𝐜𝐚𝐬𝐮𝐚𝐥 - cooper madsen x f!reader || 18+
author's note: i'm a massive insatiable horndog i guess. everybody enjoy this
wc: 0.6k
“fuck,” he breathes, jaw unclicking as his eyelashes flutter on his cheeks. a single, pearl-sheeny bead of sweat rests on his hairline, lamplight shining through his short-cropped hair. there’s a vein on his forehead that jumps in time with his elevated heartbeat. “fuck.”
the hotel bedsheets clenched in your fists are nicer than you’re used to. they’re slick and smooth, slipping between your fingers as you tense up, back arching off the bed and towards his bare chest. your free hand moving to the back of his neck, feeling the muscles there tighten. a moan escapes your throat.
his eyes open, blissed-out expression softening even further as his gaze lands on you, dark irises full of something you’d really rather not acknowledge. it’s a little too real—a little too much for you to compute right now. a tear smudges his lower eyelid, and he releases the pillowcase to the side of your head to wipe it away, head turning to hide the emotion.
your hand slides down to cup his ass, guiding his hips as he continues to fuck into you. that’s one thing you’ve always admired about your partner. he’s disciplined. no matter how much he feels, he doesn’t let it get in the way of the task at hand. “god,” you gasp, feeling his hard pecs against your tits. his neck is bared to you, and you have the urge to sink your teeth into his flesh.
“so fucking pretty—” he grits out. something follows, but you don’t catch it. cooper has a tendency to slip into his other languages during sex. maybe he thinks that just because you don’t understand whatever he’s saying, the emotional factor lessens. maybe he thinks that telling you he loves you in a language you don’t know means less because you won’t know what he’s said. not that he’s said he loves you. at least, you fucking hope not. either way, hearing him choke out french, languid words slipping past his parted lips as the head of his cock drags along your insides sounds sexy as fuck.
you roll your hips against his and (reluctantly) let go of the bedsheets to grip his shoulders as you flip him over. you settle down onto him, feeling as he brushes previously inaccessible spots. his hands find your waist as he assists with the movements of your hips, helping you ride him better. your fingers run over his muscular front, searching for purchase. the new position sends shocks of white-hot pleasure up your spine and your thighs begin to shake around him.
when your fingers run over his jaw, darting dangerously close to his mouth, cooper lets his eyes close again, his abdominal muscles tensing as he struggles to hold back his release. “fuck, baby, i won’t—”
but you’re a step ahead of him, crescendo washing over you, fingers clenching his hair as you come. “me neither,” you moan, eyes shut tight. “fuck. fuck.” you feel his warm body shudder beneath yours as he follows suit, his hands kneading at the flesh of your hips, grounding himself. when your eyelids flutter open and you look down at him through hazy eyes, his jaw ticks and a smirk spreads over his face.
“better than that guy from the bar, hm?” he teases, shifting onto his side as you climb off of him, settling into the hotel bed, your body pressed against his. he fixes your hair subconsciously, moving strands so as to fix your part. his fingertips are rough on your scalp, short fingernails stretching nicely.
you let out an encouraging hum and close your eyes. falling asleep like this next to your partner doesn’t mean anything, right? shit like this can be casual. for you, anyway. sometimes, when you look at cooper, despite his argumentative words, you wonder whether or not he’s capable of the same.
tags: @bohnerrific69 (this one's for u lovey), @xichronosxi, @colinzabelswife, @xrag-dollx, @posiebb
lmk if you'd like to be added, removed, or if i've messed up somehow!! i am very bad at everything. please include the character(s) you'd like to be tagged in!
𝐇𝐀𝐋𝐎 𝐅𝐔𝐋𝐋 𝐎𝐅 𝐅𝐈𝐑𝐄 (𝐈'𝐌 𝐑𝐈𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐔𝐏) || 18+
⤷ james patrick march 𝔁 starlet .ᐟ reader
𝐢𝐧𝐟𝐨: smut. rough sex. erotic murder - trust me. haematolagnia/blood kink. murder power couple yessss! religious themes. freak 4 freak jpm & reader. yay
𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: graphic descriptions of violence/gore.
𝐰𝐜: 3.6k
𝜗𝜚 𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: do not ever have sex in a pool of someone else's blood. ever. please. k love ya
on ao3
〃⟢ 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐃𝐎𝐍'𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐊 𝐘𝐎𝐔'𝐕𝐄 𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑 had so many people fawning over you as you do tonight. The Cortez, with its high, red-flocked walls and intricate chandeliers that twinkle like stars, with its velvet and its velour, with its sex appeal, is filled with Hollywood’s best. Directors with big hits, actors and actresses who have their names and faces plastered down his boulevard, and you—the favorite.
Your film premiered tonight, your face blown up a hundred times, eyelashes glimmering across the silver screen. Your name, on the poster, is bigger than the title, rendered in looping cursive. And tonight, it’s on everyone’s lips.
You weave through the crowd, the beads on the bottom of your dress swishing around your pantyhosed legs. “Oh, yes, it’s such a fine film!” you exclaim, passing behind an animated conversation between your director and a man you don’t recognize. You smile sweetly at them and keep moving, your gloved hands raising absentmindedly to run over your stiff finger waves. Hopefully immaculate.
James is standing on the upper balcony, where the bar is, his fingers curled around the brass balustrade, shoulders set as he looks down on the party. When he catches your gaze, his face twitches minutely, a tightening, then a relaxation, in his brow, his eyes sparkling bright before dulling again. He gives you the smallest of nods and then steps away from the balcony, turning to sit at the bar.
A producer whose name you don’t care to learn slips in between you and the elevator. “Oh, my goodness! The woman of the hour, aren’t you?” he says, his hand moving to your bicep, brushing the arm cuff situated there. “And what a wonderful film. Your father must be very proud. Your husband, too, I’m sure. Say, he must be here tonight, yes? He’s the designer behind this beautiful venue, if I’m not mistaken.” His face is kind enough but his voice is patronizing in a way you don’t appreciate but are very used to. He gives your arm a squeeze and steps back.
Nevertheless, you smile and nod, your dress sounding like rainfall as the beads lave against each other. “Yes sir, he is,” you say, clasping your hands and leaning forward slightly—a practiced stance, a favorite of the higher-ups on the production side—smiling up at him with pained lips. “It’s such a brilliant place, don’t you think? He’s such a brilliant man. Now, if you wouldn’t mind, sir, I’m on my way to meet him?”
His eyebrows raise and he takes a step back, his arm falling to his side. He nods, gesturing towards the elevator. “You can’t keep a man like him waiting, can you, Mrs. March?”
You smile at him with a dash of ‘goodness, I’d love to keep talking,’ and continue towards the twin brass doors. “No, sir, you cannot!” you say, hoping that the laugh in your voice sounds self-deprecating, and hurry away, your heels thudding dully on the carpet. From the corner of your eye, you watch his gaze follow you. You turn to the operator and say “Second, please,” with a wave of your hand.
He nods, obliging.
You let out a long sigh, leaning against the back wall of the elevator. Then it begins rising, and you turn, examining yourself in the mirrored panel affixed to the wall. Your makeup looks fine, your hair is behaving, and your dress hasn’t slipped. Your powder could use some touch-up, however.
“I find it odd that a woman would escape her own party,” the operator says, eyeing. “One of your caliber must be used to such fanfare.”
“I’m quite new to the scene, mister,” you say, adjusting the straps on your dress. “And I’m hardly escaping.”
He nods once in acquiescence. The elevator dings, and the doors slide open. You blow out a long breath, smile sweetly at the operator, and leave.
James’ back is to you from where he sits at the bar, one of his elbows propped on the bartop, striking green swirling at the base of the crystal glass he holds. Technically, he could be arrested for that, but everyone in this room knows that everything is legal when you’re a man like James Patrick March.
“Darling,” you say quietly, petting down his back as you slip onto the seat beside him. “A lovely party, don’t you think?” You prop your head up with one arm, turning to face him.
His dark eyes bore into yours. He takes a sip from his glass and smiles, a dimple in his cheek appearing. “Very lovely, my dove. Very. You, perhaps, are the loveliest thing about it.”
Your face heats up slightly and you giggle, dismissing him with a wave of your hand. “You’re a sentimentalist, James.” You call the bartender over, nodding at him. He knows your drink of choice. It’s nothing so harsh as James’, but you get eyed in speakeasies on occasion. Then you turn back to your husband, your smile widening. “Have you picked anyone? I saw you looking earlier.”
“That man with that burgundy pinstripe suit seems like he’d be rather fun, and the woman with the peacock feather in her hair remains an option. She’s your competition, I believe. Hollywood wouldn’t miss her. Not like they would miss you, my darling,” James says, taking another sip before setting his rocks glass down, the crystal clinking against the lacquered bartop. “Of course, the final decision is yours. As is this night.”
You think for a moment, bringing a finger to your chin. The bartender sets your Sazerac by your right hand, and you smile at him before turning back to James. “Both might be interesting,” you muse pointedly. “One for you, and one for me. I know how you hate to share.”
He frowns, tapping his fingers on his empty glass. “Oh, yes, perhaps.” Then his expression morphs into something akin to giddiness. “We can use room seventy-two.”
A grin spreads across your face and you laugh, the sound ringing and bright, toeing at his calf with your Mary Jane heels. “And then the suite,” you add with a small smirk.
You can see the words sink in as his brow lowers and his expression darkens. Of course, this arrangement was already understood, a prerequisite of your relationship, but stating it outright cements its reality, the idea shifting from the hypothetical, the mutually understood fundamentally fantasy, to the concrete, the hard promise. He moves to adjust his collar, and you see a vein in the back of his hand jump. “Yes,” he says. “And then the suite, my dove. I cannot wait to have you there.”
Heat rises in your face again. You’re wearing a beaded headpiece, and it shifts when you duck your head, cool against your ears, the feather accessory tickling your ear. “And I you,” you say, taking a tip of your drink. It’s hot on the way down, but more invigorating than painful. “I should return to the floor. Where will you be?”
“Here,” James says. “I will take care of collecting them. You go imbibe. It’s your night.” He smiles at you then, his hand finding the back of your neck. His grip tightens at your nape and he pulls you closer, breathing into your parted lips for a few moments before kissing you.
You let out a surprised squeak, but your hands come to rest on his chest, fingers curling around his lapels. “James,” you say, breathless, when he pulls away. “That was improper.”
“Yes, well. You’ve never been easy to resist, darling. A man has trouble being proper,” he says, one of his large hands falling to your waist. He leans closer, pressing a kiss to your exposed neck, before standing up from the bar, making a vague gesture at the barkeep and guiding you by the small of your back down the large stairway to the main event space again.
Then you are alone again, mingling, floating between conversations and being dragged into either. ‘Oh, yes, he’s a brilliant director, truly, I can’t imagine the film without his insight.’ ‘Certainly! You needn’t worry, Hollywood hasn’t seen the last of me.’ ‘That’s so very kind, sir, really—yes, that’s right, I had it tailored—oh, that’s very interesting—’
Finally, things have begun to die down. People are being escorted to their fancy European cars, where their drivers wait. There’s a man you don’t know standing by the door, wishing departing guests a wonderful night. And you are free to find James.
You find him where you expected to, in the large room masquerading as number seventy-two, in which the walls of three adjoining hotel rooms were knocked out and finished over, the doors sealed shut, and the room outfitted with everything you and he could need to indulge your darker desires.
He’s at his desk, smoking a cigarette, parsing through some blueprint drafts of his latest project, while the man and woman previously decided on strain against their restraints, the construction straps that keep them secured to the large table in the center of the room. He looks up when you enter the room, his eyes gaining a gleam when he sees you, stubbing out his cigarette and extending his hand. “My love,” he says, stepping out from behind the table. “Goodness...you look...”
You follow his gaze as he looks you up and down, placing your hand delicately in his, glancing to the man and woman for a split second before leaning close to James.
“Ravishing,” he finishes, working his jaw in a way that isn’t mandated by the phonetics of the word. “Utterly ravishing, my darling. You are truly the most beautiful specimen to grace these halls.”
You giggle, covering your mouth with the hand not in his. “Oh, you flirt,” you say with a flick of your wrist, batting your eyelashes at him. “Finally have time for your poor wife, do you?”
He groans, gritting his teeth as he continues to rake in your form. “Time,” he echoes. “Yes, we must make the most out of what we have, hm?” His expression is hazy and drunken, his jaw working against nothing.
“James,” you chide, sliding your hand to rest on his shoulder. “We have guests, darling.”
His eyes clarify, stare sharpening as he glances back over to the man and woman, who haven’t ceased whimpering around the wet cloths shoved into their mouths. “I suppose we do.” Then he looks at you again, lips curling into a sly smile. “They demand attention.”
You giggle coquettishly, covering your mouth. “They do.” You tug on the front of his suit vest, bringing his body to press against yours. “Shall we?”
His shoulders shudder as your bodies meet, a twitch in his brow telling you that he’s more affected than he’s letting on. “Yes, my dove,” he breathes against the skin of your neck, making the vellus hair prickle and stand on end. “We have work to do.”
Soon enough, you and he are positioned in front of the woman and the man, respectively, twin blades in James’ large hands and a long metal spike in yours. “How will this go?” James asks you. “Is tonight one we will draw out?”
You hum, poking the sole of the woman’s bare foot with your weapon, admiring the way she jerks away, body trembling, miniscule muscles jumping under her soft, pale skin. The human body, with all its minute processes and tiny reactions, has always fascinated you. You want to tear her apart. “Let us see where they take us.”
James makes an approving noise and meets your gaze over the table. It’s heated and heady, sending a jolt of arousal through you. He never fails at that. In the harsh light of the room, his face looks angular and sculpted, his skin smooth and his hair shining obsidian.
The woman under you thrashes against her restraints, tears streaming down her face, her mouth forced open by the gag. A wet noise bubbles from her throat, something akin to a sob. God, don’t you love that sound. She has been reduced to an animal caught in a trap, reduced to her basest instincts, her raw fear at the immediate threat you pose. You ungag her, discarding the saliva-soaked rag somewhere on the ground. In your peripheral vision, James does the same.
“I-Into your hands, Lord, I commend my spirit—have mercy on me as a sinner, I do—Into your hands, I commend my spirit—”
Ah. So she’s one of those. You decide her blathering is unproductive and take a few steps forward, trailing the point of your weapon up her body, leaving behind a bright red scratch in its wake. The woman whimpers, squeezing her eyes shut as exhaustion sets, overpowering her panic, and her resistance begins to dissipate.
James’ man screams, but the sound is cut short. You hear a wet slash, but don’t look up. James lets out a long, satisfied half-sigh, half-groan, and you know that the man is gone. Something burbles, but you don’t really hear it. You’re focused in on the point where your weapon pokes her jugular, the vein jumping out around where the spike digs into her skin.
The woman continues to babble prayer, her head moving back and forth, her back arching against the restraints as she coughs, bare feet scrabbling on the table.
“He will not save you,” you murmur to her, tilting your head to the side. “You waste your breath.”
She stares up at you, her eyes red and terrified, makeup running down her cheeks, her lips quivering and puffy. “Please,” she begs through another sob. “You needn’t do this, really—I-I adored your—your film—”
You bend over her, bringing your face close to hers, feeling her hot, panicked breath on your skin. “I’m afraid that I really don’t give a damn, darling,” you say, smiling. “See, it isn’t the person that interests me.”
She cries out again, reinvigorated by your closeness, thrashing against the straps holding her down. “Please…please, please.” Her voice quiets and cracks as she returns to prayer. “Jesus Christ, accept my soul—”
Fed up with her, you twist your hands around the end of the spike, the metal cool under your fingers. You sink the point into her neck, drawing blood, a trail of crimson gushing from the puncture wound and pooling on the table beneath her. She screams, and you shove your fingers into her mouth, pressing down on her tongue. As you pull the spike out and trace its bloodied tip around to her ribs, over her heart, you look up and meet James’ eyes.
He’s stopped playing with the man’s dead body, standing across from you, his eyes dark and his lips parted, the cigarette in his off hand snubbed out in the pool of blood staining the front of his suit. His tongue darts out to wet his lips and you see a muscle in his jaw tighten and flex under his skin. His chest rises and falls heavily, his breathing visibly labored.
You hold his gaze as you drive the spike between her ribs and into her heart. His chest shudders, and you feel a familiar throb build between your legs.
The woman’s blood spurts upwards, splattering down your front and on your face, crimson dots and smears adorning your form like jewels. The scream that tears from her throat sounds like music.
You finally tear your eyes away from James’ and glance down to your handiwork. It’s sloppier—you could have been more specific with your stab—but fine enough. Then you look at James’, at the man he wasted no time in killing. He has a slash wound across his throat that mirrors James’ and an incision down his front, his chest peeled open and his innards splayed down onto his stomach and the table.
“Pretty,” you murmur, still looking at the man. Then you look back to James. “Beautiful.”
His eyelids flutter closed and he takes a step toward you, letting his cigarette float freely in the shallow pool of blood. “You’re certainly one to talk, my dove,” he says, his voice low. “Painted in blood like you are…A goddess sent for me…”
“The divine mandate worship,” you murmur, releasing the spike and rounding the table, feeling the air contract and heat as you near him. “Don’t you think?” You press your body against his, mouthing at his jaw, his blood soaking his front seeping into your dress.
He groans, firsting in the fabric on your back, his hands trailing downward to knead the flesh of your ass. “There is nothing so…invigorating as the sight of you so dark, my dearest,” he says, “I have never met a woman so bewitching…and you…you have bewitched me…”
Your eyes flutter and you press closer to him, forcing one of his thighs between your legs, seeking satiation for the growing, hot need under your dress. “And you me…James…” His name escapes as a whimper, your voice hoarse and your mind hazy from the thrill of killing and the drinking you did at the premiere.
His jaw clenches and before you realize what’s happening, he’s hoisted you by your waist to sit on the table, dark blood from the woman behind you dripping down the backs of your thighs as he settles between your legs, his hands already snaking up your dress. “Let me have you, darling,” he says. “Damn the suite.”
You shift your hips, encouraging, as your head falls to his shoulder, lips skimming his neck. “Please,” you whisper, but it sounds more like a command than a request. Your need has grown exponentially, throbbing and desperate low in your abdomen, able to be sated by only one person.
Nobody has ever fucked you like James has.
You’re reminded of this fact as he pushes into you, a spike of pain shooting up your spine as your body struggles to accommodate his size, cock moving into you at an agonizingly slow pace until he finally bottoms out with a low groan.
One of James’ hands shoots out to grip the edge of the table, his chest heaving, forehead against your chest. “I must say,” he murmurs. “That never loses its thrill.” His body shakes slightly, the muscles in his back and abdomen tightening and then releasing, winding him tighter and tighter.
“Fuck,” you breathe. Your hand comes up to touch his face, smearing blood from the pool beneath you down his cheek and neck.
He begins to move, heavy cock dragging against your walls as he pulls out slowly before hammering back into you, forcing your hips a few inches back. His eyes are open, teeth gritted as he focuses, his pace quickening as he sets a bullying tempo.
Your back arches into his, spine curling with the force of your pleasure. You think that your bodies must have been made with the other in mind—the way he fits against you, into you, around you, none of that could be merely coincidence. Not when the sensation of his mouth on your jaw and his cock buried in your wet cunt elicits the kind of ecstasy you think the Buddhists must be after.
At some point, he removed his shirt and vest, his chest bare and slick with blood and sweat above you, glistening red and silver. Your handprint is emblazoned over his abs in the coagulated blood on his skin, a brand, a mark of possession.
“You are not Hollywood’s,” James husks into your ear, teeth grazing the sensitive shell. “You are not the world’s.”
You moan, grasping at his hips, seeking purchase as he pushes you closer to your crescendo.
“You,” he says, cut off by a thrust. “Are mine.”
“Always,” you reply, not really hearing your own voice. It’s all platitude—but truth nonetheless. You will never belong to anyone else in this way, not this truly.
Somehow, he moves even faster, his free hand moving between your bodies to thumb as your puffy, neglected core, sending another white hot wave of pleasure through you. “My dove,” he groans. “Let yourself go.”
“Do the same,” you demand, the power in your voice undercut by the moan it comes with. You dig your fingernails into his shoulders, relishing the feeling of his muscles contracting beneath his skin, the same muscles used to slash that man’s throat.
Without question, James obeys, his pace stuttering and his mouth falling open as he spills into you.
The feeling of his orgasm inside you tips you over the edge and you come hard, thighs shaking around his hips as you cry out his name.
Both of you go limp, falling backward onto the table, your head resting on the dead woman’s stomach, feeling her blood soak into your hair. Your eyes flutter shut as James shifts above you, every movement of his cock pulling out of your oversensitive cunt sending another jolt of pleasure through you.
Your eyes open, and you get a better look at him.
James is a mess, his dress pants pooled around his ankles, his usually impeccable hair mussed and dirty, his body smeared in glistening sweat and drying blood, neck and jaw adorned with red lipstick kisses and what you’re sure is your own saliva.
“The divine mandate worship,” he murmurs, moving to lay beside you, his chest still heaving. The words are drawn out and slow, his heated gaze tracing over you as if he’s already weighing the merit of climbing back over you. “And you, my darling…” his tongue darts out to wet his parted lips. “Are the only god I kneel for.”
tags: none yet! let me know if you'd like to be added (and for which characters)
𝐈𝐅 𝐘𝐎𝐔'𝐑𝐄 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐃 about your sex life being ‘stale,’ chances are it is. so, shake things up! is your parter always on top? well, now they're the pillow princess. it can be scary, but it might also by the key to freshening up your sexual relationship.
colin zabel x wife!reader | nsfw 18+ | dom/sub elements | ellipses overload
thank y'all for the enthusiasm on these! i have been working on something else, so i'm sorry i haven't put out anything longer on here in a little bit - that's coming once i finish my other project :(
his eyes are screwed up in concentration, cheeks pink and expression blissed. one of his eyes opens and he peers down at you, lips parting. “this is good..?” his hand moves to your lower back, pulling your pelvis up to meet his thrusts.
you nod, biting down on your cheek, spine curling off the mattress. you’re not used to lying down here, but you’ll admit that it’s a nice break. so this is what colin has been enjoying for years…you’re almost pissed. “yeah. y-yeah. fuck, right there…”
“here?” he asks, adjusting slightly, his dick dragging through you as his movements slow, tip pressing into that magic area deliberately. when you let out a long moan and let your jaw fall open, he huffs out a weak laugh. “that’s a yes.”
“s’a fuck yes,” you retort breathily. when his head bows and he bares his neck to you, your teeth skim the soft skin, catching on his birthmark. “i should make you do this more often.”
he groans, squeezing his eyes shut. “i don’t know about that, babe…my back hurts…”
“god, shut up,” you breathe, pressing a kiss to the area behind his ear. “i’ll use the stupid theragun later if you keep going.”
“deal,” he says, capturing your mouth in a kiss as his pace quickens. he deepens it, tonguing at the seam of your lips before slipping past. he hums into your mouth, vibrating your teeth. “mgh…you taste good…”
the hand not grasping in your bedsheets moves to the back of his head, fingers twirling in the hair on the nape of his neck—softer and finer than everywhere else. it might make nice yarn. would that be a weird gift? a hat knitted from his own hair? you need to stop thinking. “so do you,” you murmur back, leveraging your hand on the back of his head to pull him down, closer to you, until his chest and stomach are against yours.
colin lets out a sound from deep in the back of his throat, body stilling as he recalibrates the new position. “okay,” he says, pressing his forehead to your shoulder. he thrusts again, the sound of your skin sliding against his making a dryish shlick sound. “ah…okay…”
“little faster,” you instruct gently, moving your hand to his hip, guiding his movements with the flat of your forearm. “oh, fuck, colin, babe…fuck…m’close…”
“yeah,” he says, but his voice sounds distant, cottony. “tell me what to do.”
“just…jus’ keep doin’ that…” you moan, biting down on your bottom lip. “fuck, make a little noise.”
he obliges, releasing a moan from low in his chest, the sound transferring through his body to yours, rattling around in your ribcage, making his pleasure yours. “god,” he whimpers. “i love you so much…hard to believe you’re mine…”
you press your forehead to his, breathing hard, focusing on keeping your eyes open as you meet his gaze. when you come, you watch his breathing stutter and his pupils dilate until his eyes are so dark you can’t find the brown.
tags: @nephilamb \\ @bohnerrific69 \\ @xichronosxi \\ @colinzabelswife \\ @xrag-dollx \\ @zoebensonsitonmyface \\ @mysticsandmagic05 \\ @ev3n0tx \\ @ravioli-isgood \\
lmk if you'd like to be added, removed, or if i've messed up somehow!! i am very bad at everything. please include the character(s) you'd like to be tagged in! love ya
white is the regular colin taglist, red is for this event specifically.
𝐃𝐎𝐍'𝐓 𝐋𝐈𝐌𝐈𝐓 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐒𝐄𝐋𝐅 to what you know works. trial and error is inevitable, but don't let that fear stop you from trying new ways to please each other.
colin zabel x wife!reader | nsfw 18+ | oral sex (m!receiving) | fluffy
a/n: sorry for spamming y'all lately...i'm procrastinating my schoolwork
“i don’t understand. how do you do it diff—? oh…fuck, babe…” colin's head falls back, eyes closing as his hands find your hair. he lets out a breathy laugh, the muscles in his lower stomach jumping as you reach up and run your fingertips over them.
you want to tell him about how you did research for this, about how you delved into the deepest fiery hells of lewd youtube tutorials in order to be able for your tongue to be doing what it’s currently doing, but you’re too busy with his cock to say anything at all.
“i didn’t know there was more than one way to do that,” colin breathes, stroking his fingers through your hair in what you can only assume is an attempt to soothe himself. his thighs twitch on either side of your head, the skin hot and slightly damp against the shells of your ears, like he’s fighting not to crouch down so that you’re face-to-face.
you pop off briefly, but your hands find the area you were just attending to, stroking up and down at a teasing pace. “i just had a favorite.” then you’re back on him, tongue stroking up the length of him, teasing at the bottom of the head in what you hope is the same way the woman in the video pleasured that cucumber.
he bites back a groan and his hands move to your back, bending over your crown so that his stomach presses on the top of your head. “will you think i’m an asshole if i say i like this—fuck…—‘method’ more…?”
your blabberbox is busy proving him right, much to your chagrin, so you employ a little more teeth on the next stroke in retaliation, feeling him jerk underneath you. at this point, you’re practically wearing him like a snail’s shell, his body curled around yours, skin warm through your pajamas, his legs shaking. you run your fingertips up and down his thighs as you work, gentle and affectionate, despite the intensity with which you’re pulling him into your throat.
“sorry, sorry…sorry. ah…god… yeah, you’re…good at that…” the words come out breathy and mumbled, like they’re escaping rather than being emitted willingly. “i’m cl…close.”
you resist the urge to pump a fist in the air, and instead increase your pace before slowing it down to a languid, lazy one, every bob of your head drawing a sound from colin. this, you know, is something he likes. half of sex with him is just getting him to the point where he’s comfortable enough to enjoy it. (which, inconveniently, tends to be right before ejaculation.)
after a few quiet minutes, his hips stutter and he spills into the condom. both of you are still for a moment before colin pulls out and you both just stare at each other. “what the hell was that?” colin asks, face flushed and eyes sparkling. “hell were you doing with your teeth?”
you sit back on your heels and cross your arms, tilting your chin upwards defiantly. “learned it on the internet.”
his eyebrows furrow, but the steady glee in his depression remains so. “you watched dirty videos?”
“no!” you protest. “they were educational! and you’re one to talk, you know. It must have felt good, ‘cos you’ve never bent over me like that.”
heat rises in his face, and his hand finds the back of his neck, as it always does. in an effort to distract you, he begins pulling the condom off and twisting the end up, setting his jaw. “yeah, well. it was you, so.”
“ohmygod,” you groan, grinning at him. “sap.”
tags: @nephilamb \\ @bohnerrific69 \\ @xichronosxi \\ @colinzabelswife \\ @xrag-dollx \\ @zoebensonsitonmyface \\ @mysticsandmagic05
lmk if you'd like to be added, removed, or if i've messed up somehow!! i am very bad at everything. please include the character(s) you'd like to be tagged in! love ya
𝐒𝐏𝐋𝐔𝐑𝐆𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐎𝐍 𝐒𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 to break up monotony in the bedroom is well worth it, whether it be something for your pleasure or for his, a good toy can make intimacy feel brand-new.
colin zabel x wife!reader | nsfw 18+ | sex toys (duh) | fluffy
this kind of went a different direction than i had planned, so please enjoy whatever this one is
“do i just press this—?” colin asks, sitting on the foot of the bed, shirt off but pajama pants on. he glances up at you, searching your expression for any kind of confirmation that it’s having an effect on you.
you squeeze your thighs together, the combination of the pressure and the new vibration between your legs making you feel exceedingly vulnerable, bare before him, the cold air prickling your skin. you shut your eyes, nodding. “it’s working.” you open your eyes, then, and make a face. “this is embarrassing.”
colin’s eyes widen a little and he stretches a hand outwards. “no, it’s not embarrassing. this is your list we’re talking about here. it’s, um…reinvigorating?” he supplies helpfully. then his face softens, hands skimming over your shoulders as you sit beside him. “but we can turn it off any time.”
you shake your head, but lean into his touch. “no,” you mumble, resting your forehead on his shoulder. “feels good.”
and it really does. the toy is a little bigger than you’re used to, and equipped with four state-of-the-art vibration modes that are wreaking havoc on your insides. the small remote is clutched loosely in colin’s hand, his thumb rubbing over the buttons absentmindedly.
when you duck your head, he does the same, keeping eye contact. “you’re sure?”
you nod, letting out a tiny groan, opening your mouth to suck on his bare skin. “yeah…mmm…s’nice…”
“i don’t know if i should be jealous,” he says, laughing softly, one of his hands falling to your lower back, the other settling on the back of your head. “i’m just sitting here.”
“no,” you protest, kissing his collarbone as you move onto his lap. the adjust makes the plastic shift inside you, sending a jolt up your spine. “no, it wouldn’t feel good if it were somebody else pressing the buttons.”
he’s quiet for a moment, then his grip on you tightens. “okay,” he murmurs, pressing his lips to the top of your head.
the room is silent for the most part, broken only by your small noises and the dim hum from inside you. “did you put yours on?” you ask.
he shakes his head, and you feel his face heat beneath your cheek. “no. should i?”
“it’s…unfair if it’s just me…” you say with a smile, your voice a little breathy as your hips roll into his stomach, moving against nothing. “don’t you think?”
it takes a minute to get his pants off and get the thing working, but once you do, his head falls back, adam’s apple bobbing in his throat as he swallows hard. “oh.”
you nod, stroking his neck, thumb rubbing his jaw soothingly. you kiss him, leaning into the warmth he offers. your feeling of vulnerability has faded, leaving behind only happiness. comfort. contentment. it’s hard to feel anything else when you’re with him.
tags: @nephilamb \\ @bohnerrific69 \\ @xichronosxi \\ @colinzabelswife \\ @xrag-dollx \\ @zoebensonsitonmyface \\ @mysticsandmagic05 \\ @ev3n0tx \\ @ravioli-isgood \\
lmk if you'd like to be added, removed, or if i've messed up somehow!! i am very bad at everything. please include the character(s) you'd like to be tagged in! love ya
white is the regular colin taglist, red is for this event specifically.
