amelia 🫀

18 | gemini | blog of all my favorite fics and my thoughts |

[thepioden]

Chai tea bag + lil but of brown sugar + apple cider packet + 16 oz. mug of hot but not quite boiling water

it will not Fix You but like. maybe. maybe.

[thepioden]

tags by @eridan-ampora

[thepioden]

Update: this is the best post I've ever made because everyone is sharing their Warm Beverage recipes in the notes. Go check the notes for more Warm Beverages That Will Fix You.

[blondwhxrewrites]

Clark found you in the bath, completely surrounded by bubbles and what could only be the biggest, roundest bath bomb he'd ever seen in his life. You looked completely content, with your eyes closed as you submerged yourself face up in the water, letting the outside world fade away.

This was where you belonged: in the water. Where you could float all day long and just let all of your worries melt away.

You didn't even notice him leaning against the doorway, looking down at you with the widest smile, his dimples on full display.

"Well, someone looks happy." He sat down next to the bath, not caring if his shirt got wet as he leaned over and took your hand in his, an action you immediately reciprocated, your hand lightly squeezing his—a wordless hello.

You both stayed like that for awhile, simply existing together in mutual silence.

"Dude—"

"You did not just call me dude." He sounded offended, maybe a bit dramatic, but still offended nonetheless.

"Would you rather me call you bro?" You giggled and sat up, not caring to hide your body from him. He'd seen it before anyway, and you watched as his gaze flickered down to your exposed breasts before snapping back up to your face.

"The love of your life has a nice ring to it, actually." His gaze flickered down again, unashamed.

"Dude, stop staring at my boobs."

"You know I was going to, but since you called me 'dude' again, I've decided not to."

Your expression fell blank. "Oh, wow. My boyfriend is a pervert."

"For your boobs? Yeah, I mean, look at them. Absolutely perfect."

You rolled your eyes and leaned forward, unplugging the drain and then standing up.

"You're a dork." You snorted.

Clark didn't hesitate to grab the closest towel and hand it to you, watching as you wrapped it around your body. He stepped back, letting you step out of the tub without issue. "You know I actually heard that letting your body dry naturally is really good for your skin."

You stared at him, unimpressed. "No, you didn't."

"No, I didn't."

A/N: here's a little drabble I never got to finishing. The ending is a little abrupt but y'all will live. Love you <3

[filmjules]

thinking about giving neighbor!peter the best head of his life all because he helped you lift a few heavy boxes. he thought he was just being a good, nice neighbor when he offered to help you. you were clearly struggling and he was spider-man, so obviously he was going to help, right?

he brushed off the persistant thoughts in my mind about how gorgeous you were because he wasn’t trying to be creepy, he was just being nice. and he was being neighborly when he accepted your invite to come inside for a little. and when you offered him a drink. and another... the conversation was just flowing so well, and he hadn’t had a normal, good conversation with someone in way too long.

and he wasn’t crazy, so when you started batting your eyelashes a little extra and closing the already pretty small gap between you, he wasn’t going to reject you. there was no surprise when your lips met his in a bruising kiss, and he knew he was gone when he felt your hand slowly go from brushing his upper thigh to full on palming his bulge.

and when you slid off the couch, on your knees in front of him while you forced his legs open? he knew he was going to be completely wrecked by the end of the night. he was already this heavily affected by your simple touches, what was going to happen when you actually wrapped your warm mouth around him? when you licked a stripe up the bulging vein on the bottom of his dripping cock?

it didn’t take long to find out because you were already there, teasing his overly sensitive tip, watching the precum drip down to his balls before licking it up. his arms flew behind his head, not wanting to overstep with a woman he just met but needing something to do with his hands. your mouth was taking him perfectly, warm and wet and with just enough pressure that he wasn’t sure how he’d even lasted these last few seconds.

he could already feel himself coming closer and closer to the edge, and somehow you knew too, because you reached up to grab his arms, guiding his hands to your head. hesitantly, he gripped your hair, getting a hum of approval that almost made him cum. “fuck, i’m—holy shit. i’m coming, i’m—” he moaned while giving a weak attempt at pulling your head away. you worked him through it, swallowing as much as you could while disregarding the extra cum dripping down your chin.

when you were finally done, you wiped it off with your thumb, subtly biting your bottom lip. peter was panting heavy breaths, feeling his already spent cock twitch with the need for more, the sight in front of him not helping. you sucked the cum-covered thumb in your mouth, not breaking eye contact with peter. “so, peter... are you free tonight?”

masterlist

[deathreverse]

need a pope smut where he makes reader sit on his face and he just can’t help but touch himself while he eats you out

─── FAVORITE POSITION

SUMMARY: There are some days when Andrew just can't get enough of you. So if that means he wants to fuck you silly on his cock and then have you cumming in his mouth right after, so be it.

WARNINGS: slight dirty talk, oral (female receiving, face sitting), masturbation, Pope just loves to be buried in your cunt <3

AUTHORS NOTE: from the bottom of my heart, thank you for sending this in, something about sitting on Pope's face is so brain melting to me hehe

PAIRING: Andrew Pope Cody x Reader

MAIN MASTERLIST

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

"Andy...oh, fuck. Andrew, I'm gonna cum!"

He's got you right where he wants you; fucked out and dumb on his cock, spluttering out whines and profanities. Your cunt clenches around him, desperate to milk him of his release but he's not ready.

He wants his fix—a full fix. He's had a generous dose of your pussy sucking him in, of your tits bouncing in his face and his teeth around your pebbled nipples.

And as much as Andrew loves when you cum around him, when you squeeze his cock so tight it sometimes almost makes him black out, he wants you cumming in his mouth tonight, instead.

A shriek of a gasp tumbles wetly off your lips when his grip on your waist lifts you off the length of his cock, settling you on his rigid abdomen instead.

He hates to do it to you, he really does. But some sick part of him soars at the sight of your teary eyes and desperate pout. Call him a sadist but watching and feeling you rub your sopping pussy over his stomach almost makes him bust.

"Andy—wh—"

"I know you wanna cum, angel." He coos, pawing at the supple skin of your hips and dragging you closer until you’re making a puddle on his chest. "But I wanna taste you when you do."

You're rising slightly on trembling knees when you look at him through bleary vision; the precipice of an orgasm clouding your gaze and fucking with your head.

There's a darkness that washes over Andrew's eyes when he shuffles down the bed slightly, when his head rests against the pillows instead of the headboard, when your cunt is hovering just inches over his face instead of his chest.

He's just so fucking hungry for you. A lust that blows his pupils black and has your blood burning hot beneath your skin.

Pope reaches for your ass, grabbing sensual handfuls and kneading once, twice, before finding your hips again.

"Yeah?" You whisper, and although your voice is hoarse from moans and cries, there's an undeniable twinge of excitment laced within it.

"Yeah. Come on, baby. Sit on my face, let me taste you."

You don't need much more convincing to let him guide you down to his face, his head lifting to close the distance as his hot tongue wipes through the strings of your arousal.

A gasp slips from the back of your throat when he swirls his tongue around your entrance, when he dips it inside and massages it against that part just before your g-spot.

Pope can't help but whimper into your pussy, the taste of you so intoxicating he doesn't know how he'll ever function again without it staining his tongue every moment of every day.

His grip on your hips tightens and he's pulling you closer until his head is sinking into the pillows and your cunt is suffocating him entirely. He doesn't know why he's never suggested this before, why he's never thought of it.

The sounds of your desperate whines above go straight to his aching cock, the rocking of your hips against his mouth enough to have him releasing a hand on you in search of himself.

He wraps a fist around his length with a tight grip when your clit rubs against his nose and you're panting words of filth and praise. Pope doesn't think he's ever found something more erotic in his life than this moment.

His fist begins to move, pumping in quick successions—needy and desperate and mirroring the pace of your rolling hips. His stubble is scratching at your inner thighs, no doubt going to leave a burn but all you can do is tangle your fingers in his curls and tug.

"Oh, fuck. Baby, don't stop. I'm so close, Andy...so fucking close, please..."

The beg lands heavy in his balls, has his entire body stiffening. It's a split second decision he makes to abandon your needy little hole and wrap his lips around your puffy clit instead. A wise one, by the sound of your fucked out cries and trembling body above.

He's going to cum at the taste of your own release filling his mouth and Andrew holds not one ounce of shame about it. He rubs the flat of his tongue against your nub quickly, sucking on the hood at the same time and suddenly, all you can do it make choked noises and scratch helplessly at his scalp.

Andrew knows you're cumming because you're gushing into his mouth and all over his face; sobbing out his name and how much you love him and just how fucking good he makes you feel.

It's an intense mixture of it all that has his cock twitching and balls tightening until he's spurting hot ribbons of cum all over his hand and abdomen.

And with the overwhelming release that seizes his lungs, Andrew finally realizes it's been about three and a half minutes since he heaved a full enough breath.

But he's gentle when he releases his cock and slowly eases you off his face to sit on his chest again, lungs gulping down air while you do the same. He keeps his palms on your waist, can tell by the sticky sheen on your skin and daze in your eyes that you're stuggling to keep yourself up right.

It's bleary when you blink down at the literal man of your dreams, when the golden glow of the nightstand lamp glistens against his cum-soaked face.

The sight alone has your cunt quivering.

"Jesus Christ, Andrew." You pant through shallow breaths. "Where did that come from?"

He has the audacity to look sheepish, but doesn't divulge that it's now his new favorite position. “Dunno, but I wish we'd done that sooner."

His reply pulls a laugh from deep in your chest, the sound causing his heart to soar as his cock softens to something limp and heavy against his thigh. He doesn't think he'll ever tire of the sound of your happiness.

You reach out for his hand, finding something sticky when you meet his skin and he pulls away quickly, catching his mistake with a grimace while you fight the smile at the fact that he got himself off to eating you out.

"We need to shower."

You could've predicted that—his post-nut clarity, if you will. As soon as the high of his orgasm begins to mellow, he's always quickly reminded of how sticky and sweaty your bodies have become.

He's also overwhelmed that with every inhale, all he can do it smell the scent of your pussy that's seeping into his pours.

It's all a bit too much for him and within half a minute, he's carried you into the shower and is washing you both clean.

[dirtyb1rdy]

🤍 first time with jack abbot

drabble / mini fic 🤍

soft, out of practice, fumbling hands jack who's liked you for ages, dated you for weeks without pushing for anything more than a kiss - follow on from this <3

the jack abbot who you've gone on dates with nearly every evening you both have free. he couldn't understand why you'd want to spend so much time with him, just the two of you, or why you were asking so many questions about him and his life. surely that's not stuff you care about? why does it matter? he wants to hear about YOU and your shit, yet you just won't stop yapping about his fave tv shows and hobbies

the jack abbot who finally lowers his guard just an inch to let you in. he wants more, so much more but feels selfish pulling you into something when he thinks you deserve better. you make it clear you're not going anywhere and it becomes official, the two of you date and it's perfect. he gets self conscious sometimes, being older than you, limping a little when the days grow long. it's nothing you care about but boy, does he

the jack abbot who does not push or pressure, there's no rush for anything no matter how bad he's come to realise he wants it. sex (or anything close) hasn't been on the cards for so long, it feels strange to finally want this, to have the urge to lean in, kiss you and the first time your lips graze his? he's slow and tentative. savouring your taste and touch as if he's scared it's the last time he'll feel it

the jack abbot who has god like self restraint to turn down your invite of coming inside. he wanted nothing more, feeling himself get half hard at your tongue grazing his lips on the doorstep. but he doesn't want to rush this, he kisses your cheek or the back of your hand and then he slips away. night after night

the jack abbot who you need. deciding enough is enough, you pull him inside after dinner one night. he wants to be there, he really does but there's just something in the back of his mind that's telling him he's not good enough for you. ahhhh !!!! it's the exact opposite of his confident and fun side, he'll make you laugh alllll night, pay for everything, be the perfect boyfriend and then it'll all come tumbling down when he realises maybe he shouldn't feel this way for you??

the jack abbot who doesn't object this time. he follows your lead, trailing in after you, slow and steady with eyes locked together the entire time you walk in from the doorway. it starts with a kiss and fuck he's so good at kissing. thick fingers gripping your jaw in the softest way as his tongue is gentle and warm in your mouth. he lets you take his jacket off, even gets four buttons down on his shirt before he's smirking against your lips

the jack abbot who feels nervous when you pull your shirt over your head, he wants to devour you, kiss every inch of skin but it's been so long. you place his hands on you yourself, urging them to wander and feel you, touch you where you need it the most but he's hesitant. he laughs softly to himself, shaking his head as his cheeks get hot and his pants tight. "you have no idea what you do to me" whispered under his breath 

the jack abbot who tries to undo your bra as he's kissing you, first with one hand, adding a second when his fingers just can't get the clasp right. it takes a second before he's pulling away, cursing under his breath but you think it's so sweet, the way he gets frustrated with himself and when he finally does it, his forehead falls against yours and you're both laughing <3

the jack abbot who has thought about his prosthetic this entire time since it's the first time you'll be seeing him without it. you watch him hesitate, maybe second guess himself until you're on your knees "you don't have to do that—" but you want to, unfastening and setting it aside before rubbing the soreness of his skin underneath it. god it feels good to have your fingers on him, to want him this bad. he can't contain himself much longer :(

the jack abbot who takes his sweet time lining himself up against your slit. he hovers above you, can see how insanely wet you are yet he's teasing the tip at your entrance because he wants this to be slow, to be good and to make sure youre okay. when he pushes in, his eyes are on yours, whispers of hows that? yeah? feel good? until he bottoms out and your pussy's clenching around him. he curses you for that, scared he's gonna blow his load before he's even started moving... so he's concentrating. on making you feel good, how you sound, the way you move together. his hips roll between your legs, fingers finding yours as they interlock and spread above your head on the pillow. "god you feel so good" as he's fucking you deep and slow, his lips find your nipples, thumb ends up on your clit as you cum hard around him, moaning his name til he's grunting yours and coming inside you (he did ask)

the jack abbot who cuddles and kisses, strokes your hair as you're laid against his pecs. you play with his chest hair, twiddling it between finger tips as he's propped half up against the headboard. lips pressed against your temple, muttering "thank you" so you can barely hear. course you just think he's been funny as usual, grateful for the good time but it's so much more than that!!! he's thankful for the way you make him feel, how you don't see him just on the surface level but a whole lot deeper. he's thanking you for giving him the chance to feel something again <3333333

[xxxsl33p-l0vr]

Going Up, Sir?

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader

word count: 4k

check out the masterlist for more! spencer requests welcome

summary: being the adventurous one of the pair, you liked to play with your boyfriend whenever and wherever you please. including the elevator! much to the humiliation and dismay of your poor, poor boyfriend, spencer.

tags and warnings: smut, sub!spencer x dom!reader, no sex u just make spencer cum in his pants, semi-public sex, exhibitionism kinda, almost caught (nobody catches u though), could qualify as dubcon, over the clothes stimulation, light choking

a/n: haha get it. going up. like his erection. his dick’s going up in his pants. anyway. spencer’s ramble in the beginning is very not subtly yoinked straight from the fibonacci episode because. well. writing my own spencer rambles is hard when the author isn’t as smart as him okay. ALSO THANKS FOR 1000 NOTES ON THE LAST SPENCE FIC!!! MORE TO COME AND MY REQUESTS R OPEN!

“It’s an irrational number known as phi, based on the ratio of line segments to each other and to the whole. I-It’s called the golden ratio, it’s a ratio we find all through life. In fact, most people we find conventionally attractive are based on that ratio. The unsub made an, uh, a reference to Leonardo Di Vinci, remember this? Di Vinci used it in a lot of his paintings. As a matter of fact, the last supper is the perfect example—”

The words tumbling out of Spencer’s mouth along with the pair of your footsteps are the only sounds echoing through the quiet halls of the rather antique hotel you were resting in for this case. A pleasant location. Clean carpets, which had Spencer pleased. Deep wood and golden light hanging above. The elevator was a bit on the slow side, however. Or maybe that was due to the building being so very towering in height. The ride to your room had to be at least a handful of minutes, and you and your boyfriend weren’t even sleeping at the very top.

As Spencer speaks, your eyes drift to the hanging lights above, the ones that stretch honeyed light across the winding hall. Normally, you would be nodding along, even if you couldn’t quite keep up with his mind. But this time, you stayed quiet. You just kept walking, Spencer trailing at your side, mouth moving like a motor as you both enter the old elevator as it groans and creaks.

Spencer, never one for social cues, seems entirely oblivious to your curious demeanor. Spencer keeps talking animatedly as the doors slide shut. “…and the Fibonacci sequence is directly related to phi! The way seashells spiral, flower petals arrange themselves— it’s all golden ratio-based. Even human faces… statistically speaking, facial symmetry aligned with phi correlates with perceived attractiveness at a 67% higher rate than average—” He pauses only to adjust his glasses and press the button for your floor. The silence from you feels normal to him. After all, you always listen quietly when he shares his mind.

Before the doors shut, you take a moment to peer around the enclosed space. Small, even for an elevator. The way you crane your neck around, it’s almost as though you're looking for something.

You press the floor button again before the doors can shut, and the glow of the number disappears, effectively stopping the elevator before it can begin its descent. Instead, you crouch down, absurdly choosing to press the floor at the very, very bottom, just shy of the basement.

“The whole concept is represented by the pendant the unsub had, including the logarithmic spiral created by… um…” Spencer starts to trail off, hands hovering in the air. “By- by using the fibonacci sequence, and if we pull up the towns all of the… missing are from— you, I, uh- I think you pressed the wrong floor?” He furrows his brow at your strange behavior, pointing to the row of numbers on the wall. With his infallible memory, he can be certain he had it right the first time.

But you're still poking your head about the elevator like you're looking for something, hardly acknowledging him. “Why’d you stop?” You ask.

“Uh… I mean…” He clears his throat awkwardly. “I stopped because we’re going to the wrong floor. Our floor was 7? We’ll have to go all the way to the bottom now, why’d you do that?”

You step impossibly closer to him, shuffling in front of his body to create a barrier between him and the doors as they slide shut with a creak. “Go ahead, I was listening,” you nod encouragingly.

For a second, Spencer just stares at you with a suspicious look. Then, with a furrowed brow, he remembers his train of thought and resumes talking, albeit with slightly less energy than before. “So… phi is approximately 1.6180339887…”

The elevator has begun its descent. You watch above your shoulder as the aged dial begins to slide across the numbers at a snail’s pace.

The longer Spencer’s mouth moves, he almost becomes absorbed enough again to forget you were headed to the wrong floor. “It’s- it’s funny, actually, 11235 is a Fibonacci series, each number added to the number before. So it’s what the unsub’s ticks mean, subconsciously counting out fibonacci sequences over and over in his head! I mean…”

The elevator hums, you take another step even closer, taking advantage of the way he’s absorbed with his own ramblings again. With movements as casual as you could manage, you slide his cardigan off his shoulders, gently tugging his tie loose and popping open the top button of his shirt.

It doesn’t last long. His eyes are watching your every move and he slowly trails off as he stares at you with utter bewilderment. “… it’s a Fibonacci… series…?” He blinks. Once. Twice. “What- what, uh, what are you doing?” He makes no move to run from your hands, just looking back and forth between your fingers and your face, utterly lost.

Your lips hastily press to his with a force, and Spencer’s eyes blow open wide. His back thumps against the elevator wall. His lips move clumsily against yours by pure reflex. One hand hovers awkwardly near your waist while the other presses flat on the wall beside him for balance.

When you pull back, he pants, staring at you owlishly and looking delightfully vulnerable. “Wha— what?”

It all happens so fast. As the elevator hums and creaks with slow movements, your hands slide down his shirt, trailing from his neck to his chest, to his abdomen, then latching to his crotch and caressing his dick through the fabric of his khakis.

Spencer’s jaw falls open in a gasp, body slightly curling in on itself at the touch. He stares down at your hands on him, face burning red from his hairline to his collarbone. Then his eyes snap back up to you. “Hey! What are you- ah! Wh— wha— whatareyoudoing?” He tries to ask again, voice coming out a little too high.

“What’s it look like I’m doing?” You chuckle, batting your lashes up at him.

It looks like you're touching his penis. Through his khakis. In an elevator. But that doesn’t make sense, right?

“I-uh…” He can’t seem to form words. Just staring, wide-eyed and blushing furiously. “W— we’re in an elevator!” He whisper-yells.

“Uh-huh,” you keep rubbing circles over his cock, pressing the heel of your palm into the bulge of his head under his pants.

Spencer makes a tiny, strangled noise. His hands finally move. One flies up to cover his mouth. The other holds the wall behind him uselessly. His eyes dart across your face as he sputters, panicked. “There- there are generally cameras and microphones p-placed in— mmm! Placed in elevators f… for safety reasons!”

“I already checked. I didn’t see any cameras. This place is too old-fashioned.”

He whines girlishly as her palm presses more firmly against his straining cock. “Microphones, then! M-Microphones can be quite easily… oh, fuck… hidden from view if the owner of the establishment—”

“Then you better keep your voice down, huh?”

Spencer bites his lip hard, trying to muffle the onslaught of dirty sounds threatening to escape. “Y-Yes,” he whispers, nodding frantically. “Voice down… quiet… oh, god.”

He’s trying so hard to be obedient, but every rub and squeeze and brush sends electric pulses through him and he’s already throbbing. His breath comes in short, panicked little puffs through his nose like a startled rabbit.

“W-Why?” He nearly sobs.

You tilt your head innocently. “Why what?”

Spencer swallows, his throat bobbing. “W-Why are you… doing this? I mean— we’re in a public elevator. We have a case. And I-I was just talking about math.”

The elevator continues descending, dinging as it passes floors 16… 15…

You rub your thumb over the shape of his tip and Spencer’s knees feel weak. You just shrug, “‘Cause I like to tease you.”

He whines, humiliated. “I… I like your teasing too,” he admits in a tiny, breathless voice. “B-but usually with words. Not this.” He’s completely overwhelmed by your casual dominance over him, and panicking over how much it was turning him on.

He gasps sharply when you massage his bulge just right. “Please! Please, please— hey! don’tdon’tdon’tdon’t—”

Your hand stills slightly. “Don’t?”

Spencer squirms, watching you toy with him helplessly. “I mean— yes! Wait, no— I mean—” His voice cracks. “Please, please, I-I really don’t wanna cum right now...”

You chuckle, biting your lip. “You sure?”

Spencer nods rapidly, eyes wide with panic. “No. No— I mean— yes! Just not… not like this. Not in the elevator.”

“Oh, but I wanna play with you…” You pout.

“P-Playing is fine! I love playing!” he blurts, then sheepishly lowers his voice to a frantic whisper. “But maybe… maybe in our room? Where we can close the door and— and change clothes if needed?” He’s grimacing now from the touch, his expression twisting like he’s in pain.

“Oh, you don’t wanna cum in your pants, huh?” You tease.

He ducks his head into your shoulder to stifle the sounds. “N-No,” he mumbles into the fabric of your shirt. “I—I have a meeting in an hour. With Strauss. And my pants are… they’re not stain-resistant.”

“Aww! That’d be so cute!”

Spencer lifts his head slightly, horrified. “Cute?!” he squeaks. “What? No! Not cute. Embarrassing! P-professionally devastating!”

Ding! Just then, the elevator doors fly open as they reach the floor nearest to the basement.

Spencer nearly jumps out of his skin when the doors open, practically leaping away from you, only to see an empty, dimly lit hallway. The second they close again, he exhales sharply, shoulders slumping.

You casually hit another button with your elbow. The elevator starts moving up to the very top.

“Top floor?” he asks quietly, eyes wide with hope. “Our room is on 7…”

“We’re not going to our room, I’m fucking you here, silly.”

“H-here?!” he squeaks, eyes darting around the tiny elevator. “In this… this box? B-But the— the microphones! The elevators are monitored for safety violations and— and crimes! Public indecency is a crime!”

But he stops when your hand comes up to squeeze his throat, a thrill shooting through him and straight to his loins.

His lips part slightly as he stares at you with wide, glazed over eyes. “Why don’t you keep talking to me about your math sequences? Hm?” You coo, rubbing your thumb over his adam's apple.

“I-I…” He swallows hard against your palm. “F-Fibonacci sequence… um, mmm, it’s a recursive series wh-where each number is the sum of the, uh? Two preceding ones… and um…” It’s hard for him to remember when the majority of his blood flow was going straight to his cock.

“Yeah?” You encourage him with a nod, so Spencer keeps babbling, dazed and breathless.

“S-so 0, 1… then 1… and the next is, oh, the next is two, so it’s— it builds exponentially. Like a spiral! Mm-hm. A logarithmic spiral which relates to phi again because of the golden ratio division in geometry which creates perfect aesthetics like Da Vinci’s paintings or seashells or—”

He pauses when you squeeze his throat just slightly tighter, not enough to hurt, but enough to make his voice crack cutely.

“…a-and the ratio of a shell’s chambers to its width follows, ah, phi exactly, which means nature uses math for beauty and-and symmetry, like how people are attracted to faces with phi proportions statistically but god, you’re squeezing my neck…”

You grin. “You like it?”

“Y-Yeah,” he breathes, “I mean, scientifically speaking… mild pressure to the carotid artery increases blood flow which could theoretically heighten arousal but—”

“You didn’t finish telling me,” you remind him, but math was the furthest thing from his mind.

Spencer thinks, trying to remember where he left off, but nope. All gone. Erased by your hand on his throat and the heat coiling low in his stomach. “I… uh…” He swallows hard under your fingers. “I forgot.”

“You forgot!” You laugh, “Oh, no you didn’t, you don’t forget anything.”

Spencer pouts. “I did! I swear!” he insists, voice high and flustered. “My brain… I can’t really… recall anything.”

You rub your nose against his affectionately. “Am I making you dizzy, my sweet boy?”

Spencer nods slowly, eyes half-lidded. “Yeah. Dizzy… and warm… and my heart’s going really fast.” It wasn’t only the pressure on his throat, or the hand caressing his throbbing cock. It was the way you looked at him, touched him like you wanted to devour him alive in this stupid elevator.

Dizzy wasn’t the right word, he was overloaded. But dizzy works.

“You’re so cute when you’re all spacey,” you whisper.

Spencer’s face scrunches up, embarrassed and deliriously happy. His lips twist into a tiny smile, but he quickly tries to hide it by shyly pressing his face back into her shoulder.

“Am I making you feel good?”

“Mmm-hmm,” he hums into your skin.

You glance over your shoulder to see another number lit up on the panel. “Uh, oh…” You bite back a smile.

Spencer lifts his head slowly. He doesn’t notice the new number lighting up, still lost in his stupid, blissed-out haze. “Huh?”

“We got a visitor!”

Spencer’s body tightens. He straightens up instantly, panic flashing across his face as his dizzy brain scrambles to come back online. “Oh, no,” he frantically smoothes down his shirt and fixes his tie with shaky hands. He combs his hands through his hair and wipes any trace of lipstick from his mouth with the back of his hand. He shoots you a wide-eyed look that says what do we do?!

But you are the face of indifference. You detach yourself from his side and turn your back to him, folding your hands in your lap like someone simply riding the elevator while Spencer is still panting and sweating and struggling to not look suspicious at all.

As the doors ding open, Spencer ducks his head down and half-turns his body away to hide the erection straining against his pants from view, while you are all but the picture of inconspicuousness.

A hotel janitor in a blue uniform steps in, pushing a cleaning cart. He nods politely at you, to which you respond with a small, polite smile back, then glances briefly at Spencer.

Spencer keeps his head ducked, shoulders hunched like he’s studying the floor tiles. One hand grips the railing for balance; the other crosses over his lap awkwardly to block his erection from sight.

The janitor presses button 3 and hums quietly to himself. And so, all the way back down you go, slow and quiet. Spencer stays statue-still, like he’s not allowed to breathe too loud. The janitor stands on the other side of the cart, occasionally glancing at his clipboard.

You remain perfectly calm. Not a single nervous twitch.

Every second feels like an eternity to him as they creep back down to floor 3 with this random man who could turn around and see his horribly suspicious posture at any given moment.

The elevator dings as it reaches floor 3. The janitor gathers his cleaning supplies and wheels the cart out without a word, leaving you and Spencer alone again, doors sliding shut behind him.

Spencer exhales like he’s been holding his breath for ten minutes straight. Only then does he finally unclench, shoulders dropping, and look at you with wide, traumatized eyes.

“Really? I mean, really! Th-this is why I said doing… that in an elevator was a-a ridiculous idea!”

“Doing what?” You hum as you casually press another floor on the console.

Spencer gapes. “Doing that!” he hisses, waving a hand vaguely at the space between you, where seconds ago you were touching him. “Right before, with th-the—! And the—! …You know what I mean!”

You turn around, and Spencer’s protests and complaints simply evaporate when you latch your lips onto his. Spencer makes a soft noise into your mouth and kisses back, clumsy but eager. His hands lift to cradle your face instinctively, thumbs brushing your cheeks as he tilts his head to deepen it.

Your thumb circles around the head of his cock through his pants. Spencer whimpers into the kiss, hips grinding forward slightly to chase the contact. He breaks the kiss for a second to gasp, forehead resting against yours. He breathes your name like a plea.

“Where were we?” You grin cheekily.

“We were… uh…” He swallows, eyes fixed to your lips. “I think you were— you were torturing me.” He leans in to kiss you again like your mouth was magnetic, which you greedily accept.

You laugh softly against his lips, massaging his pulsing cock once again, smoothing your palm over his bulge. “Not gonna stop until you cum for me, okay?”

The thought is terrifying and thrilling at the same time. He whines against your lips, squirming as you massage him through his pants with just enough pressure to drive him insane. “I—I can’t… I don’t wanna—” he stammers between kisses, but his hips betray him by rolling into your touch. “Please, I-I really don’t wanna ruin my underwear…”

But his body isn’t listening. Every rub of your hand sends sparks through him, and the coil in his stomach tightens dangerously.

“C’mon, it’d be so cute. I bet you’re all leaky under there anyway.”

Spencer whines, mortified. “I-I’m not leaky!”

You laugh at his childish protest.

He flushes. “I-I don’t… leak! I control my bodily functions!”

But then your hand squeezes again, firm this time, and all defensiveness withers as a sharp gasp and a whine escape him.

“Bet you wish you could fuck me, huh?”

He nods mindlessly. “Mhmm. Yeah, a lot.”

The elevator dings. The doors slide open to reveal a quiet, dimly lit hallway. He recognizes it. Your room is just down the corridor. Spencer stares at it like salvation, then back at you, eyes wide with hope.

But your hand doesn’t stop moving. Caressing him, toying with him, rubbing his bulge. You make no move to take the both of you back to your room to have sex properly. No, because it’d be silly of him to think you’d have any interest in proper sex.

What’s making his stomach sink, however, is the way you’re not pressing another button. The way you’re letting the heavy elevator doors stay wide open as you touch him, letting all his needy little noises escape into the corridors for any unfortunate passerby to overhear.

Spencer’s voice cracks as he whispers, “H-hey… the door… it’s open…?” He tugs weakly at your sleeve, eyes wide with nervousness. The hallway is silent now, but anyone could turn the corner. “People could, um… could see us?” He adds in a tiny, embarrassed squeak. He wants this, desperately, but not like this. Not out in the open where someone might walk by and see him panting, blushing, completely at your mercy.

You simply follow his eyes, glancing at the open door, considering it nonchalantly, then wordlessly return your focus back to him and his dick, much to his frustration.

“P-Please,” he whispers shakily. “Can we… go to our room? Just a few steps? Please?”

You sharply pat his cock right where he’s most sensitive, and it sends a jolt through him. “I told you, silly, I wanna play with you here.”

Spencer yelps. His knees buckle. “O-Ow!” It didn’t actually hurt, but it stung in that electrifying way that was making his cock throb even harder. Tears prickle at the corners of his eyes from overwhelming sensation and your stubborn refusal to move this somewhere private.

Spencer bites his lip, eyes watering. “I-I don’t wanna— I don’t wanna cum in my pants… please, please…”

Teasing him, you ask, “Why not?”

Spencer blinks, baffled. “B-Because…” he stammers. “It’s messy! And— and I’ll have to change my clothes, and we didn’t pack extra underwear because we thought this trip would be short and— and—” He hesitates. “And I don’t— I just don’t wanna feel sticky and gross all day!” He whines miserably.

You chuckle, affectionately leaning your head on his shoulder like your hands aren’t down there working to make him explode. “But this cock is mine,” you murmur close to his ear.

He whimpers, tilting his head instinctively to give you better access to his ear. “I-I know… I know, I know,” he admits in a tiny voice, defeated but oddly turned on by how easily you claim him. “Yeah. Yours. But can I please cum in bed?”

You ignore him. “Mine, isn’t it? All mine? Mine to play with?”

Spencer nods frantically, eyes fluttering shut. “Y-Yours,” he breathes. “All yours. You can— you can play with me whenever you want.” The thought of being yours is almost as intoxicating as the physical sensations.

“Uh-huh. Then that’s all you need to worry about.”

Spencer hides his face in your shoulder again, breathing fast and shallow. It’s terrifying, being exposed like this. But also… thrilling. The risk makes every touch feel ten times more intense.

“Tell me how good I’m making you feel, Spencer,” you murmur to him sweetly.

“S-So good,” he whispers against your shirt, voice trembling. “You’re making me feel so good…” His face burns with shame and pleasure. “You’re… you’re the best, the best at this… I love it, I love you.” His hips seek more friction, rocking up into your touch.

“I love you too, my sweet boy. Are you getting close?”

Spencer nods against you, his breath coming in quick little puffs. “I-I think so… really, really close.”

You smile, feeling his tension, his breath picking up pace against your skin. You press a soft kiss to the top of his head before whispering, “That’s okay. You can cum if you want to.”

He swallows a moan, his body shaking. “I-I can… I can cum?”

“Uh-huh, you wanna cum for me? Wanna be my good boy and make a mess? Just for me?”

Spencer’s stomach flips. The words are filthy, and so tempting. He wants to, desperately, he’s so near to tipping over the edge. But the thought of actually doing it here and now, exposed and vulnerable, still worries him.

He whines softly. “Y-Yeah… but I’m scared.”

“Oh, baby,” you coo, “I’ve got you, it’s okay.”

Your voice, soft and loving, quells the fear, and for a moment Spencer is lulled into believing you two are in the privacy of your own bedroom. Your hand is perfect, moving with just the right pressure and rhythm.

“Fuck, feels really good. Feels really, really good,” he cries pathetically. He moans your name in a plea for mercy. “Fuck, I think I’m gonna…! Please, please, oh fuck! I think I’m gonna—”

Everything tightens. The coil in his stomach, his chest, his shoulders. He clutches your shirt like a lifeline as he stops denying himself and the pleasure crashes over him in sweet waves. A quiet gasp escapes him before he can stop it, and suddenly he’s cumming right there, still fully dressed, pressed flat against you. He moans like a girl into your skin, jaw falling open wide as his release coats the inside of his boxers. You keep working him through his orgasm diligently.

The afterglow hits, warm and floaty. But he can feel it as he pants, coming back down from his high: the horrific wetness against his skin. And when the wire in him fully snaps and he goes slack in your arms, he grimaces.

Spencer is a limp, dazed puddle. He’s panting, sweaty, and so embarrassed by the mess in his pants. He hides his face further in your shoulder with a tiny groan of humiliation.

You just hum, gently stroking his hair, quite pleased with yourself. You kiss the top of his head sweetly. “It’s okay,” you murmur, soothing. “Nobody else booked this floor, anyway.”

Spencer nods weakly against your, still hiding. “Okay…” he pants, voice muffled by fabric. “That’s… that’s good to know.”

The two of you are silent for a moment as Spencer recovers, the only sound his heavy huffs and the faint hum of the lights beyond the elevator. “…Did you like it?” You eventually ask.

Spencer lifts his head slowly, finally meeting your eyes, cheeks still pink. “Mm-hm,” he nods shyly. “A lot.”

You smile, letting out a warm chuckle. “Good.”

You press the button to slide the doors closed, giving the two of you a quiet moment in your little bubble before any reality can creep back in again. Holding his warm cheek, you press your lips to Spencer’s.

He quickly leans into your kiss, eyes fluttering shut, melting into you with lingering affection and arousal. When you part again, he sighs contentedly and rests his rests his forehead against yours.

Eventually, he interrupts the peace with a meek voice, “Can I… can I please go change my pants?”

You giggle at him and lovingly pat his cheek with a nod.

liked it? wanna request more? i’m listening!

[mcu-binge]

Playing House || Adrian Chase x Reader ||

Pairing: Adrian Chase x reader. W/C :5125

Summary : Post fake dating mission you realize the kiss you and Adrian shared awoke something you’ve tried to keep dormant.

Tags/Warnings : SMUT MDNI, oral (male receiving), classic pathetic whiny!Adrian (said with love), bombshell!reader

A/N : After episode 6 I AM HOPELESSLY OBSESSED WITH THIS DORK!!! Like seriously it’s doubled (lol) anywayyyy I hope you guys enjoy it’s set in the middle of season 1 bc I love Murn 🤷🏻‍♀️

Comments, tags, and reblogs with reaction memes always make my day 🩵

=================================

The safehouse smelled like cold takeout and sweat. Everyone was slumped in their usual spots—Economos at his laptop, Adebayo on the couch with a blanket draped over her shoulders, Harcourt standing with her arms crossed like she’d rather be anywhere else. Adrian sat too close beside you, his knee bumping yours, still humming with leftover energy from the mission.

Murn stood at the head of the table, stone-faced as ever. “Debrief,” his eyes flicked between you “excellent cover. You integrated seamlessly, got Malloy’s schedule, and passed intel without drawing suspicion.”

Adrian beamed like a kid with a gold star. “We crushed it.” He looked at you proudly. “We’re like Batman and…uh not Robin. Batman and Batwoman. Except you’re hotter.”

You elbowed him, but your cheeks warmed anyway.

Murn didn’t react. “Smith, Harcourt.” His voice dipped into something sharper. “You bailed early. Why?”

Chris bristled. “Because somebody” he jerked a thumb at Harcourt “acted like making out with me was worse than waterboarding. Couldn’t exactly fake happy-couple vibes if my date looked like she wanted to stab me in the spleen.”

Harcourt’s jaw tightened. “You were too forward. Suburban wives know the difference between a natural couple and a guy who looks like he’s trying to cop a feel in public.”

Chris scoffed. “Forward? That’s what normal couples do! Ask literally anyone in America!”

“Not at a dinner party, jackass.”

Economos slammed his laptop shut. “Jesus Christ. If these two pulled it off—” he waved angrily at you and Adrian— “then why couldn’t you just fucking kiss him?” His voice cracked with pure frustration. “It’s not rocket science, Harcourt.”

The room froze. Harcourt’s glare could’ve cut steel. “Excuse me?”

Economos plowed on, gesturing wildly. “All you had to do was sell it. One kiss, maybe two, and we’d have Malloy’s contacts mapped by now. But no, you had to make it weird, and then you bailed, and now we’re behind.”

Chris’s mouth opened, then shut. Harcourt looked like she was two seconds from breaking a chair over Economos’s head.

You cleared your throat. “Maybe screaming at each other isn’t productive?”

“Agreed,” Murn said flatly, like he was already regretting his life choices. “We’ll recalibrate before the next attempt.” He looked back at you and Adrian. “But for tonight? Good work.”

Adrian straightened, still grinning. “Best fake couple ever.”

You tried to focus on the praise, on the mission’s success, but your pulse still fluttered every time you remembered the slow dance, the kiss, the way his hand had cupped your jaw like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Best fake couple ever. Right. So why didn’t it feel fake anymore?

The night should’ve ended at the safehouse. Instead, Adrian insisted on walking you to your car like he hadn’t just survived an undercover op with HOA couples and casserole-based small talk.

He leaned against your passenger door, helmet tucked under his arm, curls sticking up again after the hours of “suburban husband chic” you’d carefully assembled. He looked ridiculous. He looked happy.

“That was so fun,” he gushed, voice carrying in the quiet parking lot. “Like, not butterfly-fun, but actual fun. Did you see the way those dads were nodding at me? Like I was their leader? I could start a dad cult. Dads love me. I’m basically a dad magnet. Which sounds gross, but in a non-sexual way. Unless… well, no, definitely non-sexual.”

You unlocked the car. “You really wanna lead a dad cult?”

“Why not? We’d wear polos. Grill meat. Talk about how we’re totally gonna fix the deck next weekend. Oh my god, you’d be amazing in a dad cult. You’d organize the bake sales. You already made lemon bars like a champion.”

You shook your head, laughing as you slid into the driver’s seat. “Get in before someone calls security on us.”

He climbed in, still talking. “And did you see when you let me tell the bee story? They bought it. Hook, line, and stinger. You’re a genius. You let me go full improv. Most people shut me down before I get to the good part, like the,” He made buzzing noises. “but you didn’t. You’re the best fake girlfriend I’ve ever had.”

You pulled out of the lot. “How many fake girlfriends have you had, exactly?”

“Counting you?” He held up one finger. “So… yeah. Just you.”

Your chest tightened in a way you didn’t like.

The drive was quiet for about two minutes, record time for Adrian before he piped up again. “You know, if this were a real relationship, this would be the part where I walk you to your door and try to look suave, but then I trip over my own dick, metaphorically. My real dick doesn’t trip. It’s very coordinated.”

You nearly swerved. “Adrian.”

“What? I’m just saying. It’s got rhythm. Could probably win America’s Got Talent.”

You bit your lip to keep from laughing. “Shut up.”

He grinned, smug. “You’re smiling.”

“I’m regretting every life choice that led me to this moment.”

“Hot. Say it slower.”

You rolled your eyes, pulling up to your building. You should’ve let him go, should’ve said goodnight and left it there. But when you glanced at him, helmet in his lap, hopeful puppy energy practically radiating off him, you couldn’t do it.

“You don’t have to go all the way back to your mom’s,” you said finally. “It’s late. You can crash here.”

He blinked. “Here? With you?”

“Yes. Guest room.” You emphasized it, hard.

“Oh. Yeah. Guest room. Totally. Unless you secretly want me in your bed, in which case, wow, what a twist.”

“Guest room, Adrian.”

He grinned, wide and boyish. “Got it. Guest room. With my very talented, balanced dick.”

You groaned, shoving his shoulder lightly as you parked. He laughed the whole way inside, buzzing with the same adrenaline you’d both been pretending wasn’t there.

And for the first time that night, you weren’t sure if letting him stay was a mistake or the smartest decision you’d ever made.

Your apartment wasn’t anything fancy cozy, lived-in, the kind of place that smelled like clean laundry and vanilla candles, but Adrian looked at it like you’d just walked him into the Louvre.

“Holy shit,” he breathed, helmet tucked under one arm. “It’s so… you. Like, I don’t know what I expected. Maybe beanbags. Or swords on the wall. But this is—” He stopped in front of your bookshelf, crouching. “Do you alphabetize your books and color-code them? That’s… honestly, that’s hotter than I thought it would be.”

You closed the door behind you, kicking off your shoes. “Try not to rifle through all my stuff.”

“I would never,” he said, already picking up a photo frame. It was you, your sister, and your niece, laughing mid-silly-face. Adrian smiled at it, soft. “Your family’s cute. You look happy.”

The way he said it, quiet, without a trace of irony made you pause. “Yeah. They’re my… everything.”

He set the frame back carefully, then perked up again, bouncing on his toes like the sincerity had short-circuited him. “So where’s the guest room? Or do I get, like, a cot in the bathtub?”

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “End of the hall.”

He saluted, striding toward it like a soldier on parade. But of course, he stopped halfway, drawn to the kitchen like a moth to flame. He opened the fridge, whistled. “Wow. Actual vegetables. Do you eat these or are they props?”

“I eat them,” you said flatly.

“Hot,” he muttered, still digging. “Whoa, is that oat milk? You’re so L.A. chic.”

“I’m not from L.A.”

“You’ve got the vibes. Like, ‘oh my god, let’s go do hot yoga and then talk about our feelings over açai bowls.’” He shut the fridge and leaned against it, grinning. “I’d totally go to hot yoga with you.”

You snorted, covering your mouth too late. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Thank you.”

You shook your head, finally steering him down the hall to the guest room. It wasn’t much just a bed, dresser, lamp, but he flopped onto it with a satisfied groan. “Oh my god. This is the nicest bed I’ve ever been on that didn’t have, like, plastic sheets for ‘easy cleanup.’”

You paused in the doorway, raising a brow. “…I don’t want to know.”

“Good,” he said, already sprawled out like he owned the place. “Mystery is sexy.”

You grabbed an extra blanket from the closet and tossed it at him. He caught it clumsily, grinning. “Thanks, babe.”

The word hung between you. Too casual. Too easy.

You should’ve corrected him, reminded him it was all part of the bit. Instead, you just nodded. “Goodnight, Adrian.”

“Goodnight,” he said, voice softer now. Then, almost as an afterthought “Best fake girlfriend ever.”

You closed the door, heart hammering, and leaned against the wall.

Because the truth was, nothing about this felt fake anymore.

It was almost midnight when you padded into the kitchen, craving water. You flicked on the light, only to nearly drop your glass when a shadow moved by the fridge.

“Jesus Christ!” you hissed.

Adrian yelped, clutching his chest. “Holy shit—you scared me! I thought you were a burglar. A sexy burglar in pajamas.”

You pressed a hand to your racing heart. “You can’t just lurk by my fridge in the dark like a serial killer.”

“I wasn’t lurking,” he said indignantly, holding up a half-empty box of cereal. “I was scoping out midnight snack options. Very different. Also, do you know how depressing plain Cheerios are without sugar? It’s like eating sad circles.”

You sighed, setting your glass on the counter. “You’re hungry?”

“Starving,” he admitted, eyes wide and guileless. “Some lady kept hogging the crab dip. I only got, like, two Ritz crackers’ worth.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose, fighting a smile. “Sit down. I’ll make you something.”

His whole face lit up like you’d offered him eternal salvation. “Really? Oh my god. This is like… playing house.” He plopped onto one of your barstools, chin in his hands, watching you like you were about to perform magic. “You, cooking in your kitchen, me sitting here telling you how hot you look cutting vegetables. it’s basically a Hallmark movie. Except, you know, with more dick jokes and potential homicide.”

You pulled eggs and bread from the fridge, shaking your head.

He leaned forward eagerly. “What’re you making?”

“Scrambled eggs. Toast. Nothing fancy.”

“Fancy enough. Did you know eggs are basically chicken periods?”

You gave him a flat look over your shoulder. “Thank you for ruining breakfast food forever.”

“You’re welcome.” He grinned, utterly unrepentant. “But seriously, this is great. Like, domestic. Cozy. If I didn’t know better, I’d say we were…” He stopped, suddenly aware of the line he was about to cross. His grin softened into something almost shy. “…real.”

The sizzle of butter in the pan filled the silence. You stirred the eggs, throat tight. “It was just for the mission, Adrian.”

“Right,” he said quickly, too quickly. But when you set the plate in front of him and he dug in with boyish delight, he looked up at you with scrambled egg on his fork and said, “You’d be really good at real, though.”

And you couldn’t bring yourself to argue.

You were fully prepared to watch him inhale them like a starving raccoon, and then send him back to the guest room. That was the plan. Keep the walls up. Keep the line between fake and real intact.

But when he looked up at you, mouth full of eggs, curls messy, eyes bright with that impossible, enthusiasm, you cracked.

You leaned against the counter, arms crossed, and said quietly, “You’re right. This is kind of like playing house.”

He froze, fork halfway to his mouth. “…Wait. Did you just admit I was right?”

“Don’t get used to it,” you warned, but your lips curved anyway.

He set the fork down slowly, like any sudden movement might scare you off. “So, like… in this game of house, are we… married? Dating? Divorced but still hooking up for old times’ sake—because honestly, all three sound hot.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “Dating, Adrian. Let’s keep it simple.”

Something in his eyes shifted, sharp and hungry under all the dorky energy. “Dating. Okay. Yeah. I can do dating.”

Before you could think better of it, you stepped closer. He smelled like laundry soap and a hint of lemon from the bars earlier. He straightened instantly, wide-eyed, like a dog who just heard the treat bag crinkle.

And then you kissed him.

Not a fake cover kiss. Not a crowd-pleasing slow-dance kiss. A real one. Firm, deliberate, meant to shut him up and ruin your own damn rules in one move.

He made a startled noise, half gasp, half laugh and then grabbed your waist, pulling you flush against him. The stool screeched backward as he stood, towering over you, lips moving hungrily against yours.

“Holy shit,” he whispered when you broke for air. His forehead pressed to yours, his grin completely unhinged. “You just kissed me in your kitchen. This is… this is like porn, but better, because there’s eggs.”

You let out a laugh, trying to shush him, but he was already tumbling forward, mouth on yours again, kissing like he’d been waiting forever and suddenly realized he’d never have to stop.

Every time you tried to pull back, he chased your lips, babbling between kisses “You taste like…oh my god…like toothpaste and lemon—fuck, I’m so into this…it’s like a brunch fantasy but with way more tongue—”

“Adrian,” you managed, breathless, half laughing.

“Yeah?” His eyes were blown wide, pupils dark, curls sticking every which way as his hands roamed like he didn’t know where to put them first.

“You’re riled up.”

He grinned, feral and boyish all at once. “I told you I’d be great at house.”

And with that, he kissed you again, messier, deeper, eggs forgotten on the counter while you let yourself get lost in the disaster you’d just unleashed. Adrian’s mouth was hot and insistent on yours, his hands clumsy but eager as they slid up your sides.

You should’ve stopped. But the way he kissed you messy, desperate, like you were oxygen had you whispering against his lips before you even thought about it “Fuck it.”

His eyes snapped open. “Wait…fuck it, like, fuck it fuck it or?”

You grabbed his shirt, tugging him toward the hall. “Bedroom. Now.”

For a split second, he looked like he might combust from sheer joy. Then he practically stumbled after you, tripping over his own feet in his rush. “Oh my god, this is happening. This is actually happening. I knew playing house was a gateway drug.”

You shoved your bedroom door open, pulling him in. He barely got it shut before his hands were on you again, fumbling but determined.

“Holy shit,” he babbled between kisses, already breathless. “You’re like…like a freak in disguise. The bimbo thing? That’s like a camouflage, isn’t it? You’re actually feral. ”

“Keep talking,” you gasped, yanking his shirt over his head.

“Oh, I will. You think I ever shut up during sex? Nope. Not happening. You’re gonna get the full Adrian director’s commentary while I—”

You kissed him hard enough to shut him up, only for him to laugh into your mouth, delirious and turned on.

“God, you’re insane,” you muttered, pushing him back onto the bed.

He sprawled there, curls wild, chest heaving, grin unhinged. “Insane for you. Which is probably diagnosable, but whatever, let’s not invite a psychiatrist into this threesome.”

You climbed onto him, and he groaned like it was the best gift he’d ever been given. His hands roamed, hesitant one second, greedy the next, like he couldn’t decide between worshipping or devouring you.

“Holy shit,” he whispered again, voice cracking as you ground against him. “You’re not faking this, are you?”

“Not even a little,” you said, daring him with your eyes.

And that was all it took. He surged up, kissing you like a man possessed, like all the jokes and babble were just his way of containing the truth he wanted you, badly, and now that he had you, he wasn’t letting go.

The fake-dating rules, the team, the mission, they all blurred and disappeared as you matched his frenzy beat for beat, chaos answering chaos.

For once, Adrian Chase wasn’t too much. For once, he was exactly what you wanted.And neither of you cared about the fallout.

He made a choked sound when you kissed him again, more tongue than anything, your hand already slipping beneath his waistband like you’d made your decision and that was that.

“Wait—are we actually?” he gasped, voice climbing an octave as your fingers wrapped around him.

“Yeah,” you whispered against his lips. “We are.”

He let out a strangled moan, whole body going rigid like you’d just hit him with a stun gun.

“Fuck—fuck.” He whined. Full-on, actual whine. “You don’t understand,” he rambled, breathless as you stroked him slow. “You’ve been in my head for weeks. Every time you talked during mission briefings, I just stared at your mouth like a fucking idiot. I’d be thinking about it during recon, during stakeouts…once during a firefight, which is so unprofessional. You’re shit…you’re my Roman Empire.”

You let out a laugh, barely keeping your rhythm. “Adrian—”

“I mean it. You said ‘brunch version of you’ and I got hard, that’s not normal. You smiled at me while filing intel and I had to sit down. And now you’re doing this and I’m just—fuck, I’m two seconds away from coming in your hand.”

You slowed down just to watch him squirm. His hips bucked up helplessly, a sound punching out of him like it had been trapped.

“Please,” he whispered. “Please don’t tease me. You don’t understand what this is doing to me.”

“Well, since you asked so nicely,” you smile sweetly before you begin to kiss down his chest, down his hard toned abs.

“Holy shit,” he whispers to himself. You sit back on your knees as you pull down his boxers letting his painfully harden member fall heavy against his lower abdomen.

“Fuck.” You hear yourself say. He’s bigger than you expected. Considering how Chris called him Thimble you always kinda assumed it’d be…average? “Can I have a taste?” You ask as you kiss his thigh.

“Please please please you can have whatever you want,” he begs. If there’s one thing you love, it’s a man that begs. You lick up from the base to the top before wrapping your lips around the tip. Swiping your tongue over the slit collecting his pre cum and moaning in appreciation.

“Oh my god,” he struggles to say looking down at you eyes wide and the darkest green you’ve ever seen.

His thighs tremble.

Your mouth slides down lower, taking more of him, hand wrapped tightly around the base, your spit making everything slick and obscene.

And Adrian melts. His hands fist the sheets, then your hair, then the air, he can’t decide if he wants to worship you or fall apart.

“Do you know how many times I’ve thought about this?” he babbles, unfiltered. “You..like this, on your knees, mouth on me…fuck—I’ve jerked off to this so many times it’s not even funny.”

You pull off just long enough to say, “You taste so fucking good.”

He lets out a strangled, pathetic whimper.

You stroke him while you speak, watching every reaction like a reward. “You’ve wanted this for a while, huh?”

He nods frantically. “Since day one. Since you smiled at me like I was funny instead of insane.”

You suck him back down, deeper this time. His hips jump. His breath hitsched so high it’s a gasp. His hands come back down to your hair pushing you down deeper, his hips coming up. He’s so greedy.

The way he withers beneath your mouth makes your thighs clench. He’s flushed and shaking, babbling like it’s his first orgasm on earth. You moan around him, just to feel the twitch, just to push him over the edge.

“Oh my god,” he whimpers, “you’re… you’re unreal..you’re too good at this… I’m gonna come… fuck, please don’t stop—please swallow it.”

He comes hard, a lot and you don’t even flinch. You swallow happily, lips wrapped around him until he’s wrung out and twitching.

When you finally pull off, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, he collapses against your pillow like a man who just saw God.

“This is like every porn video I’ve ever watched,” he sighs, dazed. “But soooo much better. Now I’m gonna think of this every time you talk. Like, full Pavlov response. You’ll say ‘briefing,’ and I’ll get hard.”

You laugh, slipping out of your clothes without breaking eye contact. He watches, wrecked and reverent, as you crawl back up the bed to straddle him.

“Wanna taste?” you tease, voice syrup-sweet as you lean down and kiss him.

His mouth opens under yours instantly. You let your tongue slide over his playfully, let him taste himself on you.

“You’re the best,” he whispers against your lips. “In every fucking way possible.”

His hand slides between your thighs, fingers dipping through your slick. He groans, long, low, reverent.

“Oh, I bet it feels so fucking good in there,” he sighs, sliding a finger inside.

You moan into his mouth, hips twitching as he starts to pump it in and out, slow and deep.

“Jesus,” he mutters, eyes locked on yours. “You’re so wet. I barely touched you. You got like this just from sucking my dick?”

You nod, panting, rolling your hips into his hand. “I’ve wanted you. Just like this.”

He moans again, overwhelmed. “I don’t deserve this. I don’t deserve you.”

You leaned down, mouth brushing his ear. “Show me you deserve me.”

“You’re gonna break me. I’m gonna be one of those guys who pines. I’m gonna smell your shampoo on my pillow for the next year and cry. I’m gonna write your name in my FBI-issued journal.”

You climbed on top of him and he whimpered. Whimpered.

“What position do you want me in first?” Yoy ask against the shell of his ear.

You didn’t expect him to go quiet.

But he does.

Your words — whispered hot against the shell of his ear — turn his whole body to stone. His hands tremble where they rest on your thighs. His chest rises in short, shallow gasps.

“What position…” you repeat, kissing just beneath his ear, “…do you want me in first?”

He whimpers again and covers his face with both hands.

“Oh my god.” His voice is wrecked. “Oh my god, I can’t decide. You’re asking me? I thought you were gonna just fuck me without warning. Like boom, snapped in half, goodnight.”

You pull his hands gently away from his face. His eyes are glassy, pupils blown wide.

“I can fuck you however you want,” you murmur. “You just have to choose.”

“I can’t choose,” he breathes. “That’s the problem. Every position? Sounds like the best idea I’ve ever had. Cowgirl? Amazing. Missionary? I get to see your face and cry. You on your knees? I might actually black out. Me going down on you until you’re shaking? That’s the dream. Me bent in half while you ride me and talk shit?” He moans,loud. “I’m so fucked up about that idea it’s unreal.”

You laugh, low and pleased, grinding your hips just enough to make him twitch beneath you. “Adrian.”

He clutches your waist like a lifeline. “Please ride me first. I need to feel you. Need to see you like that.”

You line him up, and he’s throbbing, leaking, practically vibrating with the kind of tension that can only come from weeks of fantasizing and finally getting the real thing.

And then you sink down. Slow. All the way. Until he’s fully inside you, deep and thick and stretching you so perfectly you have to brace your hands on his chest just to breathe.

“Holy shit,” he groans. His head falls back into the pillow, mouth open, jaw slack. “ I’ve never felt anything like this. You’re so warm. You’re so tight. You’re…fuck.”

“You’re so deep,” you whisper, beginning to roll your hips.

And then he’s babbling again. “Yesyesyes, oh my god, yes. I’ll be so good to you. I’ll worship you. I’ll buy you stuff. I’ll make you breakfast. I’ll get your name tattooed on my dick. Just…don’t stop. Don’t ever stop. Please.”

Your hands slide up his chest, feeling every twitch, every desperate gasp.

“You love this, don’t you?” you purr. “Being used like this.”

He nods, eyes wet, voice trembling. “Yes. Yes. I love it. I love you. Fuck—did I say that too soon? Doesn’t matter. I do. I love you. I’m obsessed with you. I’m ruined for anyone else. This pussy is mine now, right? Say yes. Please say yes. I’ll beg again. I like begging—”

You kiss him, hard and hungry, swallowing the rest of his chaos.

And when you pull back, your lips wet and your thighs trembling, you say the thing that finishes him completely

“It’s all yours.”

He makes a sound, raw and hoarse, like it’s being ripped out of him, and arches up so deep inside you it makes your whole body stutter.

And in that moment, Adrian is gone. Fucked stupid. Fucked in love.

You’re riding him hard now hips rolling, sweat slick between you, his hands gripping your ass like it’s the only thing keeping him tethered to reality. He’s been babbling nonstop, tossing out praises like prayers, like every word might keep you there a little longer.

“You’re unreal… you feel so good… I could die like this, happy, smiling… fuck, I’d leave a note and everything ‘death by pussy, signed: a grateful Adrian Chase.’”

You press a hand to his mouth. “Shh,” you whisper, breathless, grinding down slow. “It’s your turn to listen.”

He moans into your palm, eyes fluttering, head tilting back like he’s offering up his whole goddamn soul.

And you feel it how close you are. How bad you want it. But it’s not enough. The pace, the rhythm, the angle, it’s perfect, but it’s not it.

He sees it in your eyes. You don’t have to say anything. You slow. You hesitate. And before the disappointment even lands in your chest

Adrian moves.

He shifts you gently, flipping you over with surprising strength, hands guiding your thighs apart. His eyes are so wide, so fucking devoted, it makes your heart catch.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers. “Let me get you there. Please. I need to.”

You open your mouth to respond. And then he sinks back inside.

Slow. Careful.

One of his hands reaches for yours, intertwining your fingers and pressing it against the pillow beside your head. The other rests right over your stomach.

And when he moves deep, slow, tender, it’s not about him anymore. It’s about you.

“You’re everything,” he whispers, forehead brushing yours. “Everything I ever wanted and didn’t think I could have.”

You gasp, your legs wrapping tight around his waist.

His voice is wrecked, low, barely holding together. “I wanna make you come so bad it hurts. Not because I need it, but because I want you to feel how much I fucking adore you.”

He rocks into you just right and you whimper, eyes stinging.

“I’ll do anything,” he says, kissing your cheek, your jaw, your neck. “I’ll buy you flowers every morning. I’ll rub your feet after missions. I’ll learn how to cook for real. I’ll call you baby in public and mean it. I’ll never make you feel small. I’ll be yours in every way I know how to be.”

You’re gripping his hand now like it’s the only thing keeping you grounded.

He presses his forehead to yours again. “You’re so close, aren’t you?”

You nod, breath catching.

“Good girl,” he breathes. “Come for me. Please.”

And it’s not the rhythm. It’s not the pressure. It’s him. The voice. The hand in yours. The soft, impossible things he’s whispering just for you.

You come hard, gasping his name, back arching as the wave crashes through you.

He watches it all the way your mouth parts, the tears that spring to your lashes, the way your body writhes under his and his own release hits seconds later.

He buries his face in your neck, hips jerking, groaning against your skin like he’s never felt anything like this before.

Because he hasn’t and neither have you.

You both lie there, tangled, trembling, the silence thick with everything you didn’t mean to say but did.

And when he finally catches his breath, voice barely audible against your throat, he whispers,

“…I think you just broke me in the best fucking way.”

You don’t know how long you stay like that pressed together, sweaty and shaking, your heart still thudding like it hasn’t gotten the memo that it’s over.

Adrian hasn’t moved.

His body is still wrapped around yours, chest flush to yours, arms banded tight around your back, one leg thrown over yours like he’s afraid you might disappear if he doesn’t physically anchor you to the bed.

He’s still inside you. Soft now, overstimulated, but not willing to let go just yet.

Your fingers trace idle circles against the sweaty slope of his shoulder. You’re still catching your breath when you feel it the tiniest little tremble in his chest.

And then he exhales. Sharp. Shaky. Emotional.

“…man,” he whispers. “I think I saw God.”

You laugh, soft, breathless and tilt your head just enough to look at him.

He’s blinking up at the ceiling like he just came back from war. Hair a total mess. Chest heaving. Lips red and bitten.

You brush a thumb across his cheek. “You okay?”

He nods quickly, eyes darting to you like he wants to make sure you’re still here. Still real.

“I just… fuck.” He smiles, dazed. “You really meant it, didn’t you?”

You blink. “Meant what?”

He pulls back just far enough to meet your eyes. His voice is hoarse. Small.

“When you said it was mine.”

Your breath catches.

Because you did say that. You meant it at the time. And now, after everything, you’re sure it wasn’t just dirty talk.

You nod slowly. “Yeah. I meant it.”

Something breaks in his face, something soft and boyish and so stupidly vulnerable that it makes your chest ache.

He lowers his head to your collarbone and just stays there, breathing you in.

“I’m gonna be so annoying about this,” he mumbles.

You laugh again, fingers stroking through his hair. “I bet you are.”

[cosmictheo]

𝐅𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐊 | adrian chase

( gif credits to @castledevil )

—summary: you despise adrian, and adrian adores you. it's as simple as that. until he saves your life. —pairing: adrian chase x female!reader —word count: 4.3k —warnings: +18, smut !!! (minors dni), smitten!adrian, descriptions of the reader having female genitalia, oral sex (female receiving), p in v sex, unprotected sex, creampie, adrian being THE consent king, some porn with some plot, body worship, pussy pronouns, praise kink, sub!adrian, adrian being a slut for the reader as he should be, blood, killing, shooting, mentions of injuries, yk usual peacemaker stuff

writer’s note: english is not my mother tongue, so please forgive me if there is a grammatical error. hope you like it!

The first time you saw Adrian Chase, you thought it was a joke. No, not a joke in the sense that it wasn't real, but a joke that fate had pulled on you. The man in the Vigilante suit, who sang hair metal ballads in the car and dropped facts about owls mid-mission, was your new teammate.

Peacemaker trusted him, and you trusted Peacemaker, so naturally you really had no choice but to work with him.

His first reaction? Big, bright eyes flashing through his mask, and a fall to his knees at the sight of you snapping some criminal's neck.

Your first reaction? A sigh and a look that promised doom.

You, who were used to discipline and seriousness, couldn't understand how someone like him could be part of such an important operation. He had literally been one of the people who had saved the world from being dominated by a bunch of alien bugs.

He, for his part, looked at you as if you were the most interesting thing he had ever seen in his life.

He smiled at you in that silly, genuine way that got on your nerves. He talked nonstop about things you didn't care about, his life as a vigilante, his intimate friendship with Peacemaker, his passion for birds.

“Did you know that owls can turn their heads all the way around?” he asked you one day while you were on patrol. “They can turn them like 270 degrees in a circle without moving their shoulders. Can you imagine if I could do that?”

You ignored him and kept looking through your binoculars. “I'm not in the mood to talk about birds, Adrian,” you said, your voice as cold as usual.

He didn't give up and tried to rotate his neck, very awkwardly due to his mask. “I could just rotate my neck like this and—”

“Adrian, please shut up,” you interrupted him, finally turning your head so you could look at him. “We have work to do. Stop being a fucking freak for a minute.”

He fell silent, and for a moment, you felt a little bad. But then you thought about all the times he had pissed you off, and you got over it. 

Still, it was strange. 

Despite your constant rejections, your constant unkind looks, he always came back. He always smiled at you. He always offered you one of his homemade cookies —which, much to your chagrin, were incredibly good.

He extended that extra special treatment to you and only you.

Adrian treated you as if you were the most important person in the world. And that, in a twisted way, made you feel like you were the freak in the situation. He adored you.

Although, deep down, you found him ridiculously cute. He was damn attractive when he shut his mouth and obeyed you in everything.

You would never accept it, of course.

Chris, on his part, tried way too hard to make you like him. Every time you guys hung out, he would mention how good of a friend Adrian was, how good he was at killing people, as if that would somehow impress you—which it did, of course—and how big his dick was.

He literally just mentioned it like that, without further explanation or any context, as if it were a piece of information you would be interested in knowing.

He took special care to pair you with Adrian for assignments, leave you alone together, send you to buy food for Eagly together. He was a kind of fucked-up Cupid.

“I don't need to know that,” you would say with disgust, trying very hard not to envision Adrian's dick.

And Chris would just nod his head, leaning in close to you as if he were revealing a top secret, “You need to know, dude. Honestly, I don't think Adrian likes sex that much. But his dick is big, I can assure you that.”

You didn't even want to know how he even knew that.

You didn't even like Adrian that way.

At least that's what you thought.

Until now.

You were on a regular night of surveillance; preventing a crime of some criminal gang that you had been tracking.

Everything was going well until the hallways filled with armed men, and a flurry of bullets struck near you. 

Before you could react, one of the masked men shot you in the shoulder.

You feel a sharp pain that shoots through your entire arm, and then blood began to flow.

“Shit!” you cry out, retreating.

Adrian, who had insisted —begged— to accompany you that night, turn around when he hears the scream. You can scarcely see how his eyes panic, desperately searching for you through all the chaos.

He moves faster than you had ever seen him move before.

Then, he throws himself on top of you, covering you with his body, and drags you to a safe corner behind a wall of boxes.

“You're bleeding!” he gasps, his voice tinged with panic.

The pain makes you grit your teeth and the way he looks at you knocks you off balance. “I'm fine, it's just a scratch.”

“It's not fucking a scratch!” he snaps, tearing off a piece of his suit to cover the wound. “You got fucking shot, Lynx!”

The use of your vigilante name makes you finally look at him, dragging your gaze away from your bleeding wound. You can see the concern in his eyes through his mask, and he doesn't have to take it off for you to know that his lips are pursed in a pout.

His touch is gentle and careful, which surprises you. The adrenaline prevents you from thinking clearly. You'd never imagine that Adrian would be so... gentle.

While he is bandaging your wound, another man peers down the hallway. Adrian pushes you further back. 

“Stay here!” he whispers, and without a second thought, he stands up to confront him.

The shooting intensifies and then you hear the sound of a chainsaw igniting, followed by a flood of screams of pain.

Just a couple of minutes later, Adrian appears in your field of vision, his suit covered in blood.

He looks so fucking hot that you couldn't even suppress the thought, in all the haze of hurt you are feeling.

“We have to get out of here,” Adrian claims, returning to your side. “you need a doctor.”

​You shook your head, the pain throbbing in your shoulder. “My car is a couple of blocks away. We can go there, but no doctors.”

He looks at you disapprovingly for a moment before sighing and help you up, supporting your weight against him. Together, you sneak out of the market, leaving the entire criminal gang slaughtered behind and the owner of the store with a horrified look on his face, calling the police.

When you reach your car, you struggle to open the door. Adrian gently pushes you aside and does it for you.

You sit in the passenger seat, feeling the sting in your shoulder with every movement.

“Where are we going?” Adrian asks, starting the engine right after you toss him the keys.

“My house,” you reply. It is the closest and safest option, although the idea of being alone with him makes you uneasy.

Adrian already knew your address, of course; he had been there several times, showing up with his homemade cookies, sometimes with new weapons to show you, and other times with clues about some criminal you were hunting.

The journey is silent, except for the sound of the engine, some Frank Sinatra album playing on the stereo and your ragged breathing. Adrian glances at you from time to time, his eyes displaying full concern once he takes off his mask and throws it on the back seat. You don't dare look at him directly, feeling a strange mixture of gratitude and confusion.

“Frank Sinatra?” he inquires a in a teasing, incredulous tone, without looking at you. This time, it is you the one staring at him, at his side profile, the line of his strong jaw, the curve of his nose, the way his eyelashes barely brush his cheekbones with each blink. Looking at the undercut of his hairstyle makes your stomach turn. He certainly is so cute. “The most ruthless assassin I know listens to Frank Sinatra?”

He looked odd without his glasses, maybe even more gorgeous, which was ridiculously beyond belief that it was possible for him to be.

“I'm not a ruthless assassin,” you mumble, looking away from him and feeling your cheeks flush, suddenly hot all over. You assume it is because your body is starting to healing itself. Or at least that's what you want to believe. “And Sinatra is a classic.”

“He is, I guess.” Adrian snorts softly, looking at you for a couple of seconds before shifting his gaze back to the road ahead. “For old people.”

“What?” you ask, looking at him again, your eyes trailing over the bend of his nose from his side profile, feeling a heat spread up from the lower part of your belly as you picture all the things you could do with that nose. You clear your throat, trying to snap out of your trance and snap back to reality. “I’m not old.”

A smile curls on his lips as he turns his head to look at you again, his eyes gleaming under the subdued lights inside the car. His gaze is soft, and caring, and warm.

But even so, Adrian seems a little flustered and nervous, overwhelmed by your presence right next to him, your scent, your breath, your voice. You.

When you arrive at your house, he helps you walk up the stairs at the entrance, holding you firmly. Once inside, he guides you to the sofa, always holding you close to him and handling you with care, touching only the necessary parts. He does not allow his hand to wander.

“I'll go get the first aid kit,” he says, already moving toward the bathroom.

You lie back on the sofa, feeling tired and in pain. He returns with the first aid kit and kneels down in front of you, carefully opening the supplies.

He removes the makeshift bandage from his suit, his gaze fixed on the wound.

“I'm sorry,” he utters softly, with evident guilt in his voice. “If only I had been quicker...”

“Don't be silly,” you interrupt him, trying to keep yout voice quiet. “It wasn't your fault. And in fact, you prevented any more bullets from hitting me. So...” your voice trails off and you blush lightly, “you saved my life, Adrian.”

He looks you in the eyes, and for the first time, there is not a trace of his usual antics. Only concern and a tenderness that makes you feel vulnerable.

And he doesn't encounter the usual coldness and detachment in your gaze; no, this time he finds softness and closeness.

“And it's already healing. So don't be dramatic,” you add, trying to brush off the real gravity of everything you just said to him.

“Sometimes I forget you have those creepy powers,” he says softly, looking up at you from his spot right in front of your knees. “It’s so fucking cool... and scary as shit. And hot.”

Still, Adrian disinfects the wound with steady but gentle hands, bandaging it again with clean gauze. Every touch is delicate, every movement calculated. His closeness, his scent, his gaze, the soft expression on his face... everything blurs your mind and leaves you dizzy.

You feel vulnerable, but strangely safe by his side.

When he finish, his hands go down to your knees and linger there. The sheer heaviness of his touch and the way he looks at you as he kneels in front of you makes you gulp.

At that moment, you just know that his feelings for you are real. He really likes you. And he had put himself in danger to protect you.

A cold fear ran through you as you thought about what could have happened.

Suddenly, you realize you don't want to live in a world where you couldn't hear his off-key singing or his comments about birds.

“There you go,” he finishes treating your wound with a smile, his fingers caressing your collarbone before he pulls away from you.

Driven by a feeling you've never experienced before and profiting from his closeness, you take his chin in one hand, look him straight in the eyes, and kiss him.

Surprised, he just stands very still for a moment, then closes his eyes and kisses you back with a passion that makes you feel like you had never kissed anyone in your life.

Adrian kisses you as if he had been waiting and dreaming for this moment his whole lifetime.

When you separate from each other, Adrian's breathing is heavy, and yours isn't much better.

His thumbs caress your cheeks and his eyes drifts down to your lips, then back up to your eyes, with a silent question. He don't need to say it out loud really.

Adrian leans up again, close to you, this time deliberately slowly, his lips brush yours, his nose affectionately caressing yours, before deepening the kiss.

His kiss is hungrier now, more desperate. His hands moves from your cheeks to your waist, barely lifting himself up a little so he could be closer to you.

Both of you know it.

It isn't just a kiss; it is a declaration, a release of all the tension that had built up between you through all this time.

“This is only because you saved my life,” you whisper in between kisses, attempting to convince yourself more than him.

Adrian is ecstatic, kissing you as if there were no tomorrow, hungry and desperate, like a lion that had just been released from a cage.

A smile curved his lips, reddened from so many kisses, murmuring against your mouth, “I'll save you every fucking day then, if this is how you'll repay me.”

You try to suppress a smirk, your arms around his neck pulling him up, closer to you. “Shut the fuck up.”

“Shut me up,” he challenges you.

And you shut him up with a kiss, letting yourself be carried away by the thrill of the moment and your instincts, your body acting on its own, controlled by a carnal desire that you had tried so hard to suppress.

Until now.

“Let's go to my room.”

Adrian obeys instantly, picking you up as he stands up and carrying you to your room, without even taking his mouth off yours. It is the perfect excuse to press you against him, his hands running over your thighs and backside, grinding against you with every step he takes.

“Can I touch you everywhere?” he asks, desperate and pleading, detaching himself from you for just a moment, his hands holding you under your thighs, pressing you against him and making you feel the prominent bulge in his crotch.

“I thought you already are,” you reply, panting for air, your hands around his neck, your fingers lacing through his hair.

His voice lowers sheepishly, very uncharacteristically in him, “I'm a gentleman. Consent is very important.”

You offer him a little sincere smile, kissing him again, “Yes, Adrian. You can touch me everywhere.”

He gently lays you down on the bed, positioning himself directly above you, his lips moving down your jawline, pressing a wet trail of kisses across your neck.

“Fuck yeah,” he hisses against your skin, right after placing a love bite near the junction of your neck and shoulder—the one uninjured. “You don’t know how much I’ve dreamed of having you just like this.”

His mouth suck, his teeth nibble, his lips press kisses, claiming your skin as his own.

“You feel much better than any dream.”

“Adrian,” you moan out his name, arching your back as you feel his mouth reach your collarbone.

He pauses for a moment, lifting his head to look at you, allowing you to see his fully dilated pupils. “Can I take this off?”

You nod instantly, biting your lower lip.

His hands settle on the fabric of your suit on your chest, frantically opening it and tearing it apart, always careful not to cause further damage to your wound.

That makes you gasp.

“Adrian!” you disapprovingly shout his name.

But he is mesmerized by your tits, which bounce free once he ripped your suit open, your nipples perking up at the feel of the cool air in the room.

“Motherfucker,” he curses, leaning down further to kiss one of your breasts, making you sigh. “You're not wearing a bra under this suit?”

“No panties either,” you confess with a hiss, closing your eyes when you feel his wet tongue leisurely flick one of your nipples.

“You're such a freak,” he whispers against your skin, mesmerized. “You act like a good girl, but you're so bad, hm? You do bad things like this and still act like little Miss Perfect.”

You bite down on your lower lip, holding back a moan as he sucks on the nipple, his fingers playing with the other, giving both of your tits his undivided attention.

“Adrian...”

“If you keep saying my fucking name like that, I'm gonna cum,” he rasps against the warm skin between your breasts, moistening it with his saliva. 

He begins to descend further through your body, kissing your stomach, marking your skin with kisses, bites, and hickies. He is opening your suit as he roams your body, igniting your skin and sending shivers throughout your spine.

Adrian pulls your ruined suit down over your legs so he could remove it completely, taking advantage of the opportunity to kiss your knees and ankles before moving back up.

“Did you know this would happen?” he asks against the skin of your inner thigh, forcing your legs apart when you try to close them, suddenly feeling embarrassed by the way he looks down at you, adoringly. “Or you'd go for someone else?”

You try to smile through all the desire, offering him a crooked, lazy smile, “Don't be jealous.”

He gaze at you with eyes hazy with desire as he pulls himself up and begins to take off his suit with trembling, clumsy fingers.

“I'm not fucking jealous,” he mumbles, watching the way your eyes drift down his body, passing over the width of his shoulders, his pecs, his abs. 

“You're staring,” then he remarks the obvious, trying to conceal the way he puff out his chest to look even bigger. With the movement, a silver chain hanging around his neck shimmered under the dim light of the room.

“So are you,” you snap back in a broken whisper, feeling your cheeks flush. 

And of course you are cheking him out.

He is fucking ripped. 

And so big that even his bulge under the fabric of his white briefs looked massive once he strips off the lower part of his suit.

He is so hard that it looks painful.

So what you had been hearing was real, so fucking real.

“Can I eat you out?” Still, he asks, eager to make you feel good, as he shook his head, causing a couple of curls to fall messily across his forehead. “You're so fucking beautiful, holy shit. I need to taste you or I'll actually have a stroke.”

Adrian return to his position between your legs, his hands delicately caressing your thighs as he waits patiently for your response, your consent.

You look down at him with half-closed eyes, your head clouded by the desire to reach any kind of pleasure.

He is carefully placing your legs on his shoulders, staring in awe at your pussy, dripping wet and so ready for him, when you click your tongue, “Can you stop talking and just get to it, Chase?” 

“So mean even when I got you fucking-- dripping for me,” he quietly says, looking up at you once more just before nestling between your legs and leaning close to your cunt, his warm breath and the raspy tone of his voice makes you clench around nothing. And he just gawked, smiling as joyfully as if he were standing at the gates of heaven, wide open for him, “Pussy is so pretty too, look at her— fuck, you're soaking wet for me, baby"

The pet name makes you swoon and fucking fold. 

“Adrian—” 

Your voice chokes off as you feel his tongue trace your slit, scooping up all the arousal that is leaking out of your hole and savoring it as if it were the most delicious meal he had ever tasted in his entire life.

The sounds of his mouth slurping and licking your pussy flood the room, so filthy and messy that it makes you feel a heat wave from head to toe.

You can't control the way your body yields to him, as if your whole life had been longing just for this moment, as if tailor-made for him.

A righteous and sloppy suck on your clit has you promptly reduced to a trembling, whimpering mess.

One of your hands lands on his head, fingers sinking into his curly locks and pulling them, drawing a hoarse groan from deep within his throat.

The vibration against your cunt has you rolling your eyes back.

“You smell so good,” he hums into your splashing pussy, which is throbbing harder and faster, your heartbeat pulsing right against his lips. He can feel it. “Cum on my tongue, baby. I want to drink everything this pretty pussy has to give me—”

But your hand on his head tugs him back, detaching him from your clenching hole.

He looks up from between your legs with squinted eyes, his lips, drenched with your own arousal, curl into a pout.

He looks so pussy drunk and pathetic for you that you could cum just by watching him looking like that.

“Oh, baby, don’t be mean now—”

You interrupt him, your thumb lazily stroking curls away from his forehead, “I want to cum around your dick, Adrian.”

Your words leave him dumbstruck for a few seconds. And the next second, he's peeling off his briefs as fast as a flash, and the next he's climbing on top of you, nice and slow.

He leans down to kiss you, preventing you from staring in awe at his dick, now held in his own hand, so hard and angry red that it has you drooling, “Holy motherfuck, that has to be the hottest shit I’ve ever heard in my entire fucking life.”

“Put it in, Adrian,” you whine, begging for him, squeezing your eyes closed and arching your back for him, looking for any kind of friction that helps you gett off, “Please, baby—”

The pet name rolls off your tongue so naturally, lace with so much pleasure and warmth that it had an immediate effect on Adrian, who fucking whimpers, kissing your lips sloppily.

Even so, he has the strength to stop and look you in the eyes, all flustered, “I didn't bring any condoms— fuck”

“No? Why?” you ask in a choked, whiny voice.

He looks at you with a face that conveys puzzlement and hopelessness, “Because I’m on patrol. I’m supposed to be fighting, not fucking—”

You interrupt him again, kissing him once more and staring straight into his eyes, “Fuck me raw, Adrian. I don't care. But fuck me now.”

And he can actually feel himself melting against your body, you can sense how he's trembling right under your fingertips, squeezing his shoulders as he presses his forehead against yours.

He closes his eyes, breathing in the scent of your skin, pumping himself as he lines up the plump tip of his cock at your entrance, teasing it along the wet folds.

“I'll be gentle,” he promises, breathing shakily, though his hips tremble as if he might lose control at any second.

“Don't be,” you correct him, your legs wrapping around his waist, pulling him closer. “Fuck me. Hard.”

The growl he lets out when he hears you has something animalistic, primitive about it. Adrian finally pushes himself inside you with a slow but powerful movement,deeply carving a way into you.

“God, you're so tight...” he cries out, his eyes tightly shut, as if the pleasure is too much to process. He's only halfway inside your squeezing pussy. “So fucking warm— I'm gonna cum, damn it—”

“Don't even think about it,” you cut him off, digging your nails into his shoulders to force him to open his eyes and look at you. “Hold it for me, yeah?”

Your words set him on fire. Adrian begins to move, erratically at first, then with more force, each thrust slamming you against the bed. You you scratch his back, pull his hair, grasping any part of him you can hold on to, as the wet sound and rhythmic thrusts fill the room.

“So pretty...” he hiss in a broken voice, choking on his own whimpers and kissing you between each word, his hungry mouth tracing your neck and jaw, drooling on your skin. “So pretty for me— fuck, sweetheart.”

He's so dizzy with you, overwhelmed that everything is you, everything around him. Adrian is in love, thrusting into you with a force that makes you gasp, moving with raw desperation, as if his whole world depended on making you feel good. Your moans mingle with his panting, with the dull thuds of his skin against yours, with the creaking of the poor bed shaking under you.

Your legs squeeze him closer to you, trapping him inside, and when your nails dig into his back, Adrian almost splits the air in two with his broken moans.

“Can I— Can I cum n-now?” he asks like the good boy he is.

“Do it,” you whisper, already losing yourself on the edge of climax. “Cum for me, baby”

“W-where?”

“Inside,” you whine, frantically gasping for breath, feeling like the world is shrinking and slipping away from you with every thrust Adrian pushes into you, the tip of his cock hitting that spongy spot over and over. “Mhm! --Fill me up”

The rhythm becomes wild and brutal until your orgasm overwhelms you, making you cry out his name against his mouth. Your walls squeeze him tightly and Adrian can't hold back any longer, spilling inside you with an agonizing moan, torn apart by pleasure.

The sounds of your two fluids mixing inside you are so obscene that they make you tremble.

Adrian stays right there, trembling, and still cumming inside you, twitching occasionally, his forehead pressed against yours, both of you breathing as if you had been running for your lives.

“Holy fuck, babe,” he groans, cracking his eyes open to look at you, a goofy, lazy smile curving his lips. “We made a fucking mess.”

Very carefully, he pulls out of you and your pussy squelches, gaping and oozing with your mixed cums.

“Look at that” he coos, lifting himself slightly off you so he can look down, gazing at your abused pussy in awe.

“Adrian—”

Too late, he already has one hand reaching down between your bodies, swiping his index finger through your folds, scooping up the fluids and plunging them back into your cunt, making you pant from the overstimulation.

When he makes sure that not a single drop of his cum is wasted outside of you, he brings his hand back up, holding it to his mouth to savor the remains left on his finger, making eye contact with you as he sucks his index finger.

“Delicious” he delights, leaning down to kiss you, making you savor the mixture of the two of you together through his lips.

“You're so weird,” you whisper against his mouth, kissing him again.

Adrian flops down next to you on the bed, letting out a sigh he had been holding in his lungs.

“And yet my cum is still inside you,” he replies, smiling contentedly. His smile suddenly fades, as if he's come back to reality. “Wait, can you get pregnant from this?”

You snort softly at his worried face, your hand gently brushing his still-flushed cheek.

“People usually get pregnant like this,” he nuzzles close to your caress, looking at you in awe as you talk. “That’s why you have to go to the pharmacy and buy me the Plan B pill.”

“Did you know that swans mate for life?” he asks afterwards, out of fucking nowhere, pressing a soft kiss on your fingers cradling his cheek as he snuggles closer to you. “And that they die of love if their partner dies?”

“What’s your point?” you inquire back, looking at him with curious, gentle eyes.

It's the first time you are showing genuine interest in his bird facts. And he is so happy he could burst with excitement.

“We're like swans, babe,” Adrian replies in an obvious tone, affectionately intertwining his feet with yours. “Well, at least I feel like a swan. If you left me after this, I'd kill myself.”

[bloodnguts17]

casually sexting jack abbot while you’re on the couch eating snacks with a face mask on, barely paying attention but still amused by how excited he was getting. lazily lifting your shirt and snapping a pic of your tits from a low angle, smirking, quite satisfied with yourself. and quickly returning your attention to the tv.

and he’s at work, hunched over in the bathroom and trying not to whine your name while he jerks his cock at a frantic pace. his other hand braced against the wall while he grips his phone, trying not to drop it. alternating between that and sloppily typing out the dirtiest things with his chubby thumb. it takes a while for him to type what he wants — some versions of “need that little pussy so bad” “so fucking hard right now” “please send another pic baby” you ignore the typos.

he’s imagining you touching yourself too, back arching, body glistening with sweat, moaning like a whore for him. he grits his teeth and closes his eyes, imagining his cock enveloped by your drooling pussy instead of his rough hand. in reality you’re fully clothed, immersed in your newest reality tv obsession.

another message from you. he scrambles to read it, his orgasm approaching.

“can you pick up food on the way home”

and he cums all over his fist anyway, the thought of taking care of his sweet, sexy girl pushing him over the edge.

[titus-danforth]

⇢ pairing: Brendon Park the Shark x wife!reader

⇢ summary: no one knew Park had kids let alone was married- but a call after a missed Father’s Day breakfast lets the entire OR in on his little secret-

⇢ warnings: 18+ MDNI, fluff, hint of smut, making out/foreplay, dry humping, denial, park being a good fucking dad, park being an asshole

⇢ author’s note: you can find Jack’s Father’s Day ficlet here!

Brendon Park “the Shark” didn’t smile. He didn’t laugh unless it was at the expense of his intern who didn’t have the strength to hammer out a tibial nail. He was an asshole. He was clearly just an ortho jock who drank protein shakes for breakfast and ate whole rotisserie chickens for dinner after bench pressing your weight at the gym. Right?

Only a select few at the hospital know the true Brendon Park. Of course Walsh and Garcia, who have spent many an emergency trauma surgery with him when he needed to do an ORIF or an ex-fix, know the true Park. They cut through his bullshit and didn’t let his intimidating shark-like stare scare them off- they can take his smart remarks and the roll of his eyes and give it all right back at him.

They know that Brendon Park’s other nickname is daddy and not in the way that you’re thinking- but because he’s called that by three little people at home who have his eyes and your smile.

They know that when you got pregnant with your first child- something changed in Brendon. A switch flipped because suddenly the man who had expensive taste and seemed to live his lavish lifestyle turned into a family man. He started to- well he started to nest. His sleek sports car was traded in for an SUV that he spent hours comparing crash tests and ratings because you and his daughter would be riding inside. He studied and obsessed over which car seat was the safest- scared the poor sales boy who couldn’t answer his questions fast enough. The diaper bag he picked has near tactical level organization that rivaled Abbot’s backpack and was already ready to go whenever you needed.

They know that during your second pregnancy- your daughter was a toddler and learned to walk on cold penthouse tiles and that he complained about her room bringing in little light for her. They saw Brendon immediately spring into action- knew how he spent days looking at neighborhoods with good schools nearby and he settled on the perfect house for you to raise your kids in. Two stories, 6 bedrooms, giant backyard with space for a swing set and a garden. He spent one of his rare weekends off painting the rooms for his kids, setting up the crib for his son that you’re due to have soon and- building that swing set that your kids will play on and grow up with.

They were called aunt Yoli and aunt Emy by your kids- they knew Brendon cried on your daughters first day of school because she let go of his hand and ran into her classroom with excitement and awe. That you had to console him and spent the entire day telling him to not pick her up early- and then spent the rest of the day sitting outside the school way too early to pick her up because he was antsy. They knew that Park made waffles on Sunday mornings for you and his kids. He would wake up early- kiss your cheek before leaving you in bed to go check on his babies down the hall. Your daughter at the age where she can attend one of those good school that Brendon pays for- your son still in preschool but it makes his heart feel sad that in another year he’ll join your daughter.

And with your third pregnancy? They knew that Brendon now realized what was the most important factor in raising a family- time. God there wasn’t enough and not even all the money in his accounts could give him more time- because he remembers the panic when your oldest was born and now she has her first ballet recital and he made sure to block out the day to not be on call. Birthdays are a special event and he takes the day off to make sure he can join you in blowing up balloons and making pancakes with sprinkles and candles for breakfast. Brendon’s life was changed because he’s present for every event- soccer games even if he son is the most uncoordinated child ever, piano and ballets recitals, softball games, and school plays. They know that Park refuses to let time slip from his hands when it comes to you and his kids because the second they become known he’s there for every appointment, anatomy scan, blood draw, and ultrasound.

But everyone knows how frustrated Brendon Park “the Shark” gets when he’s gets called in the middle of the night for an ortho trauma-

“Mmph, Brendon~” huffing out his name with a shaky breath when a heavy hand slides up your nightgown to cup at your chest- his lips busy with the skin of your neck to nip and bite at before using his tongue to soothe the pain. You were both woken up by your middle child- monsters and scary men in his dreams that required his big mean daddy to take care of for him but after slaying the demons, your husband had some other plans for the night. “H-happy Father’s D-day,” muffled by his needy lips and desperate touches- little grinds of himself between your thighs to quell the ache that was growing between you both.

“Give me another one,” groaning- drunk off your taste and the pretty way you sound underneath him while he struggles and paws at the neckline of your nightgown so he can get better access for his mouth to occupy your chest. “One more baby, honey- you give me such pretty babies,” he was lost in it now- mouthing dark marks on your skin while nearly slurring his words against your body. “We have one more room to fill- just one more baby- please,” it was hard to deny him now- sounding so needy and desperate and pulling at his boxers before the sound of his phone interrupted you both. You’d think he got fired with the way he whimpered and whined a loud ‘no!’ against your lips- but duty calls and he was the one who had to answer for this shift. Which left him annoyed. Grumpy. Pouting against your lips for a final kiss before tucking you back into bed and mumbling “this isn’t over,” before finding his way to PTMC for a trauma. He’s not sure what makes him more irritated- the denial of soft, half-asleep 3 am sex with his wife or the fact that he’ll miss breakfast with his family on Father’s Day.

“Dr. Park,” his favorite scrub nurse old woman, has been in the practice for years and also doesn’t take shit from Brendon called out over the music- “it’s yours.” He almost didn’t hear her- today felt like a good day for Knocked Loose. But he nods- telling them to turn the volume down when she answered his phone. She also knew of his family- because she was the only one who could see that his background lock screen was a trio of babies who had a familiar blues and sweet smiles that let them get away with anything. Ice cream for breakfast, cookies in bed, a treat just because-

“This is Park,” answering almost on autopilot- stiff voice while he finished the last touches of the ex-fix before asking for a 4-0 Dacron.

“Daddy?” The entire OR paused- a soft, tiny voice broke through the speaker and immediately the tension from Park’s body melted- his eyes softened and they could see the way he smiled from behind the mask. Immediately after Brendon answered his oldest child, another other tiny voice- that of your oldest son spoke up and he could hear the distinct babble of your youngest son trying to keep up with his two siblings. The Shark personality was gone- there was no biting off heads or the voice he saves for chewing out interns. The OR listens while a trio of voices wish him a happy Father’s Day- his oldest giving him her best rendition of Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star while his son started yelling his ABC’s to show Park he’s been practicing. And in the background? A very loud chanting of ‘dadadadadadadada’ from your youngest who needs to make it known that his favorite person was also his first word.

Park is engaged- intently listening to your kids while you try to calm them and listen for him in case he needs you to step in if his surgery gets dicey and he has to hang up. You know your husband can multitask- focusing on the delicate tendon reattachment while the kids go on in detail about the breakfast they had. He doesn’t use fillers or just nod along while they speak- no he’s engaged and asking questions and- “did you have any fruit or just syrup?” Because your son would eat it with a spoon if you let him.

“Daddy what are you doing?” Your oldest has become interested in his job lately- tells everyone she meets that her daddy fixes bones. She’ll stay up and crawl into his lap while he reads case studies softly to her until she falls asleep- safe and warm in his arms until he decides to carry her back to her room and tuck her in.

“I’m fixing someone’s leg,” some poor bastard who ended up on the wrong side of a car accident. No casualties but the years of physical therapy will be hell for this kid. Your daughter knows that bone! Excitedly exclaiming that clearly that’s the femur- ‘that’s in your thigh’ she’ll do an aside to you as if her and her dad that’s their own little language now that she can understand. After another few minutes of your kids asking if Brendon will kiss their owie like he does their own- you finally manage to get a second to speak before leaving him to work. Giving the entire OR a view into your life- a view of the Brendon that’s yours. That he’s loved- has a family and a wife and does ingest more that protein he actually has a major sweet tooth believe it or not- having found him and your kids in the kitchen late at night sneaking spoonfuls of ice cream and loud shhhh’s because ‘mommy is sleeping!’

“I love you Brendon, happy Father’s Day,” you know he hurts- how he can’t always be there for you and your kids but it’s not like he’s willfully abandoning you. He always comes back. They know he leaves but what’s even more important is that he comes back to them- tired and drained but he never lets them know. Body exhausted and mind busy but the second he comes home and hears their excitement of ‘daddy’s home!’ You remind him that you and the kids will be waiting- you’ll always wait up for him. And that he has a few gifts to open when he comes home. A nice new scrub cap that you had made of your kid’s drawings of sharks for him- ‘dada!’ your youngest shrieked- already having made a connection between sharks and his dad.

⇢ taglist(UPDATED! Click to join!):

@velvetmel0n @ovaryacted @espressheauxs @nyxmoretti @silversprings-mp3 @thatfanficstuff @diasnohibng @userhotd @abzidabzy @thedamnqueenofhell @happyendingarentreal @phoenixhalliwell @artsymaddie @pjo178 @xoxoloverb @flyinglama @angelbunny222 @llovekats @wayytoocooll @lostgirllulu @scarlet-nerded @pascalsryissa @fortjackson @blackrose53666 @celiaiscaterpillar @rae4725 @dr-yapper @loverwrites @redhooduwu @momdancingtomcr @cerberus101 @realwhoreforfictionalmen @mamabearnoelle @teenwolfbitches28 @karlawithacapitalk @corvusmorte @hangmaniscoming @kmc1989 @ihearthotdilfss @withakindheartx @looking1016 @xoxabs88xox @itzpixiebabe @jamsluvr @jackabbotsbabydoll

[abbotsbunnygf]

this is so cute 😭

[dirtyb1rdy]

mommy? or mommy 🤍

dana evans who's always looking out for you. a hand on the lower back, guiding, arm snaking round your shoulder to squeeze your side. never thinking twice about being so close to you, close enough for you to smell the gum in her cheek, the perfume on her skin.

dana evans who's always the one you go running to. you're sleepy and mardy, hungry and agitated, you did good on a first time procedure, took a scolding off a certain attending. is it the validation you want? kind words? tough love? maybe you just want to feel her hands on you again.

dana evans who'll defend you to til she's blue in the face but won't hesitate to tell you when you're wrong. why does it make your belly warm? to hear her call you kid or babe in that tone, assertive and telling. teaching you a lesson because she knows you can do better. you tell her about your mom, about how hard she was on you and still is, how she's not as nice to you as dana is. she tuts, pulling you in close.

dana evans who misses you when you go on vacation, welcomes you back with open arms and a kiss against your hair. she tells you it's not been the same with you gone, that she had no one to chat to about shitty tv and pop culture references she doesn't understand. don't you dare leave me again, missy.

dana evans who organises a collection for your birthday, brings cupcakes in and leaves them in the breakroom. she makes everyone go easy on you for this one day, calls you the birthday girl and buys you something special, separate to everyone else. dana who makes the day feel memorable despite a twelve hour shift and awful weather outside.

dana evans who's stroking your hair in the staff bathroom, calming you down. you're teary and upset, lost a patient that just hit that little bit harder today. she's wiping your eyes, pulling you into her chest, kissing your temple. her soft gravelly voice tells you it'll be okay, that she's gonna make it better, don't cry baby...

dana evans who you don't know if you want to call her mom or mommy. the thought of her cooking you dinner, falling asleep in her lap is the stuff of daydreams, what you find yourself thinking about when she has her arms wrapped round you at the end of a shift. buts its at night, with your hand down your panties that you think of her lips. her fingers. her voice.

[deansbeer]

𑁥𑁨 ׅ 𝓐 𝓠𝐔𝐈𝐂𝐊𝐈𝐄 𝓦𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝓨𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝓗𝐔𝐒𝐁𝐀𝐍𝐃. 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐨𝐫𝐬 do not 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭. 🗝️ head back to 𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐯𝐞 ?

you're sorting through what feels like the millionth tiny sock when simon comes up behind you, large hands settling on your hips. "kids are occupied," he murmurs against your neck, and you can hear the suggestion in his voice.

"si, i have to get this done," you protest weakly, but you're already leaning back into him. wash day waits for no one with three kids, and you're drowning in tiny clothes. "and they won't stay distracted for long."

"exactly why we should be quick about it." his hands slide around to your stomach, pulling you flush against him. you can feel he's already hard, and your resolve wavers. "been thinking about you all morning, luv. watching you bend over sortin’ laundry..."

"you're terrible," you breathe, but you're already turning in his arms. seven years of marriage and three kids later, and he still looks at you like he wants to devour you. "we have maybe ten minutes before someone needs something."

"can work with that." he's already lifting you onto the washing machine, hands pushing up his sweatshirt that you wore around the house. "fuck, no panties? you trying t’kill me?"

"it's wash day, baby," you remind him, wrapping your legs around his waist. "everything's in the dirty hamper." but your explanation dissolves into a moan as his fingers find you already wet.

"fuckin' convenient," he growls, working you open with practiced efficiency. there's no time for slow and sweet; not with three kids in the house. "always ready for me, aren't you, swee'eart?"

you bite your lip to keep quiet as he replaces his fingers with his cock, pushing in with one smooth thrust. "simon," you gasp, nails digging into his shoulders through his shirt. "fuck—w-we have to be quiet."

"then you'd better keep that pretty mouth o’yours shut," he says, setting a punishing pace immediately. the washing machine rocks with the force of it, and you have to brace yourself against the wall. "can't have the little ones hearing what daddy does to mummy."

the filthy words in his rough accent make you clench around him. he notices, of course he does, and smirks against your neck. "like that, do you? knowing i'm fuckin’ you while our babies play down the hall?"

before you can respond, there's a loud bang on the door. "mommy! mommy, open!" your five-year-old's voice cuts through your haze of pleasure. "need you!"

simon doesn't stop, if anything going harder. "mummy's busy, swee'eart," he calls out, voice impressively steady for someone currently railing you against major appliances. "go play with yer sister."

"but mommy!" another bang. "daisy took my doll!"

you try to answer but simon chooses that moment to hit that perfect spongy spot inside you, and all that comes out is a strangled sound. he covers your mouth with his hand, eyes dark with amusement and lust.

"mummy's folding clothes," he lies smoothly. "she'll be out in a minute, go tell daisy t'share."

"don't want to!" your daughter whines, and you can hear her stomping her little feet. "want mommy now!"

"ella." simon's voice drops into what you call his lieutenant voice — gentle but brooking no argument. "go play. we'll be out soon."

there's a moment of silence, then you hear her stomp away muttering about simon being unfair. the second she's gone, simon removes his hand from your mouth.

"such a good girl," he praises, but you're not sure if he means you or ella. "keeping quiet while i fuck you senseless. though i bet y’wanted to scream, didn't you?"

"simon, fuck, please," you gasp, feeling your orgasm building embarrassingly fast. the combination of his cock and the thrill of almost getting caught has you on edge. "i'm gonna-"

"i know, luv. she's fuckin’ squeezin’ me." his thumb finds your clit, rubbing tight circles. "c'mon then. cum all over my cock before another one starts bangin’ on the door."

as if on cue, you hear your two-year-old calling from somewhere in the house. "mama?"

"bloody hell," simon curses, speeding up. "better hurry up, mrs. riley."

the use of your married name plus the perfect pressure on your clit sends you over. you bite his shoulder to muffle your cry as you cum all over his cock, whole body shaking with the force of it. he follows right after, groaning low in your ear as he fills you.

"mama!" your toddler's voice is getting closer.

"shit," simon pants, pulling out and quickly fixing his clothes. he helps you down, steadying you when your legs wobble. "y’good?"

"just peachy," you breathe, smoothing down his sweatshirt. you can feel his cum starting to leak and clench your thighs together.

"though i'm going to need to shower before i finish this laundry."

© deansbeer

[twolegsandbleeds]

"what the fuck do you think you're doing?"

your voice comes out positively horrified as you stare down at your boyfriend.

your six foot four, built like a refrigerator, scares grannies in the street with just his face boyfriend - who is currently sprawled out in your bright pink paddling pool in the garden, wearing a pair of black swim trunks that should, frankly, be illegal considering how little they leave to the imagination.

simon just looks at you over the top of his sunglasses.

"it's hot. i'm stayin' cool. relaxin', even." he shoots back, "or i was until you got back an' started squawkin' at me."

you contemplate throwing the cold glass of water you're holding over him at the squawking comment. don't. but only because you know he'd probably enjoy it considering how bloody hot it is.

"but it's mine." your voice comes out almost pitiful. "you laughed when i bought it."

"yeah, i did." he agrees with a shrug. "but mission parameters change. now it's… tactical."

you open your mouth to retort, but he cuts you off with a smirk. "you look good, by the way love. new bikini? yer tits sit real nice in it."

your jaw snaps shut.

heat rushes to your cheeks in a way that has nothing to do with the sun.

"i'm getting in." you say stubbornly, "move your oversized arse."

he doesn't move a single inch - instead, as you step into the paddling pool he tugs you down, so you land straddling his hips; collapsing onto his broad chest with a soft "ooft."

one of his arms wraps around your waist to hold you there, the other reaches down to scoop cool water from the pool in the palm of his hand and lets it run down your spine. you shiver at the cold initially, goosebumps peppering your skin - but then you relax, sinking against him, eyes fluttering shut as you finally feel somewhere close to cool for the first time in days.

"better?" he murmurs against the side of your head, almost smug.

"fuck off." you grumble back, but you wriggle against him in contentment anyway. simon laughs - that low, rough sound that's so rare it feels like a gift every time you hear it, one hand coming up to rest at the nape of your neck. "'orrible woman." he mutters, but you can hear the smile in his voice, the fondness creeping through despite the insult.

you wriggle against him again - but it's more purposeful this time, more of a deliberate roll of your hips against his as you raise your eyebrows. "horrible? that's what you call the love of your life? the one woman who'll put up with your arse?"

his eyes go wide as you roll your hips, a groan dying in his throat as he feels himself immediately harden in his swim shorts. "love…" he warns quietly, "we're in the fuckin' garden."

you just grin, rolling your hips down against his again so the thin fabric of your new bikini bottoms drags over the line of his cock. "then you should probably keep quiet, shouldn't you baby?" you murmur back.

simon's grip shifts, reaching down to grab your ass and rock you against him like he can't help himself. "'orrible woman." he repeats, but now? it sounds more like he's trying to convince himself.

you lift yourself just enough to reach between you, tugging down the front of his swim trunks so his cock springs free - thick, heavy, already leaking. you push your bikini bottoms to the side, line him up - but not before teasing his swollen head against your clit a few times.

he groans at the sight.

then groans louder when you actually sink down onto him, before he slaps a hand over his own mouth to muffle it, fully aware of the fact the neighbours windows are open.

"christ yer fuckin' tight." he hisses, head tipping back against the inflated edge of the pool, dark eyes fluttering shut beneath his sunglasses. you brace your hands on his chest for purchase, adjusting so you're on the balls of your feet in the pool; then you start riding him. slow at first, gentle rolls of your hips as simon's hands start to wander - squeezing your tits through your bikini top, pinching your nipples until you moan gently. his lips find your jaw, trail up to your ear, "careful, love. neighbours are goin' to 'ear if you keep ridin' me like that."

you don't stop. don't slow down. just clench down around him and ride him harder. the water in the pool laps at your bodies; cool splashes hitting your skin as you chase the pressure coiling through your gut. simon snakes a hand between your bodies, pads of his fingers finding your clit and rubbing tight, mean little circles there.

"fuck." you gasp, leaning forward, angling yourself so every bounce means he drags over the most sensitive spots inside you.

he hisses through his teeth, pressure building in his own stomach. "fuckin' go on then. make yerself come in this stupid fuckin' little pool you got so het up about." he mutters, before biting down on the curve of your neck - hard.

the pressure builds, peaks, snaps; you come with a cry that you muffle by sinking your teeth into his shoulder. he follows right after, gripping your ass to hold you flush against him as he floods you; hot pulses that contrast with the cool water surrounding you.

for a long moment you both just lie there, breathing heavily, hearts racing against each others.

simon presses a kiss against your temple. "told you it was tactical, love."

[dollettenextdoor]

Pairing: frank castle x reader Cw: 1.4 wc, pwp, cunnalingus, s1 frank Summary: When you share your cupcakes with your brooding new neighbor Frank, he decides to clear his "debt" to you in a different way.

The apartment complex hallway always smelled faintly of cheap carpet cleaner and old paint, but you completely ruined that in the best way possible. The sweet, buttery scent of freshly baked vanilla bean cupcakes trailed behind you as you padded down the linoleum flooring, balancing a pastel pink plate in your hands. You’d made way too many. It was a bad habit, really—baking like you had a massive family to feed when it was just you and your plushies in a tiny one-bedroom.

Stopping in front of apartment 4B, you smoothed down the skirt of your ruffled dress and took a little breath. The guy who just moved in next door was… intimidating, to say the least. Big. Broad-shouldered. A total wall of a man with a thick beard and dark, messy curls that hung into his face. He always wore scuffed work boots and heavy canvas jackets, looking like he’d spent the last twelve hours lifting concrete. A real blue-collar mystery.

You tapped your knuckles against the wood, a little rhythmic tap-tap-tap. A moment later, the heavy deadbolt clicked. The door swung open, and Frank stood there in a gray tank top, looking absolutely massive in the doorframe. He looked tired, his dark eyes shadowed with a heavy, bone-deep exhaustion as he blinked down at you. “Hey,” his voice was a low, gravelly rumble, rough around the edges. “Can I… help you with somethin’?”

“Hi!” you beamed, offering him your best, most dazzling smile. “I’m your next-door neighbor! I accidentally baked way too many cupcakes today, and since it’s just me, I thought… well, I really shouldn’t eat all six of these by myself. I wanted to welcome you to the building!”

Frank stared at the pink plate, then back up at your face. His brow furrowed, a tiny crease forming between his eyes. His first instinct—the one that kept him alive, the one that kept him isolated—told him to say no. To tell you he wasn’t interested, close the door, and go back to staring at the walls of his empty apartment. He didn’t need handouts. He didn’t need distractions. But then he looked at you.

You were so soft, so bright, smelling like sugar and looking up at him with those big, hopeful eyes. He’d been working himself to the bone, aching, living on canned beans and stale coffee. Christ, he thought. Maybe I deserve somethin’ nice for once. He cleared his throat, his chest expanding as he took a breath. “Yeah? You… you sure you got enough?”

“Positive,” you giggled, stepping a little closer to hand them over. “They’re vanilla with strawberry buttercream. I hope you like sweet things.”

His big, calloused hand brushed against yours as he took the plate, the contrast between his rough, dirt-stained knuckles and your soft skin making your heart do a little flip. A very faint, rare trace of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth beneath his beard. “Yeah. I, uh… I appreciate it. Thank you.”

“You’re so welcome! See you around, neighbor,” you said, giving him a little wave before turning back to your apartment. Frank watched you walk away, his gaze lingering on the sway of your dress before he quietly shut his door.

Three days later, you were sitting on your couch painting your nails when a heavy, firm knock echoed through your apartment. You carefully set the nail polish down and opened the door. Frank was standing there, holding your pink plate, completely spotless and clean. He looked a little awkward, shifting his weight from one work boot to the other, his hands looking absurdly large holding your dainty dish.

“Hey,” he muttered, his voice dipping low.

“Oh, hi Frank!” you smiled, leaning against the doorframe. “Come on in.”

He hesitated for a split second before stepping inside, his presence immediately making your little entryway feel incredibly small. He held out the plate to you. “Brought your dish back. Cleaned it up for ya.”

“Thank you, you didn’t have to rush,” you said, taking it from him and setting it on the side table.

Frank rubbed the back of his neck, glancing around your cozy apartment. “I wanted to repay you somehow, but I ain’t exactly got much food in my place right now. Kitchen’s pretty bare.” He paused, then shrugged one broad shoulder. “But if there’s anything around here that needs fixing… I’m pretty handy. I’d be happy to take a look.”

You thought for a moment, biting your lip, then smiled shyly. “Actually… my headboard’s been creaking a lot lately. It’s been driving me crazy at night.”

Frank gave a single nod, already rolling his shoulders. “Show me.”

He followed you into your bedroom. Without a word, he stripped off his tank top, revealing a powerful, heavily muscled torso marked with old scars and a light dusting of dark hair. You tried not to stare, but it was impossible. He set to work on the headboard with quiet focus, tightening screws and reinforcing the frame with steady, capable hands. The muscles in his back and arms flexed as he worked, and you felt warmth bloom low in your belly.

After a few minutes, he stepped back and wiped his hands on his jeans. His gaze drifted to the collection of plushies neatly arranged on your bed—fluffy bunnies, teddy bears, and a particularly large stuffed lamb. “Cute army you got here,” he said, the corner of his mouth twitching with amusement.

You laughed softly, cheeks warming. “They keep me company.” You climbed onto the bed on your knees and gave the mattress a few gentle, testing bounces. The headboard stayed blissfully quiet. A bright giggle escaped you, and Frank’s low, rumbling chuckle joined in, the sound unexpectedly warm. For a moment the two of you just grinned at each other like idiots.

Then the laughter faded. Frank’s expression grew serious as he looked at you. “Those cupcakes… I really needed that,” he said quietly, voice rough. “Been a rough few weeks. You were kinder to me than you had to be. Thank you.”

The air between you thickened. You knelt there on the bed, heart beating fast. Frank stepped closer, one big hand gently cupping the side of your face. The first kiss was soft, almost hesitant—his lips brushing yours like he was waiting for you to pull away. When you didn’t, the kiss deepened, slow and warm, his beard tickling your skin as his other hand settled at your waist.

Before long you were lying back on the bed, Frank hovering over you. He kissed down your neck, then lower, pushing your sundress up as he settled between your thighs. He took his time peeling your panties down your legs, then buried his face between them with a low, hungry groan. “God, you smell so fucking good,” he growled against your slick pussy.

His mouth was devastating—slow, deep, and relentless. He dragged his tongue in long, luxurious strokes from your entrance to your clit, savoring you. His thick beard scraped deliciously against your inner thighs as he worked, alternating between broad, messy licks and tight, focused suction on your swollen clit that made your back arch off the bed. When your hips started twitching, he slid two thick fingers inside you, curling them perfectly while his lips sealed around your clit and sucked.

He ate you out like he had all the time in the world, groaning against your pussy every time you moaned his name or tugged at his dark curls. The wet, obscene sounds of his mouth filled the bedroom as he devoured you, tongue fucking into you before returning to your clit with devastating precision. Pleasure coiled tighter and tighter until you came hard, thighs clamping around his head, crying out as waves of intense pleasure crashed through you.

Frank kept licking you gently through the aftershocks, only pulling away when you were trembling and breathless. He looked up at you, lips wet and eyes dark with satisfaction. You stared down at him, heart full, a shy, sweet smile curving your lips.

“Well,” you purred softly, “I guess that means I’m just gonna have to bake for you a lot more often, Frank.”

Frank let out a low laugh, shaking his head as he looked at you like you were something precious. “Yeah? That what you gonna do?”

“Mhm,” you hummed, already planning out the grocery list in your head. He needed real meals, proper care, and a soft touch—and you were more than happy to give it to him.

[lovebugism]

TRY A LITTLE TENDERNESS ─── gwayne hightower

gif creds: @userarmand

summary: you nurse gwayne back to life again when the war leaves him for dead, and he finds himself in no hurry to be rescued from you. (5k)

characters: gwayne hightower / fem!reader

contents: strangers to lovers, hurt/comfort, domestic fluff, mutual pining, canon divergent, not proofread, cw for mentions of blood and injuries, smut 18+ (MDNI): sub!gwayne, unprotected sex, premature ejaculation, face riding (this man has been through enough i just need someone to take care of him okay)

( NAVIGATION ) | ( MASTERLIST ) | ( AO3 )

Gwayne’s heavy eyes open first to a low, timbered ceiling made of clay and dry-rotted oak — certainly not the ornately embellished stone of the Red Keep, which would’ve suggested that Daemon’s army had won in their ambush and had since taken him hostage; but it wasn’t the sagging canvas of a war tent either, which also meant that no green army had yet come to his rescue. This place, wherever this place was, was small and warm and heavy with the scent of a home-cooked meal and the coppery tang of his own blood.

The hurt returns to him as slowly his consciousness does. His body aches in a way that tells him, a bit more clearly than his own memory could, that he had been long in the dying not too long ago. All of his bones feel rusted shut and heavy; each breath feels like gravel in his lungs and blades against his ribs.

“Where am I…?” Gwayne wonders aloud in a near-inaudible rasp, almost lost beneath the crackle of a fire and the soft hiss of a pot simmering somewhere close.

His heavy head lolls on the thin pillow beneath him. The cushion propping up his stiff neck smells like something floral and sweet, like a woman. As his eyes scan the room, he finds that this quaint house, if it could even be referred to as such, is made of only one room — there’s a dining nook crowded in the corner by the window, a cluttered living area in the opposite corner by the hearth, and apparently a sickbed in which he languishes now. 

Through the haze still clinging in his vision, he spots a figure dressed in tatters stirring at a pot with practiced hands — sleeves pushed up to the elbows, faded skirts flowing just below the knee. You do not startle at the sound of his voice, nor do you turn to look at him right away as you crush a handful of dried rosemary into the bubbling water before you. 

“Starry Hill,” you answer plainly, as though you were talking to an old friend rather than a half-dead ghost in your bed. You turn slowly over your shoulder and watch confusion twist at the man’s handsome features — (he’d studied every keep, holdfast, and port in Westeros his father told him to, and yet he’d never once heard of this one). “And no, you haven’t heard of it before.”

The grin is evident in your voice as you turn away to wipe your palms off on a rag. You catch the man’s glassy blue eyes darting around your home — over the crooked shelf of clay jars, past the mismatched chairs around the ancient dining table, and towards the narrow window where dim orange light falls in slanted rays. He cannot yet tell whether it’s dawn or dusk, and the notion disorients him further.

“Apologies for the mess, my lord,” you sigh. “If I’d known I was going to be housing a Hightower for three days, I might’ve tidied the place up a bit first.”

Gwayne’s auburn brows furrow slowly as his face twists in a deeper confusion — both at the thought of having spent three days unconscious in this place, and at the ease with which you seemed to know his name. His house. His blood. “How… How did you know I was a Hightower?”

Your head turns lazily on your shoulder to flash the man a narrow-eyed, almost pitying sort of look. Your gaze falls across his flaming copper hair, the aristocratic slope of his nose, and the inherited Hightower beauty that not even war, nor three days on his deathbed, could manage to take from him. Even halfway ruined, the man still looks like something bred for portraiture. And it would, perhaps, be so easy to tell him as much.

“Well, you were wearing the sigil all over your armor, to be fair,” you deadpan instead and turn back to your cooking.

Only then does Gwayne realize that the heaviness of his armor is long gone from his frame. All of his clothes, in fact, are gone — the pale canvas of his bare chest is on display now, carved lean from a lifetime in the training yard, and now sporting a square piece of plaster across his ribcage. Beneath the heavy quilt thrown over his legs, he can feel a pair of baggy trousers riding low on his hips that do not belong to him. 

Which means you had to have undressed him; bathed him; patched up his marred skin. The thought alone is dizzying.

Panic wraps its hands around his throat as he rises onto his elbows, grimacing at the ache it puts in his side and somewhere deep in his bicep — where a linen cloth has been wrapped tight.

“How did I get here?”

“Your guess is as good as mine…” you huff without looking away from the pot ahead of you. “You’re the one who showed up half-dead on my doorstep, if you’ll recall— So I think I have more questions for you than you have for me, in truth.”

Gwayne’s eyes go glassy and distant as he strains to recollect the events that led him here. 

He remembers Ser Criston’s words about a death march, and the sudden screeching of his horse when the first volley of enemy arrows came flying every which way. He vaguely remembers his mare rearing up and tossing him onto his back against the heavy forest floor, and the way the world erupted with the shouting of a hundred men or more all at once. But he does not know what became of any of them now.

“I need to leave,” he announces at once.

“Oh, I wouldn’t,” you wince as you watch the man fling the quilt from his body, visibly toned from years of knighthood but still pale from his lingering brush with death. “Not on that leg of yours— I’m still not sure I set the bone just right.”

Gwayne’s jaw clenches tight as he swings his legs over the side of the bed. His tired muscles pull taut in protest, though it doesn’t hurt him nearly as badly as his left shin does when his bare feet hit the ancient floorboards. A white-hot pain sears from ankle to knee; his chiseled face screws tight as he chokes on a scream. 

He doubles over in agony and digs his trembling fists into the thin sheets of the down mattress, struggling to take stock of his injuries. 

There’s a plaster just below his knee and a sickly yellow-green bruise blooming just below that, from where the bone came through when the weight of his horse fell on top of him, perhaps. There’s a hot, pulsing feeling beneath the plaster on his right arm — a small but concentrated signature that must’ve come from an arrow. And the length of the shallow scrape along his ribs suggests that it came from a kiss of an enemy blade.

All of it is dressed now in clean linen, from the same kind hands stirring supper across the room from him, entirely unbothered by his suffering.

“Seven fucking hells…” you groan, more to yourself than to him. “I forgot the bloody potatoes.”

Gwayne blinks wildly at your passing figure as you trade the wooden spoon in your hands for the dark, beaten cloak hanging beside the door. “P-Potatoes?” he stammers in response, because he can think of a thousand issues much more pressing than potatoes.

“Yes,” you nod, sliding your arms through the thick woolen sleeves gone soft and shapeless with age. “You can’t have rabbit stew without potatoes. It ruins the whole dish— I’d think you’d know that, as a pretty little lord and all.”

He perks slightly at the mention of it — of food, and of the thought that some other man must surely live here to have killed and skinned the meat for your stew. 

“Where is your father?” he calls to your retreating form.

There’s a certain edge of command in his voice that tries to surface past the wavers of pain. He attempts to assert some Hightower authority in the walls of your home, despite being half-dressed and hunched over the edge of your bed and completely at your mercy. 

“Or a husband, perhaps? Someone I can speak rationally with.”

“No father… No husband…” you sigh and tie the top of your coat, which is a size or three too big for you. “You can speak rationally to me, if you wish, though I fear your current hysterics might render conversation somewhat impossible… But I require no thanks for saving your life, to be sure.”

Your words carry a certain bite that pierces him straight through the chest; the devastating reminder of a debt he has not yet had any sense to acknowledge. 

The door opens with a high-pitched creaking sound; the cool breeze that rushes in tells him that the day is ending rather than just beginning. You pause at the threshold, hand on the frame and hood half-raised

“If you’re going to leave, at least remember to shut the door behind you,” you tell him, detached but not totally unkind. “I don’t want the smell of supper bringing the animals down from the hill.”

The door screeches and clicks behind you, punctuating your leaving. The little house — smaller than his bathing chambers back in Oldtown — goes very quiet and very still with your absence. The eeriness unnerves a distant, boyish part of him that wishes most desperately for your return. The rest of him, however, wants nothing more than to be rid of this place entirely — from the strangeness of it and of you most of all.

Gwayne grits his teeth and hauls himself not-quite to full height. He’s doubled over and bracing his white-knuckled grip on the ancient wooden bedframe as he hobbles the short distance towards the door, fighting through the screaming ache shooting up and down his left leg. He makes it not even five steps before it gives out on him completely.

He crumples to the unforgiving ground in a graceless heap of limbs and injured pride, catching himself on instinct with the arm sporting the throbbing arrow wound going down.

He lies there, groaning and writhing and choking down cries of frustration with his cheek pressed to the cold floor. The sound of his ragged breaths fills the small, empty house as he watches the sunset dip low past the window, quietly waiting for the sound of the door to open — and for your presence to follow.

It opens at last; three minutes or three hours later. A silken breeze rushes in alongside you, as you enter with a basket of potatoes and other vegetables on your hip. You falter in the doorway at the sight of the man sprawled out on your floor, a crumpled puppet with all of its strings cut clean.

A strange, satisfied smile creeps across your face as you swipe your hood back with your free hand. “Well…” you croon lowly. “What do we have here?”

Gwayne lifts his heavy head. He looks up at you with watery blue eyes through the strands of wild auburn hair hanging over his brow. He loses every ounce of his composure in that moment, turning into a doe-eyed and pleading thing as his wet gaze peers at you from beneath his lashes.

“Please…” he rasps. “Help me…”

He doesn’t learn your name until the second day. He does not stand on his own until the fifth. And he does not bathe himself unaided until the seventh. 

You do not coddle him for any of it. You clean his wounds and change his bandages twice daily, and scold him for flinching at the sting — telling him that he’d spent too many years being pampered by wetnurses and that was precisely why he healed so slowly. But, after that first week, he learned to walk the length of your small home without his leg buckling underneath him; though he still requires the cane you’d fashioned for him out of a stag’s antler if he plans on taking more than a step or two.

“Here. So you can stop looking like a newborn calf every time you cross the room,” you’d said when you gifted it to him. “It’s starting to get hard to watch, if I’m honest.”

He is, if he’s being entirely truthful with himself, entirely unused to being spoken to this way. The ladies of his acquaintance back in Oldtown — the soft, sweet-voiced daughters of high lords and ladies — would never have dared to call him hysterical to his face or handle his wounds with such unromantic efficiency. They never would have laughed, as you had, at the sight of him crumpled on the floor. 

You’re nothing at all like the ladies he grew up with. 

You swear like a dockhand; you name your goats like they're your kin; you wear your dead parents' old clothes without a trace of shame and speak of your own life with a bluntness that would scandalize every septa he'd grown up with. It should, perhaps, trouble him a great deal more than it does.

Gwayne knows he could’ve and likely should’ve left days ago. He suspects that you know it, too. Tumbleton was not far from here, you told him, and his kin held the fortress now — a real castle with a real maester to tend to him — rather than this strange, sharp-tongued woman with rough hands and a rougher sense of humor. But still, he does not go. He tells himself that it’s his leg; that the roads were surely not safe yet and that he’d be long in the dying should he cross Daemon’s army a second time.

So he stays, and he makes himself useful to you in the waiting, in whatever small ways he can manage. He could not do much, at first — he could not chop firewood or carry water; he could barely carry himself, in truth — but he could mend a fence while seated, and feed the farm animals while leaning on his cane, and shell the peas you bring in from the garden for supper. 

Gwayne quickly discovers, to his own mortification, that he takes a strange satisfaction in it all. This was not a life meant for knights, certainly not one meant for a Hightower, but yet he can picture all the rest of his days playing out exactly like this — utterly unremarkable, but his just the same.

It has been three weeks since his arrival, give or take, and his days feel less like exile now and more like routine. He sits propped on the pillows after his bath, milky-white skin glimmering from your homemade oils, with nothing but a pair of borrowed trousers covering his lower half.

You sit on the edge of the bed beside him and redress the stubborn wound on his arm that refuses to heal — the worst of his injuries he came here with, Gwayne insists; a nerve-deep pain that he swears he can feel when he’s dreaming. But even still, weeks into the habit of tending to him, you are no gentler about it than you were that very first night.

“Ow—” Gwayne winces when you press too firmly against the wound. You catch his elbow before he can draw it away and urge it back into place with an unsentimental force.

“Stop squirming,” you scold and continue to dab the homemade, herb-flecked ointment onto the irritated skin.

“It hurts,” the man insists.

“It hurts because you’re squirming.”

Gwayne attempts to glare at you as you reach for the linen cloth on the table beside you. The playful frown softens with a soft smile despite himself. “Has anyone ever told you that your bedside manner is just extraordinary?”

“All the time…” you lilt back and slide the fabric around his arm, tying it off with one particularly harsh tug. “Usually right before they tell me that they're feeling much better and no longer require any of my help.”

“Well…” Gwayne croons, pale eyes glittering in the dancing candlelight. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you wanted me gone…”

You glance finally up at him from beneath your lashes, at the handsome knight sharing your house — with bright copper hair gone soft from his bath, and bright blue eyes a little too earnest for someone meant to be teasing — the kind of man that belonged in the fairytales you’d read as a child; not in your own home in your own bed.

Something in your sharp expression finally gives, like The Wall finally weeping after the first warm day of summer.

“You’re the prettiest thing I’ve seen in years, Ser Gwayne,” you hum lowly. “So if you haven’t realized by now that I’m keeping you hostage here, then I fear you haven’t been paying attention.”

A breathy laugh shakes his toned stomach, and the scar along his ribs no longer pulls to do so. He’s fairly certain that you’re jesting, but even still, he doesn’t think he’d care all that much if you weren’t.

“I find that…” he trails slowly off with a squinted look in his pale eyes, as if the realization were hitting him the moment the words fell from his mouth. His melodic voice carries a sort of airiness in it despite the soft confession. “That perhaps I wouldn’t mind it. Being your hostage… Staying here. With you… I don't think I'd mind that at all…”

“Well… That’s a very dangerous thing to say to a woman with nothing to lose, Ser Gwayne,” you murmur, propping your fists on either side of his waist as you lean in close to him — until he can smell the lavender soap on your skin and count the flecks of firelight in your gaze. “Your army has surely presumed you dead by now… No one will come looking for you here… So if you do not wish to be kept by me, the door is still open…”

Something in his chest flares hot at your words, at the thought of being kept by you.

“For how long?” he teases with an arched auburn brow, pink lips curling into a slow smile.

Your eyes flit away and back again. “…Roughly the next ten seconds.”

“Well…” he lilts as his hand lifts slowly from the blankets to cradle your jaw, urging you that much closer. “That seems like plenty of time.”

He leans off the pillow to press his mouth to yours. His nose smushes into the side of yours as his plush lips slot with your softer ones. Your tongue darts between them with little warning and a degree too eager, swiping against his like velvet on velvet. Gwayne exhales a heavy sigh through his nose at the taste of you — like supper and wine and something foreign that he chases with each languid kiss.

You kiss him long and slow, like biting into the sweet skin of an apple, and shift on the mattress to straddle his waist. Gwayne’s free hand shoves the quilt down his thighs to accommodate you upon them. Your fingers rest around his neck like a collar as you grind your hips over his, up his lap and down again. A groan rumbles like thunder in his throat.

His hands dart instantly for your waist, knotting his long fingers in the skirts pushed up to your thighs, as he pulls off of you with a quiet smack. “Don’t,” he hears himself plead.

“Why?” you pant, blinking back at him with heavy eyes.

“It’s been…” His adam’s apple bobs in his throat. “A long… long time.”

Your lips curl into a grin before your head ducks down again. Your mouth smears along his pulse in a sloppy kiss. “Three weeks isn’t so long, is it?”

A laugh sounds in his throat. You feel it rumbling against your mouth. “The war’s been going on for a lot longer than three weeks, my dear…” 

“Don’t tell me Ser Gwayne hasn’t taken his fair share of whores on the road,” you quip against the milky white tendon of his neck.

He smiles with his nose in your hair. “Not many whores on the battlefield, I’m afraid…”

“Oh, you poor thing…” you croon as you pull slowly back from him, more gentle with him now than you were when he was half dead on your porch; though there’s still a playful air about you that he doesn’t yet miss. “No wonder you’ve been so uptight… You’ve just been looking for a little… release, haven’t you? Spit—”

Gwayne’s eyes widen as they flick between your expectant face and the hand you hold under his chin. Despite his obvious diffidence, he ducks his head and spits a glob of saliva onto your palm — and watches with held breath as your fingers dip under the hem of his trousers. They wrap around his cock, laying half-soft on his thigh, and use his spit to work him the rest of the way hard. He feels like heavy velvet in your fist.

His dizzy head tips back against the wall with a quiet thud. Your quiet giggling melts with his pleasured groan as he hardens slowly in your fist. 

“I’ll bet you’ll cum the second I tell you to,” you laugh.

Gwayne nods slowly, adam’s apple moving in his long throat as he fights to keep his lidded eyes open. His breath catches in his chest when your thumb swipes over the sensitive tip of his cock.

“I’ll bet you’ll do anything I tell you to… Won’t you?”

Gwayne nods again, jerking in your fist at your words.

“Oh…” you huff a mixture of a contented sigh and a devilish laugh as you squeeze him harder in your fist. “I am going to have… so much fun with you, Ser Gwayne…”

He has little time to ponder the weight of your words when you shift on top of him again. You pull your fingers from his trousers and tuck the hem beneath his heavy balls. His eyes snap open to find you urging your dress skirts further up your thighs. He’s left mourning the warmth of your touch only for a moment, before your hand slides between your bodies once more to guide the drooling tip of his cock into your already weeping confines.

He’s long and slender — not nearly as thick as the butcher’s son in town who’s been tending to your needs for years, but an inch or three longer still — and made of meandering veins you can feel when you pierce yourself upon him. Your head tips back to exhale a moan at the ceiling, mouth curling into a lazy smile as you adjust to the length of him.

Gwayne chokes on a groan in his throat when your hips sit flush with his again, fingers clutching mercilessly at the plush of your thighs hard enough to etch bruises on the skin. The sound turns into a strangled whimper when you clench absentmindedly around him, warmer than velvet and drooling something fierce.

“I can’t…” the man whines, chiseled features twisting into a pained sort of look as he shifts his hips under your weight — trying to chase his pleasure and run away from it all at once. “I— I can’t— Seven fucking hells…”

You smile down at him when he tries and fails to get the words out. He misses the amusement flashing across your face with his eyes squeezed shut, hard enough to make white stars speckle behind the deep black of his eyelids. You clench around him again, just to hear him whimper for you again.

“Can’t what, my lord?” you coo to him, with a gentleness he didn’t think you were capable of before now. Your hands smooth up and around his neck until your fingers twist in the short auburn tendrils at the very nape of it. Chills erupt down the length of his spine in their wake. 

“I don’t wanna cum yet,” he protests through gritted teeth. “’S too soon—”

“But I want you to cum,” you tell him, and punctuate your command with a calculated roll of your hips. You tighten around him once more when your clit brushes the coarse, dark-auburn hair above his cock. You swallow his subsequent groan in a sloppy kiss, more tongue than mouth, and run the tip of your nose along the bridge of his after. “And then… after I’ve milked your cock—”

“Fuck…” he swears, though it comes out more like a sob.

“—I’ll let you clean me up with your mouth,” you continue. 

A moan tears through his throat at the thought — of pressing his mouth to your cunt until his nose is smushed against your clit, of lapping at the mixture of pleasure leaking out of you like honey, of your hands in his hair pushing him further into your pussy. He bursts at the thought, losing himself completely as he draws you into his bare chest with two strong arms wound up and around your back. 

Gwayne hides his flushed face in your neck as he hugs you against him, meeting your thrusts with weaker ones of his own. He buries each of his pitiful moans into your pulsepoint while his cock jerks wildly within your unforgiving confines— spitting ropes of warm cum that your clenching cunt milks from him. 

“I’m sorry,” he hears himself say as he shudders just against you. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry… Seven hells— I’m sorry…” 

You pet at his wild hair as he comes down from his high, whispering murmurs of praise in his ear as the pleasure ebbs from his trembling body.  “There you go… Good boy… That’s it— Give me all of it…”

Gwayne pulls his face from your neck once he’s fully spent. His trembling hands reach for your face again, cupping your cheeks between his calloused palms to meet your eyes with his wide, wet, and pleading ones. “I’m sorry,” he whispers again. “Let me make you feel good— I want to make you feel good.” 

“I know,” you coo to him, almost sympathetically so. “On your back.” 

Gwayne’s auburn brows knit softly together, but his body obeys like it was designed to submit to you. You remain straddled against him as he descends back onto the pillows. He watches down the bridge of his nose as your hands smooth up his milky white torso — past the fine trail of hair on his lean stomach, over the healed scar on his ribs, and towards his heaving chest.

Your eyes stay locked with his heavy ones as you shift your weight above him, inching up up up. You cage your bottom lip between your teeth as you reach for the hem of your skirt. You drag the heavy fabric of your dress up and over your head. Gwayne has little time to admire your bare body before you’re straddling your knees on either side of his face. His mouth waters instantly at the sight of your glittering pussy as it descends over his mouth — he curls his arms around your thighs to pull you further in.

He groans when the taste of you hits his tongue — a sweet-salty mixture of your combined pleasures — and you feel the vibrations of the sound from your cunt to the top of your spine. You keep one hand braced on the wooden headboard and your other woven through his silken auburn locks, guiding his mouth along your cunt.

“Yes…” you sigh when his mouth meets your clit. “Right there…”

Gwayne moans again at your praise and does everything in his power to make you give it to him again. He focuses on the bundle of nerves — lapping his tongue against it and suckling it between his lips. You make a noise for him he’s never heard before, a high-pitched cry that swells across the quiet room. “Keep going,” he hears you whimper when his mouth wraps around your clit. “Fuck yes, keep going like that—”

Your fingers twist hard in his hair as your hips grind down over his tongue. He moans when you give the strands an especially harsh tongue, and the sound makes you tremble on top of him. You cum for him with a strangled cry, and Gwayne sighs through his nose when a mixture of his cum and yours drops onto the velvety pad of his tongue. 

He laps at every ounce of it with an eagerness that you can hear, a chorus of panted breaths and muffled suckling sounds.

He doesn’t stop until you’re shoving him away by the crown of his head.

You exhale a heavy breath and sit back on your haunches, resting your ass over his chest and propping your weight along his ribs. Your heavy eyes rake over his face — cheeks flushed red, pale eyes glassy with desire, pink lips swollen, chin glittering with your cum, hair wild from the pillow and your fingers alike. An angel carved from in. 

A lazy smile tugs at the corners of your mouth as you shake your heavy head down at him. “You’re not going anywhere, Ser Gwayne… You understand that, right?”

“Gwayne,” he corrects, glittering lips curling upward. “Not ser.” 

“You’re not going anywhere… Gwayne.”

“I’m glad to hear it, in truth…” he confesses on an exhaled breath. “I was starting to like it here anyway…”

[cafe-velour]

Old Habits Die Hard

summary: The one time Ben doesn’t slap your ass.

𝒘 — Soldier Boy & Fem! Reader ⟢ ( 1.1k-ish ) mostly ooc. established relationship. fluff/maybe a little angst?

Inspired by @abbotsbunnygf !! Go check out her work if you like The Pitt/Shawn Hatosy. It’s sooo good ♡

Ben was really starting to piss you off. It’s been exactly twelve hours since he last touched you.

You’d been keeping score in your head all day. First, he hadn’t slung an arm over your shoulders while you two were watching TV last night. Then, no rough kiss pressed to the top of your head when you shuffled into the kitchen this morning. No teasing pinch at your hip when you squeezed past him to grab a coffee mug. Nothing.

But, Worst of all… he’d stopped his favorite pastime: Smacking your ass every time you bent over.

Like now, for example. You’re bent over the edge of the soaking tub, scrubbing at a spot that honestly didn’t need scrubbing. Mostly because you were bored. Mostly because sitting still for more than five minutes had never really been your thing.

The oversized t-shirt you’d stolen from Ben rode up with every stretch of your arm, cool air brushing the skin of your thighs where your sleep shorts ended.

Then you heard it.. Heavy, familiar footsteps coming down the hall.

Ben wandered into the bathroom, muttering under his breath about where the hell his razor had disappeared to. He reached past you for the shaving cream sitting on the shower caddy, close enough that his body heat just barely ghosted over your back.

His hand hovered for the briefest second. Fingers flexing. Palm spread open. Muscle memory was about to win.

Then.. Nothing.

He caught himself and pulled his hand back. Like it had never crossed his mind at all.

You straighten up slowly, soapy sponge still in hand, suds dripping down your arm as you stare at him with furrowed brows, watching as he pops open the cap of the shaving cream up like everything’s perfectly normal.

“…Ben?” You mutter, almost offended.

He glances over, eyebrow raised. “Yeah?”

“You walked right past me. Bent over. Ass basically out. And you didn’t do shit.”

He pauses, looking genuinely confused. “Was I supposed to?”

Your face heats up with a mixture of embarrassment and confusion. This man has slapped your ass every single time you’ve given him the chance for months. Washing dishes? Smack. Reaching into a low cabinet? Smack. Standing up from the couch? Smack. Never just… nothing.

You set the sponge down. “You didn’t even touch me.”

Ben huffs, turning back to the mirror. “Didn’t realize was on a fuckin’ schedule.”

・・・۶ৎ・・・

The weirdness doesn’t stop there. Later you walk past him in the living room and he almost reaches for you. His hand lifts halfway, gearing up.. just to give your back a light, polite tap instead. You stop dead in your tracks, mouth dropping open.

“Something wrong?” he asks, eyes glued to the TV.

You don’t give him a proper answer. Instead, you bend over to grab a magazine off the coffee table, just to test him… Still nothing! He just keeps his gaze steady on the screen.

・・・۶ৎ・・・

By dinner you’re officially freaked out. He’s frighteningly tame. He hasn’t made any stupid comments. Hasn’t pulled you down into his lap. Hasn’t made a single dirty joke all day. Just… nice. Respectful even. You don’t think he’s ever been this quiet around you before.

You finally snap that night in the bedroom. Climbing up onto the bed and straddling his lap before he can even settle against the headboard.

“So what the hell is going on?” you ask, poking his chest. “You’ve been acting weird all day. Did I do something? Are you mad at me?”

Ben’s hands settle on your thighs, warm and steady but not wandering like usual. He looks surprised. “Mad? Fuck no. Why would you think that?”

“Because you didn’t slap my ass this morning when I was literally bent over right in front of you,” you mutter, half dramatic, half serious. “You always do it. Every time. And today? I got nothing. I hate it and I miss you.”

He watches you for a long second, jaw tight. Then he lets out an exasperated sigh and rubs a hand over his face.

“Figured…” He pauses. “Ah, hell.”

He looks almost embarrassed.

“Some limp-dicked suit at Vought.. ‘was running his mouth about how I should show you some more respect now that we’re serious. Said I act like an animal sometimes. Got me thinking… maybe you were just puttin’ up with it. With me. I was trying to dial it back. Be less of an asshole for once.”

You stare at him for a second, heart twisting in your chest.

“Ben,” you say softly, leaning closer. “You’re an idiot.”

He raises an eyebrow, the hint of a smirk trying to come back. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You gently cup his face with both hands and kiss him, slow and warm. When you pull back just enough, your foreheads rest together.

“I would’ve told you if it bothered me,” you mutter, soft and quiet. “I like that you can’t keep your hands off me. That’s how I know we’re good. Don’t try to be someone else. I want you exactly like this.”

Ben’s voice comes out quieter than you’ve ever heard it. “…You really mean that?”

You smile, brushing your thumb over his cheek. “I do.”

That does it for him. The tension melts out of his shoulders and his hands slide up your thighs, grabbing your ass with both palms, squeezing hard like he’s been waiting to do it all day.

“Goddamn, sweetheart,” he sighs against your lips. “You sure? ‘Cause I’ve been fuckin’ dying to do that all day.”

A small smile pulls at your lips, holding his gaze. “Positive.”

He lets out a deep laugh, the sound rumbling in his chest as he pulls you closer, wrapping his arms around you fully.

“That’s my girl. Fuckin’ missed this. Thought I was gonna lose my shit trying to keep my hands to myself.”

He presses a kiss to your forehead, then your temple, holding you tight. You melt into him, gently punching his chest just to hear him groan.

“Don’t ever do that stupid shit again, you hear me?”

“Never,” he promises, voice warm and gruff. “You want me like this? That’s what you’re gettin’. Every damn day.”

You laugh quietly and bury your face against his shoulder, tugging at the dog tags hanging from his neck. He wraps his arms around you tighter and presses another kiss to the top of your head.

・・・۶ৎ・・・

The next morning you’re back in the bathroom, organizing the cleaning products under the sink. Ben walks in while you’re bent over reaching for the bottles in the back. Without a bit of hesitation this time… his hand cracks down hard on your ass, the sound echoing off the tiles.

You give a surprised yelp, then throw him a look over your shoulder, trying (and failing) to seem annoyed.

“Morning, doll,” he says smugly, squeezing the same spot before pulling you back against his chest. “There’s my favorite fuckin’ view.”

You lean into him with a dramatic sigh. “Welcome back, you big idiot.”

[dirtyb1rdy]

good girl

part 1 here. part 2. dana's your neighbour 18+, age gap, strap, strap & strap <3

it’d been a week since dana stayed the night.

you tried not to overthink the reason you’d barely seen her since then, or why your texts were suddenly going unanswered. it wasn’t like you’d been blowing up her phone, but the two of you usually spoke far more than this. enough that the silence felt deliberate.

you tried not to wonder whether you’d pushed things too far, whether she’d gone along with it in the moment only to wake up regretting it later. whether she felt too awkward now to tell you outright.

it didn’t help that you never seemed to run into her anymore. she wasn’t in the hallway when she usually would be, her car was gone more often than not, and there’d been no mention of your weekly wine nights.

dana lived for those.

the tipsy window gossip sessions where you’d work through too much pinot and a packet of winstons while dissecting the lives of strangers across the street.

you tried not to overthink it. but you did.

⋆˚࿔

dana had been working insane shifts in the week after she spent the night.

not through unlucky scheduling or some coworker’s vendetta, but by her own request. anything to keep her mind occupied. anything to stop it wandering back to you.

she’d been waking up earlier than usual and leaving the parking lot before she thought you’d even had your morning coffee. it was ridiculous to be working doubles at her age and robby had said as much, but one thing he’d learned over the years was that arguing with dana evans rarely got anyone anywhere.

she saw your texts.

they’d pop up on her lock screen and she’d wince as though being taunted, swiping the notification away before she could think too hard about it.

she hadn’t meant to ignore you. hadn’t meant to avoid you, either.

then somehow she’d ended up doing both.

you thought she regretted sleeping with you.

the truth was, all of this had happened because she didn’t.

⋆˚࿔

the day you finally caught each other happened well after you’d both stopped trying.

after dana stopped timing her exits around yours and after you’d stopped running to the peephole every time you heard footsteps in the hallway.

she was balancing a paper grocery bag against her hip when you spotted her outside her apartment door. the thing looked moments away from giving up entirely, one corner already beginning to sag under the weight.

“here, let me"

you were on your way out to meet friends when you stepped in to save the day, rescuing the bag before its contents ended up scattered across the floor.

“thanks, hon"

she surrendered it without argument, fishing her keys from her pocket and unlocking the door.

it was what came after that felt awkward.

dana opened the apartment, then turned to take the groceries back from you. for a second she looked like she wanted to say something.

then she didn’t.

a whole week without speaking and suddenly neither of you knew where to start.

“so-"

“you look nice"

the words collided and silence followed.

you blinked at her.

“i look nice?”

it came out sharper than intended.

because really? over a week of what was, let’s face it, essentially being ghosted after the filthiest sex you'd had in a long time and that was what she led with?

“really?”

dana groaned immediately.

“i know. i'm sorry"

she rubbed a hand over her forehead before leaning back against the doorframe.

“i just wasn’t expecting to see you"

you couldn’t help the laugh that escaped.

“you weren’t expecting to see me?”

her eyes closed briefly.

“in the shared hallway" you continued, “of the building we both live in?”

when she finally looked at you again, there was something pleading in her expression. not annoyance. not anger. something closer to desperation.

like she was silently asking you not to make this harder than it already was.

“have i done something wrong?”

"god, no" the answer came so quickly it almost startled you. her brows lifted immediately. "none of this is you"

some of the tension eased from your shoulders. not all of it, but enough to stop your stomach tying itself into knots. you adjusted the strap of your bag.

“then why are you avoiding me?”

for a moment dana didn’t answer. she just looked tired, not physically. something deeper than that.

the uncertainty looked strange on her. this wasn’t the woman who shared cigarettes with you on the fire escape, or brought over leftovers because she’d cooked too much again. it wasn’t the woman who made sure you got home safe after a few drinks.

it definitely wasn’t the woman who sat naked in your bed, telling you to cum and praising you for doing so.

“look, i just-"

your phone rang. loud and insistent.

everyone at the bar had clearly decided you’d taken long enough.

“shit. sorry"

you scrambled to silence it, fumbling with your little black bag until the ringing finally stopped.

the hallway fell quiet again.

dana smiled. it was genuine, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“you should get going" you didn't want to. "we’ll talk soon, 'kay?”

you nodded. a little disappointed, a little relieved but mostly confused.

as she started closing the door, you turned towards the stairs.

cocktails and overpriced bar food suddenly seemed a lot less appealing than they had twenty minutes ago.

“you do look nice, though"

the comment followed you halfway down the stairwell. this time you smiled to yourself. you still didn’t turn around. only exhaled once you heard the door click shut behind her.

dana’s apartment stood quieter than usual.

she unpacked the groceries, half cursing herself as the last five minutes caught up to her.

“fuck, fuck, fuck"

the salad was shoved into the refrigerator drawer with more force than necessary. dana lingered there for a second, letting the coolness wash over her face and muttering a quiet what is wrong with you into the white shelves.

she shook her head and pushed two loose blonde strands behind her ear.

what a mess.

in dana’s defence, this was a fairly unique situation she’d found herself in.

the last three decades had mostly consisted of tv dinners, opposite schedules and far less romance than she’d have liked. motherhood had been wonderful and she wouldn’t have changed a thing about raising her girls, but there was also the reality that somewhere along the way she’d lost a bit of herself.

now her daughters were grown and independent. she was long divorced, settled into herself, finally at a point in life where she could spend her time however the fuck she wanted.

or at least, that had been the plan.

then she ran into you.

somewhere between the wine nights and easy companionship, you’d become exactly what dana didn’t realise she’d been missing. and that would’ve been manageable if it had stayed harmless.

instead she’d given in to the feelings, the need and the dirty thoughts. suddenly the guilt had followed close behind.

the thirty-year age gap loomed over everything, impossible to ignore whenever she let herself think too hard about it. some days she could convince herself it didn’t matter. other days she wondered if she’d been selfish, if she’d crossed some invisible line she should’ve known better than to approach.

you were, after all, younger than her eldest daughter.

⋆˚࿔

pittsburgh summers were full of sun.

you didn’t have a backyard living where you did, but luckily the front steps caught most of the afternoon light. it was your favourite place to spend a saturday, stretched out with a book in one hand and an iced coffee from the cafe across the street in the other.

you were halfway through chapter five and your second cold brew when dana appeared.

she lowered herself onto the step beside you with a quiet sigh, elbows resting on her knees.

“whatcha got there?”

you flashed her the cover.

dana nodded as though she recognised it, eyebrows lifting in approval.

you were almost certain she didn’t.

after the hallway encounter, you’d thought about knocking on her door more than once. she’d promised you’d talk soon.

but in the end, you’d decided against it. whatever was happening, pushing clearly wasn’t helping.

even if every instinct in your body was screaming to grab her by the shoulders and ask what the fuck was going on.

“have fun the other night?”

dana picked nervously at the skin around her thumb. at this point, you were amazed they weren't whittled to the bone.

all you could do was laugh.

“what?" a reluctant smile tugged at her lips. you took a sip through your straw.

“you hate small talk"

that earned a genuine laugh from her and for a moment she looked like herself again. then the smile faded and her gaze drifted back towards the street.

“guess i’m a little nervous"

you lowered your book.

“about what?”

the conversation felt strangely heavy for it's location. dana seemed to think so too, her eyes dropping to her feet before she finally looked up again, something vulnerable in her expression.

something that made your chest tighten.

“will you come in for a drink?”

⋆˚࿔

ten minutes later, it almost felt like nothing had changed.

you were perched on her kitchen counter while she poured two (large) glasses of wine. neither of you made much effort with conversation for a while. some silent agreement had settled between you that it was probably best to get through half a bottle before attempting anything serious.

a wise decision, really.

“come on then" you said eventually. “spill"

another sip.

“why’d you ghost me?”

maybe not that wise.

dana rolled her eyes immediately, the way she always did whenever you used a phrase she considered far too young for her.

leaning against the counter opposite you, she pointed vaguely with her glass.

“i didn’t ghost you"

“you ghosted me"

your legs swung idly against the cabinet doors. there was no point arguing with you. the wine only made you more stubborn.

“fine" one large gulp later and half her glass was gone. “i ghosted you"

“thank you"

“don’t sound so pleased with yourself"

“i’m not pleased. i’m annoyed"

that earned the smallest smile. it disappeared almost immediately.

“i’m sorry" the sincerity in her voice caught you off guard. "i lost my nerve, okay?”

you waited.

dana looked down into her wine as though the answer might be floating somewhere at the bottom.

“i’m nearly sixty" she said finally. “i’m divorced. i’m a grandma"

her gaze flickered towards you.

“and you’re…”

one hand gestured vaguely from your head to your toes.

“…you"

your brows furrowed. "what’s that supposed to mean?”

“it means none of this makes any fucking sense"

“what doesn’t?”

“this" she gestured between the two of you now, hands animated enough that you briefly worried for the safety of the wine glass. “there is no goddamn reason you should like me"

and there it was. not confusion. not regret. insecurity.

“fuck, dana-"

“no" her voice softened immediately. "please let me finish"

you nodded.

she took a breath. then another.

“i really fuckin like you"

the admission came so quietly you almost missed it.

dana laughed once, humourless.

“that’s what’s making this so hard.”

your expression softened. “why?”

she looked away. for a second, she seemed embarrassed by the answer and then it slipped out anyway.

“because you’re younger than my daughter"

finally, everything clicked into place. it wasn’t about the night you’d spent together. it wasn’t even really about the two of you. it was about all the things dana thought she should care about. the things she thought other people would care about.

“does that matter to you?”

you hopped down from the counter, closing the space between you before she could retreat into herself again.

“because i don’t care"

gently, you took the empty wine glass from her hand and placed it on the counter beside you.

dana’s breathing had gone a little uneven.

her eyes searched your face as though she expected to find hesitation there or some sign that this wasn’t real. she found none.

“it doesn’t not matter"

your brows knitted together. "that doesn’t make any sense"

a small smile tugged at her mouth.

“i know"

“do you want it to matter?”

the answer came immediately.

“no"

“then it doesn't"

the flush spreading across her cheeks travelled down her neck, colouring the skin visible above her v-neck.

when your fingers slipped between hers, she held on tightly.

fuck, you’d missed her.

everything had been building for months, finally culminating in one perfect night before collapsing into a week of silence and second-guessing.

neither of you deserved another minute of it. she looked at you, into you, like she was allowing herself to be honest.

“kiss me" the words left dana in a breath, sounding more like a plea than a request.

her gaze dropped briefly to your mouth before finding your eyes again. this time, there was no hesitation. from anyone.

your mouth was on hers, hot and messy. she wasted no time in kissing you back, her tongue slipping past your bottom lip. she moaned into you, hands finding your waist and squeezing when they got there.

trailing wet, opened mouthed kisses down dana's neck, you felt hungry and untamed, like you'd needed this more than the first time.

"turn around" you whispered against the shell of her ear, guiding her hips to spin until she was flush against the counter top, hands flat on the surface.

your hands wandering across every bit of skin you could find, one settling at her stomach, sliding down to the waistband of her jeans. dana couldn't stifle the moan, the noises of what was to come, so needy and desperate.

you took her in, the smell of shampoo, her softness, the glint of her gold earrings catching the light from behind. she was perfect.

your name fell from her lips, one time, then another, three times as you undid the button and slid the zipper far too slowly. finger tips curled against cool marble, fighting for something to cling on to when your warm hands found the elastic of her underwear. pushing her ass into you, you had to bite your tongue, stop yourself from grinding into her there and then. this was to make her feel good, yours would come later.

she was writhing against herself, like you were going too slow but she wouldn't tell you, would put up with it til you gave her what she wanted. it was almost a cry when you did, soft fingers sinking through her folds, lazily spreading the wetness until it felt too good to stay quiet.

"oh my fuck, i need-"

it took you by surprise. how five minutes ago dana was dwelling on her concerns and now she wanted you three fingers deep, making her feel as good as you did the first time.

"yeah? what do you need?" she'd tortured you, time to repay the favour.

"mmm, please"

“come on. use your words" you sank your middle and ring fingers inside her, curling them deep at that perfect angle but holding still.

"fuck me" she gasped. “need you to f-fuck me"

you nipped her earlobe, teeth grazing the soft skin as she hissed in pleasure. you pumped your fingers faster, relishing every slick sound and broken moan.

"yes" her nails scraped down the countertop. "oh fuck" she could hardly feel you peppering her shoulder with kisses, too taken away with the knot building in her stomach.

“can you take more?”

she nodded frantically, head falling back against your shoulder.

then you pulled your fingers out completely.

“wha-" dana panted, eyes wide and glassy. “what are you doing?”

you almost felt bad for the desperate look on her face but it would be worth it.

“come with me" you took her hand. she followed without hesitation.

two minutes later, dana was perched on the edge of your bed, thighs clenched, watching you with confused hunger as you disappeared to the other side.

you dug in a bedside draw, pulling something black and rope like into your hands. when you turned back, her breath caught. you untangled the harness and let the silicon cock sit amongst it.

“you trust me?”

“yeah" barely a whisper.

“i can fuck you so good, dana" you stepped closer. “will you let me?”

her eyes darkened with want. she bit her lip, then gave you that smile, the one you liked. that creased at her eyes and looked a little wicked.

you bent to kiss her deeply while stripping away her top, jeans and panties, then your own. she was left in just a bra as you stepped into the harness, adjusting it at your hips.

dana leant back on her elbows, legs spreading invitingly, her pussy glistening. fuck, she looked ready to be ruined.

“show me what you got then" her tongue lingered at her corner of her mouth, like she was daring you to do your worst.

you knelt between her thighs, hands gripping them for balance. leaning down, you pursed your lips and let a bead of spit fall onto her cunt while holding her gaze. she jolted. your tongue followed, lapping at her slowly, thoroughly, until she was grinding against your face and whining for more.

you weren't going to let her cum like this just yet.

“you're doing so good for me" you murmured against her, kissing her pussy once more before pulling back. “gonna feel even better, i promise"

you lined up the thick head of the cock at her entrance and pushed in slowly, watching every flicker of pleasure across her face. she took you so easily, slick and eager, stretching around the girth with a broken moan.

for a moment you stayed still, letting her adjust, both of you breathing hard. then you started moving, slow, deep rolls of your hips. the wet sounds of her pussy taking every inch filled the room.

“fuck, dana… you look so good like this" you thrust harder, the dark silicone glistening with her juices every time you pulled out to fuck into her again, deeper than before. “taking my cock so well. you like that?"

she wrapped her legs around your waist, nails digging into the flesh of your back. “jesus- fuck- yes" she gasped with every drive, voice wrecked.

the way she let herself go, feel every inch of her own pleasure made your cunt throb. head thrown back into the mattress, hands wandering to free her tit from the tiny black bra. she palmed herself, gasping at the roll of her nipple between two fingers.

you wanted this to last. wanted to fuck her every which way you could. slowing for just a second, you pulled back and she whined at the loss of contact but you reassured her. "s'okay, i just want you this way"

you stepped back from the bed. "get on your knees"

in that moment she looked like she would do anything you told her. seconds later she was on all fours, ass up, breathing heavy. you could tell she was a little insecure like this, exposed and vulnerable.

you leant against her, your body shadowing hers, just enough to whisper against the nape of her neck. "you look so sexy like this" your hand trailed a long stroke from her shoulder blade to the curve of her ass. "i got you" you saw her shoulders drop a little.

you pushed back inside her slow and it felt different this time. she nearly outright screamed at the sensation of your cock pressing against her gummy walls from this angle. then you started to move, dragging her hips back to meet yours, fucking her so deep she felt it in the pit of her stomach.

a desperate uh uh uh left her lips with every thrust, head resting on the bed, no longer able to hold herself up. "so fuckin good" her words shook as your cock filled her, hands fisted in the sheets, curve of her back glistening with sweat.

you moaned as you saw wetness drip from her cunt, coating the back and inner of her thighs.

"jesus dana, that's it baby"

“i'm close, fuck, i'm so close" she looked back at you, pupils wide and dark. “wanna go on top"

you weren't religious but this felt like a gift from god.

dana asking for what she wanted and fuck, you were gonna give it to her.

you pulled out again, taking her spot on the bed as she climbed onto you, straddling your hips. dana took the cock in her hands, pumping it a few times, spreading herself like she knew it turned you on. then she lowered onto you and planted her hands on your chest, fucking herself on your cock as if it were made for her. hips rolled desperately, head thrown back as filthy moans spilled from her throat.

you mirrored her movements from before and palmed her tit, pulling the bra completely down and rolling her nipple between your fingertips. her pace faltered, then sped up, chasing her orgasm.

it was dirty and messy and frantic. like she'd allowed her guard down to feel what she deserved, to trust that you thought she was the hottest thing, riding you, her body like nothing you'd seen before. all those insecurities, worries of your youth versus her experience vanished. now it was just two people relishing each others bodies and pleasure. and it felt so fucking good.

“that's it" you cooed, gripping her hips to help her along. the pressure on your chest felt good, her nails digging into the thin skin against your sternum, you'd let her draw blood if she wanted.

you could tell she was close by the way her eyes squeezed shut, mouth parted and voice became rough. three finger pads snaked from her hip to her clit, rubbing slow but tight circles. you didn't know where to look, her face all wrecked and needy or where your bodies joined. where you watched the pink of her pussy with every ride on your cock, how you disappeared into her with ease, the slick sounds making you whimper and almost come against nothing.

"good girl. cum for me like this" you breathed hard. "cum for me dana"

how the tables have turned.

and she was your good girl, coming with a strangled cry at your demand. her body went rigid as she ground down hard, pulsing around your cock and god you wished it was real, imagining how it would feel for her cunt to milk you for everything you had, clenching hard around you.

you held her through it, stroking her back as she trembled and gasped, finally collapsing on top of you with a breathless "fuck"

her cheeks were flushed and rosy, hair stuck to the nape of her neck, mascara smudged just a little under the water line. so sexy.

when dana looked at you, it was almost in disbelief, in awe. like she'd tell you she couldn't believe how hard she just came, if only she could gather breath for long enough.

you knew. you didn't need her words.

you pulled her in close. arm wrapped around a shoulder, fingers dancing between the freckles on her skin.

"so good" a whisper, pressed against her temple. and you lay there, in silence and disbelief and everything else that came with it. "such a good girl"