[tnydolly]

DOLL ᯇ 18 ৻ꪆ baby pink, lace, ribbons, heart locket, neapolitan, dilfs , bkdk, lana del rey, diet coke, gracie abrams, hockey, romance books ꫂ᭪݁

jack abbott , nanami kento , bakugou katsuki , leon kennedy , toji fushiguro, jack hughes, pope cody, james cook 𑣲

dni ; basic dni, sabrina carpenter fans ( she’s a pedo ! ), ethel cane fans, pro shippers, under 13

sort using tags in search !

🍨 - anon taken

masterlist ꫂ᭪ tag list ꫂ᭪ most recent

[groovyangelkisses]

coming down the stairs in a string bikini with a lil charm dangling in between your tits. jack is sooooo dad about it, standing from the couch with one arm extended as he walks towards you

“uh uh, no way”

“jaaaack it’s cute!” you whine, cocking your hip and placing your hand on the swell as you stand your ground.

“yeah too fuckin’ cute, i can’t pop a chubby on the beach, baby. please, for my sake, change.” he tries, but you know he wants you to wear it. he just loves the teasing faux argument, riles him up, even.

sauntering out the door with a smile and jack rubs his thumb on the bone at the center of your chest. “so fuckin’ sexy, love you” he relents, a soft whisper and rough kiss to your lips before he pulls back to grab the beach umbrella and your tote.

[ifawns]

jack abbot loves when you tell him how much you love him during sex. he’s so cocky about it, holdin your legs up and grunting out a “yeah? you love me? i love you too, baby” before he’s cumming inside you seconds later. there’s just something about you being so fucked out, pawing at him and trying to hold onto anything while he pounds into you, yet still being so fuckin’ sweet and babbling ‘i love you’s between thrusts that really gets to him.

[gtgbabie0]

I wanna get headlock by Leon fucking Kennedy while he fucks me hard, also I wanna be his controversial young gf😝😝 (sorry I’m in my ovulation phase)

no ur so real for this babe don’t evaa apologise!! 18+

because like yes… it starts out innocently, warm morning light spilling through the kitchen blinds as you cook pancakes in your lacy little bralet and a pair of his boxers with him behind you, rubbing his hands all over your curves, kissing at your neck and shoulders, hard-on pressed against your ass.

It doesn’t take long until you’re bent over the sleek marble countertops with those boxers pooled at your ankles and his fat cock buried deep inside your dripping cunt, stretching you out around him, groaning against your shoulder as you writhe against him.

“You’re too perfect, baby, looking all pretty, cooking me breakfast, letting me fuck this tight pussy— fuckin’ angel.”

Then his big arm wraps around your neck to keep you still, warm muscles tucked snugly under your jaw, your cheeks all squished between his bicep and forearm… and your cunt clenches around his thickness, pressing your ass back against him with a choked whimper of his name.

“Ooh, does my girl like that?— y’like when your old man chokes you a little, gonna cum, huh?” He coos roughly, his arm tightening just a fraction to feel your slick walls clamp around his cock once more. your eyes flutter shut as he ruts himself against your ass, the tip of his cock hitting that perfect spot deep inside you over and over again, the wet slap of skin filling your mind.

“Answer me or I stop.”

You gurgle, fingers desperately curling at his arm, blabbering nonsense, spit dribbling down your chin and pooling filthy at the crook of his elbow before finally managing out a whiny, “Fu-ck— yeah, yes!- hnng-” gushing around his dick as he fucks his load into your fluttering pussy, his face buried in your sleep tussled hair, moaning about how fucking perfect you are.

Then he’ll make you pancakes with extra syrup <3 (˶˃ ᵕ ˂˶)

જ⁀➴ Resident Evil Masterlist જ⁀➴ General Masterlist

[minimouse02]

Jack Hughes imagine where you are a ballett dancer and he visits your studio for the first time and he´s amazed by how talented you are (maybe a bit smutty in the end?)

Barre to Bedroom

pairing: Jack Hughes x female reader

summary: Jack watches you dance for the first time, his awestruck admiration quickly turning to raw desire.

CW: Smut, mdni, leotard kink?, unprotected sex.

The polished wood of the barre feels cool beneath your fingers as you stretch, your muscles warming up in the quiet studio.

"Hey babe," a voice calls from the doorway and you turn to see Jack leaning against the frame. "Hope I'm not interrupting."

You smile, motioning for him to come in. "Not at all. I was just about to run through the new piece."

Jack steps inside, his bag slung over his shoulder, his eyes taking in every detail of the studio. "This place is incredible," he says, his voice filled with genuine admiration. "I can't believe I've never been here before."

"You've been busy," you reply, reaching down to touch your toes.

"Still," he says, setting his bag down and finding a spot to sit. "I should have made time. I want to see what you do."

Your heart swells at his words. He's always been supportive, always interested in your passion, but seeing him here in your space means more than you can express.

"Well, you're in luck. You're about to get a private performance."

You can feel Jack's eyes on you, but instead of making you nervous, it fills you with a new kind of energy, a desire to show him what you can do.

The music swells and you begin to move, your body flowing through the familiar choreography. Each step, each turn, each leap is an extension of the music. You lose yourself in the dance, as you always do, but this time there's an added layer of awareness.

When the piece ends, you're breathless, your body glistening with a light sheen of sweat. You turn to face Jack, expecting applause or at least a few words of encouragement, but he's just staring, his mouth slightly agape.

"Jack?" you ask, a bit concerned by his silence. "Are you okay?"

He blinks, as if coming out of a trance. "That was… wow. Just… wow."

You laugh, walking toward him. "That's your professional critique?"

"I'm serious," he says, standing up and meeting you halfway. "I've seen some incredible things on the ice but that… that was something else entirely. The way you move, the control, the grace… it's like you're defying gravity."

You blush, pleased by his praise. "It's just years of practice."

"It's more than that," he insists, his hands coming to rest on your waist. "It's… art. You're art."

His eyes roam over your body, taking in the form-fitting leotard and tights. There's a hunger in his gaze now, a desire that goes beyond admiration.

"God, you look incredible," he murmurs, his thumbs stroking your sides. "I always knew you were strong, but seeing you like this… it's doing things to me."

"Is that so?" you tease, though your body responds to his touch, to the heat in his eyes.

"Definitely," he confirms, his voice dropping lower. "I have a newfound appreciation for dancers. And for what you can do with that body."

His hands move lower, cupping your ass and pulling you closer. You can feel his hardness pressing against you. "Jack," you breathe out, your hands coming to rest on his chest. "We're in the studio."

"No one's here but us," he replies, his lips finding yours in a hungry kiss. "And I need you. Now."

The kiss deepens, his tongue exploring your mouth as his hands continue their exploration of your body.

"Jack," you gasp as his lips move to your neck, his teeth nipping at your sensitive skin. "We can't…"

"We can," he insists, already guiding you toward the small dressing room backstage. "And we will."

The door closes behind you, plunging the small space into semi-darkness. Jack's hands are everywhere, pulling at the straps of your leotard, his mouth never leaving your skin.

"I've been thinking about this all day," he admits, his voice rough with need. "Watching you dance, seeing your body move like that… I knew I had to have you."

"You have me," you whisper, helping him remove your leotard, his hands shaking slightly with impatience.

Once you're bare before him, he takes a moment to just look, his eyes dark with desire. "Perfect," he murmurs, his hands tracing the lines of your body, the muscles defined by years of dance.

He lifts you effortlessly, your legs wrapping around his waist as he presses you against the wall. His mouth claims yours again as he positions himself at your entrance.

"Ready?" he asks, his voice strained with restraint.

You nod, unable to form words, your body already arching toward him, ready for the possession you know is coming.

He enters you with a groan, stretching you in the most delicious way. You gasp at the sudden fullness, your nails digging into his shoulders as he begins to move, his thrusts deep and powerful.

"You feel so good," he murmurs against your neck, his rhythm steady, relentless. "So perfect around me."

You can only moan in response, your body already climbing toward release, overwhelmed by the intensity of his possession, by the way he's taking you, marking you as his.

"I've been hard the whole time you were dancing for me," he admits, his thrusts becoming harder, faster. "Wanted to see you like this, naked, wanting me."

His words push you closer to the edge, your body tensing as pleasure builds within you.

"Jack," you gasp, your head falling back against the wall. "I'm close."

"Come for me babe," he commands, his hand moving between your legs to find your clit, his fingers stroking you in time with his thrusts.

Your orgasm crashes over you, your body shaking as waves of pleasure course through you. Jack follows moments later with a guttural groan.

"That was amazing babe," he finally says, his voice soft"

You laugh, your head resting on his shoulder. "I think that's my line."

"No, seriously," he insists, pulling back to look at you. "That was… incredible. You're incredible."

"So are you," you reply, leaning in to kiss him softly. "For more than just your hockey skills, it turns out."

He grins, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Good to know. But I think I prefer your skills to mine."

"Oh really?" you ask, raising an eyebrow.

"Definitely," he confirms, his hands moving to cup your ass. "Though I wouldn't mind a private demonstration of those skills later. Back at my place."

[dollfacies]

“pleasepleaseplease dean—” you’re crying, mascara streaking down your pretty little face—the very face dean winchester loves to plant sweet kisses all over and tell you just how beautiful you are when he’s feeling soft.

which is the opposite case at the moment. because he is as hard as a rock.

“shhh, mhm—i gotchu baby.” his thrusts are slow, but deep enough to have you whining and begging pathetically. he thinks it’s the hottest thing ever, hearing you babble gibberish because you can’t even bring yourself to say two words because you’re so fucking cockdrunk.

his hips snap against yours again and he curses, trying so, so fucking hard not to absolutely fuck you up with his load right then and there when you let out the most twisted and pornographic: “oh, dean.”

he growls, grabbing your thighs to pin them up against your waist, making you cry out when he stares down at your tear streaked face. “shit—say that again.”

“dean—”

his head tilts back and you crack your eyes open, just barely able to make out his own shut and hear him groan. his hair’s a mess, thanks to you pulling and nearly ripping out his head when he had his gorgeous face in between your legs a few minutes prior. you catch the small beads of sweat trailing down his toned chest in the dim light and oh god was he not the hottest man you’ve ever seen.

“c’mon—you gon let me cum in you, yeah? say yes, hm? know you want it angelface—” he grunts, fucking you faster and harder. he knows he’s close—and he doesn’t want it anywhere but in you.

“mhm! please dean!”

you have absolutely no idea what you’re saying yes to. cockdrunk.

his face is pressing into the side of your neck, and you feel his stubble graze your skin when he smirks like an idiot, lips travelling over your jaw to capture your own. he was claiming you. was this manipulative? i mean, just a little.

but after all, it’s dean.

“you want it here? huh?” his large hand presses on your abdomen, right where his bulge is sitting inside you with the outline poking out beneath your soft skin. you whine, nod furiously because he’s being mean. he lifts his head, grinning ear to ear as he watches you like a hawk. a fucking mess. “ah, ah. use your words sweetheart.”

you huff and puff, trying to get it together as your nails dig into the hard muscles of his biceps. god, his biceps. “yes—pleasepleaseplease oh my god.”

“attagirl.”

“gonna....” he slams back into you, harder than before, literally splitting you open. “gonna cum so fuckin’ hard in you—won’t be able to walk for days, yeah? fill ya up real nice with my babies.”

that was enough for you to choke out a moan, your orgasm hitting you hard and your vision almost blacking out when he pounded you straight into the mattress, his cock reaching your sweet spot so deep you just couldn’t bare it anymore.

he finishes right after and you let out a barely audible gasp, watching his cum begin to leak out of you, creaming around his cock still sitting still inside you and drip down onto the bedsheets.

later, you suggest just handwashing the sheets yourself for today. you’re not exactly sure the owners of the laundromat would appreciate catching dean and you coming in for the fifth time that week, washing the same bedsheets again.

AUTHOR’S NOTE: sorry i’m ovulating clearly and jensen ackles is so yum and i haven’t posted in forever so hi

[lanadelreyylover]

employee of the month

RE9!Leon Kennedy x Assistant!Reader

Though the DSO doesn't really do 'employee of the month', Leon's sure he can find a way to reward you for your hard work

based on this request

taglist: @cakeofhorrors @rainyxie@venus-in-roses@ghostieistiredd

Leon thinks back all the times he has corrected you when you call him ‘sir’ or ‘Mr. Kennedy’, always requesting that you use his first name, for purely selfish reasons. He just wants to hear it on your lips, those soft, plump lips that have never once been used to talk back to him, to second guess his orders–the kind of flack he gets from the junior agents he’s been tasked to train. Speaking of, he should really pass the baton to someone else. For the first time in his career, he’d much rather stay holed up in his office, clacking away at his computer, doing the mind-numbing work of writing reports, all so he can be within an arm’s reach of you. 

You remember how he takes his coffee, mostly black with the tiniest dollop of cream, hold the sugar, but be generous with the honey. And somehow, you get the ratio just right every time. A real Goldilocks, you are.

“Here you are, sir,” you say, the words dripping from your lips like the honey you have stirred into the coffee you set down on his desk, bowing slightly at the hips as you do. The pervert he’s come to be in his old age, Leon bends to the side to catch a glance at the slope of your ass. So pert, the taut curve enunciated by that form-fitting skirt you’re wearing. 

As soon as the bottom of the saucer hits his desk, he grabs your wrist. The jarring touch prompts you to look down at him as he sits up straight in his chair, leaning forward with a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “How many times do I have to tell you to call me ‘Leon’?” 

You giggle, slithering from his hold on your hand. Not offended, you don’t shy away like you are. Instead, you retain the kind of confidence that leaves you unshakable in the face of his absurdity. 

Silly old man. 

It’s as though you send the message telepathically, the way you smirk down at him before turning on your heel and stepping toward the door. Leon tests the strength of his dress pants beneath his desk as he watches the sway of your hips, the way the muscles in your legs flex as they carry you. So lithe. So graceful. Like a ballerina trapped in a jewelry box. He’d like to immortalize you in resin, dress you in a tutu, and keep you stored away on a shelf to twirl for him anytime he pleased. 

Silly old man, indeed.

Hand on the knob, hair flipped over your shoulder, you pivot just slightly to glance back at him. Such a coquettish minx you are, yet entirely too naive to be either. He has to hide his mouth behind a closed fist, tracing his lower lip with a fingernail, willing himself not to crack, however difficult it is when you look at him like that. Like you respect him. Like he walks on water. Like you’re begging to be proven wrong. 

“If there’s anything else I can do for you, Mr. Kennedy,” you coo sweetly. “You know where to find me.”

Unfortunately, it’s true. When you shut the door behind you, and leave him to his own devices, the voices of the devil and angel on his shoulder which are much louder in the silence of his office, he knows exactly where to go. 

It’s not long before Mr. Kennedy needs something else, beckoning you to his office. He opens the door, slipping his head through the crack, finding you at your desk just a few feet down the hall. He calls your name, waving you over. 

It’s half-past-five, and both of you were still working. He typically reprimands you for staying late, playfully of course, but the sentiment still stands. Tonight is different, however. It’s as though he was relieved to see you still at your desk, the lamp light still on, illuminating the cold patch of hallway you now have all to yourself.

You nod, finishing the work at your computer, hopping to your feet as soon as physically possible so as not to keep him waiting. He works so hard, always arriving early, leaving late. He doesn’t deserve a lazy assistant, not when he’s been nothing but polite and helpful to you as you adjust to the new position. 

“Sir?” You ask as you arrive at the door. He gestures for you to close it behind you. It’s obvious that he’s stressed, half-moons of purple skin beneath his reddened eyes, hair that has been raked through over and over by a restless hand. The top three buttons of his shirt are undone, his blazer strewn onto the sofa, not neatly hung on the coat rack, nor folded and placed delicately on the armrest. 

“Yes, come in,” he says, and you obey, venturing further into his office. His voice is hoarse. Perhaps he’s going to ask you to make him tea. “Take a seat. I want to talk to you about something.” 

Your heart drops as your body does, lowering yourself into one of the chairs on the other side of his desk. He’s dressed in one of his typical white button-down shirts, pressed and tucked neatly into his slacks, sealed with a leather belt. 

Three months. Three months you’ve been working for the department as Mr. Kennedy’s assistant, and it’s going to end today. In the beat of silence that falls over his office, you rack your brain for any idea as to what you could have gotten wrong. Maybe you forgot to alert him of an important meeting and he missed it. Perhaps you made one too many typos on the mission briefs you’d write up for him. 

Saying a silent prayer, but preparing yourself for the worst, you sit, with your hands in your lap, awaiting your impending termination. 

“I don’t know if I tell you this enough, but you do such great work here.” 

Like a dog at the promise of a treat, your head shoots up and your eyes widen. “Really?” 

He nods, a smile spreading across his face, flashing a set of white teeth. “Really.” You watch intently as he leans forward to rest his elbows on his desk, still covered in a bunch of loose leafs of paper and random sticky notes reminding him of approaching deadlines and assignments. “You’re always so attentive to my needs. It’s kind of impressive, how you seem to read my mind, knowing what I want before I even know it.” 

You giggle, cutting your eyes to the floor beneath the praise. “I don’t think so.” 

He stands up, walking around the corner of his desk to stand in front of where you're sitting, leaning his seat against the ledge. He supports himself on his palms, reclining back at the same time as he shifts his hips forward, settling into the new position. 

He’s so close that you can smell the faint scent of his cologne as it radiates off the patch of skin exposed by his loosened collar. This closeness, his body so near to yours, it conjures a simmering gurgling of anticipation in your gut, a primal instinct left by your ancestors to tell you that danger is near. 

Well, maybe not danger, but something altogether wicked. 

“Hmm,” he hums, nodding, as though truly considering your statement. “You don’t think so.” It’s not a question, he’s simply testing the thought on his tongue. “How about we test out that theory. What am I thinking about now?”

All that confidence you try to muster has swiftly made its exit, slamming the door behind itself, leaving you like a crustacean, naked without its shell to protect its gummy center. 

Your eyes cut past him to see an empty glass, the tiniest drop of amber resting at the bottom, betraying the liquid courage he downed before you walked in, as if you couldn’t smell it on his breath as he spoke. 

Mr. Kennedy isn’t a big drinker, you’ve learned, but he indulges on occasion, digging into a small bottle of whiskey he keeps locked in a drawer behind his desk. 

“I–I don’t know,” you stutter. “That it’s late and you want to go home.” 

He cocks his head to the side. That wasn’t the answer he was looking for, and you know that. 

“That I should win employee of the month because of how good of a job I’m doing?” 

You know good and well the DSO isn’t the kind of organization that has enough spare time to indulge in such corporate fantasies, but you’re buying yourself time, not quite ready to be done with this song and dance.

Mr. Kennedy laughs, tossing his head back, letting the sound loose from his chest. Then, he glances back down at you, leaning forward at the hip, ever so slightly. Not near enough to touch, just near enough to threaten it. “Close, but not quite. Though I do think you deserve a reward.” 

“How about five more vacation days?” You arch a brow, a smug grin on your mouth. “Paid. Or maybe just a trophy.”

That elicits another tittering chuckle. “You drive a hard bargain, but no.” He kicks a foot out to tap yours, nudging it to the side, your knees parting slightly in consequence. The blast of air conditioning billowing from the vent in the wall wafts between your opened legs, tickling the exposed flesh of your thighs. Goosebumps rise on your skin, to which Mr. Kennedy takes notice, licking his bottom lip at the sight. 

“Then what are you thinking, sir?” 

He lets out a puff of air he was harboring in his lungs, closing his eyes as he takes in that sound, caught between both hating it and needing you to say it again. 

Without another second wasted to hesitation, Leon bends down to catch your lips, pulling them into a passionate dance of tongues. If his words, his presence near you, were the igniting sparks, this was a roaring flame. White-hot with blue tips, it burned, leaving singing marks in its wake, marks you’d proudly wear. 

“Sir, I–”

“Leon,” he murmurs, cutting off your speech. And thank goodness for it, because you spoke purely out of ceremony, not even sure what you would have said if he hadn’t interrupted. You surely weren’t about to tell him to stop, to push him away on principle of him being your boss, your superior. He tastes far too good to give up now. Mint and sweet liquor and need. It’s thick on his tongue. 

“What?” You ask, your voice weak and flinty, hardly able to carry out a single word. He asks you almost every day to use his first name, to which you always pleasantly refuse, the back-and-forth becoming a little game between you both. Tonight, however, the name carries more weight than it usually does, sounding almost desperate the way it leaves his throat on a breath.

He retreats, just an inch to “You’re gonna call me ‘Leon’ when you come on my face.” 

You’ve never actually seen Mr. Kennedy–Leon–use the sofa in his office. It sometimes serves as a coat rack, other times as a filing cabinet, scattered with manilla folders and loose pages of paper. But he doesn’t sit on it, at least not that you know of, the upholstered cushions never indented, never a hair out of place.

You definitely haven’t seen him use it like this before. 

He has you sitting with your hips settled–practically dangling–near the edge, your legs parted, skirt pulled up, panties pulled down. His face is buried in your pussy, the evidence of your previous two orgasms painting his chin, knees digging into the carpet beneath him. After your first climax, you were worried about his joints, and you had asked him such. He responded with a click of his tongue and a hand on your lower stomach, keeping you pinned to the sofa. 

“Fuck, you taste so sweet.” The vibration tickles your clit as he takes the bud in his mouth, suctioning his lips around it. Your hips jolt upward, and it takes an enormous amount of willpower not to cower beneath the stimulation. His tongue laps at your cunt once more, dragging slow, languid lines up from seam to clit, gathering your wetness on his tongue. “This is much better than a vacation, huh?” 

“I don’t know about that,” you giggle, the sound eclipsed by a moan as he slaps your pussy, warning you that this reward could quickly turn into a punishment. “Definitely better than a trophy, though.”

[sceneframes]

Secretary (2002) dir. Steven Shainberg

[pofus]

can we have more Robert Chase smut I'm tired

💔

[lilacst4rs]

18+, oral (f receiving)

｡ ₊°༺ ❁ ༻°₊ ｡

Thinking of Remy eating you out.

You're sprawled out on the bed, knees hiked up over Remy's shoulders, his hands gripping your thighs to hold you still so he can quite literally bury his face in your pussy.

He is unfairly skilled with his tongue. Kitty licks that turn into flat-tongued circles over your clit, making your back arch and your toes curl. The nub is already swollen when he takes it between his lips, suckling gently as his tongue flicks back and forth quickly, heat pooling in your belly ridiculously fast.

He pulls away only to catch his breath, murmuring french affections against your puffy clit. "Tu es délicieuse." "si jolie chérie." "j'aime ta chatte." Before you can regain your own composure, his mouth is on you again, tongue delving between your folds this time. His nose nudges your clit as his tongue plunges deep, crooking in that exquisite way that nearly makes you see stars.

"Gonna come for Remy, mon cœur?" his breath is hot against your pussy, voice throaty and deep and all too sexy.

You cry out as he pushes you over the edge, your orgasm nearly blinding you in its intensity, waves of bliss cascading your senses. You're breathless and a little trembly as you bask in the afterglow, eyes fluttering in your dreamy state.

When Remy lifts his head it's impossible not to notice your juices coating the entirely of his mouth, dripping slightly down his chin. He simply licks his lips, meeting your gaze as he does, crimson eyes full of something sinful. He hums in satisfaction at your taste, thumb swiping across your thigh in some gesture of appreciation, before murmuring lowly.

"Think you can go for a round two, chér?"

[lacyydollette]

₊  ֹ  ˖ JOHN LOGAN AS YOUR BOYFRIEND ᱺㅤㅤ   ୨౿ 

mr. handyman. literally every single thing that falls apart in your life, logan’s there to fix it. kitchen cabinets coming loose? great, he’s fixing them. doors squeaky? he’s already on it. something wrong with your car? perfect—he’s taking his shirt off (for your eye candy) and getting to work. and he’s not one of those sexist assholes who thinks men have to fix things while women just stand there and yelp when things fall apart. he actually makes a habit of fixing things with you there, showing you how to do it so next time you can handle it yourself in case he’s not around.

this sweet, sweet man with those pretty doe eyes cannot stay mad at you for more than a day. if he has to go to sleep without fixing things with you, he feels like he might actually die. he just can’t do it. so when you two argue, like normal couples do, he always gives you both time to cool down before coming back to you to offer your favorite takeout, lots of kisses and cuddles, a movie night, and his heart practically in his hands just so you could forgive him. anything. he’ll do anything. just don’t stay mad at him.

as much as he’s a homebody, he actually loves going out—especially with you. restaurants, new cafés, movie theaters, hiking spots, even loud busy bars he’s not usually a fan off. and he’s always patient, giving you all the time you need to get ready without rushing you. and when you’re finally done and looking pretty, he’ll have you leave a bright lipstick kiss on his jaw, visible for everyone to see he’s taken, before you head out together. his favorite part about this whole thing is walking with your hands intertwined and sharing food.

again, he’s big on acts of service. waking up a little earlier to make you breakfast because you’re too lazy to make something yourself and usually skip it. taking the time to draw you a bath after a long day. making your drinks exactly how you like them—no ice, because you hate the watery taste when it melts, buying you things you’ve run out of, whether it’s your favorite snacks or products. taking your makeup off for you when you’re too tired. giving you massages, filling your gas tank—he’s all about it.

he’s so starved for you, so don’t expect him to leave you alone when you’re both home with nothing to do. he constantly has you laying on top of him, just lazing the day away. cooking simple meals together, which he’s surprisingly good at. he believes staying practically glued to you the entire time is good for his mental health and it’d be cruel to deny him.

this man figured out your weakness long before you even started dating that you can never keep your hands to yourself when he’s sweaty, fresh out of the gym. so when you move in together, he starts timing it, leaving the gym just a little after you get home. the second he walks through the door, your eyes snap to him, the sight of him making your knees weak, heat pooling in all the right places. and you don’t even try to fight it. you just walk up to him, grab him, and kiss him deep, fully intending to have those sweaty, ripped biceps wrapped around you in a tight headlock.

masterlist

[romantic-insomniac]

hey mootie!! your post about pope's THICK FINGERS NGHHH i cannot handle the thoughts i'm having about them.. but just imagine keeping you and pope's relationship a secret, him rubbing you through your shorts in the kitchen while everyones outside at smurf's or pope sneaking you into his room at night to treat you with those yummy fingers!!!!!!! ughh pls tell me you see the vision!!🥰

i see the vision moot!! hi gorgeous thank you for your patience i am here :P

i feel like at the start of this little scenario is when you're one of j's college friends who's soo much younger than pope but still follows him around like a little puppy. pope doesn't understand why you get so close to him when you talk or when you go to the cody parties, you're all over him instead of the guys your age that are throwing themselves at you.

so you just flat out tell him alone in the kitchen one night, that it's because you think he'd treat you better than the shitty college guys who have never even made you finish. you're fidgeting nervously as you pout, " 'nd i was just thinkin' that maybe it's not cause they're selfish, but that their hands are jus so much smaller than— than yours... " and pope's all shocked at the fact that you've thought about his hands like that. so you try and run when you think his silence is him rejecting you, but he’d grab you and pin you between the counter and his bulky frame.

pope would run the tips of his thick fingers along the waistband of your tiny shorts and breathe real heavy as he asked, "not one of 'em made you come?" you'd just shake your head, feeling a bit dizzy that he was so close to you and looking at you so hungrily. pope glanced behind you to see if anyone was around, and thankfully when he didn't find any eyes on him but yours, he'd slip his hand beneath your shorts and the little lace panties you were wearing.

and he wouldn't even asked you what you liked. pope'd just start to touch you how he wanted to. parting your softness and rubbing somewhere slick that he wanted to feel, or circling a sensitive area either rough or gentle whenever he felt like it. but you're pliant for him anyway. head fallen his against chest as you gasp, hands clutching helplessly at his broad shoulders as you feel two of his chubby fingers slide inside of you to stretch you out. they're so much bigger than any you've ever felt, just like you thought they'd be.

pope would talk to you how he wanted to the whole time, grunting out "bet none of 'em got you this wet either, did they?" and you'd shake your head frantically. and when he huffed "you like that? you like how this older guys fingers fuck you?" you’d moan "yes! feels so good- ah mmm- feel s-so full!"

pope wasn't gonna kiss you either. this was just about making you come so you'd stop following him around. but when you clenched around him so tightly and whimpered " 'm so close pope- oh god! w-will you kiss me, please?" he'd sigh and lean down to press his lips to yours not actually bothered about it at all. he’d steady you as you started to hump his hand while you moved your mouth desperately against his. in the end, he was glad he let you kiss him cause he got to swallow up all your little hiccups and whimpers as you came all over his big fingers, soaking him down to his wrist <3

[honeyroots]

˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚ ⌇JACK HARPER . . . ⚘ ༝༚༝༚

𓂃✍︎

Jack Harper can’t help but feel a little guilty every time he touches you. “‘M too old for you, baby. Too big for you, baby,” he’d say with his hands wrapped around your hips to still your movements. You climb on his lap like a kitten, unable to get enough of him. Pressing kisses along his jaw, and truly anywhere there’s visible skin, Jack juts his tongue out just enough to lick on you. It always starts like this— Jack not touching you with anything but his lips, his bulge evident in his pants as you put on a show for him to seduce him back inside of you.

When he finally sighs, muttering a gruff, “Christ,” you know that he’s about to treat you good. With his cock tucked inside of you, and his tongue working up and down the skin of your neck, your nails sink into his bare shoulder. His lips fixate on your pulse while he thrusts into you, using your heartbeat as a steady rhythm for his stroke. The noises you make are pathetic, babbling nonsense each time he ruts up. Yelps escape every time Jack sinks his full length between your walls, spearing you open with each movement. His veins are thick and throb against your sticky walls. Slight mockery ensues at the soft whines and whimpers, “told you, baby, you’re too little, huh?” Jack’s gaze connects with yours and your orgasm feels like a rush, soaking him enough to make your cheeks hot and leave a ring of white cream around his pubes.

[prettiestangelever]

Or when they wink at you! 💞

[k1tk4ttt]

[dollscentrose]

[daisyycorner111]

pleaseee