Girl omg I neeeeeed to see fav pics of Will! gimme the eye candy
Girl you have opened a can of worms you're not ready for! Enjoy the frankly stupid amount of photos of Will I have save on Pinterest lol
My favourite flavours of Will are bleach blonde Will and long hair Will but that may just be cause I love a mullet and a weird 80s punk vibe so much!!!!
I highly encourage everyone to reblog with your fav pics! I wanna see lol
part two: here
pairing: Shepard Leopold x fem!reader
word count: 4.5k
warnings: 18+, NSFW!!, smut, no use of y/n, dom vibes??, handjob, cum, nurse/patient stuff
summary: That's how it started: him injured, you paid to care. Simple. Professional. Temporary. You should've known it wouldn't stay that simple.
author’s note: idk what it is but i am riding the will poulter train HARD this month. he's talented and a total hottie. i might add a sequel to this. i just love thinking of Shepard as a sulky and brooding loser baby - it just gets me goingggg lol.
Shepard Leopold isn’t what you expected.
Slumped in a leather armchair like he owns the world (he does), arms suspended in slings, one leg crossed with careless elegance. He doesn’t look up when you enter. Just flicks a glance at the clock and drawls, “You’re late.”
You’re not.
But truth doesn’t matter much in this line of work, so you offer a bland smile. “Good morning, Mr. Leopold.”
A slow, scathing once-over. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“That voice. Like I’m ninety and incontinent.”
You blink, “Duly noted, sir.”
Shepard jerks his chin toward a tray on the end table. “Start by feeding me. Unless you’re the kind of nurse who believes in natural consequences.”
“I believe in getting paid.”
”That makes two of us.”
You pick up the spoon.
That’s how it started: him injured, you paid to care. Simple. Professional. Temporary.
You should’ve known it wouldn’t stay that simple. Three weeks later, you’re standing in his bathroom, steam fogging the mirrors, and Shepard Leopold still hasn’t learned how to ask for help nicely.
His bathroom is all marble and echo, stupidly luxurious for a man who treats dignity like an optional accessory. Gold fixtures. Heated floors. A shower big enough for a person who’s never heard the word no. You test the water with your fingers. Warm, not scalding. But the real heat is the weight of his stare between your shoulder blades.
Shepard is perched on the closed toilet lid behind you, clad in nothing but sweatpants and disdain. His slings are gone now, but the way he holds himself says I could still ruin you without uttering a word.
“You’re stalling,” he says.
You don’t turn. “The water's not hot enough.”
A scoff, “it’s a bath. Not a lobster boil.”
“And yet here you are, already red enough to serve with butter.”
Silence. Then a low, dangerous chuckle. Progress, you think. Last week, that joke would’ve earned you a snarl and a threat. Now it’s just another move in a game neither of you admits you’re playing.
You straighten. “Ready?”
He doesn’t answer. Just lifts his chin in that you-first tilt that means I’d rather die than ask, but I will make you offer.
You roll your eyes and reach for him anyway.
Shepard is taller up close. Too tall, the kind of height that makes you aware of every inch between professionalism and something else. Lean line, fading bruises. His body tenses as you help him stand, muscles locking like he braced for a shove instead of support.
The shirt comes off first. You’re careful with the fabric, but he still turns his face away when it catches on his elbows, jaw tight. You don’t chase his gaze. Some silences are better left unbroken.
Towel in hand, you start to speak, “I’m going to -”
“Just do it.”
You crouch. The sweatpants cling at his hips, damp from the steam. He doesn’t help. Doesn’t resist. Just breathes through his nose like he’s counting seconds in his head. Your finger skin his waistband, peeling it down in one practiced motion.
Bare skin. A hitch in his breath.
You don’t linger. You don’t look. Just guide the towel around his hips with a snap of fabric, tucking it snug against the sharp cut of his pelvis. Your knuckles brush a faded bruise as you fold the edge and his stomach flinches.
Still no eye contact. But his pulse jumps in his throat when you step back. The towel isn’t thick enough. You pretend not to notice what he’s trying to hide.
It’s awkward. Painfully so.
You guide him into the tub, your grip firm on his hip. Not because he needs it, but because you both know he won’t ask for it. His skin burns under your palm, and for a second, you swear you feel it: that faint, betraying tremor. The one he’d cut off his own hand before acknowledging.
“I’ll be quick,” you say.
“Don’t talk to me like I’m dying.”
“You’re not dying,” you murmur, reaching for the washcloth. “Just temporarily at my mercy.”
His laugh is a low, rough thing, “Fuck you.”
You swipe the cloth down his spine. “Promises, promises.”
You’re gentle, careful not to jostle his arms. He breathes slowly, like he’s trying not to react to the fact someone is touching him like this. Not sexually. Not affectionately. Just… humanly.
You run the cloth down the slope of his neck, over the curve of one shoulder, then the other. You feel the way his body stiffens, just slightly, when your knuckles brush the side of his rib cage. He’s quiet. Too quiet.
“You okay?” You ask.
Silence. Then, so quiet you almost miss it: “I don’t like needing anyone.”
The water ripples as you wring out the cloth.
“Funny,” you reply. “Neither do I.”
That gets a glance. A slow turn of his head. His eyes meet yours for the first time since you started. There’s something raw behind them. Not just pain. Not just discomfort. Loneliness, maybe.
You don’t look away. Neither does he. Somewhere in the steam between you, something shifts. Neither of you mention it.
Then, as if nothing happened: “If you try to shampoo my hair, I will scream,”
You snort, “No one wants that.”
He leans back, letting you work. You both tense when you reach his toweled waist. For fuck’s sake. You are a professional. This is your job. You’ve seen plenty of dicks. Too many, frankly. But this? This is different. And you don’t know why.
Maybe because it’s not a hospital, and he’s not just another patient. He’s Shepard Leopold. Wealthy, infuriating, deeply inconvenient. And right now, essentially under your care. You could do anything. You could humiliate him if you wanted to.
But you don’t. You choose to give him dignity. Whatever is left of it anyway.
You realize you’re hovering a nearly dry washcloth over the outside of his thigh. You freeze. And he’s watching you. Closely. Quietly.
You meet his eyes. “Do-” you stop. Think better of it. You nod toward his lower body. “Should I continue, Shepard?”
He swallows. Shakes his head.
You expected a snarky remark. A crude joke. Something that would make this easier to ignore. But he just sits there. Silent. The only movement is the slight tremor in his fingers.
You nod and step back. He’s eye level with your chest now, and you immediately regret changing out of your scrubs earlier. Your damp white t-shirt clings to your body. You can feel his gaze settle there, hot and heavy.
You turn away, pretending not to notice. You grab the handheld showerhead and adjust the temperature.
“I know you said you’ll scream if I shampoo your hair,” you say lightly. “But I really think I should at least rinse it.”
You glance over your shoulder. He nods. No fight. No smartass comment. Just… trust.
“Okay,” you murmur. “Lean your head back.”
He does. No hesitation.
You reach forward, careful not to let your body brush his. Still, you can’t help but notice how long and impossibly regal his neck is. Even with that hint of stubble. You guide the warm water over his hairline, fingers working gently through his hair. His throat bobs. You hear a low sound, barely audible, as your fingertips move across his scalp.
You pause.
Then keep going, slow and steady, massaging the base of his skull. Another sound. A groan, deep in his chest.
It does something to you. Unlocks something. You like Shepard vulnerable, maybe a little too much. You set the showerhead back with a twist, cutting the water off.
Shepard doesn’t move. Droplets cling to his skin. His hair drips, dark and heavy against his neck. He looks… expensive. Even now. Soaked and silent and ruined. Like a tragic oil painting of a boy born into too much money and not enough kindness.
“I’m going to help you out,” you say, keeping your voice even.
He gives a shallow nod.
You offer your hands, and he lets you take them. His grip is light, barely there, but his body’s solid as you guide him up. Water drips from him in rivulets, pooling at your feet. You reach for a fresh towel and gently start blotting at his shoulders, then his arms, careful around the casts. The towel that had been wrapped around his waist, the one that you tucked in yourself before helping him into the tub, is soaked through, barely clinging now.
As you crouch slightly to dry the backs of his calves, the towel slips. You both feel as it happens. You both freeze. It hits the floor with a soft, wet thud.
You don’t look. You really don’t look. You step back, eyes snapping upward, to the crown of his head, the ceiling, anywhere but…
Shepard just stands there. Motionless. Like it doesn’t matter. Like this doesn’t matter.
And maybe it doesn’t. Not to him.
Maybe that’s what hurts a little.
You grab yet another fresh towel and unfold it slowly. You hold it open in both hands and move toward him. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t joke, doesn’t meet your eyes.
You wrap it around his waist again, gentle and businesslike. Tuck the edge in. Your knuckles graze his hipbone. His skin jumps. Still, Shepard says nothing.
You wipe your palms on your pants and step back. “Okay,” you murmur. “You’re good.”
He stays rooted to the spot for a second too long. Then, a shallow inhale and a nod.
No “thank you”.
Just the soft sound of wet footsteps as he walks away, ignoring your voice as you call out to him, “Shepard, we need to put on your slings!”
The rest of the week is… weird.
Shepard gets snappier. Not in the clever, biting way he was at the beginning, but in this shimmering, pent-up kind of way. He snaps at you when you fluff his pillows. Glares when you adjust his sling too tight. Grumbles through every meal like the act of chewing your presence is a personal insult.
He sighs dramatically when you help him brush his teeth. Sighs harder when you remind him he needs to drink water. You try not to take it personally.
“Do you want to tell me what’s wrong,” you ask one evening, “Or do you want to keep pouting until your bones heal?”
“Maybe I’ll die first,” he mutters.
“Good,” you say. “At least I’ll get paid.”
But something is off. You feel it in the way his eyes linger a little longer when you readjust his robe. The way he stares straight ahead as you towel-dry his hair after a shower. The way his ears turn pink every time you reach across him to pull the blanket up at night. He barely looks at you anymore, at least not directly, and you’re starting to wonder if you did something wrong.
Then, on Friday, it clicks.
You knock on his door early, maybe too early. The house is still asleep. The hallway is cold against your bare feet. You’re holding a small tray: tea, a protein bar, a little cup of painkillers. You figure maybe a kinder start will help his mood.
You open the door quietly.
Shepard is still asleep. Flat on his back, hair messy against the pillow, mouth parted in a frown. His blanket has slipped down to his waist. One hand is curled near his chest like a useless bird. The other, well, is still broken.
And then your eyes flick lower.
And there it is.
A very distinct, very undeniable tent beneath the thin sheet.
You freeze. Blink. Look away. Then, unfortunately, look again, because your brain can’t not confirm what it just saw.
Yup. That’s … definitely not a broken limb.
You back out of the room like you just walked into a hostage situation. The tray nearly topples. Your face is burning. You close the door softly behind you and whisper to no one, “Ohhh, I get it now.”
Everything clicks. The simmering frustration. The short fuse. The avoidance. The way his voice dipped when you brushed his hair.
Poor bastard. He’s been pissed off because he can’t do anything about the tension that’s been knotting between you all week. And now, here you are, nurse-slash-accidental-crush, standing in the hallway with your cheeks on fire and a very clear image seared into your brain.
You stare down at the tray. Then sigh.
“...Yeah, that’s gonna be a fun breakfast.”
You take an extra thirty minutes before re-entering his room with the tray.
He’s awake by then, sitting up with his head tilted back against the headboard. Blank expression. Sheets pulled up to his chest. Completely composed. A little too composed. You don’t say anything about it. Neither does he.
You set the tray on his lap like it’s any other morning, like you didn’t accidentally glimpse the reason behind all that tightly wound irritation. Like you didn’t nearly drop a cup of chamomile tea in shock. Like you’re not acutely aware of what he looks like under those sheets.
“Morning,” you say, as neutrally as possible.
“Is it,” he mutters.
You don’t look at him. Not directly. Not for long. But you see the flush along his throat, the way his jaw tenses like he’s grinding the words back before they can escape. He stabs at the protein bar with his eyes like it personally offended him.
You go about your duties with all the professional calm you can muster: changing the pillowcases, tidying his side table, checking his ice packs.
But every time he so much as shifts in bed and makes a huffy sound, your brain flashes red with oh my god, this is hormonal. He’s not mad. He’s pent-up. Trapped. Desperate. Horny. And now you know.
Mid-morning, you try to help with a button on his shirt.
His hands twitch. “I’ve got it.”
“You really don’t, Shepard.”
“I said-” His voice catches, “I’ve got it.”
You pull your hands back, pulse high in your throat. The collar’s still open. His skin is warm, close, familiar now. You clear your throat and back away like you touched a hot stove. No one mentions it.
Later, when you’re feeding him soup at lunch, he snaps at you for stirring too fast.
“I didn’t realize there was a correct velocity for broth,” you reply dryly.
“Everything has a correct velocity,” he mutters.
You glance at his flushed cheeks. “Yeah. Starting to realize that.”
Shepard looks at you sharply, and for a split second, you think: he knows. He knows you saw. He knows you know. But he doesn’t say a word. Just glares at his soup like it’s responsible for all of his unmet needs.
You go downstairs after lunch and lean against the counter, face in your hands. You can’t unsee it. You can’t un-feel the way your stomach flipped. The stupid ache in your own chest that has no business being there. This was supposed to be a job. A paycheck. Just some brat with broken arms and a vocabulary of insults.
But now every time he sighs, or sulks, or won’t meet your eyes, all you can is: Oh. Right. You’re falling apart from want and can’t do a damn thing about it. And for some reason, you’re not just amused. You’re starting to feel it too.
It’s past midnight.
You’ve brushed your teeth. You’ve changed into your pajamas. You are so close to freedom when Shepard calls your name from his room, voice muffled and annoyed.
You close your eyes, take a breath, and turn around.
When you walk in, he’s sitting on the edge of his bed, blanket tangled around his knees, his whole posture one long, irritated sigh. The lamp beside him casts soft golden light over his face. His jaw clenched, hair a mess, frustration radiating off him like heat.
“I can’t get comfortable,” he grits out.
“Again?”
“My neck hurts. My back hurts. My arms hurt.”
You step toward him. “Alright, I’ll fix your pillows.”
“You always say that like I’m being unreasonable.”
“Because you are unreasonable, Shepard.”
He doesn’t answer. Just watches you as you adjust the pillows behind him, flattens his lips when you nudge the blanket into place.
He shifts again. Sighs. Huffs.
You freeze halfway through fixing the corner. Your hands fist the blanket. And then, before you can stop yourself, “Okay, Shepard, I get that you’re pent up.”
The words fall into the room like a slap. Loud. Blunt. Indelicate.
He jerks his head toward you, scandalized. “Excuse me?”
“Oh, come on,” you snap, standing straight. “You’ve been sulking and short-tempered and insufferable all week. Don’t pretend it’s not what I think it is.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he says, stiff.
You scoff, rubbing your hands over your face. “God. I can’t believe I’m asking this…” You drop your hands and look him dead in the eye. “And it goes against everything I stand for, but - can I help you?”
Silence.
His eyes widen. His mouth opens. Closes.
You continue, almost frantically now, like you have to say it or you’ll burst. “Can I help you. Get some of that frustration out. Because clearly, you can’t do it yourself, and I’m not sure I can survive another day of you huffing at your toast like it personally wronged you.”
Shepard stares at you like you just offered to break him out of prison. Or shoot him. And then, he mutters, “You’re not serious.”
You tilt your head, “Do I look like I’m joking?”
He blinks. Swallows. His voice, when it comes, is rough. “You’re my nurse.”
You nod. “Technically, I’m a private hire on a short contract. And we both know this thing between us is not strictly professional anymore.”
His jaw tightens.
You step closer.
“Say no,” you tell him. “If you want me to leave, say no.”
He doesn’t. He just looks up at you, flushed, breathing shallow, and for the first time in days, Shepard’s not huffy. He’s quiet. Unmoving. Waiting.
He doesn’t say no. He doesn’t say anything.
Just stares up at you, stunned and still and breathless, like he’s been punched in the chest with his own heartbeat. So you kneel in front of him. His eyes widen just a little more, mouth parting like he’s going to stop you. But he doesn’t. He can’t. He’s frozen, watching you like you’re unreal. You rest your hands on his knees, the soft cotton of his pajama pants warm under your palms.
“Still nothing?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper. “You’re just gonna sulk in silence?”
Shepard swallows hard. “I… I don’t even know how this works.”
“Me neither,” you admit. “Guess we figure it out.”
You push his robe open, gently, and he sucks in a sharp breath like it hurts to be touched even a little. He’s trembling, just faintly. Not with fear. With tension. With that unbearable need he’s been carrying around for weeks.
“This is the dumbest thing I’ve ever let happen,” he mutters.
“Then stop me.”
He doesn’t.
Your hands slide up his legs, and you watch the way his jaw tightens, and the way his chest heaves with a breath he forgot to take. He shifts his hips without meaning to, just a tiny and involuntary roll forward, and it makes your stomach flip.
Shepard is already hard. Desperately so. You feel it through the thin cotton of his pants, hot and twitching. Your hand slips beneath the waistband of his pajamas. He squirms under the contact, a barely-there shiver that betrays how hard he’s trying not to react as your fingers wrap around his thick shaft, tugging it free from the confines of fabric.
His cock throbs in your hand, already leaking. You lean over and swipe away the dribble of precum with your tongue. Shepard exhales sharply. A hitched, startled sound like it punched out of him. Shocked that you’d wanted to taste him - that anyone would. You glance up. There’s a faint redness to his cheeks, to the tips of his ears, like his body is still catching up to the closeness, the touch, the want he’s trying to suppress.
This is a violation. Of boundaries. Of professionalism. Of everything you were taught in school. You tell yourself to compartmentalize. To treat it like any other task. Clinical. Strictly business. Nothing more. Nothing less.
But the taste of Shepard lingers faintly on your tongue. And now, you’re not sure you can do this without feeling something. Especially since you find yourself marveling at the heaviness of his engorged cock, and forcing the thought of how good it would feel to be stretched and filled by this thing to the back of your mind.
“You sure?” you ask, voice lower now.
Shepard already looks wrecked. Soft and vulnerable, pupils blown wide and filled with an aching. There’s something delicious in the way he frantically nods, his throat bobbing, “Yea-yeah. Yes.”
Shepard tries to hold onto his trademark irritation, but the moment you spit on his cock and begin stroking him, he breaks. Soft gasps. Quiet curses. His voice hoarse as he whispers your name like it’s a question and an apology at the same time. It’s like he doesn’t trust his voice to say more. Like he knows just how wrong this is, but he needs what you’re offering.
Your hand moves methodically along his length. Up and down. Up and down. It’s not graceful. You both know it. You’ve never touched him like this. With no barriers. No excuses. You take your time, trying to figure out what he likes. It’s awkward. A little too fast, a little too desperate. Sometimes too tight, other times not tight enough. But it’s real. His head falls back. His legs shake.
You like Shepard like this. You shouldn’t. You know you shouldn’t. But god, you do. You like the raw, unfiltered sound he makes when your hand picks up speed. You like how his pride is fracturing under your touch, and how his sharp tongue is silent when your hand squeezes the head of his cock.
“Shit. I can’t - just - don’t, don’t stop -“ he rasps, voice cracking on the words.
You revel in the sound of his voice, savouring the rough, unraveling quality of it. The way it cracks, the breathlessness hitching in his throat. You’ve never heard Shepard Leopold like this: no carefully composed cadence, no venom-laced wit, no drawling sarcasm designed to keep people out. Just the strained, involuntary sounds of someone losing control.
His skin is flushed a feverish pink, damp with sweat, slick and trembling under your hands. His curls have come loose from whatever grooming ritual keeps them perfectly arranged, sticking to his temples and the nape of his neck. He looks like a prince fallen from grace. Disarmed, disbelieved, still somehow infuriatingly beautiful.
There must be something wrong with you. Truly. Because you’ve had difficult patients before. Arrogant ones. Entitled ones. Ones who refused care, insulted your competence, tested every limit of your patient. You’ve even had rich ones who assumed your hands were theirs to command. But none of them ever made you feel like this. Like something restless and ancient has been uncaged inside you. Like there’s a fire behind your ribs licking at your lungs, whispering more.
If he were meek, if he were sweet, if he said thank you with soft eyes and bowed his head like he owed you something… this wouldn’t touch you at all. You’d walk away unscathed. But Shepard burns under your care. He resents needing you. Resents the softness creeping in. And that resistance, that fight, it draws you in like nothing else.
His eyes, normally sharp, and calculating are now just… open. And staring at you like he’s seeing something sacred. Something that could wreck him further, if he lets it. His posture has come apart too. No more tight lines, no more regal straightness. He’s slouched slightly, like the tension holding him upright has finally snapped. Like he doesn’t have the strength to pretend anymore. One shoulder twitches. Almost as if Shepard wants to reach for you, even knowing he can’t. And his hands, still stiff in their slings, flex uselessly.
“Gonna cum,” his voice is caught between a moan and a gasp; the kind of sound someone makes when they’ve given up trying to pretend they’re not coming apart.
The tick of tension in Shepard’s jaw, the one you’ve come to know like a warning flare, has gone slack. No more clenching, no more biting retorts. His lower body bucks forward. With your free hand, you grab his hip and hold him still. His mouth opens, lips parted like he wants to curse you, or beg. A low, ruined sound slips out of him. Half-growl, half-plea. “Can I - can I?”
Shepard needs you, and that knowledge curls hot and dark in your stomach. Not in the way your patients normally need you. Not in the sterile, clinical sense. This isn’t about wound care or recovery timelines or monitored vitals. No, this is something rawer. Stranger. Because Shepard Leopold doesn’t ask to be cared for. He doesn’t admit to weakness, doesn’t yield easily. But now, like this, he’s pliant under your hands, eyes glassy with something that he doesn’t have the words for.
“Cum for me, Shepard.”
His breath comes fast, and shallow, cock pulsing as hot, ropy cum spills over your fingers and onto the fabric of his pajamas. You keep stroking him through it, gentle now, until he jerks and gasps once more. His body finally relaxes beneath your touch.
For the first time, neither of you rushes to fill the silence. But Shepard is still gazing at you. Like he doesn’t know whether to reach for you or apologize. Like he doesn’t know how to be seen like this and still be wanted.
visual is for vibes only, reader’s appearance is nondescript!
pairing: shepard leopold x fem!reader
summary: shep sees right through your innocent act
warnings: SMUT - MINORS DNI, dom!Shepard, p in v, grinding, alcohol consumption
word count: 3.3k
a/n: wasn’t going to post this as the lovely @johns-walker had already posted something similar, but two cakes are better than one, so, enjoy anyways and be sure to show her fic some love here
Shepard Leopold was quite possibly the sexiest guy you’d ever met. He was confident, not cocky. A smooth-talker. And he was built.
He wanted you, just as bad. It was obvious.
He didn’t hide his stares from across the dining table or bother pretending that his hand brushing your waist was an accident. But he never went any further either. His touches were always… fleeting.
His family’s company had long-standing ties with your father’s and the Leopolds were big on maintaining connections. So, every now and then, that meant a weekend at their mansion in Hungary.
It had been over a year since your last visit. This time, you’d vowed to yourself that you’d leave with more than stolen glances and lingering touches.
You weren’t going to let Shepard slip through your clutches anymore. You were going to take what you both, so clearly, wanted.
Which was why, after the second evening’s dinner, once the rest of the house had retired to bed, you were heading outside, in your bathrobe, to the hot tub.
You padded down the paved steps from the house, your bare feet soft against the tiles, each step letting out a soft pat.
“I didn’t realise anyone would be out here this late,” you said, folding your arms over your chest as you came to a halt in front of the hot tub.
Shepard turned around to face you, a whiskey glass in hand, “Oh! Y/N, hey.”
“Hey,” you replied with an amused smile.
Most of him being underwater, but his biceps rose above it, droplets trickling down and tracing the lines of his forearms. You didn’t try to hide the your stare.
“I didn’t meant to interrupt your little party for one,” you mused, gaze flickering from his glass to meet his gaze, which was already on you.
“No, yeah, I mean… it’s alright. I always come out here pretty late, but, it’s not like you could’ve known.” he shrugged, downing the rest of his drink.
“Right,” you agreed with him, smiling innocently.
You had known that. You’d waited for him to head down here, before you had.
“Hop in,” he said simply, reaching for the bottle, “A little company never hurt anybody, right? You and I can hot tub it up together.“
“Hot tub it up, huh? That’s what the kids are calling it these days?” you teased, slipping off your bathrobe and tossing it over one of the pool loungers.
“That’s right,” Shepard nodded, pouring himself a fresh glass. Over the rim of his glass, as he sipped, his eyes lingered on your newly revealed skin.
You were wearing a black swimwear set, one that flattered you in every way. Shepard always seemed to like you in black. Red too, but, tonight, you wanted to be subtle.
You hooked your fingers under the waistband of your bikini bottoms, tugging them up your hips, into place.
Shepard watched, just as you’d hoped.
“You want a drink or something?” he asked, clearing his throat as you approached.
“Sure,” you hummed, easing your legs over the hot tub’s edge and slipping into the tub’s warm waters.
Shepard chuckled under his breath, tonguing the inside of his cheek as he watched. It seemed he wasn’t as oblivious to your games as you’d thought.
He turned to grab a second glass, giving you a full view of his back - sculpted and dripping, “Is whiskey okay?”
“It depends what kind,” you replied, tousling your shoulders as you relaxed.
“Will a Macallan suffice?” he asked, smirking as he set a glass of amber liquid into your hands, “Seventy-seven. Red collection.”
“Fuck,” you breathed with a quiet laugh, lifting it to your lips, “You’re kidding.”
“I’m not.” he tapped his own glass, smirking, “Drink up.”
You did as he said, letting out a pleased moan.
“What do you think?” Shepard asked, after a moment, eyes darkening as they took you in.
“It’s… woody, but, also citrusy. I don’t hate it.” you hummed, having another taste, “Goes down far too easily.”
“That it does,” Shepard replied, swirling the drink in his glass, biting back a smile.
“So,” you murmured, tilting your head, letting the steam unfurl around your shoulders like silk, “how often do you rendezvous out here?”
Shepard raised an eyebrow, a crooked smile tugging at his lips, “Is that your way of asking me if I’m seeing someone?”
You shrugged, finishing the last of your drink, “Maybe.”
He chuckled, low in his throat, edging a little closer. The water lapped gently over you both as he did so.
“If you have to know,” he said, taking your glass from your hand, fingers brushing yours, “Never.”
He reached for the bottle again, already filling your drink for you.
You lifted your brow, amused, “Never? This nice, little set-up and you expect me to believe you’ve never had a girl down here?”
You leaned on your elbow, watching the amber liquid rise. Your teeth grazed your lip as you grinned, “I just don’t buy it.”
“No?” he grinned back at you, leaning in to hand you your drink again.
You shook your head, smiling, “No way,” Maybe it was just the whiskey, but something about the way you looked at you was setting your skin on fire.
“Maybe I’m just waiting for the right person,” he said, reclining again, lips curved into that teasing smile. His eyes never left you, “Did you ever think of that?”
You snorted, “No, I did not. And, I doubt anyone ever would when it comes to you, Shep.”
“Well, maybe, they should.” he replied, and you felt the shift in his tone. His gaze lingered on your collarbone, where a single bead of condensation had begun to trickle down your chest.
A brief silence followed. Expectant. Shepard looked at you, waiting for you to make the next move.
“Alright, I’ll bite.” you sighed, setting your glass on the edge of the hot tub, “Who exactly is the right person for Shepard Leopold?”
The corners of his lips twitched up in restrained amusement.
“She’s smart, insufferably so. Knows how to hold her own.” he began slowly, eyes tracing your features, “Witty. Stubborn as hell.”
“Sounds familiar,” you hummed in reply.
“Well, she would. She’s a pretty friendly person, a knows-everybody type of gal.” he replied with a grin.
His hand moved beneath the surface, finding your knee. He brushed his palm over it, letting it settle there - testing the waters.
You didn’t pull away.
He kept talking, “And she’s got this look she gives me when she thinks I’m full of shit… which is most of the time, because she’s such a smartass.”
You smirked, “She sounds exhausting.”
“She is,” he said, his eyes moving delicately down your frame, “But, I don’t mind it.”
“In fact,” his hands slid down, gliding slowly along your calves, up and down in lazy strokes, “…I quite enjoy it.”
A few droplets of water began to pat against the ground, interrupting your conversation.
You glanced up. Rain had begun to fall, light, but steady.
Shepard followed your gaze, frowning, “That’s weird. It doesn’t usually rain in summer.”
The downpour grew heavier quickly, the soft patter turning into a melodical thud. You let your shoulders sink beneath the water, to keep you warm.
“It does here.” you corrected with a smirk, “Summer storms are actually pretty common in Hungary.”
He glanced back at you, settling into the water with a breath, “It’s annoying how much you know about stuff, you know that?”
“So, I’ve been told.” you replied, with a small nod.
The rain fell harder now, drumming onto the ground and splashing into the tub’s water. You let your eyes fall shut, absorbing the hush of the rain and the feel of Shepard’s fingertips still grazing your leg.
“You not going to put the cover up?” you opened one eye, to look at him.
Shepard looked up at the sky, then, back to you, “Nah, I kinda like the rain.”
You held back a smile, “You have no idea how to put the cover up, do you?”
Shepard scoffed, lips twitching, “I could figure it out.”
“Oh, sure,” you teased, raising an eyebrow, “Just like you figured out how to turn on the pool lights last night?”
“It’s not my fault that I have Griff to do everything for me,” he shrugged, grinning at you.
You laughed, leaning your head back against the edge of the tub as you watched the rain dapple across the surface of the water, “God, it’s a good job you’re pretty.”
“It’s a good job that’s all you seem to care about,” Shepard’s grin deepened in response.
“You really think I’m that shallow?” you cocked your head to the side, smirking.
“I do,” he replied, tracing the side of your calf with a boyish smile, “You’re not subtle.”
“Mm… I have no idea what you’re talking about. Looks aren’t everything,” you purred, stretching your legs out, so that they rested against Shepard’s chest.
“Maybe, not, but they’re what’s made you want me since you got here,” he murmured, his voice deeper, as he ran his hands over your legs, “Tonight just proves it.”
"Showing up in that," he nodded at your swimsuit, "acting like you just happened to find me out here in the middle of the night.”
“And, let’s face it, it’s not my personality that you’ve been staring at all evening.”
You arched a brow, keeping your legs where they were, his hands still warm on your skin.
“Oh? So, you’ve been watching me watch you?” you asked, feigning innocence.
Shepard’s smile turned into something darker, slower, “I have.”
He slid his palms up the length of your legs, stopping just beneath your knees, where he held them there, “You’re not nearly as slick as you think you are.”
You leaned forward slightly, just enough to close the space between you without giving him everything, “Maybe I wasn’t trying to be slick.”
“Then stop pretending,” he said, voice low, the sound of rain secondary now, “You came out here for something.”
“I came out here for a soak,” you replied, though the words were too soft, too coy, to sound convincing.
“Liar,” he said, inching forward until your knees rested on either side of his torso, water rippling between you, “You came out here for me.”
Then, slowly, he leaned in. His hands slid to your hips beneath the surface, pulling you just slightly closer.
“Try and tell me that I’m wrong,” he said, his mouth a breath away from yours.
But you couldn’t.
Because he wasn’t wrong. You’d wanted him. You’d come all the way out here in the middle of the night, for him.
You tilted your head so that your noses grazed and he caved.
Shepard’s lips crashed into yours in a feverish kiss, warming every inch of your rain-soaked skin.
Your fingers found the back of his neck, pulling him closer as you chased after his lips eagerly.
He groaned into your mouth at your touch, his grip on your hips tightening with an unspoken urgency.
He pulled you flush against him, hard, sending a ripple through the hot tub’s waters.
Your knees tightened around his waist instinctively, legs bracketing him completely now. His hands slid over the curve of your back, tracing any bare, wet skin he could find greedily.
“You are so fucking hot,” he breathed against your lips, “Do you know that?”
You smiled into the kiss, breathless and smug, “I know.”
His mouth moved messily from yours, down to your jaw, then lower. He pressed hot kisses to the curve of your neck, licking a deliberately slow line over the rain droplets he’d been eyeing on your collarbone just moments earlier.
He flipped you over, so that you were now pinned against the hot tub’s edge, positioned just how he wanted.
You tipped your head back, giving him more of you and revelling in the swirl of his tongue. You couldn’t help but think of the feel of it elsewhere…
His hands roamed slowly, with intent, fingertips trailing over your ribs, your sides, committing your body to memory as he moved lower… and lower… and lower…
His thumbs hooked into the sides of your swimsuit bottoms beneath the water, letting the suggestion hang between you.
He looked over your face, one eyebrow arched in a silent question.
You took hold of his wrists, guiding him to pull your panties down. He grinned into your skin, sliding the fabric the rest of the way off. You lifted your hips to make it easier for him, feeling your breath catch when his palms grazed the tops of your thighs.
Once off, he tucked the black fabric into the pocket of his striped swim shorts. A trophy, of sorts, for himself.
Then, his hands returned to your bare hips, gliding up the insides of your thighs torturously, teasing the pace that you truly desired.
He looked up at you through the rain, drops sliding down his face, eyes dark and hungry.
You exhaled, shaky and shallow, all prior cockiness succumbing to nothing but soft pleas.
“Shepard,” you whispered, barely more than a breath, but all he needed.
He pressed up into you, grinding his hips, pinning you between his body and the edge of the hot tub. The contact drew a soft, involuntary mewl from your throat, swallowed by his mouth as he kissed you.
Your mind was foggy, melted by the feeling of him that was all-encompassing.
“Fuck,” Shepard groaned against you, beginning to lose the last of his composure.
You braced yourself on your elbows, head falling back against the concrete that lined the tub as you arched into him.
Your hips rolled instinctively and you could feeling the growing pressure of his cock beneath his striped swim shorts.
His hands slid under your back, fingers brushing against your skin, pulling you in, urging you to move with him.
Each slow grind of his hips sent a wave of euphoria through your body, you felt yourself slowly slipping further, desperate to let go.
“You feel that?” he murmured, voice low and rough against your ear as he continued the steady rock of his hips.
You could barely nod, but the answer was already clear in the way you arched into him.
“God, I’ve wanted you since the second you got here,” he growled, eyes dark with need and voice strained. He cupped your face with one big hand, thumb tracing your lower lip.
“Been trying so hard,” he huffed out a breath, “not to give in…”
You wrapped your lips around his thumb, gently slipping it into your mouth and sucking on the tip it.
Shepard gritted his teeth, “But you make it so hard for me, babe. Always looking so good for me…”
He pulled his thumb from your mouth with a soft pop, letting it drag back down to graze over your bare cunt. You mewled and he smiled amusedly, “It was for me, wasn’t it?”
You nodded, chest rising and falling heavily as you grinded against his resting knuckles, “Mhm… wore this just for you.”
“You’re so cute, sweetheart,” Shepard chuckled degradingly, letting his fingers continue to skim over where you wanted him most.
“Thank you,” he said teasingly, thick fingers tracing circles around your hole, just barely avoiding your needs. He could feel your hips shift over his fingers.
You moved up, letting your clit brush against his wrist. You moaned at the contact.
Shepard chuckled, his hands moving to his own swimwear, “I think it’s about time that you and I…”
“Finally did something about all this tension,” he purred, stripping down completely. He set his swim shorts on the concrete path with a soft thud and let himself focus on you again.
“Make up for all that lost time?” Shepard asked, tapping your hip. You shivered, a mix of excitement and nerves coursing through your veins.
“Is this what you wanted?” Shepard asked again, his voice low and teasing, “Is this what you’ve been putting on a show for?”
You could feel your pulse race as he inched closer to you. You met his gaze, eyes dark with longing as you parroted back, “You’re what I wanted, Shep.”
“Yeah?” he teased, leaning closer to you, “Well, now you can have me. How’s that, huh?”
“Good,” you laughed breathlessly, hands coming to rest on his forearms, gripping lightly.
“Good,” he echoed, smirking as he dipped his head down to kiss you. Deeper, more feverishly and hungrily than before.
His bare skin brushed against yours as he let himself slide teasingly between your folds.
You gasped into his mouth at the contact, but before you could fully react, he pulled back, breaking the kiss and trailing kisses down the side of your neck.
He gripped your hips tightly and with a smooth tug, flipped you around, pressing your chest against the walls of the hot tub. The suddenness of the motion had you moaning, feeling that all-too-familiar need stir in your core.
“God, you’re so responsive,” he gave you a light smack to your ass, his grin audible as he ran his hands over your waist, “I always guessed you would be.”
You groaned, arching your back in a pitiful attempt to meet his hips, “You’ve thought about what it’d be like to fuck me?”
He huffed out a rough breath, one hand tightening its grip on your hip, “How could I not?”
“You think I haven’t imagined this a hundred different ways?” he eased his head inside of you, with a low, laboured groan.
You gasped at your first taste of him - thick and stretching you just right. You gripped the edge of the tub with a satisfied groan, instinctively pressing back into him.
“God, Shep…” you breathed, your voice tight with pleasure.
He let out a quiet, breathless laugh at your unravelled state. He pressed his stomach flush against your hips, filling you up completely, “That’s it…”
“You wanted this,“ he murmured, teasing now, hands gliding along your waist, “Don’t back out now.”
You tipped your head back with a sigh, eyes fluttering shut as you let yourself sink into the feeling of him. Shepard leaned in, peppering kisses over the curve of your neck.
The water rippled gently around you as your bodies quickly moved in tandem to a smooth rhythm.
He huffed, snapping your hips back against him with a laboured groan, “God, Y/N…”
“You’re so hot,” he mumbled against your neck as his pace grew faster and harsher.
The water sloshed around you as he pulled you up and down on his cock, eyes zoned in on where the two of you connected, watching himself thrust in and out of you.
You moaned, resting your forehead on your hands, still clinging to the edge of the hot tub as you let out no more than soft squeaks with each push against you.
“Mmph, Shep,” you whined, already feeling yourself reaching your peak from the relentlessly brutal pace he was keeping up.
“Y/N, babe…” he sighed through a particularly deep stroke, feeling himself graze your walls.
He groaned, pushing deeper, resting one hand on the edge of the hot tub beside yours to steady himself as he muttered, “You close?”
All you could do was nod over and over. You felt Shepard’s hand take yours and squeeze. Your own core spasmed and you moaned, “God… yes, yes…”
“Shep, don’t stop,” you pleaded, desperately chasing your orgasm. You began to throw yourself back on him eagerly.
Shepard gasped, his grip on you growing tighter as his hips stuttered, “Shit… oh my God… shit, shit, shit…”
He let out a low grunt, pulling you close to him as he came. You whined, pulsing around his cock as you felt him finish inside of you.
Shepard sighed, slipping out of you as he stood, “Fuck, that was good.”
You didn’t envy whoever would be cleaning up the hot tub.
A = Affection (How affectionate are they? How do they show affection?)
He’s pretty affectionate. I don’t think he got much from his mom or dad growing up, he probably had a nanny in his earlier ages and he craves attention and affection as an adult.
He’ll always be touching you in small ways. Hand on your lower back, holding your hand, softly caressing your arm, etc.
B = Best friend (What would they be like as a best friend? How would the friendship start?)
You’ve been friends since you were both little. Your parents are friends so you saw each other a lot growing up.
You two were close since you were both all you really had.
He’s kinda bossy and doesn’t let you get a word in sometimes so you gotta be able to speak up and get his attention.
C = Cuddles (Do they like to cuddle? How would they cuddle?)
He loves it. It plays into his need for affection. You can curl up under his arm or you he’ll lay his head on your lap. Play with his hair, he loves it.
D = Domestic (Do they want to settle down? How are they at cooking and cleaning?)
I don’t think he knows what “settle down” even means. As for cooking and cleaning…I mean…come on. Be for real. He can’t (and wouldn’t) do either.
E = Ending (If they had to break up with their partner, how would they do it?)
Not even joking, he might have Griff do it. If he did do it himself, it would be insensitive. He wouldn’t see it as a big deal.
However, that’s only if he came to the conclusion of breaking up. If his parents told him to and he didn’t want to, he’d be a mess and would definitely have Griff do it.
F = Fiance(e) (How do they feel about commitment? How quick would they want to get married?)
His mom keeps pestering him about getting married and a few times he’s spontaneously proposed to you and you’ve had to slow him down. You don’t think he’s ready for that just yet, his parents clearly didn’t marry for love so he doesn’t really understand the point of marriage.
G = Gentle (How gentle are they, both physically and emotionally?)
Emotionally he can be kind of a dickhead. You have to hit him when he says something rude and if he says something shitty to you, you’re not afraid to tell him off.
Physically he’s always gentle. He treats you like you’re a flower that can bruise easily.
H = Hugs (Do they like hugs? How often do they do it? What are their hugs like?)
Loves hugs. He’ll come up behind you and wrap his arms around you a lot. He’s more of a hugger than a handshake kinda guy.
I = I love you (How fast do they say the L-word?)
He’s quick to jump the gun on things so he’d say it pretty soon. You wondered if he really knew what those words meant and doubted if he really meant it.
J = Jealousy (How jealous do they get? What do they do when they’re jealous?)
Oh he gets so jealous. And he gets sassy when he is. If any guy around your age starts talking to you he starts to feel jealous.
He’ll walk over and put his arm around you and start talking passive aggressively to the guy.
K = Kisses (What are their kisses like? Where do they like to kiss you? Where do they like to be kissed?)
He is surprisingly good at kissing. You don’t know how he got so good but he did. He knows when to add tongue and just how much.
He loves kissing your chest and shoulders. He likes it when you kiss his cheek or his head while you’re petting it.
L = Little ones (How are they around children?)
He’s not good with kids. He’s awkward around them and isn’t sure how to act with them around.
M = Morning (How are mornings spent with them?)
He’s a morning shower kind of guy. If you are too then he’d insist that you shower together. You know…to “conserve water”. As if he actually gave a shit about that. He’s a morning person too, so if you’re not…good luck. (I would hate him every morning)
N = Night (How are nights spent with them?)
He always goes for a quick soak in the hot tub before bed. It helps him relax. So many nights were spent under his arm in the hot tub, staring up at the stars and listening to the nocturnal nightlife of the woods.
O = Open (When would they start revealing things about themselves? Do they say everything all at once or wait a while to reveal things slowly?)
He isn’t very secretive but he does blurt things out really randomly. You could know him for years and suddenly he’ll just say something crazy that happened to him years ago that you had no idea about. He wasn’t trying to hide it, he just remembered it then and decided to share.
P = Patience (How easily angered are they?)
You’ve never seen him truly angry before. He doesn’t get mad very much. He can get annoyed but you’d have to do a lot to truly piss him off.
Q = Quizzes (How much would they remember about you? Do they remember every little detail you mention in passing, or do they kind of forget everything?)
He would definitely not be great at remembering dates but he doesn’t do it because he doesn’t care, he just genuinely is that much of an airhead sometimes.
He would surprisingly remember really small details about you though. Your favourite colour, favourite food and drink, favourite places, that one fabric you hate and refuse to wear anything made out of it, etc.
He won’t remember the exact date of your birthday but he’ll know what kind of cake you like, or if you even like cake.
R = Remember (What is their favorite moment in your relationship?)
The day he asked you to be his partner. He brought it up to his parents one day that he was going to ask you to be his. His mom was so excited that her son was finally not going to be a bachelor and she started giving all these crazy elaborate ideas on how and where. He already had a plan though. He knew what you would like and appreciate and it wasn’t what his mom had in mind at all. He actually stood up to his mom and told her that he already had a plan.
He was glad he did too, because the look on your face was worth it.
S = Security (How protective are they? How would they protect you? How would they like to be protected?)
He gives me the vibes of using anybody near him as a human shield, no matter how much he cares about them. But if something were truly threatening you and you were really scared over something (like oh idk…a pair of rampaging unicorns) he would do his best to protect you and keep you safe.
T = Try (How much effort would they put into dates, anniversaries, gifts, everyday tasks?)
The boy can’t even put effort into getting something for himself without yelling for Griff.
But he would do everything in his power (which means bossing Griff around) to make things perfect.
U = Ugly (What would be some bad habits of theirs?)
Because of his parents wealth and status, he’s been able to access drugs of all kinds through the various parties he’s attended and he’s become a little addicted.
His favourite is cocaine. Once his mother found out she banned him from continuing to use it but he still does from time to time. He’s offered you some before too.
If you wanted him to stop he would try harder for you but I don’t think he’d be able to quit it entirely.
V = Vanity (How concerned are they with their looks?)
He is pretty concerned about it. I mean he said himself that he felt like he was wearing the wrong outfit to be standing over a dead unicorn 💀
I don’t think he would take hours making himself look good but he would fuss over his hair a lot. He also has a pretty complex skin care routine.
W = Whole (Would they feel incomplete without you?)
Yes. So many times he would be like “this doesn’t feel right without y/n here :(“ it would annoy his parents so much but he’s so attached to you. You don’t even have to be there physically, he’ll FaceTime you whenever. Chilling in the hot tub? He’s got his phone propped up so he can talk to you handsfree. Eating dinner with his family? He doesn’t care that it annoys his parents, he’s got his phone against something so he can talk to you. No headphones either, speaker on full blast.
X = Xtra (A random headcanon for them.)
He hates feet so much. He thinks they’re gross and anytime you put your legs over his lap you either have to be wearing socks or he’ll drop a blanket over them. He really hates seeing bare feet that aren’t his own lol.
You can terrorize him by shoving your feet in his face and he’ll recoil so hard you fear he would brake a bone.
Y = Yuck (What are some things they wouldn’t like, either in general or in a partner?)
You can’t be a bummer. You can be introverted but you’re gonna have to tough it out sometimes and join the parties he throws or attends. He won’t force you to go but if you’re constantly saying you don’t want to do something and forcing him to not do it, he’s gonna get annoyed.
Z = Zzz (What is a sleep habits of theirs?)
Snores loud as FUCK. He’s the kind of person to be like “you better not snore” when he has to sleep in the same room as someone else and then he sounds like a fucking airplane once asleep.
If you share a bed he will hog the blanket. And he kicks you. He’s a nightmare to sleep with tbh good luck lmao
Hi friends! I’m still working on new Johnny fics! I’ve just been very busy with life, the new sims pack, and have fallen into a Will Poulter rabbit hole (mostly chef Luca). Would love to write for some of his characters. If anyone has suggestions please send them in. If I haven’t seen the movie of his, I’m not against watching it for the plot. 🫡❤️
