rainy days — dilf!john x plus!size!wife!reader ⛆
the rain is steady, hammering against the windows in thick sheets. the whole house smells faintly of woodsmoke and last night’s roast. you’re tangled in the quilt with john, your cheek pressed to the softness of his chest hair, his heartbeat slow and steady under your ear.
he stirs first, beard scratching against your hair.
“still comin’ down, love?” his voice is gravelly, thick with sleep.
you hum and nod, feeling his palm slide from your waist to your hip, squeezing the curve of you.
john always gets handsy when he’s lazy. big, broad hands kneading into your softness like he’s trying to memorize it. he mutters things into your skin — “so bloody warm… made for me, weren’t you?”
you eventually shuffle into the kitchen, tugging his oversized rugby shirt down over your thighs. john follows behind like a shadow, barefoot, hair mussed, sweatpants riding low. he presses a kiss to your temple as you pour coffee, murmuring, “my pretty little wife fussin’ over me—blessed man i am.”
you spend the morning curled on the sofa while he pretends to do paperwork. the storm rumbles, the fire crackles, and john’s blue eyes keep darting to you — legs tucked under you, sipping from your mug, lips shiny.
“c’mere.” he crooks a finger, and before you can argue, you’re straddling him on the old leather armchair.
the kiss starts soft. his hands cradle your jaw, his thumbs brushing your flushed cheeks. but when your belly presses into his chest, he groans low, needy, and rocks you down against the hardness under his sweats.
“look at you, sittin’ all sweet in my lap,” he rasps, forehead pressed to yours. “rain hammerin’ down, thunder rollin’—and my girl’s got me harder than i was at twenty.”
the chair creaks with each slow grind of your hips. his hands are everywhere, gripping your thighs, guiding you, one slipping up under the shirt you stole.
he doesn’t rush. he never does anymore. instead, he makes it slow, deep, full. thunder cracks as he pushes into you, the rhythm lazy, almost torturous. each roll of his hips has you clinging to him, whimpering his name.
“that’s it, darlin’. just let me have you. soft little thing, takin’ me so bloody well.” his mouth trails over your throat, your jaw, your ear. “don’t need the outside world—just need you here, warm and full of me.”
by the time the storm eases, you’re boneless in his lap, face tucked into his neck, both of you wrapped in the old quilt again. he strokes your back, murmuring praises until your eyes flutter closed.
and when you wake, it’s to the smell of dinner cooking, john humming low in the kitchen, still in his sweatpants, hair damp from a shower. he looks up when he sees you, grinning like a man who’s had his heaven all day.
“hungry, love? figured we’d make a proper night of it. wine, food, then back to bed with my pretty wife.”
written by @luvbabydoll ⛆