okay okay.. hear me out realll dirty smut with joey but someone walks in.. i don’t know who but someone
interrupted
pairing: joey lynch x fem!reader
tw: smut
masterlist !
the door clicks shut behind you, barely muffling the roar of joey’s music playing in the sitting room downstairs. your heart’s pounding so hard you’re sure he can hear it.
“joey,” you gasp as he pushes you back against the wall, his hands already under your jumper, warm and rough against your skin.
“yeah?” he murmurs, nose brushing your cheek. “somethin’ wrong, love?”
you try to answer but his mouth crashes into yours, swallowing your words. it’s all teeth and tongue and the faint taste of spearmint gum. his hands slide higher, thumbs brushing the underside of your bra and making you whimper.
“fuckin’ gorgeous,” he mumbles against your lips. “ya know that?”
you shake your head, cheeks burning, but he just chuckles darkly.
“gonna have to prove it to ya, so.”
he spins you around, pressing your front against the wall, and you let out a shocked little noise when his hands slip down to unbutton your jeans.
“joey—”
“shh,” he soothes, kissing the side of your neck. “just let me, love.”
he tugs your jeans down over your hips, fingers skimming along your thighs, and you’re shaking so hard your knees nearly buckle.
“god, look at ya,” he rasps, running his fingers over the damp spot in your underwear. “already so fuckin’ wet for me.”
“joey, please—”
he pushes your knickers to the side and slides two fingers through your folds, groaning low in his throat.
“jesus christ,” he mutters. “ya feel fuckin’ unreal.”
you try to bite back a moan but it comes out anyway, echoing off the walls.
“quiet,” he says, grinning against your neck. “don’t want anyone hearin’, do we?”
you shake your head frantically, but then he curls his fingers just right and your hips jerk back into him.
“yeah,” he breathes, pressing closer. “just like that, love.”
he pulls his fingers out and you hear the soft jingle of his belt.
“joey—”
“shh, i’ve got ya,” he soothes, guiding himself between your thighs.
the stretch is dizzying, your forehead falling to the wall as he sinks into you, slow and deep.
“holy fuck,” he hisses. “ya take me so good every time.”
he sets a steady rhythm, one hand braced on the wall beside your head, the other gripping your hip so hard you’ll probably bruise.
“mine,” he growls, thrusting harder. “all fuckin’ mine.”
you’re gasping, fingers scrabbling at the plaster, already close to falling apart.
“please, joey—”
“yeah?” he pants. “ya gonna cum for me, baby?”
but before you can answer, there’s the faintest sound of footsteps on the landing outside the door—
the door creaks open a fraction.
“joey? ya in here—”
tadgh’s voice cuts off like someone’s slapped him.
joey freezes, buried deep inside you, chest heaving. your eyes fly open in horror as you twist your head over your shoulder.
tadgh lynch — sandy blond hair, big brown eyes practically popping out of his head — stands in the doorway. his mouth is hanging open, one hand still on the doorknob.
“jesus fucking christ!” tadgh yelps, stumbling back into the hallway. “i didn’t fuckin’ see anything, i swear!”
you bury your face in your arms against the wall, mortified beyond belief, your entire body burning hot enough to melt steel.
joey snaps, voice low and murderous: “tadgh, get the fuck outta my room!”
“i’m goin’, i’m goin’!” tadgh squeaks, voice cracking as he slams the door shut again.
for a second, it’s dead silent except for the harsh pant of your breath.
“oh my god,” you whisper, horrified. “oh my god.”
joey presses his forehead against the back of your shoulder, breathing hard, still inside you.
could you write something with gerard and reader where he did something she didnt like `(or had an argument or smth or the sort) and he eats her out to make up for it because of how he said in the books it's his favourite thing? also, could you do a black cat reader? love youu
say something, love
pairing : gerard gibson x fem!reader
tw: explicit sexual content, oral sex (f!receiving), slight dom/sub dynamics, emotional hurt/comfort, crying during sex, aftermath of an argument, soft aftercare, praise kink, feelings of insecurity, minor anxiety, and language
a/n: kinda proud of this one
masterlist !
you haven’t looked at him since you walked into his room.
you’re curled up on the edge of his bed, arms crossed, back to the wall, hoodie sleeves pulled over your hands. quiet. still. and icy.
gerard’s pacing like a kicked puppy, one socked foot dragging as he circles, circles, circles. he’s been trying to talk for ten minutes now — words coming out in broken half-laughs, nervy and desperate.
“c’mon,” he says again, hands in his hair. “you’re really not gonna talk to me? like, at all?”
you glance at him. short. flat.
he sighs. “fuck, you’re scary when you go quiet.”
you raise an eyebrow.
he stops pacing, finally — plants himself in front of you, kneels on the floor, rests his arms on your knees. eyes big. lower lip out. full pleading golden retriever mode.
“i didn’t mean it how it sounded, love,” he says, quieter this time. “you know i didn’t.”
you stare at him for a second longer. then: “then why’d you say it?”
his mouth opens. then shuts.
you pull your legs up, curling tighter into yourself. “you made it sound like i was too much. like i’m annoying.”
his face drops.
“no,” he says quickly. “no, baby—jesus, no. i was being a prick. i was nervous and talkin’ shite and trying to be funny, and it came out all wrong. you’re not too much, alright? you’re—fuck, you’re everything.you’re the one thing that makes me calm. i’m the one who’s too much.”
you blink, surprised by the honesty.
he runs a hand down his face. “i hate when you shut down like that. not ‘cause i’m mad — but ‘cause i know i fucked up if i made you feel like you had to.”
you bite the inside of your cheek. your chest aches, but you keep your face smooth. “i didn’t like being embarrassed in front of everyone.”
“i know,” he groans. “i know. i’ve never felt like more of a tosser in my life.”
he shifts forward, resting his chin on your knee. “i swear on me ma, i’d go back and headbutt my own mouth if i could.”
your lips twitch — but you keep the glare.
he tilts his head. “you want me to prove i’m sorry?”
you narrow your eyes. “…how?”
“you know how.”
he’s grinning now. cheeky and soft. a little filthy.
you flush, biting back a scoff. “you’re not serious.”
he shrugs. “it’s me favourite thing in the world. better than cigs. better than life. better than breathin’, probably.”
you roll your eyes, but your pulse jumps.
“don’t make me beg,” he whispers, pressing a kiss to the inside of your knee. “or do. i’m into that.”
you don’t answer. but you don’t move either.
he presses another kiss, higher this time. and when he looks up at you — curls messy, lashes long, grin fading into something slower, softer — you know he means it.
he’s gonna worship you if you let him.
you exhale slow. “fine.”
he lights up like a goddamn firework.
“you’re not forgiven yet,” you warn, lifting a brow.
“not yet,” he says, standing to pull his hoodie off. “but i will be.”
he doesn’t rush.
he never rushes when it comes to you — but especially not now. not when he’s made a mess of things. not when your voice’s gone all quiet, when your eyes are hard, when your jaw’s tight like you’re holding everything in just to keep from breaking.
no, he takes his time with this.
starts by easing you back on the bed, hands gentle, eyes never leaving yours. kisses your thigh first, then your hip, then the soft skin just above the waistband of your shorts.
“lift up f’me,” he whispers, voice low and husky.
you do — just barely — and he slides them down slow, dragging his fingers along your legs like he’s committing the feeling to memory. once they’re off, he settles between your thighs like it’s his natural place. like he’s meant to be there.
he is.
he kisses just above your knee, then lower, then trails his lips up your inner thigh, whispering little nothings as he goes.
“didn’t mean to hurt your feelings,” he murmurs. “you know i talk too much sometimes. just wanted to make people laugh. but it should’ve been you i was thinkin’ about.”
you sigh, fingers twitching against the comforter.
he smiles against your skin, nosing gently at the crease of your thigh.
“can i taste you now, sweetheart?” he asks, voice going soft. “let me show you how sorry i am.”
you nod once — just a flicker — but it’s all he needs.
he mouths at you first, slow and careful, like he’s mapping you out again. you’re already warm, already wet, and he groans when he feels it. fucking melts into it, big hands sliding under your thighs to hook them over his shoulders as he buries his face between your legs.
his tongue drags a slow stripe through your folds, flat and firm — once, twice — and then he starts working, lips wrapped around your clit, tongue flicking, licking, sucking like it’s second nature.
he moans low in his throat when your hips twitch.
“that’s it,” he mumbles into you, voice thick. “there she is.”
he’s so fucking present. every little breath you take, he hears it. every shift of your hips, every shaky exhale — he feels it. adjusts. reacts. like his mouth was made for you and you only.
you reach down and tangle your fingers in his hair, pulling — not too hard, just enough to ground yourself. he groans again, louder, and pushes deeper, flattening his tongue against you, shaking his head slightly like he wants to get drunk on it.
your breath stutters. “g-gerard—”
he moans in response, eyes flicking up to watch your face.
god, the way he looks at you — all hunger and reverence, like he’d die here if you asked. like you could forgive him with just a single moan and he’d be yours forever.
his pace shifts — less teasing now, more deliberate. his thumb brushes slow, lazy circles over your thigh while he sucks your clit again, firmer this time, tongue swirling with intention.
you start to tremble.
“close?” he asks, lips still against you.
you nod, almost frantic. “d-don’t stop.”
he grins — and then pulls back, just enough to make you whimper.
“not yet,” he says, panting softly. “not till i’ve earned it.”
and he dives back in, determined to edge you, to keep you floating just below the peak until you’re begging.
until he knows you’ve truly forgiven him.
he doesn’t let up this time.
doesn’t back off when you start shaking. doesn’t pull away when your legs tighten around his head. doesn’t even flinch when you grab his hair like you’re afraid you’ll float off the earth if you let go.
he wants it all.
“that’s it, love,” he murmurs, voice wet and wrecked between your thighs. “gimme it. let go f’me.”
you’re trying not to. fighting it. you always do — always trying to stay composed, in control, never too much.
but he knows better. knows you need this. need to be undone. need someone to see you unravel and still look at you like you hung the fucking stars.
so he works his tongue in slow, relentless circles, locking eyes with you as he presses two fingers inside you, curling just right. and when you gasp, when your back arches and your hand slams over your mouth, that’s when he knows.
you’re right there. on the edge. ready to fall.
he groans into your cunt, shaking his head just enough to send sparks up your spine, and says, “i’ve got you, baby. don’t hold back now. you’re safe — i’m here.”
and then you break.
it crashes over you in a full-body wave — your thighs trembling, your chest hitching, tears in your eyes before you even realize you’re crying. your moan’s all stuttered, breathless, choked out against your palm.
he doesn’t stop.
he rides it out with you, tongue still moving, fingers still deep, coaxing every last bit of it from you like he’s determined to make you feel everything.
and when you go limp, completely spent, thighs twitching around his ears, he finally pulls back.
he presses a kiss to your inner thigh. then another. and another. like he’s saying sorry with his mouth, over and over.
“you alright?” he asks gently, voice hoarse. “was i too much?”
you shake your head, eyes fluttering open, still catching your breath.
“did so good, sweetheart,” he whispers, crawling up the bed. “so fuckin’ good for me.”
he pulls you into his chest, doesn’t care that he’s still fully clothed and your skin’s flushed and damp. wraps his arms around you like he’s scared you’ll vanish if he lets go.
you bury your face in his neck, trembling.
he rubs slow circles into your back. “never wanna make you feel small again, yeah? you’re the best thing i’ve ever had. swear it.”
you nod, quiet against his throat.
he kisses the top of your head. “gonna hold you ‘til you fall asleep. not goin’ anywhere.”
and he doesn’t.
not even when you stop shaking.
not even when your breathing evens out.
he just holds you.
like a boy who made a mistake and knows damn well what he’s got to lose.
⸻
next morning you wake up slow — limbs heavy, lips parted, blanket tangled around your waist. you’re sore in that floaty, warm way that only comes after he’s been between your legs for the better part of a night. your cheek’s pressed to his chest, his arm draped across your back, his breath soft against your hair.
you stay like that for a minute. quiet. still.
and then you shift a little, just enough to glance up at him — and find him already watching you.
“mornin’, trouble,” he says, voice raspy and rough with sleep.
you glance away, suddenly shy. “hi.”
he lifts a brow, reads you instantly.
“you alright?”
you nod.
“you sure?”
you nod again — smaller this time. but your fingers twitch against the sheets. you curl back into yourself without meaning to. a quiet retreat.
he props himself up on one elbow, tilting his head. “you’re goin’ all quiet again.”
“no i’m not.”
“you are.” he nudges your shoulder gently. “what’s goin’ on in that head of yours?”
you shake your head, trying to smile, but it falters too quick.
he softens immediately.
“hey,” he says, brushing your hair back. “talk to me.”
you pause. then, so soft it’s barely audible: “you were just being nice ‘cause you felt bad.”
his whole face falls. “what?”
you sit up a little, still not looking at him. “last night… you were just trying to fix it. like… trying to shut me up.”
his eyes go wide. “what? no—no, baby, jesus. is that what you think?”
you shrug.
he sits up fully now, grabs your hand. doesn’t let go. “i wasn’t trying to shut you up. i was trying to show you. that i’m sorry. that you matter. that what i said was out of line and i’d never fucking mean it.”
your lashes flutter. you look down at your lap.
he scoots closer. cups your cheek, makes you meet his eyes.
“don’t ever think you’re too much for me,” he says, slow and serious. “not your moods, not your quiet, not your standards. i’d rather be called out by you than loved by anyone else, alright?”
you blink, throat tight. “i’m not always easy.”
he shrugs. “neither am i. and you still love me.”
you smile — a little. “debatable.”
he grins, presses a kiss to your forehead. “nah. you’re obsessed.”
you roll your eyes, but your cheeks go warm.
“look,” he adds, “i can be a dumbass sometimes. too loud. too fast. but i’ll never do that again. never make you feel like you’re not wanted. that’s a promise.”
you look at him for a long moment. then crawl back into his arms like that’s where you belonged all along.
he kisses your temple.
“you’re not too much,” he murmurs. “you’re my favourite person on this earth.”
I saw you write for boys of Tommen could you write a smutty fic with Joey where she's riding his face whilst he's working at the mechanics
underneath it all
pairing: joey lynch x fem!reader
tw: nsfw, rough sex, orgasm denial, dominance/submission dynamics, face riding, public/semi-public sex, overstimulation, strong language, breath control elements, bodily fluids, praise and slight degradation, intense physical reactions (crying/shaking)
a/n: mb that it took so long, i’ve been really busy lately so sorry abt the wait, hope u enjoy x
masterlist !
he doesn’t even notice you at first.
you’re leaning against the garage wall, arms crossed, watching him work. engine grease stains the collar of his shirt, dark smudges across his knuckles. sweat clings to the back of his neck, dampening the little curls at the base of his hairline. he looks like a storm — all frustration and fury, hands working too fast, jaw clenched too tight.
joey’s been here all day.
when he finally looks up and sees you, it’s like the air shifts. his shoulders drop just barely. something flickers in his eyes. you smile, soft and knowing.
“hey.”
“hey,” he says, voice rough. “what’re you doin’ here?”
“thought you could use a distraction.”
he scoffs. wipes his hands on a dirty rag and tosses it aside. “gonna take more than that to fix this fuckin’ heap.”
you walk toward him slowly, your fingers grazing the hood of the car, your gaze locked on his face.
“i wasn’t talkin’ about the car.”
his eyes darken.
it’s subtle — just a twitch in his brow, the slightest tilt of his head — but you feel it like a spark up your spine. he’s reading you now. carefully. the way he always does. and underneath all that exhaustion and annoyance, there’s something else… something hungry.
“yeah?” he says. “what were you talkin’ about then?”
you close the distance between you, reach up to brush a smudge of oil off his cheek. your fingers linger.
“lie down.”
his brow lifts. “on the fuckin’ floor?”
“yeah.”
a pause. a long one.
then: “jesus christ.”
but he doesn’t move away.
you reach for the hem of his shirt, and that’s when it really shifts — the breath catches in his throat, his hands drop to your hips like muscle memory. you tug him closer until you’re backed up against the shelves, and he’s towering over you, the smell of sweat and smoke and motor oil wrapped around him.
“joey.”
you whisper it, but it lands heavy between you. his name, soft on your lips, like a command.
his eyes drop to your mouth. then lower.
“get on with it then,” he mutters.
and he drops.
right there, on the concrete, wiping off his hands again before lying flat. he looks up at you, waiting, the flicker of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“you gonna make me beg?”
you smile sweetly.
“maybe.”
he groans, head thunking back against the ground. “fuckin’ knew i shouldn’t have fallen in love with you.”
you step over him, straddling his face. his hands grip your thighs like he’s anchoring himself — and when you lower yourself down, he exhales like he’s been underwater.
you’re not even fully settled when he dives in — no teasing, no warning, just tongue and heat and the desperate need to make you come on his face like it’s the only thing in the world that matters.
and joey? he’s filthy with it.
moaning against you. sucking your clit between his lips like he wants it tattooed on his tongue. dragging you down harder when you try to lift off, shaking from the pressure.
you brace your hands on the shelf behind his head, hips rocking gently, thighs trembling already.
“fuck—joey—”
he groans like he’s in pain, mouth never letting up.
and just before you tip over the edge, voice raw, he growls:
“ride it for me, yeah sweetheart?”
you’re trying to be quiet.
you really are. but it’s impossible — not when joey’s got you like this, thighs spread around his face, tongue working you over like he’s trying to memorize your taste. like it’s the only fucking thing in his world.
the metal shelf behind you rattles with every roll of your hips. you’ve got one hand tangled in his sweaty curls, the other braced behind you to keep from collapsing. your thighs are shaking. your chest heaves.
and still — still — he won’t let you finish.
“joey,” you pant, voice barely holding steady. “please—”
he hums into your pussy, dragging his tongue in slow, lazy strokes that make you shudder all over.
“please what?” he mutters against you, words muffled, mouth slick. “gotta use real words, sweetheart.”
“i—I wanna—” you swallow hard. “i need to come, please.”
“yeah?” he licks a long stripe up your center, sucks your clit into his mouth just briefly — enough to make your whole body jerk. “you think you’ve earned that already?”
you choke on a moan.
he grins against your skin.
“nah,” he says, voice like gravel, low and cruel and so soft it ruins you.“not yet.”
and then he changes it up — switches from slow teasing to firm, deliberate pressure, his tongue working you in tight circles. not fast. not sloppy. just enough to get you climbing again. just enough to make you whimper.
he knows exactly what he’s doing.
“fuck—joey—baby, i—”
“mmhm.” he tilts his head slightly, suckles your clit like he’s drinking you down. “almost.”
your body’s a mess — your back’s arching, your hips are stuttering against his face, your thighs are twitching like you’re on the verge of snapping. so close. it’s right there, just under your skin, pressure building and building and—
then he pulls back.
you sob.
“no—joey, please, don’t—”
“shhh.” he presses his mouth to your inner thigh, breathing hard. “you’re not gonna come on me until i say.”
you try to grind down, but he’s holding you steady now — hands firm on your hips, keeping you right where he wants you. you feel his breath on your soaked skin, the edge so sharp it hurts.
he kisses your clit. once. soft. cruel.
“ride my face,” he says again. “but don’t you fucking come.”
your thighs are shaking too much to hold yourself up, but you nod anyway, desperate and wrecked.
“good girl,” he murmurs.
and then he’s back at it — slow at first, then deeper, messier, licking and sucking with those same filthy moans rumbling from his throat like he needs this. like he needs to make you beg.
you’re a writhing mess above him, trying not to break. the edge teases you, cruel and perfect. and joey?
joey’s smiling under you.
he’s drawing it out on purpose now.
every time your hips twitch, every time your breath stutters like you’re about to fall over the edge, joey pulls back — licking slow and lazy, mouthing at your thighs like he’s not already soaked in it, like his cock isn’t straining hard and aching behind his jeans.
you’re shaking. pleading.
he’s so fucking patient with it, one big hand pressed firm against your stomach to keep you steady, the other trailing slowly up your back to tangle in your hair.
and then—
“you want it that bad, baby?” he mumbles against your skin, tone half-gone and wrecked.
“joey—fuck—please, i—I need—”
he grins. all teeth and sweat and sinful devotion.
“then come on,” he growls, eyes dark and locked on yours, “come on my fuckin’ face. let me taste it.”
you break.
you don’t even get a full warning out — just a gasped, strangled noise that barely sounds human — and then your whole body’s convulsing,legs trembling, your grip on the shelf going white-knuckle tight as you grind against his mouth, riding the wave so hard it nearly knocks the wind out of you.
joey holds you through it, groaning like he’s the one coming, eating you through every second of it — until your thighs start to twitch too much, until you’re whimpering and trying to pull away, too sensitive, too far gone.
only then does he finally let go.
you sag back against the wall, head tipped up, chest heaving, heartbeat roaring in your ears.
he’s still on the floor, looking up at you with glazed eyes, mouth shiny, chin soaked.
“jesus christ,” he pants, “look what you fuckin’ did to me.”
and then he stands.
in one swift move, he grabs you by the thighs, pulls you off the shelf, and pins you to the wall — your legs wrapping instinctively around his waist, your body weak and pliant in his arms.
you barely have time to breathe before he’s undoing his jeans, hands trembling, teeth gritted.
“been hard since you walked in,” he mutters, pulling himself free, thick and leaking. he grinds against you once, both of you groaning at the friction. “you got no idea how close i was to losing it.”
“then don’t,” you whisper, lips brushing his.
that’s all it takes.
he lines himself up and thrusts in, burying himself to the hilt with a strangled moan. you both gasp, bodies locking tight — too much, too good, too perfect after everything he just did to you.
he barely gives you time to adjust — starts moving in short, hard thrusts that bounce you against the wall, your back slamming gently into the metal shelving with every movement.
“so fuckin’ tight,” he growls into your neck, voice cracking. “feel so good, fuck—”
you cling to him, nails dragging down his back, still shaking from your orgasm. every drag of his cock feels like fire.
“that’s it,” he hisses, fucking into you rough but controlled, jaw clenched tight. “take it, baby. made a fuckin’ mess on my face, now you’re gonna let me fill you up.”
you’re moaning nonstop, every word from him making it harder to hold on. and when he slips a hand between you to rub your clit — soft, rhythmic, in sync with his thrusts — you lose it all over again.
“fuck—joey, i’m—i’m—”
“come for me again,” he begs, begs, his forehead pressed to yours, sweat dripping down his temple. “please, come with me, i’m right there—”
you shatter.
your walls clamp down around him and he chokes on a groan, thrusting one more time before spilling inside you with a desperate, low curse. his whole body tenses, muscles trembling as he pushes as deep as he can, staying buried while he rides it out.
you’re both gasping, tangled up, clinging to each other like you’ll fall apart otherwise.
he stays like that for a minute.
silent. full. breathing heavy into your neck.
and then, voice raw and gentle:
“you okay, love?”
you nod into his shoulder, still floating. “mhm.”
he kisses your temple. then your cheek. then your jaw.
“you were so good for me,” he whispers. “so fuckin’ perfect.”
he pulls out slow, careful, one hand behind your head so you don’t hit it against the shelf.
and then he’s lowering you to the floor, one knee down, wrapping his arms around your waist like you’re something breakable.
he wipes between your legs with his shirt, tender and unhurried, like he’s done it a hundred times. and when you shiver, he peels off his hoodie and pulls it over your head, tucking your hair out from the collar.
“stay here,” he murmurs, kissing your forehead. “gonna lock up. then we’re goin’ home.”
you nod, dazed, and he presses one last kiss to your lips before standing, walking off with his shirt untucked and belt undone, muttering to himself with the softest little smile on his face.
in your NSFW alphabet for Johnny you said that he was into being in control and choking and i need a full fic of that
maybe him and the reader have only had like soft sex and she one day she gives Johnny the “ok” to be a little rougher and more dominant
please i’m foaming at the mouth for him🙏🙏😁😁😁
switch it up
pairing: johnny kavanagh x fem!reader
tw: nsfw (18+), dominant!johnny, rougher sex (not even that bad compared to what’s on tumblr but still), choking (light, safe), praise + a hint of degradation,
a/n: i heavily struggle writing smut so i hope this was okay
masterlist !
you’re in his room again. legs tangled. music low. your head on his chest, his fingers running slow circles into your back. it’s quiet in that way it always is with you two. comfortable.
“can i ask you something?” you say, voice quiet against his skin.
he shifts just a little, kisses your hair. “always.”
you hesitate. then:
“do you ever want to be rougher with me?”
his hand stops moving. he doesn’t speak right away. just tilts your chin up and meets your eyes.
“you’re not saying that just for me, right?”
you shake your head. “i’ve thought about it. i want you to. if you do.”
johnny just watches you for a second. eyes dark. jaw tight.
then, without a word, he rolls you onto your back.
“you tell me if it’s too much,” he says, voice lower than usual. “you nod, tap my arm, whatever you need.”
you nod. heart in your throat.
and then it’s like something in him shifts. the usual softness in his touch replaced by purpose. his hands grip your thighs. his mouth finds your neck. he doesn’t rush, but he doesn’t ask either — he just takes.
he pulls your shirt over your head, tugs your shorts down, doesn’t even pause when he slips his fingers between your legs.
“already wet,” he mutters, almost to himself. “fuckin’ knew it.”
he doesn’t say much else. just keeps that steady pressure, kissing you rougher now, biting a little when you whine.
when he finally sinks into you, it’s deep. slow, but heavy. you breathe out his name, and that’s when his hand wraps gently around your throat.
not tight. not scary. just a reminder: he’s in control.
“look at me,” he says. “wanna see what i do to you.”
you do. you meet his eyes and the intensity there is something new — and something you like way more than you thought you would.
johnny’s thumb slides down the curve of your throat, rests just below your jaw, soft pressure. you can still breathe easy, but your head’s swimming anyway.
he hasn’t moved in a minute. still buried inside you, holding you there like he’s got all the time in the world.
“you told me you wanted this,” he says, tone calm, almost casual — like he’s talking about dinner plans, not the fact that he’s got you pinned underneath him, desperate and breathless. “so now you’re gonna take it how i give it to you.”
your hips try to move. instinct. he smirks, barely shifts his weight to pin you deeper into the mattress.
“nuh-uh,” he murmurs. “not yet.”
your hands slide up his chest, clawing a little at the fabric still clinging to his back. you can’t think straight, not with how full you feel. and he’s just… waiting. like your need is something he wants to stretch out.
“johnny,” you whisper.
“what, baby?”
you meet his eyes. “please move.”
he raises a brow. “you asking or begging?”
your breath stutters. he’s smug, and he’s earned it.
you don’t answer right away, just look up at him — wide eyes, flushed skin, completely undone under the weight of him. and maybe that’s the answer, because he shifts his grip, hips pulling back just slightly.
and then—
he thrusts in, deep and slow, and your whole body arches up into him.
“fuck,” you breathe.
he groans, low and sharp, forehead dropping to yours. “that what you wanted?”
“yes,” you gasp. “please—”
“you get it now,” he says, speeding up. “you asked for this, didn’t you? you wanted to know what it feels like when i stop holding back.”
you can’t even form words anymore, just whimper and nod, nails digging into his back, barely able to keep your legs from shaking. he fucks you with focus, rhythm unrelenting but not careless — like he’s memorizing the way your body responds.
and you know he is. because it’s johnny. and he doesn’t do anything without paying attention.
“so fuckin’ tight,” he mutters against your neck. “you’re squeezin’ me like you don’t wanna let go.”
you cry out when he angles his hips just right, and his smirk returns.
“there it is,” he says. “right there, yeah?”
you nod furiously, too far gone to speak.
he keeps hitting that spot, pace brutal and steady, one hand still gripping your thigh while the other stays at your throat — just enough to make you dizzy with want.
and then he slows again, leans in, lips brushing yours.
“you gonna come for me, sweetheart?”
you barely choke out a yes, and he grins.
“not yet.”
you don’t know how long he keeps you there — teetering, shaking, one breath away from falling apart. he keeps fucking into you with maddening precision, drawing it out like it’s a game only he knows the rules to.
his grip on your thigh tightens. his hand around your throat never pushes too far, just holds you in place, thumb brushing your jaw like he’s checking you’re still with him.
and you are. barely.
“johnny—” your voice cracks. “i—i can’t—”
he leans down, kisses your cheek, soft contrast to the way he’s using your body.
“yes, you can. you’re takin’ it so fuckin’ well, baby.”
you shake your head, eyes glossy, body trembling underneath him. “please.”
he pulls back just enough to look down at you. flushed, wrecked, soaked. his girl.
“look at you,” he mutters, slowing his thrusts just slightly. “thought you liked it soft.”
“i do,” you breathe. “but i like you more.”
something flickers in his eyes — something proud. possessive.
“fuckin’ hell.” he presses his forehead to yours, breath hot. “you’re not tappin’ out yet, right?”
you shake your head.
he smiles. “good. ‘cause you’re not done.”
his hand slips down, fingers pressing where you need them most, and your back arches on instinct. it’s too much. it’s perfect. his cock deep inside you, his fingers rubbing tight circles, his voice in your ear telling you how good you’re being.
“c’mon,” he murmurs. “want you to come for me. now.”
your whole body locks up. the permission hits like a match to gasoline. and when it happens, it’s not quiet — it’s a sob, a cry, a desperate tangle of limbs and sound and johnny’s name on your tongue like a prayer.
he groans as you clamp down around him, thrusts stuttering. but he doesn’t stop. keeps fucking you through it, even as you writhe beneath him, gasping for air.
“that’s it,” he growls. “give it to me.”
you barely register the heat building again until it’s too late — another orgasm crashing through you before you’ve even come down from the first. this one rips a cry from your throat, hands clutching at him like you’ll fall apart if you let go.
and then, finally, he slows. breath ragged. hips faltering. he pulls out, strokes himself once, twice, and finishes across your stomach with a low, broken moan, body twitching above yours.
everything goes still.
for a second, the only sound is your breathing. both of you shaky. quiet. ruined.
then he leans down, presses a soft kiss to your lips. nothing rough about it.
“you okay?” he whispers.
you nod, lips barely moving. “yeah. just… holy shit.”
he huffs a laugh, already grabbing a towel to clean you up. “you’re insane.”
“you’re the one who did that to me.”
“and you asked for it.” he tosses the towel and pulls you into his chest. “but you’re mine, yeah?”
“always.”
your body’s still humming. nerves shot, muscles twitching, skin flushed and sticky with sweat. you’re not even sure what part of yourself to focus on first — the way your thighs ache, the tremble in your hands, the thud of your heart that hasn’t quite slowed.
johnny’s already moving, quiet but efficient. he kisses your forehead and pulls away just long enough to grab the towel, cleaning you up with the kind of care that almost makes you cry.
“easy,” he murmurs when you flinch, even slightly. “i got you.”
you nod, but your throat’s dry. everything feels too big — the room, the air, your own skin. like your body hasn’t caught up with what just happened.
“can you talk to me, sweetheart?” he says, voice low, checking in again.
you blink up at him. “m’okay. just… floaty.”
he smiles, gentle. “yeah? you were incredible. fuckin’ unreal.” he leans down, kisses your cheek. “but let’s get you cleaned up proper, yeah?”
he helps you sit up slowly, tugs his hoodie over your head again like you can’t do it yourself — which, right now, you honestly can’t. then he lifts you into his arms like you weigh nothing. carries you to the bathroom, one arm around your waist, the other under your thighs.
“you don’t have to—”
“shh,” he cuts you off. “you let me wreck you, baby. now you let me take care of you.”
he sets you down on the closed toilet lid while he runs the shower. checks the temperature three times. keeps looking back at you, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he looks away too long.
when it’s ready, he helps you in first. steps in behind you. you sag into his chest almost immediately.
his hands are slow now. soft. washing your hair, soaping your skin, kissing your shoulder when you lean your head back against him.
you don’t say much. don’t have to. your fingers stay curled around his forearm while his other hand moves gentle over your ribs, like he’s grounding you without making a big deal out of it.
“you did so good,” he whispers, mouth brushing your temple. “so fuckin’ good for me.”
“was a lot,” you murmur.
“i know. i saw. and you still gave it to me. proud of you.”
the words hit you harder than anything else tonight. your chest tightens, but not in a bad way. you just feel full — of him, of love, of safety.
after the shower, he wraps you up in a towel, carries you back to bed, and tucks you under the covers. doesn’t leave your side for a second.
he gets you water. makes sure you drink. slides in behind you and pulls you into him, arms wrapped fully around your waist, legs tangled with yours.
“you’re okay,” he says again, like a promise. “you’re with me.”
you nod against his chest. “i love you.”
he kisses the top of your head. “love you more, baby.”
this has been in my head all week and i know you would do it justice🙏
but what about Gibsie x shy!reader
like she rarely talks except to Gibsie and her close friends (can be the core 10) and outsiders wonder how they’re together because they’re so different but it works because the reader loves listening and not talking and Gibs loves talking and does the talking for them
and Gibs always knows what she wants without her having to say it out loud if she’s in a very large space where she’s not comfortable talking
i hope this makes sense and thank you queen if you write this🙏🙏
enough words for both of us
pairing: gerard gibson x fem!reader
tw: none !
a/n: mb it took a little while, lowkey have zero energy and shit tons of school work but hoping it’s up to ur standards
masterlist !
you don’t talk much. not to most people, anyway.
some think it’s nerves. others think it’s pride. but it’s neither, really. you just like the quiet. like watching more than speaking. like listening and really hearing—the kind of silence that stretches warm between people who understand each other without needing noise to fill the gaps.
and then there’s him.
gibsie.
you don’t remember the first time he made you laugh out loud, but you remember how he’d grinned like he’d won a trophy for it.
he was loud. all big limbs and messy hair and words that never seemed to stop coming. he had this way of talking like the world was too slow for him, like he had a million things to say and only one lifetime to get through them.
and somehow, somehow, he chose to give most of those words to you.
“my girl doesn’t talk much,” he tells people with that proud, crooked grin, like he’s letting them in on something rare and beautiful. “but tha’s alright. i’ve got enough mouth for the both of us.”
and god, does he.
he talks for you when rooms feel too big and your throat feels too small. he orders your drinks at parties and knows just how you like your chips, and when someone asks you a question you’re not ready to answer, he just throws an arm around your shoulder and answers for you—never speaking over you, just for you, like he’s your translator in a world too fast and loud.
“she’s not bein’ rude,” he said once at a house party when some boy scoffed at your silence. “she just doesn’t waste her voice on eejits.”
you hadn’t said a word that night, but you’d kissed his cheek and he’d flushed from his ears to his collar.
he always knows. even when you don’t say anything.
like that time in the cafeteria when it got too noisy and the lights felt like they were buzzing in your head—he caught the shift in your eyes, that tight little line in your jaw, and suddenly you were outside, sitting on the steps with his hoodie around your shoulders and his voice a soft lull in your ear.
“you alright, pet?” he asked, fingers brushing yours. “bit too loud in there, yeah? i’ve got you.”
he always has you.
people don’t get it. they see the way he throws his arms around you in crowded hallways, the way you press your face into his chest instead of saying hello. they hear him chatter on about your day like he wasyou. and they don’t understand it.
but they don’t need to. because you do. and he does.
you let him be loud. he lets you be quiet.
and in between all the noise and stillness, there’s you and him, and it just works.
he gets it before anyone else even starts to.
you’re not just quiet. you’re careful—with your words, your space, your people. the kind of girl who watches the whole room before picking a seat. who knows everyone’s name but rarely speaks yours aloud. the kind who’d rather listen than risk saying the wrong thing, because the wrong thing’s lived in your head before and echoed too long after.
gibsie figured it out early on.
you don’t like loud rooms unless you’re near the exit. don’t like surprises unless they come from him. and you really don’t like being spoken over—not because you want the spotlight, but because people never get it right when they try to fill in the blanks for you.
except him.
he gets it right every single time.
like when the teacher calls on you in front of the whole class and your throat locks up around the words. before you can even try, he leans back in his seat with that easy charm and goes, “ah miss, go handy on her, yeah? she’s not the public speakin’ type—savin’ that lovely voice for me.”
the class laughs. the teacher sighs. and you breathe again.
later, when it’s just the two of you, you nudge your knee against his under the table and murmur, “thank you.”
he looks over, like he wasn’t expecting it, but he softens immediately. “always, baby.”
or when someone—usually a friend of a friend, or someone new—tries to be cute and make a comment about how you “never talk” or how you “let him do all the thinking for you.”
he’s across the room before you can blink, one hand braced on the back of your chair, the other flung out in the air like he’s about to give a TED Talk on why your quietness is his religion.
“she listens more in five minutes than you have your whole life, lad,”he says, voice still warm but edged just enough to bite. “and trust me, when she speaks, i shut up. so maybe you should try doin’ the same.”
you don’t say a word right away. not because you can’t. but because he’s already said it all.
but later, after the crowd thins and he’s walking you to your locker, your voice comes quiet and sure.
“you didn’t have to do that.”
“’course i did,” he says, not missing a beat. “you think i’m lettin’ some gobshite talk down to my girl? never happening.”
you smile then—small, but warm. “you talk a lot.”
“and you love it,” he teases.
you look up at him, eyes soft. “i do.”
he’s done for.
you’re sitting outside on the back steps one day, lunch in your lap, his hoodie slung over your knees. the noise inside is too much again, and he’s not saying anything either, just tossing grapes in the air and trying (badly) to catch them with his mouth.
he misses one and it bounces off his cheek. you laugh—really laugh, shoulders shaking, head tilted back—and he freezes.
just stares at you like you’ve cracked open the sky.
“jesus christ,” he breathes, hand over his chest. “you’ve gotta warn me before you hit me with that smile. nearly dropped dead on the spot.”
you roll your eyes, still grinning. “then stop being so dramatic.”
he blinks. “was that sass? was that sass outta your mouth? ohhh, you’re in trouble now.”
you laugh again, quieter this time, and don’t pull away when he leans in, pressing a kiss to your cheek, then your temple, then the corner of your mouth like it’s a secret.
“i love you quiet,” he murmurs, tucking your hair behind your ear. “but fuck, do i love when you laugh.”
you don’t say anything right away.
but then your voice slips out soft as a secret, just for him.
“i love you loud.”
he swears under his breath and pulls you in like he’s never letting go.
ok but Gibsie with a lynch!reader, she’s Shannon’s older sister by like a year and her and Gibs started dating before the ending of B13 and she never told Gibsie about the abuse and he has to find out from johnny that she’s in the hospital because of her dad
i need angst
thank you pookie😁
don’t tell him, shan
pairing: gerard gibson x fem!reader
tw: mentions of abuse ?
a/n: mb that it’s short and slightly inaccurate but i’m gonna actually try push through all requests tn
masterlist !
the bruises came and went.
same as always.
they’d bloom on your arms, sometimes your ribs, when he was angry enough. when the drink sank in and the walls rattled from his shouting, you always knew where to hide. knew how to breathe quieter, to take the hit if it meant shannon didn’t.
and it was always fine.
you made it fine.
because the only thing worse than living in that house was gibs finding out about it.
gerard had soft hands. hard voice, sometimes, and a mouth that didn’t know when to quit, but when it came to you—god, he was gentle. kissed your fingertips like they were sacred. listened when no one else ever had.
you didn’t tell him.
you couldn’t.
you knew he’d hate your da.
you knew he’d kill him.
it started raining halfway through the night. heavy, angry rain that pelted the roof and made everything inside feel colder than it should’ve.
you heard the door slam.
you knew the weight of his footsteps.
you didn’t have time to run.
—
you woke up in a hospital bed.
the light was too bright. your mouth was dry.
and shannon was sitting by the window, curled into herself like a kid.
you winced when you sat up. your lip split again, pain flashing through your jaw.
“shan?”
she turned fast, eyes red.
her voice cracked. “you need to sleep.”
“he—he brought me here?”
she shook her head.
“then who—”
“johnny found you.”
your heart slammed. “johnny?”
“yeah. i—I called him. he was the only one answerin’ his phone, and i didn’t know what to do, and you weren’t wakin’ up, and he just—” her breath hitched. “he’s gettin’ you some food now. he’s gonna kill ‘im. i think he really might.”
your stomach dropped. “shan, did you tell him?”
“i had to.”
you buried your face in your hands.
you didn’t hear the door open.
but you heard the voice.
“she didn’t tell me anything, though, did she?”
johnny’s voice was low. colder than you’d ever heard it.
and behind him—
gibs.
his eyes locked on you.
on the bruises, the blood, the bandage along your temple.
he didn’t speak.
not for a while.
just stared.
“gibs,” you whispered, throat dry. “i didn’t want—”
“how long?”
you hesitated.
his jaw clenched. “how long, y/n?”
“years.”
your voice broke.
“since before i met you.”
his mouth twitched. he looked like he might be sick.
“jesus christ.”
you tried to reach for him. “i didn’t want you to worry. i didn’t want—”
he stepped back.
and that hurt more than anything.
“didn’t want me to what? help you? protect you? know you?” he bit the words. “i’ve been in love with you for nearly two fuckin’ years, and you—you thought i wouldn’t want to know?”
you were crying now. you didn’t realise it until your vision blurred.
“i thought it’d ruin everything.”
gibs looked at you, then at shannon, then at the door like he didn’t know where to go.
johnny finally spoke.
quiet, like an afterthought.
“she didn’t want anyone to know. not even me. you gonna be angry or you gonna be there for her?”
ᯓ★ tommen’s golden boy, johnny kavanagh, is all strength and silence- rugby captain, local legend, the kind of guy everyone looks up to but no one really knows. he walks like he’s carrying something heavy, like the weight of his world never lets up. he’s loyal to a fault, bleeding for the people he loves without ever letting it show. there’s softness buried deep beneath the bruises and the bravado, glimpsed only in stolen moments and quiet looks. he loves in silence, protects like it’s all he knows, and never once believes he’s worthy of the gentleness he gives so easily.
shockingly gentle. he doesn’t talk much right after, just touches—his hand sliding over your waist, his mouth pressed to your shoulder, running you a bath if he feels like he pushed you too far. always asks, “you good?” in that low voice, like he means it more than anything.
ᯓ★ body part (his & theirs)
on him: his hands. he uses them like he knows they’re his best asset—whether it’s pinning yours down, guiding your hips, or brushing knuckles over your lips. on you: your thighs. loves pulling them apart, holding them open, watching them tremble under him. also lowkey obsessed with your mouth.
ᯓ★ cum
he’s so visual. always wants to see where it lands—your stomach, your chest, your thighs. but if he’s inside you? he’ll growl it into your ear, like, “gonna fuckin’ fill you up, yeah?” and then watch it drip out with his lip between his teeth.
ᯓ★ dirty secret
he gets off on the idea of you watching him. he hasn’t said it out loud yet, but he wants you to walk in on him one day—wants you to see how bad he wants you when you’re not even there.
ᯓ★ experience
you already know he’s no angel. he’s been around, had his flings, especially with older women. but nothing’s been serious—until you. and it shows. he’s confident but careful with you. a little more patient. a little more obsessed.
ᯓ★ favorite position
he’s a face-riding demon. swears it’s his favourite thing on earth. other than that? either backshots with your face buried in his pillow, or missionary with your legs over his shoulders so he can see everything.
ᯓ★ goofy
not often. maybe right before or after. during? he’s intense. serious. might smirk, but it’s not funny—it’s because he knows what he’s doing to you.
ᯓ★ hair
he keeps things natural but clean. doesn’t overthink it. doesn’t care what you’ve got going on either—he’s into all of it, full stop.
ᯓ★ intimacy
it’s overwhelming. he doesn’t always say it, but he shows it in every single touch. presses his forehead to yours. kisses your eyelids. worships you like you hung the stars.
ᯓ★ jerking off
does it a lot when he’s away from you. thinks about that one exact moan you made last time, the scratch marks on his back. sometimes he’ll call you after—voice hoarse, saying “fuck, baby, missed you.”
ᯓ★ kinks
* control/power play
* light choking
* thigh riding
* degradation + praise mix (“such a good girl for me, look at you.”)
* overstimulation (on you)
* possessiveness—“mine,” said over and over again
ᯓ★ location
bedroom is his go-to, but he’s had you in the backseat of his car, up against the shower wall, and once in the school gym when no one else was around.
ᯓ★ motivation
you in his clothes. your bare legs. your voice when it drops a little lower. the way you look at him when you’re pretending you’re not needy. he can always tell.
ᯓ★ no
nothing degrading in a real way. he can be rough, sure, but he’ll never do anything that makes you actually uncomfortable or insecure.
ᯓ★ oral (giving & receiving)
he’s obsessed with giving. says it’s his favourite part of sex. will have you squirming under his mouth in minutes, gripping his hair, and he loves when you try to pull away and he just growls, “nah, love, we’re not done.” receiving? smug bastard about it, but still lets you take your time. rests his hand behind your head like he’s petting you, then bites his fist to keep quiet.
ᯓ★ pace
varies. sometimes it’s slow and cruel, just to see you beg. other times it’s brutal—fast and rough, like he’s chasing something. always, always deep.
ᯓ★ quickie
yes. after school, during a smoke break, in the changing rooms. especially if he’s in a mood and you’re being too tempting.
ᯓ★ risk
a bit of a reckless streak. not stupid, but definitely doesn’t mind pushing it. loves knowing you’ll let him have you even if there’s a chance someone might hear.
ᯓ★ stamina
ridiculous. he could go again right after. sometimes does. especially if you’re being teasing about it. he’ll just roll you back over like, “nah, you’re not done yet.”
ᯓ★ toys
not yet, but he’s intrigued. would use a vibrator on you and lose his mind watching you squirm under it.
ᯓ★ unfair
teases a lot. touches you just enough to drive you insane and then pulls away. makes you ask for it. and if you don’t? he’ll smirk and say, “didn’t hear a please, love.”
ᯓ★ volume
he grunts, groans, curses. breathes hard in your ear. mutters your name over and over, especially when he’s close.
ᯓ★ wild card
he fantasizes about you watching one of his hurling matches after he’s already fucked you that day—like limping a little, legs sore, knowing exactly why. and he’d wink at you from the field like he’s the cockiest bastard alive.
ᯓ★ x-ray
he’s hung. you know this. thick more than long, veiny, curves a bit to the left. knows how to use it too.
ᯓ★ yearning
he’s feral. pretends he’s laid back but the second you’re near him, his whole body hums with need. craves you all the time. can barely keep his hands to himself.
ᯓ★ zzz
clings to you after. one arm thrown over your waist, breathing against your neck, murmuring dumb sleepy praise like, “you’re mine, y’know that?” until he drifts off.
