently pushed in after you, and the door was shut, plunging you into utter darkness. You heard the distinct sound of a lock clicking. Cheers and catcalls filtered through the thin door.

For a moment, there was only the sound of his ragged, nervous breathing.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered into the blackness, his voice tight with misery. “I didn’t— I didn’t mean for—”

“Shut up, Kent,” you snapped, your voice cold and sharp. “The last thing I need is your pathetic apologies.”

He fell silent. You could practically feel his shame radiating off him in the dark.

Good. He should be ashamed.

This was his fault by association.

The silence stretched, thick and suffocating. Seven minutes had never felt so long.

“You know,” you said, your voice dripping with disdain, “they probably think we’re in here making out. As if.”

He didn’t reply. You heard him shift his weight, his shoulder brushing against a shelf and making something rattle.

“This is so stupid,” you muttered, crossing your arms over your chest even though he couldn’t see you. “A complete waste of my time.”

More silence. Then, a soft, hesitant sound. “Your… your perfume is really nice.”

You froze. Did he just…?

Was he actually trying to give you a compliment in the middle of this nightmare?

“What did you just say?” you asked, your voice dangerously low.

“I—I said your perfume,” he stammered, his voice gaining a tiny shred of confidence in the anonymity of the dark. “It smells like… like jasmine. And, um, night air. That sounds dumb—Okay, forget the night air thing. Just—yeah, jasmine.”

You were rendered speechless. Not by the compliment, but by the sheer audacity of it. The nerve of this quiet, nobody boy to comment on you, to notice you in such an intimate way when you were actively pretending he didn’t exist.

“You don’t get to have an opinion on my perfume, Kent,” you finally said, your voice like ice.

“I know,” he said softly. “I just… I noticed.”

Something about the way he said it—so honest, so unassuming—pierced through your bitchy exterior. He wasn’t trying to be slick. He was just stating a fact. He’d noticed.

The anger drained out of you, leaving behind a strange, hollow feeling. The darkness felt less hostile suddenly.

It felt… private.

“How much time is left?” you asked, your voice losing its edge.

“I, uh… I think about four minutes,” he said. You could hear the nervous swallow in his voice.

Four more minutes in this closet. With a boy who thought your perfume smelled like night air.

You sighed, leaning back against the door. “This is the worst party I’ve ever been to.”

A beat of silence. Then, a soft, unexpected chuckle from the darkness. “Yeah,” Clark agreed. “It really is.”

And for the first time all night, you found yourself smiling in the dark.

[amaranthine-enihtnarama]

sᴜɢᴀʀ ᴀɴᴅ sᴘɪᴄᴇ (ᴇʀɪᴄ ʟᴏᴠᴇ x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ)

summary: when you start your gig as a prison guard out of university, the last thing you expect is to fall for one of the inmates, even less him falling for you.

warnings: brief mention of child abuse, sexual content, oral sex(f! receiving), slight dubcon, light bondage (handcuffs), unprotected p in v sex, swearing, brief exhibitionism. virgin! eric, reader is same age as him, mildly dom!reader.

divider credits: @uzmacchiato

special thanks to @flixpii for beta reading!!!

No girl dreams of being a prison guard. Maybe a princess, an astronaut, an actress, a doctor for the few with exemplary role models, but the last thing you’d ever think you would’ve become as a little girl was a prison guard. For one, you would’ve had to know what a prison was, let alone a criminal. You never knew what you wanted to be, though, and you supposed that was why you’d ended up a year deep in the gig, fresh out of university, pretending you knew what you were doing with your life. 

Your parents had been horrified when they’d learned of your new job. They insisted it was no place for a sweet, tiny thing like yourself. You couldn’t argue with that. You weren’t small, though. A little tall even, but lacked any muscles or harsh glares to ward some no-do-gooder off. But, you had your invisibility, and that proved effective enough. Most of the time you were in front of the surveillance monitors during your shift, where you could listen to Alice Coltraine and scribble your way through chess puzzles in peace. The problems came when they sent you in to interact with convicts. 

You were fresh meat. Simple as that. Thrown to the wolves by a sadistic boss. But you learned fast. 

You learned how to communicate with your fellow guards, how to offer them a smile and remember their names so they’d remember yours; you learned the smile trick worked on the prisoners, too, so long as they were men, and a little bit older than you. You learned to pick up martial arts classes, Judo, which hadn’t been mentioned as a necessity when you answered the bulletin board ad and they asked how soon you could start. You quickly understood that the prison meant eyes everywhere. You were being watched even when you didn’t think you were. 

One day, your boss had come up to you after you’d left the restroom on break, his angular face grave as death, eyes pinning down your soul. He gestured to the chess puzzle book tucked under your arm and simply said, “He wants to play you.” You knew better to ask questions, simply nodded, and you were led to the mysterious ‘he’.

It was a dreary, tired English morning with rain pattering against the large windowpane above the D-Block. It was persistent in its rattle, but seemed to soothe the otherwise tense and rowdy men that talked amongst themselves and played pool almost meditatively. They eyed you and your boss curiously as you passed and approached the stairs, giving him suspicious glances he undoubtedly deserved, giving you a polite nod. Some smiled, those with salt and pepper hair and a gut straining against their waistbands, and greeted you with “Mornin’, Sugs.” 

Sugar is what they called you, shortened to Sugs. It wasn’t your name but you’d rather they not know it at all in the end. After all, you weren’t planning to stick around long.

 He led you upstairs to the third floor, passing the net hanging over the lower levels, keys jingling against his hip. He spared a single glance back at you, considering you with no discernible emotion, perhaps concern, but it seemed unlikely that now would be the time he would develop any sense of protectiveness for you. He was just another wolf. 

He only told you one thing before leaving you with your mysterious caller. “Don’t say anything stupid.”

You watched him as he turned on his heel and descended the stairs, eyebrows lowered over his pressing gaze. You broke your stare on him to focus on the stranger in front of you, hesitating to enter, as he didn’t immediately acknowledge you. The man lit a cigarette with a steady hand. He had slick, black hair that ended at the base of his skull, tattoos on his hands and more ink that crept around his neck. Smoke billowed in front of his long, sharp nose as he peered at you through his square, frameless spectacles, eyes narrowing in a friendly manner. 

“You’re taller up close,” he remarked, ashing his cigarette. 

You lingered by the door in silence. He gestured for you to come in, presenting the seat across from him at his small table. A worn chess board sat in the center, pieces dully glimmering under the warm fluorescent lights. You sat down, swallowing, tugging your black sweater further down your waist when it rode up. It was a size too small, but you had to get it under short notice. 

He regarded you calmly, watching your rigid posture slowly relax into a neutral position. Your eyes never left his, taking in the icy blue as your palms slowly wiped off sweat on your black pants. You cleared your throat as he exhaled smoke, looking down at the board. 

“Quiet one, aren’t you?” 

Your eyes flitted up to him briefly before looking back down at the board. “Black or white?” 

“Your choice,” he offered, placing his cigarette in a crystal ashtray. 

You turned the board gently so the black pieces were yours. He smiled slightly as he eyed you. 

“You don’t want the first move?” 

You stayed silent, nodding to the board. With a slight chuckle, he took the King’s pawn and moved it two squares forward into the center. The game was quick. He played like an amateur, but you were gentle with his defeat. You ignored when he left hanging pieces and only took it if it remained two moves after. You only employed obvious tactics he might notice, playing into his natural tunnel vision, and let him approach a mating pattern before ending the game. He sat back, picking his cigarette back up and taking a long, heavy drag. Another chuckle rode out with the smoke from his thin, pale lips. He nodded to himself, muttering something under his breath, then looked up from the board to look at you straight on. 

“Went easy on me, didn’t you?” 

You looked away, but a small smile tugged at the corner of your mouth as your eyes wandered the room, glancing between the bed, the stacks of books, the methodically lined posters of ships on the wall. 

“Generous,” he acknowledged, “I see why they say you’re the sweet one.” 

Your cheeks flushed slightly at the description, but slight amusement curled your mouth upward. There weren’t many people in your life that would use such a description. You were abrupt, asocial, and frigid. Guys would try to talk you up at the pub and you’d ignore them for your game of pool, but used them for drinks when your wallet ran thin. You were quiet at weddings and disengaged at funerals, scribbling in your chess books and diaries, ignoring the demanding stares from your mother to blend in. Your schoolmates certainly remembered the courtyard fights between you and other vicious girls, especially the one after you secretly snipped a blonde’s hair when she called your secondhand shoes disgusting. Not even you considered yourself sweet, if you had any flavor at all. If anything, you tasted bitter, or just painful, like dry ice. You left the tongue injured and bruised and burned. 

“Another game?” He requested. 

You nodded, resetting the pieces, taking white this time around. He put up more of a fight, and you responded in kind. He had some tricks up his sleeve, pins and discovered attacks, but you were able to maneuver them with ease. You had seen too many games, played too many prepubescent boys as a child to be surprised by the fake-out routine. You had ravaged his setup and taken away his pieces, leaving him with stray pawns and a running King in the endgame. Now you were clinched in pursuit and escape, and he was hunched over the board, squinting at your queen and paired bishops like they’d change position if he drilled them hard enough with his eyes. It was mate in two, you both knew, but only he seemed to think there was still a way out. 

Footsteps scraped up behind you, but you kept your eyes on the board. A large presence loomed in the doorway. 

“Dennis,” the presence said. 

The black-haired man raised a hand, holding his chin delicately as he devoured the board with his eyes. 

You held back a sigh, stealing a glance at the new stranger leaned up against the white brick. He was older, slim, with spider web tattoos on his neck and gray hair that cropped around his temples. He eyed you harshly, and you held his stare until you heard a piece thump on the board and snapped your head back to attention. The black-haired man—Dennis, you now knew—gestured for him to enter, and the man brushed past you, eyes boring into your skull. You took a pawn instead of closing in on the king to be polite.

“What’s a kanga doin’ in here,” the man gruffly demanded. 

Dennis didn’t answer, pushing his pawn. You checked him from a far range, forcing him the next rank down on the board. He sighed quietly as you looked up at him. Your bishops cut off two of his escape squares now, only leaving the last square that was checked, and the next one further down the rank. He caught your gaze as he eyed you with a glint of amusement. 

“Mate in one,” he said. 

You simply nodded, then thought to offer, “Want to play it out?” 

The man huffed in annoyance as he sat down on Dennis’ bed, the hinges squeaking under his weight. Dennis smiled, then set down his burnt out cigarette with another sigh. 

“No, no thank you. You’ve educated me enough with these two games.” 

He nodded as if to dismiss you—it was strange to you that a prisoner held such an air of authority. Still, you accepted it and rose to your feet. You nodded again, taking one last glance at the stranger, then left the cell. You exhaled as you did, easing past a pair of hulking men in conversation, surprised you had been holding your breath at all. 

As you descended the stairs, a body flew up against you, colliding against your shoulder roughly. You grunted in surprise, catching their attention, meeting sharp blue eyes as you lost your footing on the steps. Hands grabbed your waist to steady you as you leaned, and you gasped, grabbing onto the railing and regaining the ground beneath your feet. The hands quickly released you, but the eyes lingered. You leaned back, taking a second to scan the face. The wrinkles of the forehead as he frowned, the slight bulbousness of his nose, the soft slope of his jaw. The soft pink lips quirked into a brief smile, and everything shifted. There was a flash of intrigue that caught you off guard as the face moved back and rejoined the body, revealing the slight build of the young man in front of you. You took a breath, and stepped down, glancing back up at him with a controlled expression.

“Sorry, Ma’am,” he apologized, then he bounded up the stairs, leaving you alone to linger just a moment too long before rushing down. 

You breezed through the cell block, avoiding the stares of inmates as you quickly pulled your keys from your hip and unlocked the gate, slipping through and wincing at the sound of it clicking shut behind you. You took deep breaths. It was just a bump. Nothing more. 

The rest of your shift went on as expected—Journey in Satchidananda, humming monitors, a cup of stale coffee. But your mind wandered. You thought back to the games you’d shared with Dennis, to the surly man glaring holes through your face, to the man your age with the flickering eyes. The hours did little to curb the distraction, and you mused on his face as your eyes meandered screens and hands mindlessly pressed buttons. You’d recounted everything. The slight scent of harsh detergent and shower gel, the cigarette tucked behind one of his flaring ears, a teasing peek of crooked teeth as his eyes scanned your face. Why hadn’t you noticed him before? 

You swiveled in your chair, eyes lolling over to your two coworkers standing at their computer screens. Tapping your teeth with your pen, you played with the idea of asking one of them who the inmate was, but then you decided against it—-all those two cared about were pints and batons. You didn’t want them to start any small talk either. Bobbing the pen in your mouth with your teeth, you turned away, fixing your eyes on the monitor. There was nothing interesting to be seen, not ever. But maybe if you paid attention, just maybe, you’d see him again. 

A few days passed, and he reappeared in the gym. At first you didn’t notice him from your dark, gated cubicle, eyes trained on your fresh set of tactics to decode, but after a sidelong glance to check in on the inmates exercising, you did a double take, lowering your feet from the desk. He was lithe, muscular. It wasn’t new to see muscles on a prisoner, but his lean figure was pleasing to the eye—he wasn’t beefed up like everyone else. He paid you no mind as he passed your small viewing window and walked over to the mat. Perhaps he didn’t know you were there. You hoped so. You hoped he wasn’t ignoring you. 

You set down your book, propping up your chin on your folded hands and watching him. He glanced around the room, then got down to the ground with another prisoner, settling on his knuckles and doing pushups. You stared openly, emboldened by your dark corner, shutting off your reading light. You watched his arms, the muscles ripple and flex, his pectorals peeking through his wifebeater just the right amount. The inmate suddenly stopped, balancing his legs on the wall and doing push-ups upside down. He paused and settled on his knees to watch, head cocking in interest. Quickly, he mimicked the position, trying a go and collapsing onto his head. You chuckled as his legs flailed slightly and met the ground, leaning back in your chair and going back to your puzzles, but not before you watched him get back up and try it again. You put in your earbuds as the inmate held his feet. His biceps bulged as he pushed himself up. 

Piano chords and softly brushed drums played in your ears as you sat back, propping your feet back up. He moved around the room for a moment, going towards the weights, but stopped and faced another inmate. The man lifted a pair of sandals strapped onto his hands, eyes smoldering with intensity, the whites shining like beacons against his glistening ochre skin. He said something to the young man, then nodded and clapped the sandals together. The young man gave a right jab. Then a left. Then three, four, five in succession. A hook. Ducking under the sweep of the older man’s arm and shooting out with his left fist. You bit your lip slightly, drawn in. He moved so fast, so sharp—your eyes could barely process it. 

The heavy metal door scraped open behind you.

“Switch out.” 

Your spine shot up straight at the sound of your boss’s voice, and you felt yourself sweat as if you’d been caught. Casually, you swung your feet off of the desk and picked up your book and iPod, wrapping the headphone wires around it and shoving it in your pocket as you stood. A portly man brushed past you with a paper cup of tea, taking your seat with a sigh. You met your boss’s eyes as you exited the small room, stepping into the metal-lined corridor. The door shut harshly as he turned to face you. His narrow, angular face reminded you of a rat’s as he looked down at you. 

“He wants to play you again,” he said. 

You checked your watch, then looked away before lightly protesting. “Supposed to be my break.” 

His face hardened, sparse brows lowering over his eyes. “Now.” 

You held his stare, just for a second. Inmates shuffled past the two of you as your gazes pierced one another, then broke as you looked away with a short nod, tapping your book against your thigh. With an irate blink, he turned his back on you and led the way, but a chuckle caught your attention before you followed. You turned your head to catch him as he exited the doorway with a sheen of sweat over his peach pale skin, a smile resting loftily on his face as he turned back to someone still inside the inmates’ locker room. Then his eyes set on you. 

He stopped. 

Paused. 

His smile broadened slightly. Your eyes flashed a second in surprise. He lingered in the corridor, giving you a nod. 

“Ma’am.” 

The word had a slight lilt of humor to it this time. It was obvious you weren’t much older than him, let alone if you weren’t the same age. You looked him up and down, controlling your face, then quickly turned on the ball of your heel and caught up with your boss. Your heartbeat had quickened a few paces. 

Your boss led you down to the yellow, lumbering doors of the classrooms and opened one for you, standing rigidly, waiting for you to enter. Head tilted slightly downward, you did, and skimmed your thumb over the fresh pages of your book with a slight nervous edge as you saw the same harsh-faced stranger from before. He sat at the board, Dennis leaned against a long table with a cigarette hanging idly between his fingers. He smiled at you in greeting. 

“Neville wants to give it go.” 

You looked at Neville with a blank face. He sniffed, leaning back and crossing his arms, jutting his head toward the board. You already didn’t like him very much. 

He watched you sit down, then moved the King two squares forward. You opened with your Queen’s bishop’s pawn this time, moving it forward one square and setting your book down in your lap. Dennis came over and offered you a cigarette. You accepted it and a spark from his lighter, taking a drag, then leaned forward on your elbows and focused on the game. Smoke framed your face, creeping up along the peach fuzz of your cheeks.

“What’s your name,” Neville asked, moving his King’s knight towards the center of the board, next to the pawn, “I know it’s not Sugar.” 

“Smith.” 

You pushed your Queen’s pawn into the center. His stare pressed down on you as you ignored it for the board. Dennis chuckled over you, raising his eyebrows at Neville. 

“Careful, Nev,” he warned, “She’s a quiet killer.” 

Neville snorted as he brought out his second Knight to defend his pawn from your challenge. “Yeah, we’ll see.” 

You took his pawn anyway. He took back with his Knight. You offered up your Kingside knight, and, as expected, he took it and put you in check. You took back with your pawn. Dennis’s eyes darted between you two and the board as the moves sped up. 

“You’re a bit young, Smith,” Neville said as you attacked his knight with your light-squared Bishop, “Don’t got better things to do than be a kanga?”

“Nope,” you said with a pop.

He kicked the piece back a square with his pawn after the two of you developed a couple of pieces, him making a pawn chain and you developing your knight. He took the king’s file with his rook, and you attacked one of his bishops with your knight. He retreated the bishop all the way back to to the front of his rook with a sniff, and you pinned it with your rook across the file on the other side of the board. Your eyes locked onto him sharply while you leaned back. Neville eyed you with some unease from the sudden change, and hesitated to move.

Tentatively, he brought out his queen. 

You took his kingside knight with the bishop he had kicked back, and he immediately took back with his, forgetting about the bishop protecting the rook. You took the rook with yours, giving him a back-rank mate.

“Fuck me,” he hissed under his breath, catching his face in his hands. 

You smiled lightly, resetting the board on instinct, lining up the pieces with fluid movements. Nevile lowered his hands, watched, then made a noise of disbelief. 

“Fuck off, you’re a pro,” he remarked, “You’re a slick one.”

“Bit young for a pro,” you quipped. 

He scoffed and abruptly got to his feet, turning to Dennis and gesturing towards you. “Fucking cheater, this one.”

You quirked a brow in amusement as he stormed out and slammed the door behind him. Dennis chuckled, taking his seat in his stead, pulling out another cigarette and watching you. 

“I like you, Smith.”

You didn’t answer, just adjusted the pieces, cigarette balanced between your pointer and middle finger. Dennis lit his cigarette, gaze fixed onto your flat expression as you sighed and folded your hands, staring at the board. You met his gaze hesitantly as he exhaled smoke. 

“Your eyes,” he remarked, pointing to you, “They’re sharp. And the way you play—you don’t miss a single thing.” 

“It’s just a game,” you said plainly, puffing on your cigarette. 

“Life’s a game if you play it right.” 

You gave a chuckle, but he didn’t laugh. He didn’t even offer up a smile. He just looked at you, and it gave you pause. So far, Dennis hadn’t seemed to take you this seriously. 

“You’re smart. Too smart for the bullshit work Haynes gives you behind those screens.” 

You hesitated, thinking of your boss’s words. Don’t say anything stupid. You leaned back, ashing your cigarette on the floor, then frowned. 

“I’m not looking to make this a career.” 

Dennis smiled, cigarette hanging from his lips. He leaned to the side and reached into his pocket, pulling out a thin envelope and placing it on the chess board. You eyed it warily before slowly picking it up, seeing five hundred pounds cash in a few modest bills. You frowned deeply. 

“What’s this for?” 

“An assignment. If you’re up for it.” 

“Probably not,” you answered frankly, returning the envelope to the board. 

He gave a patronizing sigh, picking up the envelope and handing it to you. Your body tensed as you realized it wasn’t a matter of negotiation—you had an assignment, whether you wanted it or not. With a hesitant reach, you took the envelope. 

“Should be enough for a proper dinner.” 

You studied him as you slid the envelope into your pocket. His goodnatured smile returned, and he gestured towards you kindly. 

“Tupperware of canned spaghetti-o’s day in day out can’t be good for you.” 

Your face hardened. He had been watching you much longer than he let on. He brushed off your stony expression as you let the cigarette burn out between your fingertips, staring him down.

“What do you want, then?” 

“I need someone looked after.” 

You raised your brows in question. He relented, opening his palms towards you. 

“We had a group for the inmates, therapy kind of thing. The man for it turned in his badge. I need an alternative.” 

Your confusion only mounted, and you cocked your head at him. “You’re whoring me out?”

He seemed shocked by the idea, letting out a breathy chuckle. “No, no, hardly. I just need a…feminine touch.” 

You squinted at him. “Sounds like whoring.” 

“You’d be surprised how far a little can go in a place like this.” 

He glanced back down at the board, effectively settling the matter. “Just keep it sweet, yeah?” 

A sick, cold feeling settled in your stomach as you leaned forward and started the game. It was really that simple wasn’t it? Sending you off to honeypot an inmate without so much as a hesitation, starting a new chess game as if it was casual conversation. You tried to take it in, but you couldn't swallow it with visions of leery middle-aged men and sour smelling breath plaguing you. You swallowed as he moved his pawn and gave you a quick smile. 

“Who is he,” you asked, trying not to rub your eyebrows. 

“Eric Love. He’s starred up. Your age.” 

He was Eric Love. Your handsome stranger with the flickering eyes. Eyes that watched you closely. 

Now that you were on D Block, you had less time with your puzzles, lest you get a reprimanding glare from your boss, so you paced aimlessly while you listened to jazz and awkwardly rested a hand on your baton. The inmates were kind enough, recognizing your discomfort, some prodding at you for looking so green out among them. But you gave no reaction, just a nod or a small smile and greeting (with the name, of course), and went about your silent stroll. 

He caught you while you passed his cell.

“What’s your name,” he asked. 

Despite your usual self, you jumped. He had appeared next to you without any sign of his arrival. His eyes measured you without concealment, with clear intention to pry you open, and it made you want to shrink. You cleared your throat, keeping your cool as he cocked his head at you and waited for you to answer. 

“Smith.” 

“Smith,” he repeated, giving that slight grin that made you sweat, “I’m Eric.” 

He held out his hand for you to shake. You hesitated, briefly glancing around to see if anyone was watching you, particularly any guards. Quickly, you shook it, feeling a light jump in your pulse from the contact. His hand was rough, firm, with beautiful long fingers that grazed your skin. Your eyes darted away as you let go and gave him a curt nod. 

“Eric,” you said, unsteadily resting your hand on your radio, “Did you need something?” 

Grin still on his face, he shook his head and moved back inside his cell. For a moment, you felt the urge to follow him in, like he had leashed you with his gaze, and if it were some bathroom stall in a pounding, sweaty club you would have, but it wasn’t. You were lingering though, and he seemed to see what was in your mind despite your stone-flat face. The teeth bared in a wider grin, and you quickly moved on before a flush crept into your cheeks. 

You thanked God when you finally returned to your kingdom of buzzing screens. You had so many pages to fill that had been neglected for hours, juicy traps, mates in three, squares, pieces, simplicity. But as your pen scribbled, you weren’t soothed. There was something in your stomach, an unfamiliar feeling. It wriggled and knotted you up and demanded to be acknowledged as you stifled it with cup after cup of steaming tea, trying to get rid of it, but it only dug its roots in further. It held your spine taut, your eyes pried open, kept you perched in your seat during the hours when normally you’d be fending off the siren song of rest. It made dread grip your heart, and it only grew as your shift ended and you went home. 

You kicked the door shut with your foot as you set down your grocery bag with a heaving sigh, peeling off your raincoat as a gentle shower lulled outside, calling you to collapse onto your couch and pass out. But, your stomach growled and clawed at itself, so you unlaced your shoes and slipped them off, flicked on the lights, and made your way to the kitchen. 

Your apartment was small but cultivated. Everything was clean and spotless in your kitchen, perfectly organized, mostly thanks to disuse. A pot of growing oregano sat on the dining table attached to the stove, a high black metal chair tucked as close under it as the step into the tiny kitchen would allow. You put your few groceries into your red mini-fridge—four apples, a couple bags of green beans, a cheap bottle of red wine, a hearty cut of beef, some lemon gelato for the empty freezer. You set a bag of spinach, a can of pasta sauce, and a box of rigatoni on the wooden counter next to the sink and pulled your lone blue dutch oven out from the shelf beneath it, filling it with water and putting it on the cheap, white stove. You turned the burner and watched the fire click to life, sprinkled some salt into the water, then put the lid on. 

There was no implication of company in your home. The rule of threes reigned supreme in your kitchen: three plates, three bowls, three glasses. It only broke for a large orange mixing bowl and a single white mug. Everything was more colorful than you’d liked, but with a studio filled with housewarming gifts from doting aunts and grandmothers, you figured beggars shouldn’t be choosers. You stepped down out of the kitchen and tugged off your black sweater and black trousers, both chilled from the cold, damp day and the even colder bus ride home. With a shiver, you pulled on some flannel pajamas pants and a brown wool sweater that gently cocooned your torso, softened and worn with age. It had been your father’s, the only thing you had of him aside from the memory of him taking his sentence in the courtroom and a soft, defeated smile your way. 

Pushing away the memory, you turned on the TV and let the news play over the suffocating silence within the walls, stepping into your black slippers and going back to the boiling dutch oven. You poured in the rigatoni and left a corner open to vent, picking up the thick book of chess openings that you had left open this morning before leaving for your shift. You flipped to the Sicilian and began to read through, following the moves in your head. The feeling in your stomach had softened upon returning to your safe haven, but it suddenly pulsed as your mind wandered. 

Keep it sweet. 

The dutch oven boiled over. You took a sharp inhale, gingerly picking up the lid and using a large wooden spoon to stir the boiling pasta. The steam fanned against your face and coated your hand as you winced at its heat, turning down the burner slightly. You sighed heavily and rubbed the bridge of your nose. There were worse things you could be forced to do for your job. Visions of Eric’s arms swirled behind your eyes as you stared down blankly at the milky water. Their sinews, their fluid movements, his hands on your hips, his arms around your neck—

The dutch oven boiled over again as you fell still. Your eyebrows raised at your own thoughts—so that’s how it is, then? Shaking your head to cast them off, you finished stirring the rigatoni and, once it softened, you poured the pasta into a strainer propped up over the sink, careful not to knock it over with the flow of boiling water. You rinsed the rigatoni with cold water from the tap, then poured in the marinara into the Dutch oven, adding some spices and spinash, then the pasta, and cooked it slowly. Not long after, dinner was served. 

You sat cross-legged on your couch, watching the news and blowing the steam off of your pasta with a bowed head.

 The sweater still smelled like him, your father. It had the strong floral scent of your detergent, but hints of his hours in the garage working on his motorcycles lingered. It made you think of your chipped front tooth from falling on the edge of a sandbox when you were five, of being picked up from school with bruised hands and your father chuckling as you climbed into his beaten, sand-colored truck. He’d listened to classic rock; you never cared for it. But he loved it. He loved riding his bikes by the coast where you two lived, the wind beating against his leather riding coat that reeked of cologne. Sometimes you’d come into the garage to the stench of marijuana and gasoline as he took a break, leaned back in his chair, spliff glowing dimly in the low light. When you came in he’d turn his head loftily, hazy eyes softening, a gentle smile softening his hard face. 

It had been years since you’d seen him, since your mother divorced him and forbade you from ever seeing him again. When you were a teenager you sent him letters, but after she found and burned them you gave up. You never fought back. That was who you were. The quiet child, the one who learned to stay quiet because your mother was faster, stronger, hit harder. 

You chewed your pasta in silence, swallowing on a scratchy throat. You ignored the stinging of your eyes as the memories played in the back of your mind. You had learned not to cry, either.

It wasn’t long until Eric Love ended up in isolation. He had gotten into a fight with his father—Neville, you learned—and the two had shared some blows. You watched the two get dragged past your monitors in stunned silence, and your throat closed when your boss trailed after, turning his head to you, eyes piercing through the glass, and he made a sharp, jutting motion with his hand for you to follow him. Your hand gripped your baton reflexively as you rose from your chair, heart jumping as their yells reached your ears. Furious insults were thrown back and forth that you didn’t understand. You lingered slightly behind your boss as he watched them thrash and struggle against the guards’ grips on them, bending them over and herding them through the gate into segregation. You eyed their rough handling of the two with a slight scrunch of your eyes as they crowded Neville and Eric into cells, handcuffing them. Neville’s voice echoed loudly against the walls as he ranted and raved, continuing the struggle against his captors, but Eric’s cell was oddly quiet as you and your boss entered. 

He was taking deep, heavy breaths to calm himself. His eyebrows were tightly knitted, face tense with rage, but it slowly relaxed the longer he took these inhales and exhales, eyes shut as the guards pressed his face against the bed and cuffed his wrists. Palms sweating, you looked to your boss, who was disturbingly transfixed. He moved over to Eric, placing a hand on his face and stroking his eyelid with his thumb, studying him closely, making your stomach turn. You swallowed, inching over to the door to excuse yourself, but your boss caught you out of the corner of his eye as he straightened up. 

“No. You stay.” 

A chill ran down your spine as you slowly attached yourself to the wall. The guards dispersed from around Eric as he softened against the bed, pushing himself upright by his knee and planting his foot on the ground. The men shuffled out in a single line, your boss staying behind at the side of the door, cooly watching Eric, then sliding his eyes over to you in a silent command. Keep it sweet. 

He stepped out of the cell in one sweeping movement, then shut you in with Eric. 

The rope that had knotted in your stomach tightened as the lock bolted shut, and you soon felt Eric’s stare fixing onto you. Gradually you were able to lift your gaze from the small opening at the bottom of the door to his eyes. He was still breathing heavily, watching you, his expression quizzical. 

“Why’d they lock you in?” 

You couldn’t say it. You licked your dry lips, eyes darting away as you moved to the door. The small window that guards looked into the cells with opened, and you met your boss’s blistering glare. He held you in place with it and you retreated from the door in defeat. You looked at Eric, the door, then shoved your hands into your pockets, moving to the far corner of the room by the toilet. 

“I’m supposed—“ 

You cleared your throat, eyebrows furrowing at your weak voice. “I’m supposed to look after you.” 

He raised a brow, stepping to the bed and taking a seat, considering you. Amusement built on his face, and he began to laugh. 

“You’re putting out for the big man, then?” 

Your face flushed with warmth and humiliation as you looked away. Eric’s laughter slowly stopped, and his lips drooped slightly in disbelief. His blue eyes widened.

“Fuck me, you’re serious.” 

You rubbed your chin awkwardly, sniffing and glancing towards the door. Neville was still screaming, loud enough to hear through the thick metal of Eric’s cell door. Footsteps departed from outside, following the commotion. You let out a quiet breath, spine sagging. 

“He’s fucking ridiculous,” Eric remarked, eyes trained on the door. “Fucking stupid pathetic arsehole.” 

He spat the words out, but his face betrayed him. His gaze was heavy, lowering to the ground for a moment before fixing back onto you. He lifted his head and eyed you up and down. You felt your breath constrict under his stare, your heartbeat’s pace raised. Unable to hold his gaze, you looked away, studying the pristine toilet, the slight rust around its lip. Behind your back, you scratched at a clammy finger, trying not to look as pathetically afraid as you felt. 

He stood. He took a hesitant step towards you, then another, more confident one. Soon, he’d closed the space between you, leaning forward to catch your gaze. Timidly, you let him, looking at him as you inhaled his scent. Detergent, soap, sweat. 

“What’re you gonna do for me,” he asked, voice lowered. 

Your heart caught in your throat. You tried to swallow it down to speak, but you couldn’t. The silence beared heavy down between you as he stood tall, not exactly matching your height but successfully making you shrink yours. His hands were cuffed, you reminded yourself, he couldn’t harm you. With his hands, at least. A small smile formed on his face, and he leaned closer, prodding you with his eyes. 

“Hm? What’re you gonna do?” 

His voice softened, and a shiver passed through you. His eyes flitted down to your mouth, smile becoming a smirk, and he moved closer, his chest lightly grazing yours. Your sharp inhale betrayed you, eyes briefly fluttering shut before you fought to keep your eyes open, fought to keep some stake of dignity. His eyes sparkled in the light coming down from the upper window as they fixed onto yours, searching for a response. He nudged his nose against yours gently, gentler than you’d ever expect, lips ghosting over yours. 

“Tell me…” 

Your throat loosened and you finally sucked in a breath, head leaning back against the cold brick wall. He swallowed, staring at your lips, forehead slightly wrinkled. He was waiting, you realized. Feeling a bit emboldened, you leaned towards him to press your lips against his, but he leaned back with a snicker, head cocking slightly before tilting straight again. You gripped your wrist behind your hips, arms mirroring his. 

“Anything,” you whispered. 

“Anything?”

You inhaled slowly as his pupils widened and he stepped closer, crowding you against the wall. 

“I’m starred up, you know,” he said, voice dragging like fingers over your skin, “I’m a dangerous man. I could do anything. ‘Specially to a kanga.” 

You could feel the heat coming off of his body, feel his steady heartbeat against your thundering one. He smiled at the feeling, nudging your nose again to make you look at him straight on. 

“Does that make you nervous?” 

You lied. “No.” 

He chuckled softly, shifting in his cuffs. “Do I make you nervous?” 

You swallowed, saliva thick on your tongue. “No.” 

You could only imagine what his hands would be doing as his eyes wandered over your chest, your hips, and observed the slight flaring of your nostrils. He could see through you. You could feel it, see it in the amusement on his face. 

“Then why are you shaking?”

As if to prove his point, your breath trembled against his mouth. “I’m not.”

You hardened your face as he smiled at you. “I’m not,” you insisted. 

He only laughed quietly, taking in every detail of your face as if it would be the last time he’d ever see it. 

“Cute,” he muttered, leaning in towards your lips. 

Your mouths met, lips finally touching, and heat spread from between your thighs throughout your whole body. You shuddered gently, eyelids betraying you as they fell shut, as you inhaled his breath, feeling it ghost over your tongue. 

Anything.

Your mouths sealed over each other eagerly, then slowly, taking in the taste of both tongues, the velvety feel of them as they eased against each other, then parted. Eric let out a weak sigh as your lips drooped against his, then separated. You moved towards him with a heaving breath, your arms like lead as you lifted them and skimmed your fingertips over the tendons of his forearms, then gripped his triceps and pulled him in, fully closing any space that was left between your bodies. Eric grunted into your next kiss, pressing his body against you, hips jutting towards yours. The friction of your clothes set your skin on fire and you hummed into his mouth as you drank in his breath again, rubbing your thumbs against the hard muscle of his biceps, massaging the flesh. 

“You want me to fuck you, then,” he asked, voice hushed against your mouth, “S’that what you want? Want me to fuck you?” 

You didn’t answer. You were too busy easing your hands over his torso, feeling the rigid musculature of his body with quiet fervor. You wanted him. You needed him. From the moment your eyes met, you were completely his. He pressed his forehead against yours sharply, watching your hands, lips trembling. 

“Take these fuckin’ cuffs off,” he breathed out, steadying himself against you, “Take them the fuck off…”

Your hands ventured lower, skimming the bottom of his shirt and the ribbed waistband of his gray sweats. He froze. You looked at the small cool-toned veins of his eyelids as you slid your fingers around the waistband, brushing your knuckles against his hips. 

“Look at me,” you whispered. 

His eyes flitted up to yours, that clear sapphire blue darkened with desire, with need. You lifted one of your hands and slowly licked it, then slipped your hand under his boxers to grasp his length. He groaned, eyes shutting, and you clicked your tongue in a reprimand. 

“Look at me,” you repeated, a small smirk reaching your lips, “I want you to.”

You squeezed Eric’s cock gently, watching his pupils bloom in his eyes, feeling his heart rate start to increase. He was well-sized, heavy, pulse thrumming through the veins on his shaft against your fingers. Gently, you stroked him, biting your lip as you felt the heat build into slick in your underwear. He leaned forward and pressed his lips against yours, tongue grazing against your teeth, and you opened your mouth for him, tongues dancing within your soft panting.

His hips began to move into your strokes as you picked up the pace, only briefly taking your hand back to spit on it and go back to your task—only it wasn’t a task, was it? In this moment, it was everything. His scent, his breath, his pulse, his pleasure. 

“Do you want me to fuck you, Eric,” you asked quietly, “Would you like that?” 

He only nodded and swallowed thickly, his inhale funneling up his nostrils as you tightened your hand and slowly squeezed your way to the base of his cock. The inside of your wrist grazed the soft tufts of pubic hair that surrounded it. You sighed. 

“Get on your knees,” you breathed. 

He lowered himself quickly, eyes fixed and looking up at yours with a soft longing that only made the way your ribs constrained around your lungs worse. You turned off your radio and unbuckled your utility belt, slowly letting it drop to the ground without making noise. His eyes barely lowered to watch you unbutton your trousers before they returned to yours with a darkened leer. You chuckled as you unizipped them, and nodded, giving him permission to look at your body as you lowered your trousers around your thighs with a shimmy of your hips. He licked his lips and pressed up on his knees, teeth grazing the small pink bow at the top of your underwear hem as he bit them and dragged the fabric off your hips and down your thighs. 

You’d shaved last night, so the soft skin of your mound was exposed to the cold air. He stared at it, transfixed, then leaned forward and pressed his face between your thighs and inhaled deeply. 

“Fuck,” he muttered, the sound barely coming out a vibration in his throat. 

Your body tensed as he nudged his nose against your clit, inhaling your scent again, then ran his tongue over the lips of your pussy. You shivered, parting your legs further without even thinking—your skin was hot, your blood pumping; you had no more reservations left to bear. He buried his face further between your thighs, tongue exploring between your folds eagerly but with haphazard abandon. You blinked and glanced down at him curiously as his tongue stalled, then stopped. Your head cocked slightly, and a smile grew on your face. 

“Eric, is this your first time eating someone’s pussy?” 

He reared his head back, eyes drifting away sheepishly. “No.” 

You grinned at his embarrassment, eyes dizzy with lust. You gently took his jaw to make him look up at you and led him back between your legs, hand skimming over his buzzed hair and pressing against the back of his head gently. His eyebrows raised as he held your gaze, tongue easing out from between his lips and swiping at your clit as you parted your pussy lips for him. He dragged his tastebuds over it slowly. 

“You don’t have to be so gentle,” you reassured him.

He smiled against you and licked again, this time with more force. He began to find a rhythm following the hitch of your breaths, and you broke your connected stare, resting your head against the wall as he lapped eagerly at your bundle of nerves. He pushed up on his knees, groaning lowly, pressing his weight forward so he could bury his face into your pussy with abandon. His tongue hit a sensitive spot and your fingers dug into his skull and you stifled a moan. 

He opened his mouth, jaw working as he ventured further to your slick and tasted it with the tip of his tongue. With a muffled ‘fuck’, he strained against his handcuffs, trying to reach your hole with his mouth and grazing your clit with his teeth in the process, your hips jerked forward and you gasped. 

“Yeah,” you whispered, “Like that…” 

His mouth sealed over your cunt as he craned his head. Suddenly, he sucked. 

“Mmh,” you moaned, stifling the sound with the back of your hand. “Do that again.”

He nudged his head further between your thighs and wrapped his lips around your clit intuitively, sucking at it with a grin pulling at the corners of his mouth. Your body rolled, hips pushing into his face as he repeated the motion, lapping and sucking, making your head buzz, making quiet whimpers shamefully choke out from your mouth as the sound of slurping filled your ears. Eric suddenly stopped, pulling back to wipe his chin off on his shoulder, face flushed red. Quickly, you took off your shoes and kicked off your pants, pushing him onto his back and straddling him. 

“Wasn’t done,” he said, mouth glittering with your juices and his drool. You licked it off his lips then caught him in a kiss, breath hot against his as you reached down for his hard cock.

You didn’t waste any time. You lined him up with your cunt, teased him with the feeling of rubbing his engorged head against your juicy opening, then sank onto him. His face constricted as if he had taken a blow as you let out a shuddering breath, taking hold of the side of his face and bracing yourself against his solid body. You covered his mouth as it fell open, squeezing around his cock as it pierced into you, your walls resisting and welcoming it at the same time. His moan vibrated against your palm as you squeezed tighter, rolling your hips against his. 

He whimpered softly into your hand, eyebrows and forehead creasing deeply as you rode him, knees painfully rooted against the hard floor, thigh muscles flexing and rolling with each movement of your body. You panted quietly, biting your lip, letting your head fall back as you shuddered, digging your fingers into the neck of his blue shirt and tugging it down, tilting his head back and unleashing your open, hungry mouth onto his throat. His adam apple bobbed against your tongue as you tasted his skin, memorized the taste, tongue and lips kissing along the side of his neck, feeling him shake from the sensation, feeling the way his breath broke through his flaring nostrils as you lost yourself in the feeling of him filling you the the brim of your cunt. Your hips grinded at a measured pace—not too slow, neither of you could take that, but not so fast that it would end too soon. Your eyes opened as you draped your chin over his shoulder, looking at his red palms and chafed wrists as he flexed and released his hands into fists. 

The window slit opened again. It wasn’t your boss this time, it was Selfy. You fixed your eyes on his through the glass with a dark glare, tongue slipping from between your lips to lick Eric’s ear, teeth baring to tug on it lightly. He groaned, and Selfy’s eyes widened in horror. The lights flicked off, bathing the room in red. 

You released Eric’s face and kissed him again, taking his head in both of your hands while your bodies gyrated in sync, clothes rubbing against one another, riding up to bare skin against skin. You moaned quietly in his mouth when he bit your lower lip harshly—a mere taste of what he’d do to you if the cuffs were off. But you wouldn’t take them off, not when you knew how hard he was from how they bit into his skin when he strained against them, not when you were so close to the edge that you’d die if you stopped. 

He had leaned back and used the slight leverage he could with his hands against the floor to piston his hips into you, jamming his cock in harder, faster, low grunts puffing into your mouth as you dug your fingers into his scalp and held back a moan. You pussy clenched tightly around him, and Eric whimpered again at the feeling, snapping his hips up into you and bottoming out as you froze, back tightening, then trembled with a gasp as you came. Eric heaved out a sigh as he did the same, hot, thick ropes of cum spilling into you and leaking out from your pussy onto his sweatpants. Your bodies slowed, gradually reaching a stop, and the two of you shuddered and sighed, locked in a pocket of ecstasy that enveloped you both in a slick, hot aura as your body arched against his, reeling from the heat and pleasurable squeeze that radiated from your head to your toes. Your thighs shook as you slowly lifted up off of him, his spent cock slipping out of you, glistening with cum and slick that smeared against your thigh. 

Your faces were sealed together, sweaty and flushed. Eric looked at you as you slowly pulled back, swallowing and taking a gulping breath, dark pupils wide in your deep brown eyes. His eyes flitted down to your mouth, then held you in a startstruck gaze you could barely see in the maroon shadow that consumed you both. 

“Stay,” he whispered, feeling each heavy thump of your heart, “Uncuff me.” 

You considered him, grazing the tip of his nose with yours, watching him shudder slightly at the action. A small, pleased grin peeled open on your face. You let him go, standing and stepping back into your underwear. Eric’s eyes followed you, forlorn as you tugged on your pants, hopping lightly to ease them over your backside. You pulled on your shoes and adjusted your sweater around your waist, wiping off your forehead with your woolen sleeve. You looked down at him, his waiting, eager face, and caressed his chin with your thumb. His lips twitched. You smiled kindly. 

“Sorry, Love,” you apologized, “can’t.”

Taking another breath, you tore yourself away from him and strided to the door, pulling out your baton and using the butt of it to bang on the door. It flew open, revealing Selfy and your boss on the other side. Selfy’s face was pink with embarrassment, avoiding your gaze. Your boss’s eyes were cryptic, fixed on Eric as he remained still, slouching on his knees. Quietly, you brushed past them, the stench of sex fresh on your skin. 

It didn’t take long for Eric Love to end up back in segregation. He’d started a fight with a guard, headbutting him when his eyes had lingered on you too long while you scribbled in your book of chess tactics, pretending not to notice. The prisoners had begun to whisper about you two—about the way Eric grinned at you when you passed, the chess books you slipped him that he left neglected on his shelf, the pair of heart-patterned panties one of them spied Eric admiring while in bed before the door to his cell shut for bang-up. 

He laughed as they dragged him down, and you watched it from your monitor, feeling the eyes of the other guards on you as you tilted your head slightly with a restrained smile. They threw him in the cell without remorse, your boss’s face flushed with exasperation and fury as Eric called out for you. 

“Bring me Smith,” he bellowed, laugh bouncing off of the walls, “Bring me Smith!” 

[ferida-kahlo]

last dance

bouncer!eric love x str*pper!reader

Synopsis: Tension has been building for months now between you and the most recently hired bouncer at the club. As your final dance approaches, you find yourself thinking about the different perks of stripper retirement, besides finally being able to work in your field of study. Eric shares your enthusiasm.

Warnings: 18+, NSFW, M/F. Minors DNI // bastardized Cockney slang (I’m so sorry, I did my best), awkward flirting, s*x work, str*pper!reader, alcohol consumption, drunk make-out session, dry-humping in a car, m*sturbation (f!receiving), light choking k*nk (blink-and-you-miss-it), dirty talking (eric is a yapper), yearning, anger management skills (not issues because he’s improved <3)

Word count: 5.4k

Read below or on AO3

I made a moodboard for this fic ♡

Notes:

I refuse to accept Eric Love was in jail for 19 years, so for this AU he was released at 25 with the advocacy of Oliver and a new solicitor, who reviewed his case and petitioned the court for an early release date. He is now 26, still trying to get his life together in the outside world by accepting any job that will take a former convict. Idc if it doesn’t make sense, I am forever team Eric Love x Happiness. My man’s a working-class hero and he’s getting some love <3

Feat. honorable cameos of Hass and Oliver + an OC called Janice who is a dancer at the club

I have never been / met a stripper or been to a strip club. But I did some research to make sure I at least avoided portraying it in a stigmatizing way. Still, it’s possible some inaccuracies remain, so feel free to hit my dm’s or leave a comment with feedback!

Some random hc’s I have for Eric Love that are included in this one-shot for no reason other than I want to and I can: he’s a West Ham United supporter (the East London team with the coolest kits); he’s a massive Rihanna fan.

♡ dividers by @strangergraphics-archive and @hyuneskkami ♡

He doesn’t recognize the song blasting from the speakers, which is not surprising, considering it’s now 2am. This is generally the point when Eric starts having trouble telling apart the heavy bass music that’s been playing for the past six hours.

Two more to go. Fuckin’ hell. He sighs, resigned after checking his watch – an expensive gift from Oliver. Because of course the posh cunt couldn’t just give him a cheap Casio. No, he had to spend the equivalent of a months’ rent on a glorified bracelet.

Eric grins as he remembers taking the piss during their last supervised outing before conditional release. “Oi, Ols... ‘Dunno if the news reached Eaton yet, but there’s these lush things nowadays that tell you what time it is and a bunch of other useful stuff. It’s called a cellphone, ya daft cunt. ‘Fuck do I need this poof jewelry for?”

The memory of Oliver’s exasperated face still makes him chuckle, as he felt the need to overexplain the amount of money he spent by going on a rant about how “unfortunately, Eric, the right accessory can be decisive when applying for certain positions, even more than a recommendation, and besides, in many jobs you won’t be allowed to have your cellphone on you, but knowing what time it is is still vital…”.

It hasn’t been a bad night, all things considered. No drunkards getting too touchy with the girls, no cheeky bastards provoking a fight, and especially no groups of posh lads giving him the side-eye like he’s dirt under their loafers.

Still, he’s tired. It’s a Friday, after all – one of the busiest nights at the club, but it also means he’s only got one more shift before his day off, and he finds himself spending most of the night daydreaming about it.

He's so distracted he doesn’t notice the DJ announcing your name, as you get up on stage. The distinct opening notes of Rihanna’s Rude Boy bring him back to reality. Without thinking, he starts tapping his foot at the familiar beat.

From his spot at the corner, he has a 360º view of the whole club, including a privileged angle to the center stage. It’s Eric’s favorite place to do vigilance, because he can see everything yet is hardly noticed by anyone, especially if he stays still. It’s a sort of challenge he likes to put himself up to, whenever boredom kicks. And it usually kicks in the last few hours before the club closes.

He remembers feeling like a kid at a candy store on his first day. Getting paid to stare at fit naked birds? Sign him the fuck up. But he was quickly put in his place by the head of security – a huge, proper experienced geezer. “Trust me, sonny”, the man had said, vacantly staring at the three girls shaking their tits on stage, “it gets old real quick.”

At the time, he paid him no mind. He’d only been out of prison for little over a year, and even though he’d been taking full advantage of his freedom, the prospect of being around beautiful women for eight hours a day still had him buzzing.

Now, though, only a couple of months past and he completely gets what the boss was saying. It’s like reliving the same night over and over again: the same girls, give or take, the same regulars, and the occasional drunk fight – but even those became routine.

Still, it has its perks. He gets along with the other bouncers, and his boss looks out for him – courtesy of Hass, who recommended Eric for the job through whatever connections he has on the outside. Mad cunt, he thinks with a fond smile.

The girls are nice as well; they pamper him like he’s their younger brother because of his boyish face and cheeky manners, and Eric would be lying if he said it didn’t feel good to be coddled like that.

And then, there’s you.

When you’re on stage, he locks in, attention undivided – like a cheetah, hiding from the gazelles in the savannah’s tall grass right before pouncing.

Tonight, you’re wearing a black leather and pink lace set, with matching glittered platform heels. He’d spotted you before, doing rounds at the tables, bum looking unbelievable in that pleated miniskirt.

On stage, you move with practiced ease. Eric notices that you look lively today, all smiles and sticking your tongue out as you shake your ass to the drooling cunts gathering around you, like moths to a flame.

He clears his throat and adjusts his standing position by clasping both hands in front of the unfortunately growing bulge in his pants. He looks down, hoping to will it away with the force of his disapproval. Fuck me to hell and back. Poppin’ one on the clock. He’s been doing this gig for long enough that this can’t be happening.

He checks to see if there’s anything happening that requires his intervention. Nothing amiss, he gives himself two minutes to close his eyes and do one of the breathing exercises he’s learned in group. It works; in the end, he feels calmer – and so does his prick.

Satisfied, he looks back up, to find you almost completely naked, twirling upside down on the pole to the last seconds of the song while looking straight at him. As if you already knew he was there – like you had been paying attention to him the whole time.

Eric freezes. On stage, you smile, looking away before finishing the routine with a drop split, crowd raging and showering you in bills.

You could swear that your feet are literally trying to kill you. The club was packed tonight, and it seemed like no one wanted to just chat on the couches. Still, it was worth it: between private dances and tips, you made good cash. But paid a heavy price.

“Thank fuck it’s Sunday. Gonna rot in bed all day”, you snarl, like you’re applying alcohol to an open wound, instead of foot balm. The thought of returning next Tuesday makes your stomach recoil – which goes to show you really are done with this shit. You throw a death stare at the stiletto pumps you bitterly flung across the locker room minutes before, almost nicking Janice’s eye off.

“Fucking hell, girl… you’re in a mood tonight. No one would think you made your rent’s worth. Congrats on that, by the way! That mean you gonna leave us early, now that you’re rich?”

Janice pouts, as she scuttles closer on the bench to give you a tight hug, mock crying the lyrics to Baby, Please Don’t Go in your ear. You catch some new girls giving her the side eye, while everyone else just moves along, already used to her unwavering enthusiasm.

“Goddamn it, Jan, quit it… please”, you grimace. Your head feels like it’s going to burst open.

“Sorry, babe. You really done tonight, yeah?”

“Yeah… I really am”, you sigh, sliding into comfortable slippers and getting up to wash the grime off your face. Suddenly, your eyes light up as you remember. “What about the birthday boy? Has he been here yet?”

“Ooou, speaking of the devil…”, Janice purrs, wiggling her eyebrows at the door.

You turn around to see Eric standing in the doorway, grinning like the cat that got the cream.

“Alright, ladies? Now, don’t go tramplin’ over each other for a piece of this… plenty for all of yous”.

He emphasizes the sentiment by giving himself a sound slap on the bum, which is enough for the whole locker room to erupt in laughter and cheeky cat calls.

You giggle at the sight of him getting properly pampered, showered in happy birthday wishes – although, between bear-tight hugs, pinched cheeks and wet kisses all over his face, you must make a real effort not to laugh when he reaches you.

He is in a sorry state, face full of smudged make up and smeared lipstick in all the colors of the rainbow. Eric seems to realize this far too late, cheeks reddening as he tries to quickly wipe it off with the back of his hand.

“Here, Love. I don’t think spit is gonna do it”, you smile as you hand him a bottle of cleanser and a clean, fluffy face towel. He stares at one, then the other, then you.

“Ain’t you got soap? I dunno how to use this shite.”

You laugh. Typical lad. “Yeah, we have soap, you twat. But this is better”. Still, you can’t help but smile at his stupid, sweet face. You nod your head, silently telling him to join you at the dresser mirror. “C’mon. I’ll do it. After all, you’re a baby today – can’t expect babies to clean up after themselves.”

He blushes again. Something tightens in your chest – he’s usually so full of bravado, but there are nights when he doesn’t seem to know how to act in front of you. You shouldn’t like it as much as you do.

“Oi, you’re cleaning up after them. They did this to me”, he lifts his eyebrows comically high and points to the girls, like a kid tattling on his mates.

“You keep being ungrateful and you won’t be getting your present, birthday boy.”

At Janice’s threat, he pauses, suspicious. “Nah… you girls got me something?”

“Of course we did. You’re our favorite”. Someone hands her a pink envelope with his name written in cursive on the front – a cute heart drawn at the bottom.

“Happy birthday, love. We all pitched in – but you can thank her for the idea”, Janice nods in your direction as she hands him the envelope.

This time, it’s your turn to blush. You shoot her a threatening smile which you hope translates into I’m gonna kill you.

His eyes shine at that, and you’re sure you actually see his chest puffing in pride, like a goddamn peacock.

“You’se are mint”, he holds the envelope in his hands like it’s a precious jewel, before greedily tearing it open.

“… got me front-row tickets to Rihanna.”

He takes time to process the information. The whole room is suddenly quiet, waiting for his reaction. Everyone’s eyes flicker from you to him, wondering if maybe you’d gotten it wrong. Turns out, he doesn’t give a shit about Rihanna and this was a crap gift.

When he lifts his head, he’s smiling from ear to ear.

“You girls are mad. This must’ve costed a fuckin’ fortune… never would’ve thought of spending this money on meself. Thanks… for real”. He clears his throat, obviously moved but not knowing exactly what to do now with everyone staring.

Thankfully, the girls come to his rescue, engulfing him in coos and sweet kisses all over. Again. At this point, he’s begging you for help with a desperate look, as you hide incontrollable laughter behind your hand.

Without breaking eye contact, you tap the bench next to you. As Eric finally frees himself from the crowd, he strolls over and sits down with a relieved sigh.

“So… how’d you know I was into Rihanna?” His cocksure grin makes your stomach flutter. But you don’t yield.

Eyebrow raised, you shoot back, drenching your hand in cleanser before roughly rubbing it all over his scrunched-up face.

“How could I not? She’s your lockscreen picture, you’re always listening to her songs and singing along while we’re practicing our routines, and the only times I see you pay attention to us on stage are when the DJ plays her tunes”.

Your annoyed voice contrasts with the gentle, caring movements you apply to his face, slowly removing all the gunk with your softest face towel.

The noise of the locker room fades, as your senses become flooded with him. He is so physically close, you want to scream: his face mere inches from yours and your legs between both of his, your naked knees occasionally rubbing against the rough fabric of his suit trousers.

You can feel him relax under your soft touch, shoulders slumping, breath slowing down, and lips parting – had you ever noticed how plump they are? Fuck. You can smell him, too – a mix of cheap cologne, cigarettes and sweat that should not be making you wet.

“Seems like you’ve been paying a lot of attention to me, dolly”. His voice is lower now, like he’s telling you a secret. As he says this, his thumb casually rubs against the sensitive skin on the side of your knee, and you shiver, unthinkingly rubbing your thighs together. His eyes shoot down, then back up to look into yours, as his mouth twists into a crooked smile.

Two can play that game.

“Yeah, guess I have. Because I got you another gift”.

He laughs in disbelief. “You’re joking.”

“I’m not”, you grin, amused at his confused face. “Wanna see?”

“‘Course. Damn, I feel spoiled today…”

“You are. Our spoiled little brat.”

You get up and rummage through your bag until you find it. “Catch”, you shout, as you dramatically throw him a little teddy bear with the West Ham United crest.

You’re both quiet for a few seconds, before exploding in laughter.

“Sorry, saw this the other day and couldn’t resist”, you confess, looking at the floor to disguise your blushing cheeks.

“I know you’re not apologizing for giving me a gift, darlin’. Thanks so much… for all of it”. He scratches the back of his head, awkwardly trying to find the right words. “’Dunno what I did to deserve all this attention, but I’m not complaining”, he grins.

“Good”, you grin back, as you get up and start getting ready to leave. You quickly undress, rubbing wet wipes over your body. All you can think about is how much you want to get home and take a long, coma-inducing bath. That thought makes you moan aloud.

Eric coughs loudly behind you, and you freeze, having forgotten he was still there. You feel a wicked smile forming in your face.

“Nothing you haven’t seen before, sugar. I’ve caught you staring earlier”, you coo back at him, with a cheeky shake of your bum.

He’s sitting up straight, one hand rubbing on his thigh while the other holds the teddy bear you gave him in a death grip.

He clears his throat, staring at the floor. “Heard you’re leaving us next month.”

You smile softly. “Yeah… it’s about time. This was a good gig to get my life started – y’know, paying for uni, getting a flat on my own. But I’m ready to move on. Got an offer in my area that pays real well. Which I never would’ve got without this job, funny enough. ‘Cause there’s no way I could’ve accepted so many unpaid internships if I was earning minimum wage, working a regular 9 to 5.”

“Oh… that’s wicked. Congrats.” He sounds genuinely impressed.

Finally dressed and ready to leave, you approach him, bag slung over your shoulder. Standing between his open legs, you bend down in front of him, hand resting on his thigh for purchase. You know you’re giving him a privileged view of your tits, freely bouncing inside the white cotton halter top you put on – no bra.

Just a few inches closer, and his face would be crushed against your chest. You can feel his hot, labored breath on your skin, panting like a starving dog; it’s making your insides burn.

Gently, you hold his jaw, turn his head to the side, and give his cheek a slow, lingering kiss – dangerously close to the corner of his mouth. You can hear him gasping and swallowing thickly.

“Thanks, Lover boy”, you whisper against his face. As you turn to leave, you hear him call out for you.

“Wait… luv”, the dragged way he says it – like he’s just coming up from a high – makes you wish you could drop on his lap and ravage him right there.

“I wanted to ask… if you’d fancy meeting up one of these days… yeah? I mean, outside of work. I could take you out proper… go for a grub. Or a cuppa. Or somethin’ else. Fuck. Dunno how to do this…”, he hides his face between his hands, frustrated.

You weren’t expecting this. Not now. Still, your heart melts a little inside your chest. Suddenly, the pain and weight of the entire night’s work slips away, body feeling light as a feather.

Dropping down to the floor in front of him, you get his hands away from his face and stare up with a huge smile on your face.

“Ask me again in a month.”

It’s the longest 20-minute drive of his entire life.

He’d offered to give you a ride home in his car, after the goodbye party the girls had thrown on your last night at the club.  

The trouble began at the first traffic light stop. You’d been sitting in a comfortable silence. Until, nonchalantly, you put your hand on his leg, thumb rubbing soothing circles right above his knee.

When he turned to look at you, your eyes seemed lost in the urban landscape beyond the car window – but the corner of your mouth was twisted upwards in a lazy, almost forgetful smirk.

The second you noticed him staring was obvious. Suddenly, your back straightened – and you actually whimpered, rubbing your naked thighs together and biting your lower lip. But you didn’t let go of his leg.

Fuckin’ hell. Eric griped the steering wheel hard.

All he could think about was how you’d spent the whole night making sure you were as close to him as possible. As the club closed and the party started, it was as if a switch flipped in your head, and now the world was made up of only him and you.

Shoulders and legs constantly bumping against each other, and lingering. Loaded stares and increasingly cheeky back-and-forth banter. Gaze dropping mid-conversation to fix on the curve of a neck, the movement of lips. Eric is sure his heart stopped for a few seconds when your head dropped to his shoulder and your fingers laced with his underneath the table, while Janice was telling one of her mad stories.

Which is why, right now, the bulk of his energy is spent trying to pay attention to the road, instead of the constant warm weight of your smaller hand on his knee. Or your legs, barely covered by the laughably short black dress that hugged your curves perfectly. Or – worst of all – the small noises you made each time you snuck a look at him from the corner of your eye.

Once the car stopped in front of the house, he closed his eyes and released a long, frustrated breath, mentally counting down from twenty and then up. He could feel the tension in his muscles, same as when he was getting ready for a fight. There’s no way he wanted to be like this around you.

He was brought back midway through the breathing exercise by a feeling. Or rather, the absence of one. Your hand was no longer on his leg, rubbing circles around his knee, grounding him.

Looking at you, he was met with a pair of frightened, shining eyes. His stomach dropped – he could imagine the figure he must’ve been cutting throughout the whole trip, all sullen and grunting like a cave man.

Ya fuckin’ animal – nice job.

“Eric, I’m so sorry”, you whispered, voice trembling. “Didn’t wanna make you uncomfortable… I’m such a fucking tit when I’m wasted… s’like I lose my grip. T’was so nice of you to drive me home…” Ashamed, you hid your face between your hands and slid down on the seat, trying to disappear.

“Fuck… sweetheart. Hey. Look at me.” Gently, he cups your cheek in his big hand, while his other arm is slung behind your seat. You’re shivering, and Eric feels bile rise in his throat.

The first hints of panic engulf him, the sense that he’s losing control over the situation and can do nothing about it. He wants to envelop you in his warmth and keep you safe. He also wants you to run him over with a truck: it’s the least he deserves.

You start absentmindedly rubbing your face against his hand, hiccupping and breathing labored, pleading eyes staring straight into his soul. His chest tightens, as he grits the words out with effort.

“Luv… you ain’t done nothing wrong. D’ya hear me? Nothin’.”

He punctuates this with a slow stroke of his thumb across your cheek. You moan softly, biting your lip and falling backwards, mindlessly hitting the back of your head against the glass with a painful thud and a loud complaint. He chuckles, feeling a bit lighter. You’re so cute.

“Come ‘ere then, sweet pea. I’ll hold ya up”. He backs up his seat and starts maneuvering your pliant body to sit across his lap. Your arms instinctively go around his shoulders for balance.

The tension in his muscles and the fire in his veins start to settle. Finally, a purpose, something to direct his rampant chaotic energy towards. Keeping you here, satisfied and safe.

“Eric…”, you mewl, nudging at his neck with your nose and – worst of all – shifting your hips non-stop right above his crotch, like he’s the most comfortable couch in the universe and you’re breaking it in.

There’s no way you can’t feel his painfully stiff cock against your naked ass – at this point, the dress has risen so high on your legs it’s barely more than a glorified top. He catches a glimpse of the red thong you’re wearing underneath.

He snaps and gives you a forceful slap to the bum. You yelp.

“Lady. Behave.” He’s trying to be serious about it but can’t bring himself to remove his hand from your ass, rubbing soothing circles on the abused flesh. In reality, he thinks, he must also be a little drunk. Because he doesn’t remember giving his hand permission to squeeze. An animalistic groan rips out of his throat, hips giving an involuntary spasm upwards.  

He can feel your triumphant smile against his neck. “But I don’t wanna behave…” Your lips start leaving small kisses anywhere you can reach, while your hands feel up his biceps.

“Baby, you’re so fit.” You bite your lip, as you move away from him and look him up and down for a good minute, roving your hands over his chest above the fitted black T-shirt, feeling up his chiseled tummy and his waist, occasionally releasing appreciative little noises.

Taking advantage of the fact that you seem completely engrossed in these tasks, he tries to ground himself for what feels like the hundredth time tonight.

He studies you. You’re definitely tipsy, which is not ideal. Remembering Oliver’s advice about the importance of honest communication – can’t believe I’m thinking of that cunt with a hot bird rubbin’ herself silly on my lap –, he makes a decision.

“Luv. Gotta tell ya somethin’. It’s important, so I need you to have a proper listen now. Yeah?”.

Absentmindedly, he tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, thinking how fucking beautiful you look right now. Completely disheveled on top of him, the strap of your dress hanging from your shoulder, tits perfectly hugged by the dark fabric, half-lidded eyes roving every inch of his body – like you want to devour him but are unsure where to start.

The serious tone works. Your hands stop on his chest and your eyes refocus on his. You smile, hands cupping his face.

“I’m listening”, you whisper. Not without a devilish roll of your hips right above his tortured cock.  

Eric holds back a moan at this, and laughs. “You’re a fuckin’ menace.”

You bite your lip. “Sorry, baby. Couldn’t resist… love seein’ you all hot n’ bothered ‘cause of me… but go on. Talk to me.” You hold his head between your hands and kiss his forehead sweetly.

He takes a deep breath and looks back at you. “You’re fuckin’ gorgeous, alright? I’m this close to cumin’ in my damn trousers like a virgin, just from a bit of rubbin’ and grabbin’. And that’s the issue, right? ‘Cause I don’t want this to be how it goes between us. You’re drunk, for starters.”

He puts his hand on top of your mouth to stop you from interrupting him, to defend yourself against the vile accusation. Instead, you accept the indignity with an offended frown.

“And even if you weren’t, I still wanna take you out on a date. Proper. At least once, before we shag each other’s brains out”.

He whispers the last part into the crook of your neck, feeling you squirm under his breath and moan against his hand.

Smirking, he decides to give you a taste of your own medicine by licking, kissing, and sucking at your soft skin until you’re reduced to a whimpering mess, whatever relief you try to get stopped by his hands holding your hips at a distance from his thighs. You’re keening like a puppy being denied a treat, drooling all over his hand. He is painfully hard.

You’re trying to say something, so Eric takes pity on you and drops his hand from your mouth, wiping the drool on his shirt – even though what he really wants to do is use it for lubricant as he shoves his fingers up your pussy. He can feel how dripping wet you already are, his pants a mess from your insistent rubbing.

“Go on, sweatheart”, he urges you, kissing the corner of your lip and wrapping his arms around your waist, effectively locking you into place. You look ravished, and something warm unfurls inside his chest at the thought that he did that.

“Baby…”, there’s a begging quality to your whispering, as you softly rake your nails across the back of his head. “I’ve wanted you for months now… you must know it. Right?” Your head tilts to the side, like a curious kitten.

“The last few weeks ’ve been torture… can’t stop thinking ‘bout you. Been touching myself… every night, soon as I get home, I get in the shower and all I can think about is you… fuckin’ me hard, against the wall, on the floor, in my bed... but it’s never enough. Last night I must’ve slept, like, 2 hours. ‘Cause no matter how many times I got off to the thought of you… still needed more.”

Your eyes drop, cheeks flushed in embarassment. Trying so hard to get the words out through the slurr of your tipsy thoughts.

“I get it if you don’t wanna… go all the way, tonight. Honestly, I don’t want our first time to be like this either. But can you give me somethin’… anything? I can’t take this anymore… I need you, Eric. Please.”

He’s looking up at your wet, pleading eyes, stunned into silence. He realizes the grip on your waist is too tight when you start squirming, whimpering, your hands hesitantly falling on top of his, hips tentatively rolling over his stiff cock.

When he finds his voice, it comes out ragged – strained with reluctant restraint.

“Luv… you can’t say shit like that and expect me to control myself. Fuck.” Grabbing your ass, his hands start guiding your movements on top of him. He can feel the rational part of his brain receeding to give way to a more primal instinct – something comfortably familiar.

He taps into it effortlessly, wired to all the senses that allow him to smell your sweet perfume, touch the curves of your body, see you trembling on top of him, hear your desperate whines for more of him, taste your skin… he feels alive.

“Princess...” His hand comes up to circle your throat, barely more than hovering – just so you can feel him there. Your eyes glaze over for a moment. Then, mouth agape, your hands close around his wrist and grip – like you’re daring him to mark you up – and your hips are grinding down hard, your pace increasing.

“This how you wan’ it?” he gives your neck a tentative squeeze, and you moan, a loud yes! exploding from your throat. He chuckles.

“Dirty girl… look atcha. Fuckin’ desperate for it, ain’t ya? Don’t worry, luv… I’ll treat ya right. Yeah? Tell me what you want, sweetheart... go on. I’ll give it to ya… best you ever had.” He’s carressing your neck with his thumb, lavishing the other side with kisses and licks and groping your tits with his other hand, as he watches your eyes roll all the way back in ecstasy.

“… kiss me.” You whisper the request, almost shy.

Heart in his throat, he gulps. This is it.

Reverently – still holding your throat in his hand, like a precious jewel –, he brings your lips to his, sweetly, taking his time savoring you. Until you deepen the kiss, moaning into his mouth, tongue begging to be let inside, and fuck if he’s gonna deny a lady her heart’s desire.

You’re both breathing hard when you finally come up for air, smiling stupidly at each other.

“Eric…” You fake-pout, as your hands slide underneath his shirt and feel him up, suddenly dragging down to play with his belt buckle. “Wanna taste you”.

He shakes his head firmly. “Nah, luv. That’s not happenin’ tonight.” Even though the thought of you on your knees with his dick between your lips is almost enough to make him cream his knickers.

Before you have time to protest, he slaps your bum again, grabbing it hard. He slides his fingers underneath your soaked panties, rubbing you just right, the inside of your folds and your clit caught in one smooth motion. You’re dripping wet, begging to be filled up.

You scream, and he quickly shuts you up with a bruising kiss, tongue going so far into your mouth it almost gags you. When he lets go of your lips, his finger comes up to rest on top of them as his other hand continues rubbing your clit mercilessly. You can barely moan, throat sore and mind blanking. Fucked out of your mind, and he hasn’t even whipped his dick out.

“Sshh… poor thing. Starved for my cock, ain’t ya? All this time, teasin’ me at the club, makin’ me crazy… just to go home ‘n suffer all by y’self… Shit. If I’d known… I would’ve fuckin’ ran to you. Given you a proper fuck.”

To pontificate, his hips drive upwards as two of his fingers – strategically locked into position – easily slide inside your dripping pussy, two-knuckles deep, and he starts pumping them into you, mercilessly.

“Fuck! Baby, yes yes yes yes please don’t stop –”, you cry out into the crook of his neck, babbling, hanging onto his shoulders for dear life. He can feel your thighs trembling and abs spasming – you’re about to break apart for him.

“That’s right, sweetheart… come undone for me, yeah? Give it to me… go on. Fuckin’ take it.”

Legs spasming uncontrollably, you sink into his fingers hard, coming all over his hand.

It’s enough to send him spiraling, his vision blanking out as he finally comes, moaning into your tits.

Neither of you feel like moving for a while. Your voice is ragged, little gasps breaking out of your mouth as he sooths you with little caresses on your back.

“Did I hurt you?”, he asks, suddenly concerned, searching for bruises around your neck.

You laugh. “No, baby… you only made me feel good. Really fucking good”. You nuzzle his nose, kissing him sweetly.

He sighs in relief. “Good.”

“Eric… thank you. It was an amazing night… and I’m glad it ended with you.” You smile at him, earnest.

“Trust me, lovey, it was my fuckin’ pleasure”, he nods down to his soaked trousers, and you both laugh.

“I was a little sad you didn’t let me touch you…”, you admit, while tucking your face into his neck.

“Wanted to make you feel good.”

“Well… you did.”

He grins. “So… I think this is the right time to ask again.”

You frown, confused.

He clears his throat, nerves wrecking him as much now as when he first asked you a month ago. “Can I take ya out to dinner tomorrow?”

A look of relief washes over your face. “God, Eric. Yeah, obviously. With one condition.” You hold up a finger right up to his face.

“Whatever you want, sweetheart.”

You hold his face in your hand, whispering right into his mouth. “We come back to mine after”.

He grabs your head and kisses you. “Closed fucking deal, love.”

[maybanksbaby]

Hmmm, Heyward!reader taking bullets for JJ in the crashout ep? Like how the cop was gonna shoot JJ but pope pushed him. Except the cop was actually gonna shoot JJ but reader protected him by taking the bullets instead

FOR YOU .ᐟ jj maybank x heyward!fem!reader

warnings .ᐟ comfort¿, reader getting shot at, guilt, COPS BEING ASSHOLES. actually don't know what else 😓

a/n: thank you for your request babyyy 🩷😙 made this without re-watching the episode and realized the cops scene wasn't accurrated with this 😭😭 sorry for that

⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪

The world had narrowed to the sound of shattering glass, the acrid smell of smoke, and the wild, untamable energy radiating from the boy at her side. JJ Maybank was a live wire, a spark thrown into a room full of gunpowder, and you, Y/N Heyward, were caught in his glorious, destructive blast.

You’d followed him because you always did. Because when Pope, your brilliantly logical brother, was busy thinking, JJ was busy feeling, and right now, he felt too much.

His father wanted to sell his house — well, Luke... not his father. Cause, guess what? He had been living a lie. The man that punched his guts every damn day, that made him feel miserable and distorted his idea of home and love, turned out not to be his blood, but a total stranger.

The weight of the confusion, the fear, the anger—it was a poison in his veins, and JJ had found the only way to bleed it out.

He swung the baseball bat, and another storefront window exploded into a thousand glittering pieces. He whooped, a sound that was half triumph, half agony, and you felt a matching thrill shoot through you.

You followed him after he run away from court. Followed him while he made a mess of the island, cause he was a mess himself.

You followed him everywhere.

It was stupid, it was reckless, it was everything your brother warned you against. But in this moment, with JJ’s eyes blazing with frantic light, it felt like the only sane thing left to do.

Cause he needed someone.

Something real.

Something that wasn't a lie.

“JJ, maybe that’s enough!” you yelled over the wail of the approaching sirens. They were close now. Too close.

He turned to you, his chest heaving, a wild grin plastered on his dirt-smudged face. “Enough? We’re just getting started, baby”

He reached out, his calloused hand finding yours for a brief, electric second, pulling you further into the chaos. His touch was a brand, a promise of more madness, and your heart hammered against your ribs in response.

Then the red and blue lights painted the night, cutting through the haze of their shared delirium. Cops swarmed the street, shouts and orders slicing through the air.

“Freeze! Drop the weapon!”

JJ’s grin didn’t falter; it just sharpened. He raised the bat again, not as a threat, but as a challenge. A final, middle finger to the world that had kicked him down one too many times.

It all happened in a horrifying slow motion.

You saw Pope, your brother, your other half, break from the shadows near the alley and running to you. His face was a mask of pure terror—not for himself, but for his best friend. He lunged, a desperate, flailing tackle meant to knock JJ out of harm's way.

But your eyes weren’t on Pope. They were locked on the police officer nearest to JJ. While the others were shouting, this one was acting.

Pope’s shove sent JJ stumbling, off-balance, directly into the cop’s line of sight. The cop’s service pistol was already drawn. And in that fractured second, you saw his finger tighten on the trigger. He wasn’t aiming to subdue. He was aiming to stop the threat.

Permanently.

The bat in JJ’s hand, his stumbling form, the chaos—it was a recipe for a tragedy the Pogues would never recover from.

You didn’t think. There was no calculation, no weighing of risks. There was only him.

JJ Maybank, with his broken home and his mended heart, who laughed too loud and loved too hard, who was everything bright and burning in your world.

You moved.

It was two steps. Just two. But they were the most important steps of your life.

You planted yourself between the barrel of the gun and the boy you’d secretly loved since you were old enough to know what the feeling was.

The sound was deafening. Two sharp, ugly cracks that tore through the night.

The force was like being hit by a truck. A searing, white-hot pain exploded in your shoulder and side, knocking the air from your lungs. The world tilted on its axis, the lights and sounds blurring into a meaningless smear of color and noise.

You were falling.

Then strong arms caught you, breaking your fall. You landed not on the cold, hard asphalt, but against the familiar, worn fabric of JJ’s jacket. You were cradled against his chest.

The wild energy was gone from his eyes, replaced by a horror so profound it was like looking into a void. His face was pale, his freckles standing out in stark contrast. His mouth was open, but no sound came out.

“Baby? No, no, no, no…” His voice was a broken whisper, a prayer and a curse all at once.

He frantically pressed his hands against the wounds, trying to stem the warm, terrifying flow of blood that soaked through your shirt and onto his hands.

“Why did you do that, huh? Why?”

You tried to speak, but only a choked gasp came out.

The pain was a living thing, gnawing at the edges of your consciousness. You managed to lift a trembling hand, brushing your fingertips against his jaw, leaving a smudge of red there. A final mark.

Behind him, you could see Pope, held back by another officer, his face a mirror of JJ’s shock, screaming your name, his voice raw and distant.

But your world had shrunk to JJ’s blue eyes, wide with a fear you’d never seen in them before. You wanted to tell him it was okay. That you’d do it again. That a world without his light in it wasn’t a world you wanted to live in.

You tried to form the words.

It’s okay. For you. Always for you.

But darkness was creeping in at the edges of your vision, pulling you under.

The last thing you felt was the desperate pressure of his hands on your wounds, and the last thing you saw was a single tear tracing a clean path through the grime on his cheek, falling onto your face as the sirens faded into nothing.

The darkness wasn’t empty. It was full of pain—a deep, throbbing, all-consuming ache that anchored you to a reality you couldn’t quite open your eyes to.

Sounds filtered through first: the steady, mechanical beep of a heart monitor, the hushed, tense murmur of voices, the squeak of rubber soles on linoleum.

Smell came next. Antiseptic. Bleach. The sterile, unforgiving scent of a hospital.

You fought your way toward the light, your eyelids feeling like they were weighed down with lead. A soft groan escaped your lips, and the world swam into blurry focus.

White ceiling. Fluorescent lights. A curtain drawn partway around the bed.

And him.

Slumped in a chair pulled much too close to your bedside, his head resting on the edge of the mattress near your hip, was JJ.

He was asleep, but it wasn’t peaceful. His brow was furrowed, his jaw clenched even in rest. One of his hands was wrapped tightly around your fingers, his grip firm and anchoring. His knuckles were scraped raw.

You shifted slightly, and a fresh wave of fire erupted from your shoulder and side, making you gasp.

The sound jolted him awake instantly. His head snapped up, his blue eyes wide and wild, still clouded with the remnants of a nightmare. For a second, he just stared, as if he couldn’t believe you were real, that you were awake.

“Y/N?” His voice was hoarse, cracked from disuse and stress. He leaned in, his free hand coming up to hesitantly brush a piece of hair from your forehead. His touch was surprisingly gentle. “Hey… hey, baby, don’t try to move. Just… just be still.”

“JJ,” you managed, your own voice a dry rasp. “You’re… okay?”

A strangled, disbelieving sound escaped him. It was almost a laugh, but it was devoid of any humor. “Am I okay? Are you serious?” His eyes glistened under the harsh lights. “You took two bullets for me, and you’re asking if I’m okay?”

You tried to shrug with your good shoulder, a tiny movement that still sent a spike of pain through you. “Had to.”

He just stared at you, his expression a turbulent mix of awe, anger, and a devastating guilt.

“Why?” The word was a plea. “You could’ve… Y/N, you could’ve died. Right there. In my arms.”

His voice broke on the last two words, and he looked down at your joined hands, his thumb stroking over your knuckles.

“He was going to kill you,” you whispered, the memory of the cop’s focused aim crystal clear. “I saw it. Pope pushed you, but he… he was already pulling the trigger. It was you or me.”

“And you picked you?” he said, the anger surfacing now, a defense against the overwhelming tide of emotion. “That’s not how it works! That’s not your choice to make!”

“It was,” you said, finding a sliver of strength. “It was my choice. And I’d make it again.”

The fight drained out of him as quickly as it had come. He deflated, his shoulders slumping. He brought your hand to his lips, pressing a fierce, desperate kiss to your fingers. His eyes were squeezed shut.

“Don’t say that,” he whispered against your skin, his breath warm. “Don’t you ever do that again. You hear me? I’m not worth that. I’m not…”

“You are to me.”

The words hung in the sterile air between you, simple and absolute. There was no taking them back. You hadn’t just taken bullets for him; you’d handed him your heart, raw and bleeding.

He finally opened his eyes, and the look in them stole what little breath you had left. It was stripped bare, all his usual bravado and deflection gone. It was just JJ, terrified and grateful and yours.

Before he could respond, the curtain rattled back. Pope stood there, his face a canvas of relief and brotherly fury.

“She’s awake? Thank God,” he moved to your other side, his eyes scanning the monitors, the bandages, you. “You are the stupidest, most brave… I’m gonna kill you myself, Y/N. Don’t you ever scare me like that again.”

“Join the club,” JJ muttered, but he didn’t let go of your hand. He held on tighter, a silent claim in the presence of your brother.

Pope’s eyes flicked down to your joined hands, then back to JJ’s face. A silent understanding passed between them, forged in the fire of the night you almost died.

Pope gave a barely perceptible nod. The fight was over. The only thing that mattered was that you were alive.

“The cops?” you asked, your energy already beginning to wane.

“Dealt with,” Pope said, his voice taking on a pragmatic tone you recognized. “Self-defense, protecting the public, blah blah. They’re not pressing charges on you. Not after one of theirs almost killed a kid. It’s… messy. But we’re okay. Dad's actually on the station right now.”

Your eyes felt heavy again. The morphine drip was pulling you back under. You fought it, looking back at JJ. He was watching you, his thumb still making slow, soothing circles on your hand.

“Stay?” you whispered, the word barely audible.

He leaned in close again, his forehead almost touching yours. His voice was low, for you alone. “I’m not going anywhere, Heyward. Nowhere. You’re stuck with me.”

It was a promise.

And as you let the darkness take you again, this time it didn’t feel like falling. It felt like being held.

The last thing you felt was the steady, sure pressure of his hand in yours, tethering you to the world. To him.

[sweetpogue]

A NEW VISION .ᐟ clark kent x fem!reader ⟡˖ ࣪

summary .ᐟ clark kent is still learning how to be normal when new powers keep showing up on him. some being dangerous habilities for a teenager with a big crush on his classmate.

⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪

The sun beat down on the roof of the Smallville High science wing, but it was nothing compared to the heat in Clark Kent’s cheeks.

It was third period, Physics, and he was currently losing a battle he hadn't even known he was fighting.

It had started innocently enough. You’d slid into the seat next to him, as you always did, with a soft “Hey, Clark,” and the scent of vanilla and sunshine. You were the new girl, but you’d fit into Smallville like you’d always belonged, your bright curiosity a perfect match for his own.

You two were lab partners, study buddies, the ones who got lost in debates about quantum theory or the potential applications of meteor rock.

Today, the topic was thermodynamics. Mr. Wexler was droning on about thermal energy transfer, and you were leaning over, whispering a correction to a formula on Clark’s notebook, your hair brushing his arm.

And that’s when it happened.

A strange, hot pressure built behind his eyes, a tingling sensation unlike anything he’d ever felt. His vision, always preternaturally sharp, seemed to… shift. The world took on a new dimension, a layer of information he wasn’t meant to see.

He could see the graphite molecules in the pencil you were tapping against your chin.

He could see the individual threads of cotton in his own red flannel shirt.

He could see the slow, steady pump of blood through the vein in Mr. Wexler’s temple.

And then his gaze, helplessly, fell on you.

He saw the faint, perfect freckles dusted across the bridge of your nose that were invisible to the naked eye. He saw the delicate pulse point at the base of your throat, fluttering with a rhythm that instantly synced with the frantic hammering of his own heart.

And then his vision… went through.

It wasn't intentional. It was a reflex, a terrifying, involuntary function of this new, awful power.

His sight slid through the light fabric of your summer dress as if it weren't there.

He saw the gentle slope of your shoulders, the elegant line of your spine, the delicate clasp of your bra. His brain, short-circuiting with a mixture of sheer panic and a hormone-fueled fascination he was utterly unprepared for, tried to process it all at once.

The world narrowed to the terrifying, intimate, incredible detail being burned onto his retina.

He saw the soft curve of your—

No.

No, no, no.

Clark wrenched his eyes away, slamming them shut so hard he saw stars. He ducked his head, his entire body rigid with mortification. The wooden desk groaned under the sudden, unconscious grip of his hand.

“Clark?” your voice was laced with concern, sweet and oblivious. “You okay? You’re all red. Do you have a fever?”

Her cool, soft fingers—the ones he could now picture the exact bone structure of—brushed against his forehead.

It was like a bolt of lightning. Clark jolted back as if electrocuted, his chair screeching against the linoleum floor. Every head in the classroom turned to look at him.

“F-fine!” he stammered, his voice an octave too high. He couldn’t look at you.

He couldn’t look at anyone. He fixed his gaze on the periodic table poster on the wall, trying to sear the atomic weight of Boron into his brain instead of the image currently branded there.

“Just… uh… hot. In here. Is it hot?” He fumbled for the collar of his shirt, pulling at it as if it were choking him.

His face was the color of a fire engine, a deep, mortified crimson that traveled all the way down his neck.

You blinked, pulling your hand back, a faint, confused frown on your face. “It’s kinda breezy, actually. Mr. Wexler has the AC on full blast.”

“Right. Breezy. Cold. I’m cold. And hot.” He was babbling. He needed to escape.

The bell couldn’t ring fast enough. Every second he sat there, he was terrified his eyes would betray him again. He kept them squeezed shut, praying for the floor to swallow him whole.

When the shrill sound of the bell finally, mercifully, rang through the room, Clark moved with a speed that was decidedly not human. He was a blur of red flannel and panic, snatching his books and bolting for the door before you could even stand up.

“Clark, wait!” you called after him, gathering your own things. “We were gonna study for the quiz at the Talon!”

But he was already gone, the door to the classroom swinging shut behind him. You stood there, alone amidst the emptying desks, utterly bewildered.

Later, Clark would be hiding in the one place he felt he could control his new, terrifying abilities—the storm cellar. He’d be leaning against the cool wall of the barn, taking slow, deep breaths, trying to forget the impossible, intimate detail he’d seen.

And he would fail.

Because burned into his memory, clearer than any equation, was the image of you.

Not just the you everyone saw—the sweet, smart, bubbly girl who talked science with him—but a you that was suddenly, devastatingly real in a way that made his head spin and his heart ache with a confusing mix of guilt, shame, and a longing he didn't dare name.

He slid down the wall, burying his burning face in his hands.

He was a freak. A monster.

He had violated the one pure, good thing in his life without even meaning to.

And the worst part? The part that made his stomach clench with a guilt so deep it felt like a physical weight?

A tiny, traitorous part of him, the part that was all seventeen-year-old boy, thought it was the most amazing thing he had ever seen.

[fuyungus]

I wanna show you off ?!?!

Jay haves a bad day and needs u :(

Jason came angry from work, stressed, the only thing he wanted to is see his beautiful wife. the door slams open and he walks towards the shared bedroom and collapsed on the bed.

"hi honey, is something wrong?" you run to him and get him up, trying to see if he's sick.

"I'm just stressed, that's all" you pout softly "anything I can do to help you?".

he had a clear idea of what you could do to help him.

"just take your panties off, can you do that, baby?' you blushed, ashamed, but you agreed.

now you are laying on the bed, with your husband on the edge of it, eating your pussy like he was dying for it. your dress was lifted up, allowing him to see your abdomen, one of his hand grabbed one of your tits and the other one pulled you closer by your waist. Jason was really concentrated, trying to get every little whine or moan out of you, his tounge lapping at your clit, or trying to go deeper inside of your cunt while his nose nuzzled against your bud.

Jason doesn't know what time is it, or how many times he has made you cum, he doesn't care that he barely breaths, or how painfully hard his dick is, he just wants to eat you out for a little more.

"Jay-" you whined, pulling his hair for him to stop, but he just groans against your pussy, making your body vibrate. "Jay, it hurts, I can't cum anymore" but he was so focused he didn't care. "Jayyy, come one j-just put it on" his eyes left your cunt to stare at your puffy eyes and red nose, he didn't even realize you were crying of pleasure.

his lips leave your pussy and he wipes his saliva mixed with your juices from the corner of his mouth. he gets up between your legs only to reveal his very hard dick, his boxers begging to be taken off. he does, slowly, showing you how angry his tip was.

"can I put it in, baby, please?" he moans softly as he strokes himself, you nodded, and he carefully sank his cock inside of you, your pussy hurting from the overstimulation and his dick from the edging. his hands grabbed each side of your hips as he fucked you selfishly.

he's ramming in and out making you let out the sweetest noises, he gives you a big kiss, you pull his hair softly. he moans against your mouth, so hot it almost made you cum on the spot.

Jason isn't stopping until he's filling his little wife up so good, he's not stopping until you leak him for days !!

reposts and requests are appreciated :3