how i imagine thigh riding w the guys would go. afab!reader.
calum
it happens when you’re sitting on the couch, aimlessly watching tv, curled up together.
his hands make their way to end of your sleep shorts, the ones he has a half a mind to rip right off you. your hand is absentmindedly rubbing his upper thigh, and he’s watching you out the corner of his eye. even though he thinks you can’t, you feel his eyes on you immediately. whether right next to you or across a crowded room, you always could.
you squeeze at the place where his thigh meets his pelvis, smiling slightly at the breath he lets out. the movie is long forgotten, your attention solely on the beautiful man below your fingertips. what started out as a tease morphs into a bit of an obsession. your nails are scraping the mass of muscle, mind whirling with endless scenarios. when your hand starts to inch higher and higher, calum stops you.
“if you wanna do something, then do it.”
it’s all the encouragement you need before you’re climbing halfway into his lap, his thigh slotted between your legs. the pressure makes your head spin, and you look up at him through hooded eyes. the way he looks in the low light of your living room, green and blue hair tousled and bushy eyebrows drawn— it makes wetness pool between your legs almost immediately.
“wanna try something,” you whisper, placing a kiss on his pulse point, which makes his hands fly to your hips. “let me?”
he nods, dark eyes curious. “anything.”
its instantaneous, the motion of your hips. slow, experimental thrusts. the friction between your flimsy shorts and the denim he’s wearing making the familiar heat rise in your stomach.
calum’s strong hands are moving you faster and faster, watching you fall apart with rapt attention. he can’t take his eyes of you— his girl— fucking yourself against his leg like it would kill you any minute to stop.
he’s laser focused on the puff of air leaving you; the way you throw your head back, the way you grip his bicep at a particularly slow drag he guides you through. it’s better than drugs he thinks, the way you look absolutely wrecked off nothing but his fucking thigh.
his mouth is parted as your orgasm hits you, a long whine falling from behind those pretty lips. he doesn’t stop moving you, not even when you slump forward, chest heaving.
“cal, fuck—“ its torture, you think. you fucking love it anyway.
after a minute he stops, deep breath leaving him. you look up, confused. it takes all of ten seconds before you’re flipped around, splayed on your back underneath him, back pressed firmly into the couch.
his eyes are molten. “you’re a fucking vision, you know that? using my thigh like it belongs to you.” your mouth falls open as he shoves a hand down the front of your pants. “let me show you exactly what belongs to me.”
ashton
you’d been running around the city all night, and by the time you get back to his apartment, you’re practically begging for ash to touch you. he’d been teasing all night; skimming his hand along the small of your back, gripping the flesh of your thigh underneath tables. it made you a live wire, wound tight and desperate for something. anything.
ashton sits on the edge of the bed, watching as you take off your clothes, eyes trailing down your body with greed. he gestures you over with one hand, “come here.”
when you’re standing in front of him in nothing but a skimpy black set, he tugs you forward, making you collapse in his lap. you wrap your arms around him as he fuses your lips together, hands on either side of your ribcage. his thumbs skim the underside of your breasts softly.
it has you out of breath and desperate, whining into the kiss and clenching around nothing. “so needy tonight, yeah?”
it drives you crazy, the way he’s looking at you, smirk wide and eyes full of mischief. you nod, moving to reattach your lips, but he leans back, moving his body further up the bed and subsequently moving you to sit on one of his legs.
“so take what you need, baby.”
you stare at him, alarmed, waiting for him to touch you. only he doesn’t, just leans back on his elbows, eyebrows raised. “ash-“
“you heard me, pretty girl. use me.”
the lightning bolt it sends down your spine makes you breathless. you know he’s enjoying seeing you squirm, but you couldn’t give less a fuck. not with his huge, muscled thigh pressed against your center like an open invitation.
you drag your hips back and forth against him, moan clawing its way out your throat at the feeling. ashton bounces his leg slightly in time with your thrusts, grinning wolfishly at the mewls leaving you. he’s rock hard in his slacks but it’s not important to him. what’s important is you, half naked and pretty as ever, fucking yourself against his thigh like it was where you needed to live.
“oh- fuck- ash I’m gonna-“ it’s too much, between the look on his face and the pressure on your clit. you’re rutting helplessly, chasing your orgasm like a woman deranged.
when your hips lock and your breathing splutters his hands are on you, holding you in place pushing you down as firm as possible. your jaw goes slack and vision turns white as you climax, and you slump forward, right into his chest.
it’s quiet for a second, and then,
“didn’t think there was anything better than seeing you come on my cock. guess I was wrong.”
luke
luke is a little bit different. it’s carnal and raw in way that knocks the wind out of you both. clothes have been ripped away, throw haphazardly across the room. you’re a mess of teeth and tongues clashing, lips trailing against collarbones and hungry hands.
his back is pressed against the headboard, blonde curls wild against his forehead. curses are falling out of his kiss-red lips, eyes wide and blown.
“need to feel you— now.”
you nod fervently, grabbing the base of him and lifting up to sink on to him. he stop you and you gasp as your eyes connect. he looks ravenous and his hold is bruising. “no,” his voice is coarse. “want you on my thigh.”
there’s no time between the words tumbling out his mouth and your pussy slapping onto the meat of his thigh. you both moan immediately at the contact. the feeling is other worldly, and you feel like you’ve ascended to the highest plane possible. luke doesn’t let a beat pass before he’s dragging you back and forth with a quickness, eyes transfixed on the way your wetness coats his skin.
“god you’re so wet for me— I can hear it.” he whimpers against your mouth, trailing kisses to your jaw, biting down slightly. the moan that rips from the deepest parts of your chest echoes around the room.
“luke— I can’t,” you sob. his pace is unrelenting, jutting you back further and pulling you in closer every time. “it’s too much.”
“you can,” he’s words are slurred on the pleasure, voice strained. “please baby, give it to me. wanna feel you soak my thigh. please.”
your orgasm hits you like a wrecking ball, and at the same time you’re arching into him, he’s coming too, thick ropes hitting his stomach and your arm.
it takes a minute for the both of you to screw your heads on right. chests heaving, sweat coating every inch of your bodies.
luke looks up at you, fucked out smile and bliss transforming his face.
“we’re definitely doing that again.”
michael
michael’s a little bit of a wild card. it’d be something you didn’t see a mile away, but appreciative of nonetheless.
you’re sitting in a corner booth in the back of a crowded club, at an album release for a one of his friends. everyone’s gotten up; to go the bar, the bathroom, to dance— you couldn’t remember exactly. mostly because you’re sitting on his lap, his back pressed up against you and thigh slotted between your own.
the last person had gotten up and it was immediate, the way his large hands latched on to your hips, lips at your ear. “if I can’t fuck you the way that I want right now, I’m gonna need to see you fall apart.”
you go to look over your shoulder at him but he keeps you from turning. “eyes forward, baby.”
when he starts to move you, you choke on your own spit, startled moan tumbling out of your lips. he squeezes you, pressure making your brain turn to mush.
the whole ordeal is slow and deliberate. every stroke, every drag, every stutter. right when you’re almost there, he stops, bringing you back down before starting up again. “look at you, so good for me.” his voice is sugary sweet, almost in awe. “sliding against my thigh, fuck, you’re soaked. I can feel you.”
his filthy words do nothing but wind the coil in your gut tighter and tighter. you’re a mewling mess, pleas falling breathlessly out your mouth. “please, mike. please, please, please.”
he groans, moving you faster against him. the music in the club is deafening, but you’re focused on nothing except the friction between you both. it’s exhilarating and terrifying, knowing anyone could come back or even simply just look, and you’d be caught. it’s when he sinks his teeth into the skin of your collarbone that you’re a shaking, whining mess in his lap. “I’ve got you. I’m right here.”
when you come down from it all, you look back at him, eyebrows raised. “where the hell did that come from?”
he shrugs, grin wide and eyes sparkling. “well with a dress like that, did you expect me to keep my hands to myself?”
✧ summary: days with an overactive toddler often lead to eventful and desperate nights. like this one.
✧ warnings: fingering, unprotected sex, creampies, parent sex, lil bit of choking, lil bit of baby trapping (but like, not really?) hints of a breeding kink if you squint. fluffy married sex, sickeningly sweet.
✧ word count: 5.6k
✧ title: nights like this — the kid laroi
✧ author’s note: i got a request for this a whileeeee ago and i started writing it but gave up after like a paragraph and crashed out. long story short i scrapped it and moved on. a few days ago i got a notification that somebody liked the post where i replied to this request and i decided to revisit it. anyways now i wanna have a filthier flower bud in concrete moment for luke, but in the meantime have this cutesy lil smut full of parental and married life bliss.
anyways, send ur requests!! send me some calum ones too in celebration of OCO!! also, first blurb with the new @
Luke’s voice carries gently through the baby monitor — a low, sleepy hum as he sings one of his sweet, nonsensical lullabies. The kind that makes no sense to anyone but Eve and somehow works every time. Your little girl is curled around a stuffed bear three times her size, one she refuses to sleep without, her tiny body finally stilled in sleep.
You lie on your bed, propped up on one elbow, head cradled in your palm, a soft smile tugging at your lips. You watch the monitor like it’s your favorite show, heart melting as Luke finishes his made-up song — even though Eve had fallen asleep minutes ago. He stays there a little longer, crouched beside the crib, gently smoothing her curls back from her forehead.
It never fails to hit you, the way he is with her. The patience. The gentleness. The quiet strength when she’s crying. The goofiness when she’s giggling. The complete surrender in every moment he gives her. Watching Luke be a dad is like falling in love with him all over again, every single day.
Eve’s two now. Old enough that you sometimes get a full night’s sleep. Still young enough that “sometimes” is generous. She’s clingy in the most adorable, exhausting way — a velcro baby through and through. If she had it her way, she’d sleep pressed right between the two of you every night, one chubby hand on each of your cheeks like a hostage negotiator.
It’s been ages since you’ve felt Luke touch you in any way that wasn’t a fleeting kiss on the cheek, a sleepy forehead press, or a soft hand at your waist as he passed by in the kitchen. Sweet, yes. Loving, always. But you missed the other kind of touching. The kind that made your toes curl and your thighs ache.
On the monitor, Luke leans down and kisses Eve’s head, slow and reverent. His smile — that bright, easy thing you’ve always loved — is crystal clear on the tiny screen as he rises to his feet.
Sighing, you shift in bed, letting your body melt into the mattress as you roll onto your back. Your eyes trace the ceiling lazily, shoulders finally relaxing for the first time since dinner. That nighttime routine was no joke. Eve had been on one tonight — not a meltdown exactly, just her usual chaos cranked to eleven.
She was particular. Meticulously particular. Luke liked to say she got that from you — always with a teasing smirk and a kiss to your temple, like he didn’t find it completely adorable in both of you.
Dinner had been its own disaster-slash-comedy special. Eden refused her pasta outright until Luke made her laugh so hard she accidentally snorted a bite. Then came the bath — where, midway through rinsing, she got the zoomies and took off through the house naked, squealing with delight as she chased a bewildered Petunia. You’d run after them like some exhausted sitcom mom, while Luke collapsed against the hallway wall laughing too hard to help.
Then came the bedtime stalling. The “just one more story” and “just one more kiss” protests — Eve’s greatest hits. You’d lost count after five kisses. Luke had given her six. Of course he had.
Parenthood wasn’t easy. Your back hurt. Your privacy was a myth. Half your laundry was tiny socks you swear didn’t exist an hour ago. But God, it was worth it. Every bone-deep ache and stolen moment was soothed by a little girl with his dimples and his blue eyes and a giggle that made your heart feel too big for your chest.
And then there was him.
Your husband. The love of your life. The man you’d somehow become wildly, inconveniently feral for in the most domestic circumstances imaginable.
Like when he knelt beside the crib with that sleepy, adoring smile. Or when he’d hoisted Eve onto his hip with one arm and stirred mac and cheese with the other. Or when he stood at the sink washing baby bottles with those long, skilled fingers like he was doing the most sacred task in the world.
No man should look that good covered in banana puree and Goldfish crumbs. It should be illegal. And yet, there you were — staring at him like he was a centerfold in Hot Dads Monthly, wondering how the hell you were supposed to go another night without climbing him like a tree and thanking him for doing the dishes with his shirt half off.
Outside the room, you hear the familiar drag of tired footsteps padding down the hall — heavy, slower than usual, exhaustion stitched into every step. Luke’s making his way toward you like he’s been moving through molasses since bedtime.
The door creaks open a moment later.
He steps in, and even through the low lighting, you catch the way his eyes find yours right away. That sleepy, boyish smile blooms across his face, soft and crooked, as he closes the door behind him and leans his full weight against it like it’s holding him up.
“Hey, handsome,” you grin, pushing yourself up onto your elbows.
Luke rubs his eye with a knuckle, stifling a yawn. “Hey, baby,” he murmurs — voice thick and scratchy with sleep, but tender in the way it always got just for you. It was the voice he used when Eve was napping on his chest, when you whispered secrets in the kitchen after midnight, when he told you he loved you without needing to say the words.
He sighs as he pushes off the door, dragging a hand through those mess of blond curls and shuffling toward the bed like he’s been walking for miles.
“Sometimes I wish I had the stamina she does,” he says with a sleepy laugh. “Imagine the shows I could put on.”
You snort, swinging your legs off the side of the bed just long enough to peel the covers back before slipping underneath them again. “Your stamina is plenty impressive, babe,” you say casually, eyes twinkling. “If it was any more intense, we’d have, like, seven more toddlers wreaking havoc in the living room.”
Luke grins, standing at the edge of the bed as he grabs the hem of his hoodie and yanks it over his head in one motion.
Your mouth goes dry.
Because, of course, he’s not wearing a shirt underneath. He rarely does — a personal crime you’re convinced is 100% intentional. Your eyes sweep over the soft slope of his stomach, the faint lines of muscle, the sharp cut of his V, and that maddening trail of golden hair leading straight under his sweatpants like a neon “pull here” sign.
Your thighs clench. Reflex.
“I’d love that, y’know,” Luke says as he tosses the hoodie onto a nearby chair. “Seven little yous. Or mes. Or some chaotic mix of both.” And then he flops into bed beside you with a groan, face half-buried in your pillow, long limbs sprawled like a starfish.
You let out a soft giggle, crawling over to him on your hands and knees — slow and playful, your sleep shirt riding up just enough to make him stare. Luke watches you with that look again. The one that’s almost too much to bear. Like you hung the stars. Like he can’t believe you’re his, even now, even after everything. Reverence, pure and radiant, etched across every sleepy line of his face.
His cheek is smushed into the pillow, hair falling messily across his forehead, lashes fluttering as he follows your movements. You lean down and press a kiss to the tip of his nose — he scrunches it a little — then trail another one to his shoulder, and another to the dip of his back, lips brushing over soft, warm skin still humming with the heat of the day.
“Mm,” he hums, low and pleased, voice vibrating under your lips.
You giggle again and plop down beside him, reaching over to flick off your bedside lamp. The room melts into a soft hush, bathed in the faint blue glow from the hallway nightlight.
Luke shifts closer, immediately, instinctively, like he can’t bear not to touch you. His chest meets your back as he slides an arm around your waist, pulling you flush against him. His nose nuzzles behind your ear, and his breath is warm against your neck — slow and steady and his.
You settle into his embrace, threading your fingers through his and tugging his arm tighter around you. His hand splays across your stomach, palm warm and grounding. You sigh into the safety of it all.
“I love you,” you whisper, turning your head just enough to brush your lips against his. The kiss is feather-light. Sacred.
You feel him smile into it, soft and sleepy. “I love you too,” he murmurs, voice thick and full and certain.
You close your eyes again, letting your body go soft in Luke’s arms. The quiet hum of the fan and the low, steady static of the baby monitor blend into a kind of lullaby — one that dulls the ache in your thighs and slows your racing thoughts, just enough to pretend you’re actually going to fall asleep.
It lasts all of two seconds.
Luke’s fingers slip beneath the hem of your shirt — slow, deliberate — the callused pads brushing against the sensitive skin of your waist. Your breath hitches. Your heartbeat stutters.
He keeps going. Tracing your stomach, skimming your ribs, until his hand stills just beneath your breast. A pause. A warning.
Then his thumb moves — just a soft, slow stroke — and your body arches into it before you can stop yourself.
“Luke,” you whisper, sharp and breathless, as he abandons all pretense of subtlety. His hand fully cups your breast, warm and familiar, and then he’s pinching — just enough to pull a quiet whimper from your lips, your hips twitching instinctively against his.
He grins against your neck, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses along the slope of it. “You know,” he murmurs, voice low and sinful, “this whole trend of big shirts and tiny shorts around the house…”
You shiver as his teeth graze your skin.
“…is really fucking with my self-control
Your back arches slightly, your teeth sinking into your bottom lip to catch the moan threatening to escape. Slowly, you press back into Luke, feeling the growing hardness straining against your ass.
“Says you,” you whisper, breath hitching as his hand trails down from your chest, toying with the waistband of your sleep shorts. “Taking off your hoodie like a fucking slut.”
You feel his smile against your neck, smug and shameless. “God, I can’t believe you’re real,” he murmurs, voice low and wrecked as his hand slips under your shorts with no hesitation. His fingers tease just above the fabric of your panties, while his hips grind forward, pressing into you with aching need. “My wife. My fucking woman.”
His other hand sneaks back up beneath your shirt, finding your chest again, greedier this time. You gasp — only for it to die into a moan as his fingers rub slow, maddening circles over your clothed clit. It’s just enough friction to make you dizzy.
“Nuh-uh,” he tuts softly, amusement laced through the heat in his voice. “Can’t wake Eve up, remember?”
You squeeze your eyes shut as he keeps going, every brush of his fingers a cruel kind of heaven. You bring your hand to your mouth, trying desperately to smother the breathless whimpers that spill out anyway.
But Luke’s grinning behind you now, nose brushing the shell of your ear. “You’re so bad at being quiet, baby.”
And god, you are.
Your thighs are trembling, eyes squeezed shut as Luke keeps working you over, patient and relentless. Every touch feels amplified — sharpened by the risk of being caught, by the thrill of finally being touched like this again.
“Been dreamin’ about having you like this,” Luke breathes, grinding up against you, hard and desperate, like the only thing keeping him from losing it completely is the thin cotton barrier between you. “Dreamin’ about those pretty little moans… how wet you get when you have to be quiet.”
But then—he stops.
You freeze.
For a second, your heart stutters. Maybe he heard something — Eve fussing, a creak of the crib, the soft rustle of sheets. But before you can spiral further, his hand slips down, confident and cruel, sliding your panties aside and dragging one long, slow finger through your slick.
Your eyes roll back. A breathy whimper escapes your throat before you can stop it.
Immediately, Luke clamps a hand over your mouth — warm and rough, wedding band cool against your cheek.
“Oh my god,” he groans into your ear, low and wrecked, as his fingers return to your clit, teasing slow, devastating circles. “You’re soaked. All this for me, baby?”
You nod frantically, muffled moans caught in his palm, the heat of his body burning into your back. He’s pressed up against you, rock hard and trembling with restraint, and the thought of him finally sliding inside sends a full-body shiver down your spine.
Then his fingers dip lower, just barely skimming your entrance — playing, circling, torturing. Not yet. Almost.
“You’re such a fucking tease,” you whimper, burying your face into the pillow as you try to grind back against him. Luke hisses into your neck, teeth grazing your pulse, and your breath stutters hard.
He circles your clit again — barely there — then finally dips down, gathering your wetness before slipping two fingers inside. Your mouth opens in a gasp, but you bite your lip to keep the sound in.
“No, baby, that’s all you,” Luke murmurs against your skin, grinning as he begins to pump his fingers in and out of you with slow, deliberate pressure. “When’s the last time you even wore a bra? I swear I’m turning into a full-blown pervert.”
You manage a breathless giggle. “Maybe that was— oh, fuck— the plan all along.”
He hums, low and dangerous. “Shhh, baby,” he laughs softly, licking the shell of your ear while keeping that maddening rhythm. “Let me have my way with you. But I can’t do that if you wake Eve up.”
Your face is nearly buried in the pillow now, thighs trembling with restraint. The wet sounds of Luke working you open are obscene, slick and needy — the kind of sounds that always seem to follow him wherever he touches you.
“Mm, keep doing that,” you groan into the pillow. “And you’ll have another kid to worry about not waking up.”
At that, Luke’s thumb begins to circle your clit again — slow and focused — and your entire body jerks in response. You fist the sheets so hard your knuckles go white, biting your lip to keep from moaning too loud.
“Just like that, baby,” Luke whispers, voice thick with praise. “You’re doing so good for me.”
Then his hand stills.
He slowly withdraws his fingers from your body, and you let out a desperate little whimper, lifting your head to glance back at him, confused and breathless.
“Calm down,” he murmurs, grinning as he tugs at the waistband of your shorts and underwear. “Just wanna get these out of the way. You can be patient for me, yeah, love?”
You lift your hips instinctively, just enough to help him slide the fabric down and off. He tosses them aside, leaving you in nothing but one of his old band tees — worn, oversized, and hitched high around your waist.
“Fuck,” he breathes, hand wrapping around your thigh to coax your legs open again. “Look at you. Such a pretty mess.”
You shift slightly, pressing your ass back against the hard outline of his cock through the soft cotton of his pajama pants. His breath catches — barely audible — and then his fingers are inside you again, slow and deliberate.
You glance down, watching as his fingers slide in and out, slick and glistening. Your breath hitches. It’s obscene. It’s everything.
Your hand reaches back, finding his hair, curling your fingers into the thick mess of it and tugging gently at the roots.
“I missed you so much,” you whisper, voice raw and soft as you turn your head just enough to brush your lips against his.
He doesn’t kiss you — not fully — just breathes against your mouth, forehead resting against yours, his entire body wrapped around you like a secret. The spooning position makes everything feel more intimate. More tender. More desperate.
Like if he could crawl inside you and stay there, he would.
“Missed you more,” Luke murmurs, lips trailing down the curve of your shoulder in slow, open-mouthed kisses. “Fuck, I’ve been so horny lately I got hard just watching you walk up the stairs.”
You let out a breathless laugh, grinding your hips back into him. He whines — an actual, desperate sound — and buries his face in the crook of your neck like it’s the only way to survive you.
“Good to know I still have it,” you whisper, smug.
“Shut up,” he mumbles against your skin, and his fingers pick up speed, leaving you gasping. “You gotta keep quiet, my love. Don’t forget.”
His long fingers work you open effortlessly, the occasional swipe of his thumb over your clit sending jolts up your spine. You shiver when he moans against your neck, the sound vibrating through you, skin breaking out in goosebumps.
He’s slow. Intentional. Like he’s savoring this. Like there isn’t a ticking time bomb of a toddler down the hall.
“I can feel you squeezing me,” Luke breathes, his lips brushing your jaw. “Thinking about how my cock’s gonna feel, hmm?”
Your eyes flutter shut. You nod frantically, biting down on your bottom lip to keep the noise trapped in your throat.
Luke shifts behind you just enough to press his cock more firmly against your ass — hot, hard, and barely restrained beneath his pajama pants. The pressure alone makes your mouth water.
“Baby,” you gasp, fingers digging into his bicep. It flexes as he keeps fucking you with his hand, slow and relentless. “Please. Please, I need you.”
“Need me to what?” Luke asks, all false innocence, voice like sin. “Need me to fuck you stupid, baby?”
His fingers slide out of you, dragging your slick up through your folds, circling your clit with maddening precision. He’s teasing again — slow, measured, cruel in the way only Luke can be.
You jolt at the sensation, hips moving on instinct, grinding against his hand with raw, frantic need. The kind that’s been simmering under your skin for days.
“Baby,” you hiss, voice hoarse from the effort of keeping it down. “If you’re not inside me in the next five minutes, I’m divorcing you.”
Luke stills, then lets out a hushed laugh, biting your shoulder to muffle it. “You’re so fucking needy,” he chuckles, wicked and breathless. “Fine. Just because you beg pretty. And because if I tease you any longer, Eden’s definitely waking up.”
His hand slips from between your thighs, and he brings his fingers to your lips, glistening.
“Clean me off first,” he murmurs. “Be a good girl.”
You don’t hesitate. Your lips wrap around his fingers, tongue licking them clean, moaning around the taste of yourself. Luke groans softly behind you — that guttural, broken sound you know means he’s barely holding it together.
“Fuck. That’s so hot.”
His fingers slip from your mouth with an obscene pop that echoes through the quiet room. Behind you, Luke shifts just enough to shove his pajama pants down, freeing himself with a soft grunt.
You feel the heat of him immediately — his cock thick and flushed, grinding slowly against your ass, teasing you both with the drag of it.
His hand slides down your thigh, guiding your leg up and over his hip to open you wider for him. That same hand wraps around his cock, and he groans through gritted teeth as he strokes himself, slow and tight.
Your breathing quickens, chest rising and falling as the anticipation builds — and then you feel him. The head of his cock, hot and slick with precum, rubbing through your folds. You whimper at the contact, and Luke groans in response.
“Oh, fuck,” he breathes, burying his face in your shoulder and biting down gently to stifle himself.
He teases your entrance, circling it once, twice, before finally starting to press in — slow, unhurried, deliberate.
The stretch is divine — just enough to make you gasp, every nerve lighting up as he pushes deeper. You shift slightly, craning your neck just enough to see his face. His eyes are half-lidded, bottom lip caught between his teeth like he’s trying not to lose it completely.
A soft moan slips from him. “Shit, baby… you’re so fucking tight,” he pants. “Can feel you sucking me in. Such a greedy girl for me.”
Luke sinks into you slowly, inch by inch, every push setting off a new wave of pleasure that shivers down your spine. His arm tightens around your waist, holding you close, grounding you. His face is buried in the crook of your neck, breath hot against your skin as he groans softly — almost like it’s too much. Almost like you’re too much.
When he finally bottoms out, it feels like coming home.
He stills, fully sheathed inside you, twitching each time your walls flutter around him. You’re soaked, throbbing, completely wrapped around him — and Luke can barely breathe.
“Fuck, baby,” he groans, voice low and wrecked. “I missed being inside you. You’re so fucking wet and tight—I can feel everything.”
“I missed you,” you whisper back, cheek pressed to his. “Missed being stretched out like this. Missed us.”
He doesn’t move at first. Just stays there, buried deep, holding you like he’s afraid he’ll disappear if he lets go. The stillness hums between you, thick with want — not rushed, not frantic, but aching. A moment suspended in the kind of intimacy that makes your chest burn and your thighs tremble.
You both just breathe for a second.
Wrapped around each other, finally giving in to the slow, simmering need that had been building for days.
Luke presses a kiss to the nape of your neck, barely more than a brush, before gently tugging your shirt up until it bunches just above your chest. His hand slips beneath, finding your breast again — warm and reverent, his palm cradling you like he needs the contact just to breathe.
Then he starts to move.
Slow, deep strokes that make your whole body shudder. You bite down on your wrist to muffle the moan that threatens to escape, the sound caught in your throat like a secret. Luke isn’t faring much better — soft, breathless whimpers spilling into your skin as he rocks into you, his hips pressing close with every push.
His teeth graze your pulse point, dragging gently. A moment later, his tongue follows, soothing the sting, leaving you trembling.
“You take me so well, love,” he whispers, voice thick and ruined, hips picking up their rhythm. The pleasure builds with each thrust, slow but devastating, until your eyes roll back and you’re forced to bite into the pillow just to stay quiet.
He groans into your neck, almost desperate. “So fucking good for me.”
Luke rolls his hips, settling into a pace that’s just slow enough to draw it out — to keep you aching — but steady enough that you can feel the tremble in his hands from how tightly he’s holding himself back.
“You have no idea what it does to me,” he whispers, voice low and cracked, each word punctuated by a deep, deliberate thrust. “Seeing you with that ring. Wearing my name. Raising our kid.”
“Full—full of you,” you whimper, gasping as he hits that perfect spot. His rhythm never falters, but you feel the way his grip tightens at your waist, like he might lose it at any second. “God, I missed being fucked like this.”
Luke lets go of your breast, shifting just enough to fuck into you harder, the bed starting to creak beneath the motion — soft, rhythmic, dangerous. You both freeze instantly, breath caught in your throat, bodies locked together as you listen with baited breath.
Silence.
No tiny footsteps. No sleepy cries. Just the quiet hum of the baby monitor on the nightstand.
“Luke,” you hiss, desperate, wiggling your hips back against him. “Please—fuck, please don’t stop. You can’t keep doing this to me.”
That does something to him.
Luke brings his fingers to your lips, pushing two into your mouth without warning. Your lips part automatically, sucking them in with a moan. Your back arches as he pulls them out just as quickly, trailing down your stomach before slipping between your legs.
He finds your clit easily, rubbing slow, steady circles in time with the deep roll of his hips.
“Just like that, baby,” he coos, voice gone sweet and filthy. “Let me make you feel good, yeah?”
You nod frantically, lip caught between your teeth as your thighs twitch, the pleasure winding tighter with every passing second. His fingers stay lazy on your clit, teasing you through it, never giving too much — just enough to drive you insane.
“I love you so much,” Luke murmurs against your neck. “You look so fucking pretty stuffed full of my cock.”
Your hand reaches back blindly, tangling in Luke’s hair and yanking at the roots. He groans into your neck, hips stuttering before he picks up the pace again — faster now, more desperate — and so do his fingers.
That familiar coil in your belly starts to tighten, fast and sharp. You can feel him everywhere, every inch of him buried deep, every snap of his hips jolting through your spine. Your stomach flutters, your thighs twitch, your whole body buzzing like live wire.
“Bet no one would believe what a pretty little slut you are for me, hmm?” Luke growls, voice rough and wrecked, the edge bleeding in. “That you’re the most gorgeous fucking cockwhore — mine. Bet if I told you I was close, you’d beg me to stay in, wouldn’t you?”
“Please, baby,” you sob, the words falling out broken. “Wanna be dripping with you for days. Want you to come inside me, please, please—”
Luke’s hand flies up to cover your mouth, silencing your cries as his teeth sink into your neck, biting down just hard enough to sting. You gasp beneath his palm — the pain sharp, the kiss that follows it soft and soothing, a cruel little contradiction that makes you whimper into his skin.
“That’s my good fucking girl,” he pants, fingers circling your clit with perfect pressure, filthy and reverent all at once. “You gonna come for me, baby? Gonna soak my cock like the perfect little thing you are?”
You nod frantically beneath his hand, body trembling, seconds from unraveling. Stars begin to bloom at the edges of your vision, your thighs quivering as you squirm back against him, chasing every last bit of friction.
“Yeah, just like that, baby,” Luke grunts, voice thick and desperate. “Come for me — I’ve got you.”
With one final, devastating thrust, your body breaks. You bite down on your wrist, muffling the cry as the dam bursts open. Your back arches into him, muscles locking tight, legs shaking with the sheer intensity of your orgasm. The world narrows to heat, motion, and Luke — still buried inside you, still moving, still whispering in your ear.
“Fuck, you’re squeezing me so tight,” he moans, breath ragged. “That feel good, baby? So good for me.”
Your body sags against him, boneless and buzzing, completely undone — and Luke doesn’t waste a second.
Without warning, he pulls out, and before you can even catch your breath, he’s flipping you onto your stomach. A sharp gasp escapes you as your cheek hits the pillow, and then his hand presses firmly between your shoulder blades, holding you down just enough to make your breath hitch again.
A wave of heat pulses through you at the shift — that sudden, dizzying change from softness to raw possession. Your heart skips as the realization sinks in. You’re not done. He’s not done.
And God, that only makes you wetter. You bite down on your lip in anticipation.
“You gonna let me use you now?” Luke pants, hovering over you, his hand fisted in the sheets beside your head for balance. His voice is wrecked, low and hungry. You nod — small, breathless, already trembling — and that’s all he needs.
You feel the thick head of his cock drag through your soaked entrance before he sinks in with one hard, brutal thrust.
You arch beneath him, a gasp ripping from your throat before you can stop it. Luke slaps his hand over your mouth again, groaning into your ear.
“Be quiet,” he tuts, voice tight with restraint. “Don’t need a fussy baby interrupting while I’m busy fucking my wife into the mattress.”
His hand drops from your mouth and curls around your throat again, warm and grounding — claiming. Then his hips pull back and slam into you, fast and unforgiving.
Each thrust knocks the breath from your lungs, sending shockwaves through your body as he finds that perfect spot over and over. You bury your face into the pillow, biting down hard to stifle the sounds clawing up your throat.
Luke is panting, gasping, barely keeping it together. “I’m not gonna last,” he grits out, voice breaking. “This pussy’s too fucking perfect. Perfect — and mine.”
His words dissolve into growls, each one filthier than the last. His hand tightens around your throat just enough to make you dizzy — never enough to hurt, just enough to remind you who you belong to. His thrusts get rougher, messier, his control slipping with every desperate snap of his hips.
“Fuck,” he chokes out, his forehead falling to your shoulder. “Fuck, I’m gonna come. Please — let me fill you up, baby. Please.”
You don’t answer.
Instead, you flex your leg back just enough to push him deeper, lock him in place.
Luke lets out a broken moan — almost a sob — as he comes, spilling into you with a sharp, shaking groan. A string of curses and your name fall from his lips like a prayer, wrecked and reverent. He exhales hard, thrusting once, twice more before collapsing onto his back beside you, totally spent.
You’re both breathless, the room quiet except for the sound of your hearts pounding. You turn your head just enough to look at him — and, of course, he’s already looking at you. That lazy, fucked-out grin is spread across his face, curls messy, lips kiss-swollen.
“I love you so fucking much,” he murmurs, still panting.
You roll your eyes, resting your cheek on your palm. “Yeah, yeah,” you tease, reaching over to brush a damp curl from his forehead. “You talk a lot for someone who has a mess to clean up.”
Luke’s eyebrows lift, amused, but he doesn’t argue. Instead, he nudges your thigh and gently rolls you onto your back. He hovers above you for a moment, then starts kissing his way down — slow, deliberate, worshipful. Every inch of exposed skin is met with his lips, his stubble, the heat of his breath.
When he reaches your thighs, he spreads them apart with a tenderness that makes your chest ache.
“You always look so fucking pretty when I’m dripping out of you,” he says, almost dreamily. His finger drags through the mess between your legs — a light, filthy stroke that makes you shiver — before he leans in and licks into you without another word.
His tongue is warm, slow, unhurried as he laps up every drop he left inside you. You sigh, your eyes fluttering shut, sinking into the bed as his mouth works — greedy but soft, careful with your overstimulated body.
He places one last kiss to your clit and your legs twitch instinctively. Luke chuckles, smug, and crawls back up your body, kissing along the way until his mouth finds yours.
The taste is unmistakable — both of you, hot and sweet and earthy on his tongue.
You sigh into the kiss, wrapping your arms around his shoulders, hands roaming across his broad back. You never want him to move.
“I really fucking love you,” you murmur when he finally pulls away, settling beside you again.
Luke grins, flushed and glowing. “Yeah?”
Instead of answering, you crawl onto your knees, shooting him a sly grin. His cock rests against his stomach, still half-hard, glistening. You lean down and drag your tongue in one slow, deliberate stripe from base to tip.
Luke lets out a filthy little moan, head falling back onto the pillow as you take the head into your mouth. Your tongue swirls along the underside — that sweet spot just beneath the crown — and his legs twitch in response. You can taste yourself on him, and the mix makes your head spin.
“Christ,” he exhales, voice already wrecked. “You’re fucking insatiable—”
He’s cut off by the rustle of sheets and the unmistakable sound of a sniffle, soft and pitiful.
You both freeze.
A glance toward the monitor confirms it: Eve’s sitting up in bed, clutching her stuffed bear to her chest, face crumpled into the world’s saddest pout.
Luke groans. Not the sexy kind. The parental kind.
“Rain check?” you whisper, flashing him a sheepish smile as you reach for your discarded underwear and shorts.
He’s already sitting up, dragging his pants back on with the sort of defeated slouch that only comes from being cockblocked by the literal love of your lives.
“If we can squeeze it in before Eve turns eighteen,” he mutters, deadpan. “Yeah, I’d love that.”
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if u made it here ur awesome!! thank u to anon for this amazing request. i love dad luke.
I want to remind all my young and impressionable girlies (age doesn’t matter really), that sex is a big commitment.
Sex: isn’t always fun like writers describe it too be
Sex: contain bad consequences. Like STD’s, unplanned childbirths, abuse.
Boyfriends: aren’t always meant to be trusted, even if you “love him”
Boyfriends: ARE STILL BOYS. They can say whatever they want to push you in the direction to do things for them.
Reading about sex and having sex are two different things. Although I don’t care for the term virginity (social construct to make men look superior and women inferior) you must always, always, always put your self first!
I personally believe teenagers (yes, that includes 18-19) shouldn’t have sex. I’m well aware it ‘takes two to tango’ but it’s usually the women who end up with all the problems.
KEEP YOURSELF SAFE. This is something you should be very selfish about
Edit: and for anyone wondering, no I’m not saying that sex is always bad, I’m saying you need to make the judgement call on whether or not you’re having sex for yourself, or for the other person involved.
