awkwardgiraffe726

[awkwardgiraffe726]

Why am I so addicted to this menace?

Mockery and Desire

Characters/Pairings: Ransom Drysdale x curvy Millennial Female!Reader Word Count: 300 Summary: PORN WITHOUT PLOT

Content/Warnings: explicit smut (anal play: fingering, rimming); dirty talk; mild degradation; bondage; blindfolded; questionable consent; mean Ransom

Author Notes: Written day 4 of @societyfolklore and @soelstress's Sexy September Scribbles challenge. All pieces must be 300 words or less. Prompt in bold-italics.

Additional Note: I almost titled this "Asshole for an Asshole" but... then I didn't.

↠ Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

“Aw, is your little rosebud feeling left out?” Ransom coos, but the edge is condescending.

You shouldn’t want his mocking and ruin, and yet you always do.

You let him tie you up, blindfold you. You let him roughly fuck your mouth and rip too many orgasms from your cunt.

And now he probes your ass with his ring finger.

“Let me kiss it better, baby.”

You’ve only let him play with your ass once before.

But Ransom doesn’t take his hand away. He presses deeper, the thick knuckle blooming hot, and you hate the shiver that racks your body. You want to tell him no, but your mouth is full of spit and ache, throat raw from his previous use. You settle for a wordless whine, but he just hums at the back of his throat—low, derisive, charmed by your helplessness.

His finger works a slow, twisting motion, finding a rhythm that matches the lazy slide of his cock over your thigh. “Bet you want to come again. Bet you’re so desperate you’d take it from anywhere.”

You stiffen, hating that he’s right, hating the wet between your legs, how quick your body is to betray you.

He flips you like a rag doll, face first into the mattress, still bound and blind. He drags your hips up, hikes you open. He palms your ass like it’s his own property, and you guess by now it is.

The wet heat of his mouth is sudden—he licks at you, slow, exploratory, tongue flat and wide. He groans, obnoxious, like he’s at a fucking five-star meal. You know he’s doing it for show so you’ll squirm. It works. You want to scream at him, to argue, but you can only clench at nothing and try to remember to breathe.

more SEXY SEPTEMBER SCRIBBLES

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I do not do tag lists, but FOLLOW @buckets-and-stories and TURN ON NOTIFICATIONS to be updated any time I publish a new work!

[awkwardgiraffe726]

Not me feeling like our reader 🤣🤭 oh how you spoil us Aspen 🫠

SHIRT

Characters/Pairings: CEO!Steve Rogers x curvy Millennial Female!Reader Word Count: 300 Summary: Working for this man will be trouble.

Content/Warnings: partial male nudity; workplace dynamics; implied inappropriate thoughts from the reader

Author Notes: Written day 7 of @societyfolklore and @soelstress's Sexy September Scribbles challenge. All pieces must be 300 words or less. Prompt in bold-italics.

↠ Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

You’ve been in the CEO’s office for fifteen minutes, laptop open, fielding a Slack firestorm about the new launch, when the man finally barrels in.

“Sorry!” Steve says, all six-foot-something of him with wet hair, gym shirt stretched over a chest with rippling muscles that taper to his waist, gym bag slung over his shoulder. His executive assistant Bucky Barnes follows behind, already taking the bag, his other hand holding a hanger with a shirt, tie, and suit coat.

It’s almost nine. Steve is supposed to be on a Zoom in exactly three minutes.

He looks at you, blue eyes bright, “Refresh me on the decks?”

You start reciting the key points: revenue projections, partner integration testing, the “optimistic” market share estimates, all while trying not to be distracted by the way Steve peels his shirt over his head, or the flash of golden skin and damp abs.

Steve pulls on the oxford, buttoning up each of the buttons with swift but meticulous care while he listens. He always listens so intently, eyes fixed on you even as Bucky hands him the tie.

You try not to stare, mostly because it’s useless. Steve radiates so much charm you’re sure you could die of it. Even if you did let your eyes flicker to his hands (big, competent) or his abs (were there twenty blocks there?), he’d never notice. It’s why he didn’t mind stripping in front of you. He didn’t know he’d said, “Don’t you dare come until I say so,” in your dreams last night.

You don’t cross your legs to squeeze your thighs together.

Steve grins. The effect is devastating. “Thanks, sweetheart, you’re a lifesaver, dunno what I’d do without you,” he says, slipping into the jacket Bucky holds for him and taking the seat at his desk.

All my previous scribbles have been SMUTTY, but this one is only SEXY. But yesterday's photos from TIFF have me thinking of a soft!dark CEO billionaire Steve Rogers... and I think I'm going to drop quite a few scribbles of him throughout the rest of the month if we like him... What do you think?

-> more SEXY SEPTEMBER SCRIBBLES

Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

I do not do tag lists, but FOLLOW @buckets-and-stories and TURN ON NOTIFICATIONS to be updated any time I publish a new work!

[awkwardgiraffe726]

🫠🫠🫠

shy not quiet

bob floyd x female reader

summary: bob lets you see the less reserved side of him through the excitement of a new relationship and accidental confessions

content: reader is a bartender, bob has a habit of watching her from across the room, some sweet relationship fluff and of course lots of smut, dirty talk from our shy king, mutual masturbation, size kink kinda but not really (idk bob talks about how small readers hands are compared to his dick so there’s that), confessions of love, bob getting turned on by emotional intimacy, unprotected sex, cream pie (reader explicitly asks bob to come in her for the first time and his brain short circuits)

word count: 3.6k

author’s note: another day another smut about a man named bob… really though, with the lewis pullman obsession taking over every fiber of my being, it was only a matter of time before i wrote for bob floyd. also i didn’t do an extensive amount of research for this, so apologies in advance if it’s not exactly “lore accurate”

The night Bob Floyd finally worked up the courage to ask you out, you were almost too stunned to respond. 

It was a simple “What time do you get off?” delivered in a severely underconfident tone, with a weak smile accompanying it. 

He had been watching you for weeks. Going to The Hard Deck with other members of his class to let off steam, and subsequently seeing you working behind the bar every night. 

You were always so busy taking orders and pouring drinks, but it never stopped you from feeling his stare on you from across the room. 

You noticed him right away, always sat in the back of the crowd, quietly observing with a content smile on his lips. 

He didn’t talk much, not even the times he found himself face to face with you at the bar top, just a quick greeting and a straight forward drink order, but his eyes spoke volumes. They were soft yet intense. His stare always met yours, but never longer than five or six seconds. However, that short time was enough to have both of you flustered and searching the room in a desperate attempt to play off the mutual attraction.

But Bob was oblivious to your crush on him.

He had convinced himself that there was no way on earth he had a chance with you. Every time he glanced your way and found you already looking in his direction, he felt a twinge of embarrassment for getting caught in the act— stealing a glance at the pretty bartender that was way out of his league. 

It wasn’t until the sixth or seventh time everyone found their way to The Hard Deck for drinks, that a few of the other guys gave him enough flack to actually influence him to ask you out. Succumbing to peer pressure and the notion that maybe, just maybe, you were interested in him too, he let his hesitant feet carry him to the bar.

It was a round-about way of asking you on a date— inquiring what time you got off work— but he was far too chicken to ask you out directly. He figured this way he had a better chance of getting let down easily. 

So it took him by surprise when you answered a straight forward “Nine o’clock,” with a sweet smile and your eyes fearlessly locked on his. 

That was the night he took you to get ice cream and the two of you walked along the beach, talking for hours with nothing but the glow of the moon reflecting off the tide to illuminate your path on the sand.

He kissed you that night. On the steps of your front porch with his hands holding either side of your face, he gently leaned in. His lips were soft—timid in their descent, but confident once they met with yours. There was an undeniable passion in the way his mouth moved against yours. Even with a simple goodnight kiss, it was obvious to you that there was something more there, hidden and burning beneath his movements. 

That soft spoken spark grew into a blazing fire over the next few weeks.

It almost felt silly to you now— your first impression of him— a quiet, shy, and almost dorky man, who you figured might stumble over his words and follow your lead like a lost puppy.

He couldn’t have been further from that when the two of you were alone together.

He may have been shy, but he was far from quiet. There was no doubt that Bob had no trouble holding his own behind closed doors— specifically your bedroom door.

The first time he had you pinned against your bedroom wall, hands roaming down your body and his lips on your collarbone, your knees nearly buckled. You’d been a clumsy kissing mess all the way through your front door and across your living room, until you finally pulled him past the threshold of your bedroom, and let him take the reins.

He carefully pressed your body between his chest and the wall, wasting no time as he explored every inch of you.

You’d severely misjudged his level of experience. Either that or he was gifted with the god given talent of actually knowing how to please a woman. Whatever it was, it resulted in the two of you spending many sleepless nights tangled in your sheets. 

Your honeymoon phase of complete toe curling bliss was cut incredibly short by Bob getting enlisted to train for an elite mission alongside some of the other graduates from his class. 

While it was a huge honor for him to be involved with such a high profile mission, it meant you saw less of each other. 

A lot less. 

Not only did he spend most days training from sun up to sun down, but the details of the mission were highly classified, meaning they kept close tabs on all of the recruits involved. 

Of course, he still found time to see you, it was just far less than you were both used to after nearly two months of enjoying unrestricted time together. 

Although it was temporary, the sporadic and rushed nature of his visits never failed to keep you on your toes. Some days you’d see him, other days you didn’t. 

This, however, was the longest you’d gone without seeing him since he was put on the assignment. 

Four days.

Sure it didn’t seem like much, but with the blooming nature of your newly christened relationship, four days might as well have been four weeks. 

And as you noticed the light hues of orange threatening to cover the clouds outside your kitchen window, you feared four days might turn into five.

And then a knock.

And another.

The two hurried taps against your front door shouldn’t have sent adrenaline coursing through your veins, but you knew it was him. And the excitement of a surprise visit from Bob was enough to have you eagerly striding to your front door, ripping it open at lightning speed. 

There he was. Hair falling slightly from its gel slicken place, pins perfectly placed at the pocket of his uniform, glasses sitting cordially on the bridge of his nose, and a wide beaming smile stretching across his lips. 

A matching smile burned at your cheeks and a cheerful greeting was due to follow, only he crashed his lips into yours before you even had a chance to speak. 

The weight of his body met yours, causing you to stumble backward into your living room. Instinctively, his hand found your lower back, arm snaking around your waist and holding you steady as he worked to guide your feet, walking you further into your entry way with his lips still attached to yours. 

He wasted no time. Showing you just how much he missed you in that grueling 96 hour period where he was rendered unable to taste your lips on his. 

His hands were quick to find the hem of your shirt, pushing it up your body and allowing you to help him throw it to the floor. 

In the time it took you to pull the material over your head, your lips were free long enough to get a few words out, “So I don’t even get a hi, how are you?”

He smiled, but it was unclear if the source of his delight was from your sarcastic remark or the view of your newly exposed skin.

It wasn’t long before you felt his sloppy grin press into your neck, lips peppering gentle kisses just underneath your jaw. 

“Hi” His voice was a muffled hum against your skin.

“How are you?” His question teetered on mocking, but the sweet way the words tumbled from his lips and into the crook of your neck made it all the more endearing.

“Better now,” the answer to his question slipped past your lips as you tried your best not to moan with him lightly sucking at a particularly sensitive spot.

It was muscle memory the way your hands found his belt. The motions seemed to be an ingrained pathway in your brain as your fingertips pulled it free from the loops of his pants.

You could feel his breath hitch against your neck, as your hands found the button of his pants. 

“God, I couldn’t stop thinking about you.” His lips were still moving against your skin, moving back up your neck as your hand slid into the front of his pants, dipping below the waistband of his underwear. 

“You were on my mind, every minute of every day.” His voice was low in your ear as your fingers wrapped around his dick that was already straining against the tight confines of his pants. 

“What did you think about?” The question sounded innocent as it purred from your lips, but paired with the way your hand was shoved down his pants, slowly stroking him, your words were aimed to kill. 

“Thought about your lips, and how soft they always feel on mine.” He placed a quick kiss to your mouth the second the words left his tongue.

“Thought about your hands…” He pulled away from the kiss, his arms still wrapped around your waist holding you close, but his gaze fell between your bodies at your hand pumping agonizingly slow in his khakis. 

“How small they are when they’re wrapped around me.” It was like he was in trance, his eyes fixed on your wrist just barely visible at the top of his pants. He watched as it moved in time with your palm gliding against his length, his glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose. 

His words were confident but not arrogant. The confessions— regardless of how dirty— were kindly spoken. Each one delivered in an earnest tone despite the shaky breaths expelled between them. He was trying his best to keep his composure while your hand busied itself in his briefs.  

Breaking out of his daze, his eyes found yours again, a tiny smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as he let one of his hands slide to the front of your body, tracing the skin along the waistband of your pants. 

“Thought about how you’re always so wet for me.” Those words held a bit more sensuality as his voice dropped to a raspier octave, and his hand dipped into the thin material of your panties, fingers wasting no time as they found the arousal pooling at your center— evidence of his hushed admission.

His name left your lips in a soft gasp as he teased your entrance with the pad of his middle finger. 

There you both were, standing in the middle of your living room with your hands shoved down each other’s pants.

While somewhat pathetic, the desperate sighs of relief and impulsive moans pouring into the space between you were anabashadly hot. It was a primitive display of excitement in finally feeling one another.  

He leisurely pressed his finger into you, watching the way your lips parted at the feeling. 

A quiet whimper found its way past your opened mouth and Bob groaned in response,

“Thought about those little sounds you make.”

Almost as if the warmth of your pussy wrapped around his finger was too much to handle, his head fell into the crook of your neck. 

Your hand was still keeping a steady rhythm, stroking him in his pants, when he mumbled into your neck, “Keep making them for me.”

He was referring to the soft moans and unsolicited whines that bubbled up from your chest every time he curled his finger into you. Adding another digit and working against the restraint of your pants, he had every intention of hitting that perfect spot that would send profanities dripping from your tongue, except you grabbed his wrist, halting his movements and forcing his head from its resting place on your shoulder. He gave you a raised eyebrow and slightly tilted his head in question to your abrupt interruption. 

“Bobby.” His name filled the room like a song— soft and sweet from your lips.

“Can you just fuck me already?” The words were rushed and breathless, and the look on his face was a mix between surprise and utter amusement as he freed his hand from your pants and effortlessly guided your body onto the nearby couch. 

With your back against the cushions, you maneuvered your hips, pushing your pants and underwear down your legs and tossing them aside, while Bob stood over you eagerly undressing himself until the two of you were completely bare and he was hovering above you, kissing you with passion fuelled anticipation. 

He lined himself up at your entrance, eyes flickering between your face and the space between you where your bodies met, watching as he pushed himself into you, slowly stretching you to take every inch of him. 

“Fuck- you feel so good.” Your words melted into a moan as he continued to push into you, an agonizing pleasure overtaking your body as he took his time pushing in to the hilt. 

“God I love you.” He hummed out, gazing at the way he disappeared between your thighs. 

The second the words left his lips he’d filled you completely, dick fully sheathed inside your plush walls, and all he could do was freeze. 

He didn’t mean to say it out loud.

Neither of you had used the ‘L word’ yet. 

He knew he loved you weeks ago— three weeks ago to be exact— when you were wearing his t-shirt and cooking him breakfast while you giggled at one of his stories from class. 

It hit him like a semi truck in that moment, he cared so deeply for you, wanted to spend every waking moment in your presence, wanted to see you in every single one of his t-shirts, and would do anything to make you laugh over and over again just to hear the sound of it. He loved you, but he refused to say it first. 

His overwhelming fear of rejection kept him from making the outward profession of his feelings too soon, yet here he was, balls deep in you on your living room couch, the three simple words echoing in the silence of humiliation. 

You looked up at him, waiting for any sort of follow up clarification or retraction, only to be met with a very serious and slightly apprehensive stare, and Bob’s heaving chest. 

Your hands found the back of his neck, sliding affectionately into his hair and bringing his face down closer to yours. 

“I love you too.” 

The palpable tension pulling at his muscles immediately melted, and his eyes softened at hearing the reciprocated confession in your gentle voice. 

It was impossible to stop himself from lowering his head into yours, kissing you for what felt like the hundredth time in the last half hour, as relief flooded throughout his body, and crashed into your lips. 

Still buried inside you, his hips pulled back before thrusting into you with measured intensity. 

Over and over again, his hips met with yours as your hands tugged at his hair with messy moans escaping through locked lips.

“Say it again.” His demand was sweet and sincere, as he pulled away from the kiss, continuing to drive into you at the same satisfying pace, with his eyes watching carefully as the words floated from your lips once more.

“I love you, I love you, I love you.” It sounded through the room like a quiet chant on each of your moans, whispering words of praise and affection at every one of his thrusts.

The sweet nature of the moment was drowned out by the guttural groans coming from the man above you. It was like every time you uttered those three little words, something primal lit up in his brain, telling him to push into you harder— faster. Hitting the same sweet spot with each jerk of his hips, and you could feel the familiar coil of release tightening in your abdomen. 

“Oh sweetheart, keep squeezin’ me like that.” His voice was a breathless groan, threatening to crack at the pleasure of feeling you pulse around him.  

You obliged, tightening around him with every stroke of his cock, throwing your head even further back into the pillows underneath you.

Your hands that were tangled in his hair found their way down, tracing the muscles of his back. 

Feeling your hands running down his body sent Bob’s mind into overdrive, as his head dipped down to kiss and nip at your chest. 

His mouth worked skillfully, tongue dancing around your nipples, sucking eagerly anywhere and everywhere he could. His actions drew groans of appeasement from you as you laid underneath him, his thrusts working in tandem with his mouth to send you over the edge. 

You squirmed and moaned, nails raking into his back as you tensed up, warning signals of your impending climax. 

“That’s it sweetheart.” In a pussy-drunk haze, he let out a mumble against your chest, feeling the way you were freezing up underneath him, grasping at his back, letting him know you were close. 

His words acted as the final push, tossing you into a pool of utter euphoria as you came around him with a pathetic squeak of his name. 

He slowed his thrusts for a second, a gentle hand coming to rest on your face while he met you in a kiss. Sweet whispers of praise left his lips as you came out of your orgasm induced fog, a haphazard smile painted on your face. 

His thumb rubbed back and forth across your cheek, his hips stalling with his dick still pushing against your now soft and swollen walls that tensed around him repeatedly. 

“So perfect…” His eyes gazed down at you with nothing but affection swimming in them. 

Now it was your turn to let something spew from your psyche, completely unfiltered—

“I want you to come in me.”

You could hear him audibly swallow, as his eyes stayed on yours. 

While you’d had sex countless times, in plenty of different positions, with condoms, without condoms— relying on the pullout method and the birth control pills you took religiously every night to do their job— you’d never gone into this territory before. 

“A-Are you sure?” For the first time since you’d known him, Bob stumbled over his words. His eyes searching yours in an effort to ensure that your request was genuine.

Without a single word, you just nodded your head, hands gently running across his back. 

You wanted this. More than wanted— you craved it. 

In your mind there was absolutely no other way for this meeting on your couch to end. You knew it was risky— stupid even, but you needed to feel him in every way possible. 

Without needing any more reassurance, he began to move, pulling out of you and pushing all the way back in, savoring the enveloping warmth of velvet between your legs. 

Already sensitive and still working your way down from your high, the little sounds you were making in rhythm with each of his movements sent every ounce of blood in his body straight to his dick.

Your moans and the sound of your voice asking him to come in you, replayed over and over again in his head, causing him to pick up his pace, desperately chasing his own high. 

You braced yourself for his release, hungry to hear that strangled groan you knew would escape his throat when he came.

“C’mon baby, I wanna feel you.” You were stuck in such a fucked-out headspace that you hardly recognized your own voice as you begged him to finish.

But your words were exactly what he needed to hear for his hips to stutter and a gravelly whine to push past his lips as he spilled into you.

His warmth flooded you, sending your legs wrapping around him.

You pulled him further onto your body as his dick throbbed, sending its sticky heat spreading deeper into you. 

Subdued sounds of pleasure and relief filled the room as you both let out an assortment of sighs and moans at the gratification of raw, unrestrained love and desire. 

The setting sun sent shades of deep orange and dusty pink into the room, painting the walls and filling the space with an ambiance of peaceful quiet.

Bob’s body fell against yours, naked limbs intertwined with one another as you both squeezed next to each other on your couch, his length still buried inside of you, a mess of release spilling onto your thighs, but neither of you cared.

The only thing on your mind was the comfortable weight of his body pressing into you, and his chest rising and falling calmly as his eyelids fluttered closed. 

“We should get up and get cleaned up.” You attempted to reason with him— and yourself, bringing a hand up to run through his hair. 

A huff of air was his only response as he hugged you tighter into him.

“I can make you dinner…” 

You thought for sure the offer of a warm meal would entice him, but he didn’t budge.

“Just a quick nap,” His voice faded into a deep breath as you played with his hair.

“And then dinner.” He opened his eyes a little, peeking at you with a playful smile on his lips. 

You smiled back, nodding ever so slightly as his eyes fell closed again. 

You snuggled into his chest, fingertips still running through his hair when you heard a content, “I love you,” leave him in a whisper before he drifted off.

[awkwardgiraffe726]

Wow dude seriously!?!

Silence is Golden 7

Warnings: This will include dark elements. This chapter has self-harming behaviour. Please do not read if these elements or any dark elements make you uncomfortable.

Character: Lloyd Hansen, smol, mute! reader

Summary: you’re put in the custody of a strange man with questionable motives and an even more questionable mustache.

Please reblog if you enjoy and leave some feedback! Muah 💋

"It's a lovely colour." Sheila assures you as she straightens the skirt and looks at your reflection.

You stare and crinkle your nose. You don't look like you. You're too colourful. You love the brightness but it feels like you're in a costume. Maybe that's best. Don't show people who you are.

You tilt your head and touch the skirt.

"Well, it sure beats dusty old khakis or whatever the fuck," Lloyd startles Sheila as he appears behind you. "I didn't think there was legs under all that."

"Sir," Sheila turns and puts her hands on her hips.

"What? It's a compliment." He scoffs.

"You're not very kind to her if you think that," she puts herself between you and him.

You spin to stare at her back.

"What the fuck's it your business? We came here to buy clothes. Don't you work on commission?"

"I do, sir. But I can have decency." She crosses her arms. "If you don't have anything productive say, maybe you should wait out in the gallery."

"Are you tell me what to do?" He challenges.

"I'm giving you some sound advice. And perhaps you might clean up your vocabulary."

"How about you dislodge that stick from your ass?" He sneers.

"Why, you are absolutely repugnant!" Sheila exclaims.

You sidle around her and along the rack of hangers. Neither of them notice as their voices get louder. They hurl their barbs back and forth as they argue, getting closer and closer to each other as they do.

You snake around Lloyd and scurry out into the front of the shop. There's some other shoppers milling around, a few glancing over to the voices coming from the back. You put your head down and head for the door. You've caused enough chaos.

You push through the door and stumble onto the pavement. You look back and forth. You stare at Lloyd's car. You should wait there. Or just go. He told you to stay though. Stay or go... a classic riddle written into many a song.

Barking distracts you from your inner conflict. You look up at the tiny black dog with mop-like hair. He jumps at the end of his leash and tugs his owner. He's looking at you. He wants to say hello.

You step off the curb and cross the parking lot. You wave your palm at the woman holding onto the other end of the leash. She calls to the dog, "Marley, please!" She spots you as you get closer. "He doesn't bite. He's just friendly."

You put your hand out to the wet nose. He smears it all over. You let him. You slowly move your hand over his furry ear. So soft.

"He likes you." She says. You lift your head and look at her. "His name's Marley."

You turn your attention back to petting Marley. Tension rises around you. She coughs.

"Anyway, we should keep..."

"What in the fuck are you doing?" Lloyd snarls as you're swooped off your feet. The lady gasps. "Running off like a stray fucking cat."

He swings you up over his shoulder. "Sir! What--"

"Mind your fucking business!" He turns and sticks out his other arm towards her. You can only imagine his lewd gesture. "Get that yapping fucking mutt away."

He staggers away as the barking turns ferocious. He sighs and carries you back across the lot. You play with a wrinkle in the back of his shirt.

"Whatever the fuck that is, stop. It tickles." He demands. "Shit fuck piss and hell." He goes to the car as it chirps. He stops and opens the back door. "We gotta fuck off out of here. That bitch Sheila called the police. You believe that?"

He bends and puts you inside. You sit stiffly and twist to see through the back window as Marley walks away with his owner. Lloyd slams the door. He drops into the front seat heavily.

"Look, we're going to the goddamn mall. You're too fucking much." He cranks the wheel as he backs out carelessly. "Don't need bitches like Sheila cunting up the place."

He drives down the street and clucks his tongue repeatedly. He looks in the rear view then growls.

"You know what the fuck you're doing to me here? Driving me up the fucking wall and for what? You can't fucking say a word. Can't even give me a yes or no. Can't buckle the fuck up. Can't fucking do shit fuck or piss." He speeds up. "Fucking waste of space. I shoulda let that guy shoot you. Would've fixed that brain."

You shrink down as he gets louder and louder. You look down at your lap. The wheels spin then all at once, screech as he curses. You look up at the red light and a honking driver. He honks back.

You push across the seat and shove the door open. You get out as he shouts. "Hey! FUCKKKKKK!"

You walk past the car and another whips by in front of you. The next stops before it can hit you. The one on the other side just brushes you and another hits their brake.

"FUCK! WHAT IN THE FUCK!" Lloyd holler's, getting louder and louder. You close your eyes and keep walking.

Once more, your feet leave the ground as he scoops you into his arms. This time he cradles you against his chest. He turns and shifts, air blowing past you at high speeds.

"Jesus. I'm gonna be pancake batter because of you." He snarls then jolts harshly. You open your eyes as he kicks a car as it stops. "Can't you see I'm walking here, idiot!"

He carries you back through traffic. With the arm hooked under your legs, he angles his hand to shoot several drivers off. He puts you back in the car and rips down the seat belt. He buckles it.

"Do that again and I won't come get you," he points in your face and you go cross-eyed at his thick fingertip.

He backs out of the car and closes the door. Once again he gets in the driver seat. He shifts into gear and drives through the now green light. You're quiet. You thought he wanted you gone.

It's hard to know what people really want. They never say and by the time you figure it out, it's too late.

[awkwardgiraffe726]

He’s just so classy 🤣🤣🤣 “…cover tits to ass.” Really?!? I feel ya there Sheila 🤣🤦🏻‍♀️😳 oh dear indeed.

Silence is Golden 6

Warnings: This will include dark elements. Please do not read if these elements or any dark elements make you uncomfortable.

Character: Lloyd Hansen, smol, mute! reader

Summary: you’re put in the custody of a strange man with questionable motives and an even more questionable mustache.

Please reblog if you enjoy and leave some feedback! Muah 💋

The socks make your feet itch but Lloyd said you have to wear them. The laces tied tight around your ankles to keep the oversized shoes in place cut off your circulation. It's his handiwork and he wasn't kinda about it.

"Google, Siri, whatever," he says, "find me lady clothes."

"Sure, finding women's clothing stores in your area." The digital voice chimes back. You watch the map on the touchscreen rejig as he drives slowly. The speakers ding. "Would you like to go to the closest location?"

"Fuck. Yeah, sure." He snarls and shakes his head.

"Re-routing." The voice replies.

He sighs and grips the wheel tighter. He glances over at you. You stare through the windshield from the back seat. You feel bad.

"You know, you keep walking around in my clown shoes and those ratty rags, people are gonna ask questions. That's it. I can't have you drawing attention. Doesn't work for a guy like me."

You twiddle your fingers over your grey corduroys. They're rough and there's a hole in the left knee. They could just be patched.

"None of this works for me. You get that? I was supposed to get millions for that job. What do they give me? Polly fucking Pocket over here. Doesn't say a damn word and folds herself up in the closet." He rants to the road. "And I'm here tryna figure you out. Like I fucking care. Get it straight. I don't. But I want my fucking money."

"Turn left at the next light." The GPS says.

"Go fuck yourself," he barks back. "Bitches, always telling me what to do. Getting in my way."

He lets his gripes trail off and you turn your attention to the window to your left. You knot your hands together. It isn't something you haven't heard. Even Rocco said as much. Worthless once you stopped talking. Once... things happened.

You slide across the seat and pull the door handle. He slams on the breaks as you open the door.

"Hey! The fuck are you doing? Are you crazy?" He twists and tries to reach you between the seats. "Why the fuck am I asking?"

You reel back and close the door. You look at him. He closes his eyes and tilts his head until his neck cracks. He turns straight and slowly leans on the gas.

"You stay. Til I get my fucking money. That's the deal. I don't know how the fuck that works but I'll untie the asshairs of the shit stain situation." He growls. "And you're not going nowhere until I do."

You were trying to help. To get out of his way. You're not sure where to go or what to do but you don't need to be his problem.

"Nice to know you fucking listen though. That's one thing. Not a lot of girls I know do that." He sniffs and shifts in his seat.

You consider him. He doesn't have a wife. You think she'd be in that big house but he's old enough. Maybe he's divorced. That might explain some things.

It would be nice to be married. To someone. Just to have someone. Once you had people you loved.

Better not to think of them.

You sit back. You're sorry to him. Sorry that he wanted more than you. You can't help but wonder why Rocco gave him you instead. He should've let that man with the rifle pull the trigger.

"Your destination is on the right." The automated voice cuts through your thoughts. You blink away all that and sit up. He pulls in and pumps the break sharply. You hit the front seat with your shoulder.

"One day you're going to buckle the fuck in," he tuts.

He gets out and you follow. The shoes flop with each step. It's awkward.

He leads you to the front door of a boutique. You enter and flutter your lashes at all the colours. You sidle around to a display and take a pair of sunglasses. You put them over your eyes. Better.

"Too big." He nears and takes them off your nose, replacing them with a smaller pair. "You look like a bug."

You wiggle your brows above the lenses. He turns away. A woman in a pink blazer struts out from behind the round counter.

"Hello. How can I assist you today?" She greets him.

He points at you. "She needs something to wear."

"For anything in particular? An event?" She prompts.

"Every day, I guess." He shrugs. "You know better than me what ladies want. It's why I'm in this fucking hole."

"Oh my," she bats her lashes. "Well, of course, we can get her a nice wardrobe. Some basics." She looks at you. "Well, those clothes are very well loved, aren't they?"

You stare at her. She looks at Lloyd as he wanders over to toy with something lacy. You're not entirely sure what it is.

"She doesn't talk so good luck," he scoffs. "She's not picky, neither."

The woman's eyes crinkle then soften as she looks at you. She smiles. "I'm Sheila, sweets. How about we look around and you can let me know anything you like."

You watch her. She's uncertain but gentle. She touches your arm lightly and you wince.

"I'm sorry, sweets. You lead the way, okay, I'll be close." She assures.

You drag your feet forward and swivel your head back and forth. You see something purple. You go to it. You lift the sunglasses to see the real colour. You touch the sleeve and show it to Sheila.

"It's very nice. We'll try it on?" She asks. You don't answer. She nears and searches the rack. "I think I can find your size."

You sidle along. There's a rainbow cardigan that goes down to your ankles. You carefully lift the hanger. You hold it out to Sheila.

"She doesn't got anything," Lloyd calls over. "So make sure you cover tits to ass."

She frowns and shakes her head subtly. She takes the sweater. "Oh dear." She whispers.

[awkwardgiraffe726]

Silence is Golden 5

Warnings: This will include dark elements. Please do not read if these elements or any dark elements make you uncomfortable.

Character: Lloyd Hansen, smol, mute! reader

Summary: you’re put in the custody of a strange man with questionable motives and an even more questionable mustache.

Please reblog if you enjoy and leave some feedback! Muah 💋

Lloyd walks up the stairs. You're right behind him. There's paintings on the wall. They look like the ones you see in important places. Rocco had one of a woman bleeding from one breast...

Lloyd stops suddenly and you walk into his back. You stumble away and watch him, watch his hands. The grip his hips.

"You can chill out, alright? Just..." He huffs and looks past you then behind him. "I'm gonna put you in a room and you stay there. Okay?"

You blink. He waits. You blink again.

"Can I get anything? A nod?" He frowns.

You stare at him as he stares back. His forehead lines. Slowly you raise your hand. You put your thumb up.

"Great. You understand... I hope."

He nudges you back the way you can and stops at a door. He opens it and flicks on the light inside.

"You got a bed and a bathroom. Get some sleep and we'll figure all this shit out in the morning." He crosses his arms. "Maybe some clothes that don't smell like a basement."

You enter the room and spin around to take it in. It's big and nice. The bed looks cozy and there's a patterned rug under it. You pad across to the window and pulls back the curtains.

"Cool, I'll leave you to it."

The door shuts. You peek back to make sure he's gone. You return your attention to the window and the dark lawn below.

This is all his. It would be nice to have something all your own, let alone many things. Your eyes blur off into the distance and your forehead hits the cold glass. Your eyes droop and you catch yourself on the window frame.

You are tired.

You go around the bed. You leave the slippers beside it and turn away. You go to the first door, right there. It's a bathroom, as promised.

You go back to the other side of the room to a small door. It's a closet. You inspect it. There's not much inside, empty hangers and a box on the shelf.

You step inside and shut the door. You push your back to the wall and slide down. You hug your legs and curl up with your head over your knees.

If you sleep in a ball, you won't wake up to a kick in the stomach.

🙊

Footsteps wake you. You give a start and listen with a racing heart. They hammer on the other side of the wall. All around is darkness, a single slit of light across the floor.

"Hey! Quiet girl. Where the fuck are you?" The man hollers.

You know his voice but you can't trust yourself. As many times as you didn't want to believe things were real, that you were safe, you know better. You put your hands over your mouth and listen to him stomp around.

"Goddamn!" He barks. "Ass nuts."

His footsteps pound the floor and fade off into a distant tempo. You tuck your chin down and hold your head. It isn't Rocco or those other mean men but you just can't leave the darkness. Not yet.

You stay like that. You can hear him yelling and slamming distantly. Eventually, you don't hear anything.

You nestle into the corner and close your eyes. Your head is throbbing. You're still exhausted.

You sink back into a dreamless sleep. Those are the best. When there's nothing to be afraid of or even think of.

You're torn out of your sleep by the sudden cascade of light and a voice.

"There the fuck you are!" Lloyd stands over you. "I've been running around like a man with my balls cut off and you've been in the damn closet."

You rub your eyes as you look up at him. He bends and grabs your upper arms. He brings you to the feet and takes you out of the closet.

"Why didn't you use the bed?" He walks you to it and makes you sit. "Look, I'm not a nice guy but I did a nice thing. I offered you a perfectly good queen-sized and I don't appreciate spit in my face... Not in this context."

You look at him. You angle your head slightly. You didn't mean to upset him. 

You feel the bed under your hands. You push down on the springs. Cushy.

You turn and put your knees on the mattress. You crawl across it and turn to face him again. You wobble as you get your feet under you. You stand and bounce. Just a little.

You give a thumbs up and make a full jump, and another, and another. A line deepens between his brows and he pinches his nose. He exhales then drops his hand.

"Alright. I know I should get rid of you. You're no good to me-- hey, you wanna stop that and listen?"

You straighten your legs and stand in the middle of the mattress. You watch him. 

"I got no use for you. No talky, no listen." He opens and closes a hand. "I should but I also don't need you wandering into traffic and leading anyone back to me." He clucks. "I fucked up. I should've left you back there with that fat fuck."

He runs his hands over his hair and shrugs. "Too fucking late, huh?"

You cross the bed unsteadily and stop before him. He watches you. You reach out and push on the line in his forehead and try to smoothe it with the pad of your finger. His lips twitch. 

He steps back away from your reach. "You need clothes. Let's figure that out."

You jump and let yourself fall. You land on your ass on the bed and bounce into your feet. You stare at him and give a thumbs up. 

He narrows his eyes then spins away. "Come on." He calls over his shoulder.

[awkwardgiraffe726]

Silence is Golden 4

Warnings: This will include dark elements. Please do not read if these elements or any dark elements make you uncomfortable.

Character: Lloyd Hansen, smol, mute! reader

Summary: you’re put in the custody of a strange man with questionable motives and an even more questionable mustache.

Please reblog if you enjoy and leave some feedback! Muah 💋

You watch as the world darkens to nearly pitch then slowly starts to soften. The night rolls into dawn as your eyes itch with the pass of time. You yawn as the sunlight sears over the skyline.

You turn and peek into the bedroom. Lloyd is in the bed, a muscular arm exposed over the top. He's a very big man. At least to you.

You creep closer as you look at how his bicep bulges and a vein runs down it. Your look down at yourself. You're not very strong at all.

You look at him again. His breath ruffles the shirt hairs of his mustache. It looks like it tickles.

You bend and touch the short bristle. You pinch a strand and pull. His eyes snap open and he swats you away as he snarls.

"Jesus's tits, what are you doing?!" He rubs his upper lip. "Balls."

You stand straight and stare. He looks at you with blazing eyes. Oh no, you made him angry.

You put your head down and get to your knees. You put your arms out and wait. You bite down in expectation. He huffs.

"For the millionth time, what the fuck are you doing?" He growls.

You don't move. You don't like the way he yells. Your body locks up from the volume.

"Hey, you," he turns his legs over the side of the bed. "Get I--"

He grabs your arm and pulls you to your feet as his voice catches. He pushes down the sleeve of your loose shirt. His thumb touches a strip of scar tissue, ridged and hard. It's one of many.

He lets you go and clears his throat. "You're right. Should get up. Get back on the road early." He brushes past you, his feet slapping on the floor. "Damn I gotta piss."

You stay by the bed. You hang your arms at your side and stare at the rumpled blankets. You hear his stream hit the water. The toilet flushes and he yawns loudly as he comes out.

"Coffee first." He says. "Gotta get my dick on straight." You turn to glance at him. His brow twitches. "Judging from the looks of you, you've dealt with worse than my language."

He scoffs and stomps out. He wears only a pair of tight briefs. The muscles in his back are as defined as the rest of him. You follow and longer in the doorway.

He puts a cup in the tray of the coffee machine. He jabs at the touch screen impatiently. He turns to lean on the bar and tilts his head at you.

"You sleep?" He asks. You stare. "Alright... Well, you seem alert."

He reaches up to tidy his missed hair. He drags his palms over the shave sides and drops them. The machine grinds as it spits out coffee.

"You drink coffee?" He asks.

You're as silent as ever.

He sighs and grabs the cup. He looks at it then you. You turn away and go to the window. A pigeon flies up and you point. You hear him slurping.

"Right," he mutters.

🙊

You walk out in the hotel slippers. They're too big but comfy enough. As Lloyd opens the driver's side, you wander past as you watch a man walk a dog across the road. You remember a big fluffy dog that was so soft to pet.

"Stop doing that," Lloyd reins you in just before a car drives in front of you. "You're going to get hurt."

He drags you to the car and opens the passenger door. You just stare. He pushes you inside.

You sit and he shuts the door.

As he goes around, you turn and wriggle between the seats into the back. He gets in and exhales loudly.

"Alright. Sit back there."

He slaps the wheel and checks the mirror. He stretches his neck and buckles his seat belt. He turns the engine and the car thrums.

He pulls out and you slide over to the window. You watch people pass by with cups off coffee and baby carriages and children. It's like a television but better.

Lloyd turns on music. It's familair. You think you know it. An old band with a dead singer.

You bob your head as he pulls away from the city scenes onto the highway. He clicks his tongue.

"Huh? You like this song?"

You bop your head harder.

"I probably got more Queen..." He mutters and pokes at the screen.

You lean into the seat as you sit sideways and watch the cement barrier blur by. This isn't too bad. You can see, you can hear, and you can feel.

🙊

It's dark again. Your head feels full. You're tired but you don't want to sleep. You want to stay awake and stay in the world.

The car goes quiet. Lloyd gets out and stretches. A light trims his silhouette. He comes around and opens your door.

"Out. This is it." He declares dully.

He leads you up the drive. Orbish lights cast over the green lawn and the little marble statues. The house is immense. Like Rocco's...

You stop and gape up at it. He keeps walking. He gets to the front door and turns back. He searches the dark.

"Sunshine? Come on. I need a drink. ASAP." He calls.

You twitch and shuffle over to him. You climb the steps in the oversized slippers. Your foot slides through the open front and you trip.

You brace yourself but don't hit the ground. Lloyd catches you and pushes you straight. He keeps hold of you as he guides you up the last two steps.

"You need to lay down." He says. "I got more than enough beds for you to do just that."

You might do that but you don't think you'll sleep.

[awkwardgiraffe726]

I just love Viking Steve

For the King & Conqueror

viking au

A remarkable but insignificant woman in your village, your life changes irrevocably and in frightening ways the day you wed the son of the village chieftain. Your nuptials were unknown to the fierce viking warrior and king Steven and his men the day they landed on your shores, but he is not unhappy about the opportunity that presents itself in claiming the bride.

Content Warnings: [check individual parts for their respective warnings] DARK STORY, invoking prima nocta, non-consent/rape, stealing of virginity, explicit smut, rough sex, use of pet name (little bride, little wife), human tribute/trade, kidnapped wife

↠ So Black the Darkness Hums ↠ Ceremonial Rituals ↠ Fierce Affirming Sight of Sunlight Steven's POV ↠ Come Down from Battle ↠ more coming soon

What if this Steve were a mob boss instead of a Viking King?

Commentary: an ask about whether or not his queen would consider divorce

[awkwardgiraffe726]

This was sublime 🫠🫠🫠

Hobbyists

Characters/Pairings: Steve Rogers x curvy Millennial Female Mob Boss!Reader Word Count: 8.3k Summary: Outside of the mafia darker deeds of the family business you've taken over, you've got other interests, a blossoming empire. The family distillery is flourishing in your capable hands, you're opening a restaurant, and you're just generally a grade A, fantastic, boss ass bitch interested in good company, good food, and even better bread. But someone thinks a hobby could do you even better...

Content/Warnings: explicit smut (oral: female receiving, vaginal fingering, unprotected vaginal intercourse, cream pie, cum play); pseudo-strangers/know each other by reputation; one night stand?; celiacs and vampires beware: garlic bread ahead

Author Notes: Written for @biteofcherry and delivered belatedly for her birthday. I've never written a reader like this, and she gave me a fair bit of hell trying to tell a story worthy of all her spirit, so I hope anyone who reads it has a little fun stepping into her shoes! Thank you @vonalyn for helping me in the beginning, the middle, and the end, and for bullying me into including a line that was just ridiculous enough to punch up the fun in this story!

↠ Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

You are just savoring the last spoonful of the affogato with amaretto when the head chef of your new restaurant gets to your table. You set down your spoon, and clap for him as he gives a modest bow.

“Thank you, boss,” he says.

You don’t hold back your grin, nor the urge to reach across and shake his hand. Maybe it’s corny, but he’s earned it, every bead of sweat, every salt crystal and speck of parsley. “No, thank you. The whole menu is dynamite,” you say, twisting the ring on your finger like you’re dialing in the right compliment, “and this affogato is criminal. You’ve outdone yourself, Luca.”

He ducks his head, but you catch the faint flush of pride in the high slope of his cheekbones. “You should come back tomorrow,” Luca says. “We’ll do a porcini risotto, and maybe something with the spot prawns if they come in. You know, if you want.”

You do want. You want to be here every night, burning your tongue on the first bite. Your city had been sorely lacking in Italian fare that soared and sang, hence why you decided to open the restaurant and scouted for the best chef to launch the menu and lead the culinary charge each night.

“Oh, and that change on the garlic bread? That’s a revelation. I would make love to that garlic bread!”

Luca blushes and chuckles. He glances over his shoulder, conspiratorially, as if the dining room might sprout rival chefs from the walls. “Actually, I should confess something,” he says, lowering his voice. “Today’s bread wasn’t done by our baker.”

You arch an eyebrow. You’d tasted the difference, a golden crackle to the crust, a tension in the crumb like something suspended midair. “Oh?”

“Just for a few weeks. To help Matteo get his hands on the soft stuff, you know? He’s a brilliant pastry chef, but the bread still wasn’t quite where I wanted it, and I found a guy in midtown just a few days ago and convinced him to do a few hours each day prepping the dough. Still our garlic butter.”

You cock your head. “Who is it?” The answer hovers just behind his sheepish smile, and you have the suspicion you know exactly who he’s going to say.

“You probably haven’t heard of him. Roger Hood. He own’s that new place, Cap’s.”

Oh.

You knew the name.

Hadn’t met the bastard yet, but you knew the name.

“Is he here?” you ask, regulating your tone to cover both your irritation your insatiable intrigue.

Luca shakes his head. “He comes in the morning to prep with Matteo, then leaves before most of the line gets here. Has his own place to get back to.”

“Well, I guess we’re all lucky he’s in a generous mood.” You pour the last of your espresso down your throat and set the cup on the saucer with the softest possible clink. You smile, but it’s a brittle, dangerous thing. Luca misses the undertow, or pretends to, and ambles back to the kitchen, light on his feet, untouchable.

When you turn back, your small group of friends are also finishing off their desserts, and Celia is giving you a look like she knows a secret that’s even more delicious than the cannoli she’d ordered. Her smile is all canine, the kind of thing that means she’s about to offer you a dare.

“Oh god. What?” you say, drawing out the vowel, and steeling yourself.

Celia’s grin stretches wider. “You need to make it your absolute top priority,” she says, slicing each syllable with visible delight, “to go to Cap’s and thank Roger Hood in person.” She puts her wine glass down and leans in. “And I don’t mean a thank you note, babe. I mean thank him.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling despite yourself. “Why? So we can poach him?”

You know it won’t happen. After going into Cap’s Bakery six weeks ago, you’d tried to bring him onto your staff as a private chef. You’d sent some of your men, tried to get his number, stopped by twice yourself, even sent a bottle of your family distillery’s finest bourbon with a handwritten note. Each time you were met with nothing - he seemed to be a ghost in his own shop, and offered nothing more than a polite, stony silence. An unspoken but resounding thanks, but no thanks.

Honestly it irked you that Luca had gotten him to even agree to help here. Evidently the man didn’t know who owned the place.

Or didn’t care.

You didn’t know if that made you more or less annoyed.

“You heard Luca, we don’t need to poach him. He’s helping Matteo for a few weeks with the garlic bread.”

“No, no, no!” Celia’s laser focus is all mischief and intent. “I’m not talking about the garlic bread! You will want him to lick your bread!”

You actually throw your napkin at Celia, laughing along with the others laugh as well. “That is awful, Ce!”

“I’m serious! He’s a hunk and a half, babe. And there’s not a trace of him online, I checked after I went back for more cookies after that first time you and I went. Which, by the way, his cookies the next week were so good I nearly blacked out. But never mind that! This man is just walking around midtown, being an actual oven-hot adult male, and you’re going to go over there and introduce yourself properly.”

You lean back and cross your arms. “You went back for cookies without me?” you say, opting for the lesser transgression.

She raises an eyebrow. “I called you. Twice. You were busy with the liquor distributor or something. But I’m telling you, he’s illegal levels of hot. My panties nearly melted off my pussy on the spot when I saw him. If I weren’t engaged, I would have opened my legs on the spot.”

The table erupts. You don’t even try to shush her, because that’s Celia’s whole point. She makes scenes and lets them transform into parties, and you’re always happy to be part.

Celia’s fiancé, Brian, snorts so hard he chokes on a fragment of biscotti. “Jesus Christ, babe,” he wheezes. “We need to get you home.”

It serves as a good enough cue for everyone to start saying goodbye and making their exits. You leave a tip so generous you know Luca will split it with the whole staff, then make a show of strolling out past the kitchen, nodding to Matteo and the rest of the line with a conspiratorial smile.

After slipping into the back of the luxury SUV waiting for you, you confirm with your driver that you’re ready to go home. No more business tonight. Once you’re in bed, you scroll through your phone, scanning every review of Cap’s, every leaked menu and Instagram post with its sunlit loaf and the visible geometry of air pockets. You study photos of pastries and cookies the way you’d scan a scene or a rival for clues, for motive, for weaknesses.

And you dream of that damn garlic bread.

The next morning, you arrange a point in your schedule to stop by Cap’s to pick up croissants, cookies, coffee, and to leave a another handwritten note, because you don’t expect he’ll be there. You’re not concerned with getting a look at him—you honestly don’t expect him to be as good looking as Celia tried to claim he was, you know she loves to spin a good story for a group—but you’re fed up with him dodging and ignoring you.

So you don’t even ask if he’s there when you leave the envelope with the young girl at the register. It’s got Roger’s name, and inside, the note reads:

You ignored my offers before, but now you’re working in my restaurant. You owe me a meeting, Hood.

It’s signed with your name and number.

Two hours later, you receive a text with a time and place for later that night and a promise of fresh garlic bread.

Two minutes later, your phone buzzes again, and you look at the lock screen to see the alert for the second message from Hood:

And I already had your number.

But his was not a contact you had in your phone.

The puzzle of Roger Hood lingered at the edge of every thought and matter of business you dealt with for the rest of the day.

The neighborhood you turn up to that night is hung in that uncertain time between derelict and chic, where the streetlights haven’t quite caught up to the gloss of the new and refurbished buildings and the air is a little raw, tinged with river-borne cold and the smell of construction. Factories that had polluted the city and become outdated and unnecessary are transforming into a conscientious conglomeration of affordable, mid-range, and luxury housing - a social and economic experiment driven by a nameless investor who started redeveloping here three years ago.

You step out of the car and let the tail-lights paint the curb behind you while you size up the building, which is only a few blocks from Cap’s. It’s a clean, brick rectangle, maybe six stories, the kind of place that only just manages to hide its money behind community gardens and floral murals.

Your head of security didn’t love letting you go up alone, but you pressed that you were only meeting a baker, would have your knife and gun on you, and since there weren’t any red flags when Carol’s team did a sweep of the area, the building, and its tenants, she grudgingly agreed to wait down below with your driver.

You punch in the number Hood sent on the keypad and the lock clicks and you’re then you’re inside. The lobby is sunken, concrete floors and an unmanned desk, a scaffolding of mailboxes that stradle the aesthetic between functional and decorative. A single elevator, belled in matte black, sits with doors already open.

Inside, you see your own face in triplicate in the brushed steel panels

The elevator is quick and stainless, lined with a faint lemon-pine scent that can’t quite mask the grit of the former warehouse. You ride up, alone, to the top floor.

You’re hit immediately with the irresistible scent of baking bread. The scent is aggressive, alive, deliriously warm and inviting, guiding you down the hallway until you reach the door with Hood’s number on it.

You knock—strong, polite, three times—and the door swings open. Roger Hood stands there, in flour-dusted jeans and a navy t-shirt clinging to his torso like he was poured into it. He looks up from the stainless mixing bowl in his arms, and you realize that Celia, for once, had actually understated the case. His hair is a blonde with darker tones beneath, shorter on the sides and pushed back and longer on top. His shoulders are nearly doorframe-broad, tapering to a narrow (for his size) waist. The skin of his forearms are covered in ink your eyes itch to study since they also adorn corded muscles. His eyes are shockingly blue: the reckless spring-onset kind, fringed with long lashes.

That first moment you lay eyes on him, your breath is stolen from your lungs.

But then you’re shaking your head, tutting in annoyance, because this man may go by Roger Hood, but that’s not his real name.

“Steve Rogers,” you seethe.

Celia—who didn’t know you were the princess who recently took over your father’s mafia empire—would of course have had no idea this baker was the notorious Rogers.

“The very one,” he smirks at you.

“Steve Rogers and Roger Hood. God, you’re terrible,” you roll your eyes. You don’t know if you are more pleased or infuriated by the discovery.

“But you still want to come in, don’t you?” His smirk grows.

You huff and push past him.

“I guess a lot of this makes a lot more sense now,” you toss out, eyes darting everywhere around his open-concept loft-style apartment. Exposed wooden beams, exposed brick, but modern couches that also looked like they were actually built to be comfy, and even a few impressive plants inhabiting the space, standing out from the black accent walls. The plants aren’t mere accessories, you realize. They’re thriving, clearly loved and well-tended, with soft leaves you want to press your cheek against.

You stalk the perimeter of his space, not bothering to hide the assessment in your gaze. You clock everything: the open shelving stacked with French cookbooks, the little vials and beakers lined up like an alchemist’s work station, the battered but immaculate stand mixer.

He’s already back at the long, white-stained butcher-block counter, hands in the bowl again, kneading with a practiced aggression. His forearms flex fascinatingly as he folds, pulls, and presses, the dough stretching elastic under his command and coming alive in his grip. The smell in here is intoxicating: deep, yeasty, spiced with a lash of fresh garlic, and something else you can’t place right away.

“I assume you know why I’m here,” you say, only glancing at the bread because you refuse to let him catch you staring at his arms.

He doesn’t stop working the dough. “Do you know why you’re here?” he asks.

“Because after dodging me and my people for weeks, you broke into my restaurant’s kitchen and started moonlighting as our garlic bread consultant,” you say, scanning the counter for sharp implements. Your hand hovers above a bread lame. You amuse yourself with the image of brandishing it at him—mafia bravado, but all you’d do is score his dough.

He shrugs, works the heel of his palm into the soft gold around a pool of glistening olive oil. “Didn’t break in. Your chef invited me. And what was I supposed to do, princess? Ignore a beg for help?”

You cross your arms. “You always have such a hero complex?”

He looks up, face open, a smile loosening his posture. “You say that like it’s a crime.”

The set up here would almost be romantic if you were the type to fall for soft powerplays, but you’re more the type to chew through them. “We’re both here because of a problem,” you fire back. “A business problem. I’m not really interested in your hobbyist games, Steve.” The name is acid on your tongue.

His hands slow, but just for a heartbeat. “Funny. From where I’m standing, I only see solutions.” He balls the dough smooth, leans into the fridge for a plastic bin, and drops it in to rise. You take in every movement. The care, the confidence. If this is posturing, it’s the most casual, blue-collar kind you’ve ever seen.

“Okay, be straight with me,” you say, fighting down the urge to fidget with your ring. “What is this whole Roger Hood baker act you’ve got going on.”

He washes his hands with methodical grace, then grabs two mismatched mugs off a shelf. “It’s not an act,” he says, filling them from the cupboard with what you realize—with a stupid small thrill—is the bourbon you sent him. He offers you one mug and takes a sip from the other. “Everyone in our line of work should have a good hobby. I like baking. Eases tension. Lets me think.”

You take your own sip of bourbon, then sigh and turn to explore more of the loft again.

“And I’m really fucking good at it.”

You huff. “I guess the fake name and low profile make a lot more sense now. And your dodging me and my men constantly.”

“I dodge everyone at the bakery,” he explains, “that’s the point.”

You turn back and frown at him. “What’s it the front for?”

He laughs. “Bread and pastries.”

You scowl.

He raises his hands innocently. “On my mother’s grave, it’s only a bakery, and that’s all I ever intend for it to be.”

“I guess it also explains why you wouldn’t entertain my job offers. Too busy with all your mafia management duties to be my personal pastry chef.”

Another deep, rich laugh rings out between you, and your insides twist. “You could say that.”

“But why did you agree to work for Luca then?”

He shrugs. “It’s a short-term gig, and I like Matteo. He’s got a lot of promise.”

“Did you know it was my place?”

“Not initially, but I did before I officially said yes.”

You scowl at him. “So, what’s your angle?”

“No angle, princess.”

Your scowl remains just as intense, but then a timer goes off and Steve turns to the oven, quickly opening it and assessing the state of a loaf of bread he’s been baking—the perpetrator of the scent you were weak for that drew you right to his lair.

He removes the loaf and sets it to cool in a wire rack. The sound it makes—a soft, secretive crackle—rattles in your chest like a warning or a confession.

“I’m calling bullshit. No one as careful as you takes a risk without a payoff.” Your tone is sharper than you intended, but you can’t help it. This entire day has gone off script, and you’re supposed to be the one holding the pen.

He shrugs. “You’re the one who wanted a meeting. You want a slice?” he asks, and you’re annoyed at how easily your mouth waters at the prospect.

You perch on the nearest stool. “Of course I want a slice. But don’t think this means you can just butter me up, Steve.”

He grins, grabs a serrated knife, and works it through the golden crust. The interior is so impossibly tender you watch the blade quiver through the crumb, each element of the sound it drawing you in.

Instead of passing you a plain slice, he slathers on a roasted garlic-butter, then drags the edge of the knife along it with the kind of precision that signals either real care or a deep, un-wasted violence. He plates it and then slides the piece across the counter towards you.

You bite in. The crust shatters, the steam floods your mouth. The flavor is unreal, with all the depth and complexity that had eluded your kitchen’s best, even in their most fevered nights. There’s a heat, too—a flicker of chili oil you didn’t expect, that lingers just long enough to encourage another bite.

You meet Steve’s gaze as you set the bread down. Your hands rest on the counter. It took everything in you not to moan outright at the sensation of exquisite flavor and texture on your tongue. “This is even better than what you helped Matteo with at my restaurant.”

“Of course it is,” he scoffs. “I’m not going to give him all my secrets.”

You pick up the masterpiece of a slice again and say, “I hate you for this,” before taking another bite.

“No, you don’t.”

No. You don’t.

He slices and butters a second piece for you, and then some for himself before coming around to sit on the stool next to you.

Steve gnaws through his first slice, a deep, savage bite, and then licks a fleck of crust from his lower lip. “Do you have a hobby?” he asks, with a loaded softness. “Something besides counting money and thinking up new ways to strong-arm liquor distributors and make acceptably shady business deals to build your empire?”

It’s meant as a tease, but the question jabs you right in the hollow you didn’t know you’d built. You want to volley back, bat it away with a sly answer, but your mind blanks.

You lean back, stalling with a sip of bourbon, and try to think of anything besides work, besides the endless domino run of meetings and deals and small, contained wars. For a moment you try on the answers other people might give: tennis, painting, hiking, some elegant pursuit like flower arranging, but they all feel like lies. You spend time with your family, you have dinners with friends, you even manage a vacation once a year, organize the od charity event, or, for the thrill and the hell of it, fix a city council race here and there. But none of those qualify as a hobby so much as a reprieve from the relentless machinery of your empire.

You clear your throat. “I read,” you say finally, almost defensive.

“What’s the last book you read?”

You feel the sudden pressure of his gaze, which somehow compels you to honesty and fraudulence in the same breath. “I…” you start, but the silence stretches. You scroll through the shelf in your mind and all that comes up is a loose scatter of childhood favorites, a true crime memoir you finished months or maybe years ago, the name of an author you keep meaning to look into, and then—nothing. You can’t remember the last novel you finished. You can’t even fake an answer because it’s been that long since you read.

You think about lying anyway, but something about the set of his jaw says you’d only amuse him more if you tried.

“Fuck,” you admit, “I honestly can’t remember.”

The amusement in his eyes is not cruel. He’s not gloating. There’s just a gentle, knowing tilt to his jaw as he swallows another bite of his own slice of garlic bread.

He lets you sweat for a second, as if your failure to produce a literary answer is the most predictable thing in the world. You want to throw a barb, but he leans in, the distance now nothing, his voice so close it feels like a hand on your collarbone.

“Maybe you just need a new hobby,” he says. His tone is soft, low, but the challenge is as clear as the savor in the air, and it lands with the same effect—immediate, intoxicating.

“Lucky for you, I’m available for part-time hobby work,” he adds, holding your gaze until the joke lands, then letting it hang between you.

“Are you offering to be my hobby?” The words are out before you can filter them, and the way he smiles makes you realize that was exactly what he wanted you to say.

“I’ll knead you like dough,” he says, so deadpan you almost miss it.

You laugh, sharp and unguarded. “That’s terrible, even for you. Is that how you seduce all the bread sluts?”

“No, just you.”

You do not blush for him; you do not do that. But it’s possible—just a little—you’ve met your match.

“Accept my offer: all the sex you want and taste-testing anything I bake.”

You scoff. You fight how tempting his offer is.

“Who else would you want to be with?”

“I could hire a hot bodyguard.”

He laughs.

“A hot driver.”

He arches an eyebrow, leaning back from you. He takes another bite of garlic bread.

“I could date a CEO.”

“You could. You have, and they’ve all bored you.”

“I have no—”

But Steve interrupts your protest. “You have.”

You glare at him.

“I did my homework on you,” he says, leaving a beat of silence for you to wrap around that admission.

And you like that he studied up on you.

“You’re too clever, too much of a queen in our line of business to be bored by anyone who isn’t cut from the same cloth. Anyone who’s not me.”

You scoff. “That’s incredibly cocky.”

“Cock’s ready for you, princess,” he teases.

You roll your eyes, but it’s flirtatious, not in actual annoyance.

Then his expression grows serious—and just earnest enough that you can’t help being drawn in even more by him. “Be honest, when you thought I was nothing more than some baker, I was barely a blip on your radar. But the second I opened that door and you saw it was me, I saw your posture change.”

You hate how correct he is. You hate it more that the realization comes with a pulse behind your sternum—a hum of energy that’s part challenge, part want, and mostly the unmistakable flush of being seen, really seen, by someone you can’t misdirect or play at.

You’d spent years sculpting your reputation, leaning into the clean, clinical mercenary—the anti-princess, the heiress who didn’t need anyone to open doors or spill blood on her behalf. But he may be the only one who’s ever looked you in the eye and made a play without an agenda.

You finish your slice of bread, take another sip of bourbon and exhale. “Fine,” you admit, letting the steel in your eyes melt just a fraction. “You always this quick, or is it a special occasion?”

He shrugs. “Depends on the company. You inspire me.” He means it, simple as that. No grand gesture, no feint, and it lands with a clarity that makes it harder to hold onto any of your practiced indifference.

“But I should stipulate for the record I’m only quick with sex when I don’t have the luxury of taking my time.”

“You better live up to that expectation,” you say.

He only smiles. It’s confident, but not arrogant. You almost hate him more for it, except you’re starting to believe this may be genuinely be some sort of kismet chance.

You lean forward, elbows on the counter, chin in your hand, trying for some semblance of cool-calm-and-collected. “So. Are we going to negotiate, or are you just going to keep feeding me until I forget what we need to discuss?”

He grins, but it’s softer now. He turns on his stool until he’s facing you head on, spreading his legs wide, only loosely bracketing around you. But he does put one hand on your thigh, no hesitance now. “No need to negotiate terms for a hobby. You want something, you ask for it,” he says, squeezing just enough to quicken your pulse.

You suck in a breath and place your hand on his—the span of your palm small against his flour-dusted knuckles. “I want to finish the bourbon first, if we’re establishing hobbies.”

“Fair,” he says, but doesn’t let go.

As you sip, you try to think of a reason you should object. A reason this is a waste of your time, a liability, a risk. But you’d never directly competed with Rogers or any of his hold. Truthfully, you’d always had a higher level of respect for him than others in your line of work. You knew he was smart and shrewd. Maybe this could do you some good. Scratch the itch.

A hobby might be nice.

As soon as the bourbon empties from your glass, Steve stands and leans past you to set both mugs in the sink, then turns you around and places his hands on either side of your stool, caging you in.

He doesn't so much kiss you as let you make the decision, crowding your space until your noses touch, anchoring the moment with an expectancy that leaves you hovering at the edge, forcing you to yearn. When you finally bridge the distance, the first press of his mouth to yours is softer than you anticipated. There's the rough of a day-old shave, the trace of bourbon still wet at his lip; he tastes richer, sharper in person, like everything else about him.

You expect the escalation, predict he'll take the lead, and he does—but not in the way you plan for. One hand slips to your jaw, thumb coasting your cheekbone, as he continues to kiss you softly, the intoxicating softness that draws you in. But his other hand slides up your thigh.

You try to decide if you want to stop his hand or let him continue, but you’re so distracted by the delicious press of his lips and the electric path of his palm you don’t decide at all. You just let him, leaning into the pressure of his mouth, the way his body is caging you, daring you to challenge him, to throw him off, to see if he’ll let you.

He does not—at least, not yet. He’s testing you, and you know this because you test people the same way, never showing all your cards, never surrendering outright, but giving enough to keep things interesting. He’s studying you the way you’ve studied so many rivals, and to be on the other end of that, the fact that you’re on the back foot for once, makes your pulse race.

You pull back, just a hair, lips slick, his thumb still tracing your cheek, and just as you start to speak, he shakes his head and kisses you again. The kiss would be all consuming, except it’s coupled with his hand surging forward to cup your clothes pussy.

It’s the kind of thing that would be boring with someone else, the cliché move, but here it is volatile, and you can’t decide if you want to gasp or laugh or bite him. You indulge all three—you gasp, you let the nervous flutter of a laugh escape against his mouth, and then, as he presses you harder against the stool, you nip his bottom lip, hard enough to let him know who he’s dealing with.

He grins so wide you’re kissing his teeth for a moment, then his hand is sliding up, under, and between. The thin seam of your tailored pants does not slow him. His fingers part and press, ruthless, belying the dominance and power he must operate in in other aspects of his life. You surge forward, tangle a hand in his hair—thicker than you expected, already mussed from his own hands—and dig your fingertips in, not enough to hurt but enough to set the terms: hunger, need, desire.

His lips never leave yours, just change their angle, their pressure, bruising you with care, with a slow violence, the kind that doesn’t stop at skin but goes marrow-deep, rewiring your sense of what it means to want. You are not used to being handled this way—with a confidence so tuned to your own that it feels like echo, not opposition, your previous lovers either too cocky or too timid.

You don’t question further as he shifts you further forward, parting your legs with the casual authority of someone who’s memorized every lever of the human body. The counter is cold under your hipbones; his hand is hot as sin.

He slips his fingers beneath the waistband of your pants—not even a question, just the inevitability of a movement in progress—and you grab his wrist, try to contain the intrusion, but you’re only guiding him closer, really. The pads of his fingers are heavy, callused, so precise you let out a noise you didn’t know you’d make, one that’s nearly a challenge, more of a plea. He laughs into your mouth, so low it vibrates along your teeth, and then his fingers drag the line of your seam, press in, then snake up under the waistband with a hook that jerks a gasp from your throat.

“Love that you’re soaked for me,” he says, and he means it. You feel how much he means it.

You are not a girl who is easily undone. You have been through assassinations, near misses, hostage negotiations, funerals for people whose names you can’t say aloud. You’ve learned the art of silence, of keeping all your reactions locked behind a muscle-thick wall of will. But Steve Rogers—Roger Hood, you’re still reeling at the stupidity and perfection of this—knows how to pick a lock.

Your hips stutter forward, but he’s already bracing you, left arm anchoring your waist, the other working inside you with a patience bordering on cruelty.

His lips trail away from yours. He kisses to the point of your jaw, follows the angle down your throat, never once relenting the pressure on your clit. This is not a tease, not foreplay for its own sake. He’s greedy, working you over until every muscle in your thigh and stomach jumps to attention.

“Tell me what you want,” he says, but he’s already mapped the answer, already coaxing it out of you with every press and glide of his hand. You could die from how good it feels, from the audacity of it.

The wild intrusive memory of Celia’s you will want him to lick your bread! makes you laugh out loud, but you don’t say it. Instead, you keep it simple, “More. Your mouth on my cunt.”

He grins at the demand, filthy with delight, and you half expect some wry retort, a sly joke to drag out the moment further. Instead, he sinks to his knees without preamble, like it’s the most natural, obvious thing in the world, and you don’t even manage a breath before he’s at the fastenings of your pants, peeling them down with a swift, urgent tug that leaves your ass cold against the stool. He takes the knife you’d strapped to your calf and swiftly uses it to cut your panties off—unnecessary, a clear power move—and then his hands are firm on your knees, spreading you open, adjusting you until the line of your hips is flush and ready for him.

He takes a second—just the smallest of pauses—to look up and catch your eyes. You see it in his face: pride, hunger, worship, the clear thrill of undoing you.

He starts by giving you a moment, just enough to realize how exposed you are—your thighs parted, pants tangled at your ankles, the cold air hitting your skin everywhere it isn’t covered by his palms. You burn under the pressure of his gaze. He’s not in any rush, and you’re suddenly aware that he means to see you, really see you, the way a master chef examines an ingredient: all the nuance, all the imperfections.

His hands map the plush landscape of your thighs, the generous round of your hips, the soft, lush curve of your belly as if he’d never seen a body before and was hungry for every detail. His palms are so big, so rough but moving with expert care and heat. He runs the backs of his knuckles back down the length of your thighs, slow and deliberate, the caress both reverent and proprietary. He leans in and, with an almost clinical focus, parts your legs wider, angling your knees until you’re open as a book for him.

He grins, audibly pleased at the sight of you. Your sex is bared, framed by a thick, healthy thatch of hair, plush and unapologetic, your lips puffy and slick with want. “God, even better than I imagined,” he says, and it’s not a compliment, it’s a fact—like a baker knows this better than any other sort of man would.

You want to retort, but he’s already leaning back in and thumbs at your sex, slow, spreading your pussy lips6589` with clinical leisure, dragging the flat of his thumb over your clit—once, twice—until you make a noise so undignified it ricochets in the high, echoing loft. He presses your lips apart, exposing you to the cool air and his own open, grinning awe.

“So fucking pretty,” he murmurs.

He runs his tongue up your slit, slow enough to taste every microsecond of your anticipation, then flattens it right over your clit and doesn’t move for a breathless, protracted moment, just presses—heat and velvet, patient and inevitable.

“You taste so fucking good,” he says as he comes up for a half-second of air. Then he’s back at you, tongue working coolly at first, mapping your reactions, learning your responses. Each lick is a little firmer than the last, a slow escalation that feels engineered to drive you insane. The motions are so practiced and so sure it’s clear he’s reading your body with the same mastery you read rooms, and he thrives on every little tremor or catch in your breath.

His fingers rejoin the party, wet and eager, and he presses one inside you, then another. They curl exactly where they should, and you feel the world narrow down to the points of sensation—his mouth, his hand, the relentless pulse at your clit. His palm cups under your ass, lifting you slightly, tilting you perfect. You arch into him, give him everything, and he takes it with the voracity of a king feeding on the spoils of war.

You have had heads between your legs before. You have had lovers eager to please. You have never had anyone apply themselves so utterly, so unhurriedly, with a sort of craftsman’s pride for proving just how good they can make you feel.

He’s relentless but unhurried, savoring every sound you make, every shift in your body, and the building, terrifying, glorious crescendo as your thighs tense and shake. You try to keep some composure, try to keep your head, but there is nothing left to hold onto. You are undone by the time he pulls you closer off the stool, cunt pressed hard to his mouth as he sucks your clit with a deep, consuming hunger that detonates every thought you ever had of dominance or control.

At the last moment, there’s a look—he glances up, blue eyes sharp with intent, and you see there’s nothing accidental in this, nothing left to chance.

You come, and it’s a devastating, raw, public thing—loud, echoing, a ragged scream that cracks your dignity and leaves you slumped against the counter, vision going white at the edges.

You are still gasping, not even aware you had stopped breathing, when he draws away, wiping his mouth on his forearm, the blue of his eyes gone wolf-pale and delighted. He watches you, a baker and a mafia king admiring his triumph, as you scrabble for purchase on the edge of the island, your legs still open as he steps in close. He towers over you, but not because he’s trying to. He’s just big and you appreciate how he makes you feel small and cherished and something to be hungered after.

You try to muster a quip, but it’s lost in the fog of your synapses short-circuiting. Instead, he drapes your arm over his shoulder, scoops you from the seat like nothing more than a sack of flour, and carries you to the bedroom, where he dumps you onto a mattress so expansive and comfortable you can’t help but sigh in contentment.

For a man you know has a ruthless reputation, he’s exceedingly gentle as he peels your ruined pants down the rest of the way, shucks his own shirt and jeans, and stretches next to you, propped up on one elbow. He’s less the stereotype of a mafia man and more the athlete, the farmhand, the All-American boy who developed into the All-American man. His body is a map of scars and ink, and you want to catalog every one for future reference.

Steve makes a slow journey of unbuttoning your blouse, one button at a time, as if he’s rewinding the last ten minutes and savoring every second. When he reaches the bottom, he pushes it over your shoulders, and his fingers splay wide, smoothing over your ribs, your stomach, your bra, before he leans in and mouths soft circles over your skin.

You’re too stunned by how good everything feels at first to think about reciprocation, but as he lowers himself between your legs again and returns to his borderline devotional tongue work, you reach for him, hand sliding over the back of his head, then running down his neck, his shoulder, his back. He’s hard, and his cock juts away from his body, thick and flushed, but he doesn’t seem in a rush for satisfaction.

He wrecks you again, this time softer, but with more patience, drawing from you the shivers and whimpers and ragged, unguarded noises that had been trained out of you by a lifetime of caution and measured risk. You are a mess by the time he decides you’ve had enough, and even then, it’s only because you’re limp with pleasure, no longer able to hold a thought, let alone a grudge.

It’s only then, with you dazed and boneless on his mattress, that he covers your body with his own and finally, mercifully, fucks you. He drives into you slow at first, giving you a second for your body to adjust to his size, and then, as you lock your ankles at his back, picks up a pace that’s measured and relentless.

His hands pin your wrists to the bed, his teeth scrape your jaw, his cock fills you with a steady, ruthless cadence that’s all intent, no apology. You gasp his name without meaning to, and he rewards you with a grin, biting your throat, the hint of a bruise you know will linger.

He fucks you methodically, driving you up and up, never letting you slip away from the moment. His stare pins you to the mattress, and every time you try to look away, he brings you back, thumb under your chin, eyes locked. He’s not satisfied until your whole body’s shaking, sweat running down your back, the sheets twisted under your fists.

It’s only when you’re already shuddering through a third, then a fourth, raw aftershock that he lets himself chase the edge. He rides you hard, his cock thick and intent, fucking you until your cunt is so slick and raw you think you might sob from the friction, the fullness.

He presses your thighs up, buries himself so deep you feel it in the pit of your stomach, and when he bottoms out, you feel the sudden, overwhelming throb of him coming. You’re so strung out it takes you a white-hot second to register that he’s finishing inside you, that he’s already made the decision, the risk, the claim.

It’s a possessive thing, the way he keeps fucking you through his own orgasm, hissing your name, sweat slick on his chest, all muscle and need and the animal satisfaction of knowing he’s left a part of himself in you. One of his hands brushes up and down your side, possessive and soothing, the other on your jaw, keeping your mouth open for filthy gasped kisses.

When he stops, finally, you can’t move, your lungs burning and every inch of your skin hypersensitive. You manage, somehow, to breathe.

For a few minutes, you bask in the collapse, crushed deliciously under his weight, feeling every stutter of his post-ecstasy breath against the line of your neck. You never let anyone rest on you like this. You are always the one to twist away, to reassemble the mask of composure before anyone can see how you’ve come undone. You wait for the impulse to reset, to retreat, to start hurling words again—but it never arrives. You just…breathe.

Steve grins down at you, sharp and satisfied, and the way it reads on his face tells you he’s as much sated by your pleasure as his own. He kisses you, this time slow and messy, tongue lazy in your mouth, and when he finally breaks away, he rests his forehead against yours, both of you panting in the hush of the bedroom.

When he finally rolls off you and onto his back, he bands and arm around your waist and brings you along with him. You slide your thigh up over his hip. You try to infuse your words with more spirit or sass, but it’s only a blissed out tone you can manage when you say, “God, people really don’t talk enough about how good you are at that.”

He smirks down at you. “I’ll solicit you for an online review later.”

You let your hand splay across the cut terrain of his chest, tracing the raised edges of an old scar, then flicking your gaze up to see if you’ve gone too intimate, too soon. He doesn’t even blink. You’re not sure if this means he welcomes it, or simply expects the sort of interrogation you’ve built your life around. Either way, you find yourself grateful for him not making a fuss, not recoiling, not even trying to one-up your touch with one of his own.

He lets you explore, lets you map the winding roadwork of healed wounds, the sharp wings of tattooed feathers that unexpectedly edge out from beneath his left pec. You ask, “What’s this one from?” and he puts his hand over yours, flattening it there.

“Would you believe me if I said a bread knife?”

You snort. “No.”

“Too bad. It would be a better story.”

While you map his chest, his stomach, Steve’s arm around your back drops lower. His hand slides over your hip, over your round ass, and then dips between your legs. He finds you slick and open, still full of him, and presses two fingers into the mess. You jolt at the sudden invasion, but it’s not unwelcome. It’s filthy, sure, but there’s something that speaks to a deeper intimacy as he scoops what’s leaking out of you and brings it back to your clit, rubbing you until you clench around nothing in aftershock. The slide is too much, slippery and obscene, but you arch into his palm anyway. He does it again, even slower the second time, circling the oversensitive knot at the top of your cunt, and you feel something flip in your chest, something jagged and hungry and almost…tender.

“You’re—” but you don’t finish the sentence, because he has his mouth on your shoulder, kissing the place where your neck and back meet, and his fingers are moving again, painting slick patterns into your skin.

He seems to revel in the feel, the proof of what he’s just done to you. He draws his head back to look at you, and your first instinct is to look away. But you don’t. You watch back, let him see you see him.

It’s uncomfortable—the scrutiny, the way he refuses to let you shrink from the aftereffects of your own desire—but it’s also a comfort, somehow. You’re not used to being regarded like this: not as a commodity, not as a liability, not as a means to an end. He’s just taking you in, as you are, and it’s as unnerving as it is grounding.

You break the held gaze with a soft cluck of your tongue. “You going to keep playing with my insides, Rogers?”

He licks his lips, a lazy, unhurried sweep. “Not if it’s making you nervous, princess. I can stop any time. But if you let me, I’d like to keep you like this for a while. Sore. Messy. Mine.”

Your laugh comes out strangled and high from deep in your chest. “That’s the most mob-boss thing you’ve said all night.”

But Steve rolls onto his side, props his head on his hand, and regards you with eyes that are suddenly, fiercely awake. “Next time,” he says, “I’ll take you apart after a proper dinner. Maybe right there on the table.”

You stretch, knees brushing his thigh. “Bold of you to assume there’ll be a next time,” you say, but your voice betrays the truth of it.

“Stay the night.”

Your pulse speeds up. “That doesn’t sound like a hobby.”

“You don’t want just a hobby.”

You don’t respond.

“Neither do I,” he says.

You want to say something, but you’re tired—absolutely shattered, in a way that’s less bone and muscle and more the structure of you giving in. You let your eyes drift shut as his palm coasts over your hip, resting just above your ass. He fits his ribs to your back, warm, dense, and sheltering. The city’s muffled blare seeps through the far windows, and for the first time all week, maybe the whole year, you let yourself breathe without looking over your shoulder.

You tell yourself—right before you fade out—that you’ll slip away at dawn.

You don’t.

You wake before the sun, the blue hour barely casting its glow against the exposed brick. Steve’s arm is still locked heavy over your middle, his breath smooth against the back of your neck. You shift, careful not to wake him, and you notice—smiling despite the urge to curse—that every muscle in your body aches.

It’s a good ache, a confirmation of the night’s generosity. You shift your hips, then lie still, content to let the subtle soreness slow your thoughts.

He’s snoring, lightly, and you consider reaching back to elbow him in the ribs for the offense. Instead, you bury your nose in the pillow and inhale the sleep-warmed scent of him, yeast and sweat and some expensive aftershave you’re going to demand the name of. There is an urge at the back of your brain to reassert control, to get up, get dressed, get on with your habituated schedule, but impulse sits outnumbered for once. You linger under the sheets .

It’s one night, and you only know each other by reputation outside of what you’ve just shared, but all your highly honed instincts—your gut, your intuition, your calculating brain—itch that this could be more, could be everything.

That thought could be terrifying if you really considered it.

So you don’t.

You simply rationalize that you tuck back into him and slide into a morning snooze because you just want him to cook you breakfast. Would be a shame not to.

↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

I do not do tag lists, but FOLLOW @buckets-and-stories and TURN ON NOTIFICATIONS to be updated any time I publish a new work!

[awkwardgiraffe726]

Silence is Golden 3

Warnings: This will include dark elements. Please do not read if these elements or any dark elements make you uncomfortable.

Character: Lloyd Hansen, smol, mute! reader

Summary: you’re put in the custody of a strange man with questionable motives and an even more questionable mustache.

Please reblog if you enjoy and leave some feedback! Muah 💋

Lloyd shuts the door behind the hotel worker. He keeps his hand on the wood for just a moment. You can sense his exasperation. It’s like static buzzing in your ears.

He pushes off and goes to the table where the tray was left. He uncovers it. You cross your ankles then cross them the other way. You haven’t moved since he told you to sit down. You’re used to staying in one place but now, seeing everything, you’re antsy.

He lifts the lid and releases the savoury smell of the food. You blink, long and hard. All at once, your stomach concaves and the loud grumble rolls through the room. You lower your chin, embarrassed.

“Well,” he pulls out a chair and drops onto it heavily. “If you’re hungry, get over here.”

You rock on the edge of the couch. You stand then sit back down. What if it’s a trick?

He chews noisily. You get up and sit down again. You’re caught between caution and fear.

He sighs. Alright. It’s worth the risk. He might be as mean as all the other men but you’re starving.

You go over and stop by the table. There’s two plates. He eats off one, chomping down on two fries at a time. You take a single fry and hover it in front of your nose. You sniff. It smells so good.

You take a small bite. It tastes even better. You shove the rest into your mouth and swallow it without chewing.

You take another, watching him as you do. He glances at you and tilts his head slightly. You pop another fry in your mouth. He runs his hand over his hair then plants his elbow on the table. He continues to shovel down the fries.

You look down at the plate full. It’s so much food. It’s more than you dreamt of, laying in the dark with your empty stomach. You grab the burger with two hands and squeeze. The condiments drip down the sides. You bite into it, as much as you can, and hum.

All the flavours are so much. You could cry, shout, jump up and down. Your stomach mulches and you gobble down the sesame bun and thick patty. THe melted cheese sticks to the roof of your mouth and you don’t stop until there’s only a bite left.

You sense the silence and stillness of your company. You peek over at Lloyd. He’s watching you.

You drop what’s left of the burger onto the plate and try to wipe the grease and ketchup from your face. You only smear it around with your gooey hands. He reaches across the table and takes one of the napkins from the stack. He holds it out to you.

You snatch it and mop up the mess.

“Must be good,” he scoffs and picks up his burger.

You push your shoulders up and move to sit across from him. Your stomach churns around the food as you pick at the fries. You nibble as your appetite dwindles.

You drop a fry and lean back. You make a face and rub your stomach. You ate too fast and too much.

He chews, a speck of mayo clinging to his mustache, and narrows his eyes at you. Sweat beads on your forehead. You put your other hand to your stomach. Oh no.

“Don’t you dare.” He drops the burger and stands. “No, no, no, no, no.”

Before you can react, he hauls you out of the chair. He half drags and half carries you across the suite. He angles you through a door and bends you over the toilet as he flips the lid. You wretch into the bowl without hesitation.

“Shit. Shit!” He repeats it louder the second time. “That was too fucking close, sunshine.”

You shake and heave. You hug your middle as you stare down at your puke. You frown.

He slaps your back. “You good?”

You stand straight but can’t look at him. You push down the lever and flush the mess. You turn to the sink and twist the faucets. You rinse your hands then bend to rinse your mouth and face.

He steps closer and you tense, but don’t wince. You can’t let him see the fear. When they see it, they like it, and they do more.

“There’s a toothbrush.” He points. “Toothpaste…”

You look around. You take the brush and unwrap it, then uncap the paste. You look between them before it clicks. You know what to do. You spread the toothpaste over the bristles then wet it before shoving it in your mouth.

“Alright,” he sidles past you. “I’ll be out there.”

You brush your teeth. Your gums are sensitive and your tongue too. The mint is overwhelming but so fresh. You don’t stop until you’re gagging once more. You wash the brush and put it in the cup.

You go out. Lloyd covers the tray with the lid. You hope you didn’t ruin his supper.

Your eyes dart over to the window. You cross the suite as you gaze up at the stars. They’re so far away but so bright and beautiful. You keep your eyes wide open and stare until they water. You finally blink, the dotted sky stamped into your vision.

“I’m gonna get washed up and lay down. Got more driving to do tomorrow.” He says. “Jets down in Cabo with a buddy.”

You don’t react. You peer out over the city. Cars drive by with red tail lights and you can see a shadow or two walking down the street. And all the signs. There’s so much to see. So much it hurts.

“Alright, well… okay.” He mutters.

You hear him go. A moment later, a door shuts, followed by a low thrum. The pipes hum inside the walls. It’s a calming sound. It reminds you of warmth. You could close your eyes and feel the water.

When he shuts the shower off, you give a start. You listen. You can hear little things. Clicks and the occasional cough or grunt.

The door opens and he clears his throat. You stay at the window. It’s so nice to be close to outside.

“All yours.” He says. “There’s another towel…”

You stare off at the city; wherever it is. It’s dark but it’s not vacant. Not black and endless. It’s something.

“I’m gonna lay down then.”

Still no answer. He retreats into the next room. You touch the glass with your palms and crane to see more of what’s below.

Not long after, the light shuts off in the bedroom. The silence is stagnant until he starts to snore. Then you relax, just a little.

You lean into the cool glass and rest your cheek against it. You forgot the world outside the darkness. You forgot how beautiful and scary it is.

[awkwardgiraffe726]

Silence is Golden 2

Warnings: This will include dark elements. Please do not read if these elements or any dark elements make you uncomfortable.

Character: Lloyd Hansen, smol, mute! reader

Summary: you’re put in the custody of a strange man with questionable motives and an even more questionable mustache.

Please reblog if you enjoy and leave some feedback! Muah 💋

You lean forward as you stare at the man. The lines beside his eyes crinkle. He looks tired. You reach to trace your finger along the crusted cut along his jaw.

He twitches and jerks the steering wheel. He gets the car under control and veers back into the lane. He swats your fingers away.

"The hell are you doing. Sit back." He barks at you. "Shit. You scared me. I almost forgot you were back there."

You touch your own neck and look at the rear view mirror. He meets your gaze briefly. His eyes narrow.

"It's nothing. Felt better before you decided to poke at it." He shakes his head. "Didn't I tell you to buckle up?"

You slide back and turn to look out the window. You remember car rides on lazy afternoons and a voice that feels like home. You don't remember what home was. Or who.

It's better that way. When you try, your heart gets all jittery and your eyes burn. You can just be where you are.

"Well, dont bitch at me if you go flying through the windshield," he sighs and taps his fingers restlessly.

You watch the landscape darken under the setting sky. You can feel the temperature as it seeps in. It smells like night time.

The tires spin without stop but slow as the moonlight washes over the front of the car. The silver light shimmers like silk. You lean forward again. His arms knocks your chin as he stretches it.

"Christ." He drops it. "You are... Whatever. My ass is cramping. I need a fucking break."

He taps around on the touchscreen. The maps centre on a moving dot. You lean further forward and point. It's you. You know by how it moves.

He waves away your hand. "I can't see. Stop that."

You stay there, leaning between the front seats as you watch him press down on another dot. The map recenters. A voice chimes.

"Fifteen minutes to destination. Take the next off ramp in one mile."

You tilt your head and knock on the screen. He pushes you gruffly. "Eh, what're you tryna do? Shit's expensive."

You show your palms and pull back. You sit on the seat and watch his shadow. He mutters about Rocco. You agree.

He listens to the woman speaking from within the car. You see a sign light up above you and read the letters. Hilton. That sounds familiar.

He pulls into the large lot lined with other cars. You slide across the seat and your nose touches the window as you count them all. He opens the door and you nearly fall out.

You scramble out and he snaps the door shut. He huffs and turns, checking the watch on his wrist. It glows as he lifts it. Your eyes wander around. There's more lights.

You follow the flickering firefly and suddenly reel back as something snags your elbow. He snarls as he spins you around. You blink at him.

He turns and pulls you with him. Your eyes water at the shine of the large tinted windows and the bright marquee. He drags you through the doors that open on their own and he approaches the desk.

He looks at you and loosens his grip cautiously. "Stay." He points at you. He waits. You don't move. "Good girl."

He faces the woman behind the desk. He feels around in his jacket. He takes out his wallet and flips it open.

"Gimme a suite." He demands.

Your fingers follow your gaze up the vaze or plush flowers. You feel the petals and it teeters dangerously. He reaches over and steadies it with an exhale.

"Hands to yourself." He snips.

You drop your arms. He looks at the woman again. You stand on your toes as you watch her. She's very pretty. She has eyes like gems.

He snatches a card from he and jabs you with his finger. "Let's go before you break something."

You walk with him, glancing over every few steps. Your feet slap on the floor and echo. He stops and hits a button on the wall. It lights up. It's been so long since you've been in an elevator. Or anywhere.

Or you think it's been a long time.

"Tits, where the fuck are your shoes?"

You look down and wiggle your toes. Those were taken a long time ago. The doors slide open and he prods you through. He jams the close button until you're locked in.

"Look at you..." He does just that as you stare at the mirrored wall. You reach to touch your own hand. He clucks.

The elevator stops and the doors split apart. He takes you out and says a number. You find it on the wall and point. He scans the censor and the door opens. He pushes it inward and gestures you through.

You enter and take in the ivory walls. There's a cushy bench that looks soft. A cost rack in shining gold. A talk vase with elegant leaves sticking out the top. You touch them and smell them.

"Alright, get in." He nudges you.

He sits on the bench and pulls off his loafers. You step further in and walk in a big circle. You stop in front of the couch and touch the cushion. You push down and let it bounce under your hands.

"You gotta eat or something?" He asks.

You turn. He's reading a leather folio with a scowl.

You near him and he looks at you above it. You grab the phone behind him and put it to your ear. A voice greets you.

"Hilton. How can we serve you?"

You pull the receiver from your cheek and look at it. He snatches it from you.

"Go. Sit down." He points across the room. "Yeah," he turns as he speaks to the phone, "double order of fries and some burgers. Yeah. Bye."

He hangs up as you lightly lower yourself onto the couch. You bounce in place. He faces you as you kick your feet

"What the fuck did they do to you, sweetheart?"

[awkwardgiraffe726]

That certainly was a wake up call! And a pleasant one 😏 Not me reading this as 6:20 am and squealing with joy to see Lloyd and a follow up snippet from Huffily Ever After! 😁 I do so love an occasional what happened after the happy ending, no pun intended ☺️

Wake Up Call [Huffily Ever After]

Characters/Pairings: Lloyd Hansen x curvy Millennial Female!Reader Word Count: 300 Summary: PORN WITHOUT PLOT

Content/Warnings: established relationship; explicit smut (oral: female receiving); praise kink

Author Notes: Written day 3 of @societyfolklore and @soelstress's Sexy September Scribbles challenge. All pieces must be 300 words or less. Prompt in bold-italics.

not necessary to have read, but this is an after-blurb for Huffily Ever After: A CindereLloyd Story ↠ Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

Lloyd was already accosting you with pleasure before you were even fully awake, his tongue between your thighs and his rough hands bunching the hem of your sleep shirt—his shirt—up to your waist. He is not gentle about his ministrations—never had been, not in the six months since you started sleeping together. Sleeping together and so much more. Everything more. So easily.

It was work. It wasn’t perfect.

And yet it was so natural. Both of you adapting to and reveling in each other. Two driven, independent beings somehow better for the connection you’d found and chose to nurture with each other.

You made not quite a moan, more a stubborn protest, but your hips were already rolling back toward his mouth. He laughed against you, the vibration of it dark and self-satisfied, and then bit the fleshy bit of your inner thigh—just a little, a dare for you to resist. You didn’t. You never did. You always wanted him to ruin you, even on a Tuesday at 6:44am.

Your sleepy brain dissolved under the lapping, gasping force of him as Lloyd’s hands hooked under your hips. He angled you up, thighs spread with no grace at all, and buried himself deeper into your sex, nose and chin working wetly against your skin, all spit and stubble and the unrelenting brine of his enthusiasm.

“Sweetest pussy I’ve ever tasted,” he murmured against your folds.

He was a greedy eater, never shy with his tongue, and he always made a mess that he loved to lap up. You wondered if he liked to taste the proof of you after, if he savored the memory while he sipped coffee at his desk, knowing you’d be squirming through meetings, haunted by the way his beard prickled and burned.

more SEXY SEPTEMBER SCRIBBLES

↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

I do not do tag lists, but FOLLOW @buckets-and-stories and TURN ON NOTIFICATIONS to be updated any time I publish a new work!

[awkwardgiraffe726]

Soooo intrigued. Lloyd and a girly who can’t or won’t speak 😅

Silence is Golden 1

Warnings: This will include dark elements. Please do not read if these elements or any dark elements make you uncomfortable.

Character: Lloyd Hansen, smol, mute! reader

Summary: you're put in the custody of a strange man with questionable motives and an even more questionable mustache.

Please reblog if you enjoy and leave some feedback! Muah 💋

The door opens and lets in a slat of light. You squint at the sharpness of the glare. Your vision speckles with shock of it. You lower your head and rub your eyes.

"Out. Now." The terse demand has you to your feet before you can think.

That's best. Listen, don't talk. That's safe... as safe as you can be.

The man in black leads you down the blinding white hall. You shield your eyes as you follow his heels. His treads squeak on the floor. He stops and you nearly collide with his back.

He growls and opens a door. He backs up and looks at you as he holds it open.

"Go. Don't talk."

Easy. You obey and enter the next room. You stop just inside as deja vu slaps you across the face. You remember a room where terrible things happen but can't pinpoint what.

"Here. Take it and go." The gravelly voice tickles the same part of your brain. "Before I cut that strip of shit right off your lip, huh." You shakily follow the grinding timbre. Rocco fills the chair like a gluttonous king looking over his court. He sneers across the room and shoves a handful of cashews into his mouth. "Go!"

Flecks of nuts spatter with his command. He doesn't mind how they land in his lap as he grabs another handful. The men on either side of his chair tense and shift their rifles across them.

"You're shittin' me. I want my money." A man scoffs back. "Fuck you and your fuckholes. We had a deal."

"I said you'd be paid. Never said nothing about money." Rocco chuckles tauntingly. "Get that nut hair out of my sight before you leave in a trash bag."

"You don't know who the fuck your fucking," the man barks back as he points, pushing back his red blazer to reveal a pistol with a long silencer. "You can't even stand, Jabba."

"Don't need to," Rocco snickers and throws nuts at the man. "Get out of my sight. You buzz like a gnat and I will smack you down."

The other man grits his teeth. He grips his gun and several others click noisily in his direction. He scans the room. He's outnumbered. At least a dozen to one.

"This isn't the deal," he snarls.

"Take it or walk. Job's done. I'm content." Rocco clicks his fingers and a tall blond brings him a glass of dark wine. He smacks her ass. "Hell, you'll be doing me two favours."

The man who took you from the dark room shoves you. You stagger and hit the ground. You land on your elbows and wince. You shake as you lift your head and look up at this strange man.

The sides of his head are shaved short but the top is long and slicks back. The hair above his lip is brown and bristly. He grips his hips as he looks down at you from beneath a bruised brown. His knuckles are cut up and there's another cut under his jaw.

"Don't want her. Very well. Dali." Rocco growls.

You sit up and turn as feet stomp toward you. You face the barrel as it aims at your forehead. You don't shy away. You stare at the man behind it. He feels as little as you do.

"Woah, hey. Fuck." The man grabs your arm and wrenches you away from the rifle. "Fuck. Gotta get something for all that bullcock."

He yanks you up to your feet and you fall back into him. He pushes you to your feet and you lock your legs. He clucks and stomps his foot.

"Just you fucking wait, Rocky. I don't take my dick raw." He barks and spits on the floor. "Fucking buddha motherfucker." He twists around and hauls you around with him, shoving you ahead. "Walk, baby girl."

You look up and take careful steps. You're waiting for the first bullet to fly. You get closer and closer to the door. The man sighs and once more latches onto your arm. He tugs you onward as he opens the door and pushes you through.

The door slams behind him and he ushers you down the stone steps. He mutters to himself. Words you wouldn't say.

He drags you down the long drive that splices through palatial lawns. Your eyes wander to the greenery. So so full and bright. You blink, not quite believing it's real. Your dreams aren't even this colourful. Your eyes water as the sunlight tints through your lashes.

You stop suddenly and pivot. He yanks you back before you can walk off. You stare at the yellow finch as it flies away. He pulls you backwards as you continue to take it all in.

"Jesus. Walk. Goddamn." He hurls you ahead of him towards a car. He's on your heels as he comes up and opens the back door. "In."

You crawl to the middle of the backseat and sit. He slams the door. He gets in the front and the axel shifts with his weight. You lean forward to see through the windshield.

"What the hell am I supposed to do with you?" He sneers.

Your eyes widen as a butterfly hovers across the glass. He huffs and pokes the tip of your nose.

"Hey, you, got a name or some shit?"

Your eyes flick over to him. You just stare. His brows furrow.

"Earth to bimbo, speak!" He snaps his fingers.

You seal your lips tight and shrug. He sighs and sits back in the seat. He hangs his head. "Shit."

He clucks and turns the engine. He adjusts himself on the seat and grips the wheel. He checks the rearview and pulls toward the gates.

You don't know who he is or where he's taking you. Not even, why, but it's nice to see outside. You would be happy if it's the last thing you see.

"You can call me Lloyd. If you ever decide to open that stupid mouth." He drives through the gates and sniffs. "God-shit-fuck. I knew that guy was a cock block. I fucking knew it."

His ramble trails off and he taps the touch screen. Music blares from the speakers. You slam back against the seat in surprise. He adjusts the volume and you fall across the seat as he turns.

"Buckle up. Or don't." He tuts. "I don't fucking know if I even care."

[awkwardgiraffe726]

sexy september scribbles' prompt two: "don't hide your face" note: this is not my best work, but this is for the other two joaquin torres fans out there

His fingers dig into the soft flesh of your thighs, holding you open wide. Every flick, stroke, and swipe of his tongue has you keening for more. The sounds falling from your lips are music to his ears, encouraging him to continue.

Joaquin only pauses when your fingers leave his curls, and his eyes flick open to gaze up at you. And when he finds you, arm slung over your face and fist clenched beside your head, he smirks.

"Oh, no," he coos, thumb digging harder into your thigh to grab your attention again. "Don't hide that pretty face."

A broken whimper escapes your throat, "Quino —"

"No, mi amor," he teases, thumb stroking your skin now. He nips at the crease of your thigh once before soothing it with a gentle kiss. "I want to see how you fall apart for me," he whispers.

And you don't get another chance to reply before he dives back in. He holds your gaze, even as his tongue, thick and slow, laps at your clit. He could come then and there, watching your hooded eyes flutter against your attempt to keep them open with only the taste of you on his lips.

Instead, he murmurs a soft, "So good for me, cariño." And when you break away from his gaze — his name, high and breathless, on your lips — he doesn't pull away again. He holds you through it, tongue greedy and hands firm as you shiver.

[awkwardgiraffe726]

Well damn 😆😌 sure, I saw the prompt and I still wasn’t ready. Look at you Mr. Wilson 😏🙂‍↕️

Sexy Scribble #3: Sam Wilson

For the Sexy September Scribbles Challenge

Warning: implied noncon.

Prompt: “Sweetest pussy I’ve ever tasted”

I know it’s short but please let me know your thoughts and reblog. Also, would love to discuss any ideas these little snippets inspire!

Love you! 💞

The excitement of being on a boat did little to help you fall asleep amidst the stomach-swirlinf sway of the water. Hours of searching the darkness and at last, you drift into the nether. Your limbs and head fill with sandy as your eyelids stick together.

You descend into the much-earned sleep. Fingers worn from stray splinters, back aching from lifting and bending to paint those small nooks. All that accomplished and more to do tomorrow.

Reality fades as sleep washes over you like the waves rocking beneath the boat. The soft lashing of the tides keep you unconscious, tickling into your ears with a rippling sensation up your thighs. Your body tingles as your mind conjures the image of the depths crashing over you.

Your voice unfurls like winds over the ocean and burns from your lungs. Your eyes roll back and forth as your heart pounds. Your skin speckles with heat and your muscles knot even tighter.

Your eyes snap open as you gasp and choke on your orgasm. You lift your head to look down at the dark figure bowing between your thighs. Sam has you splayed wide as his large hands knead your tender flesh, his tongue lapping you up thirstily.

You twitch and whimper his name in shock.

“Sweetest pussy I’ve ever tasted," he purrs and kisses your pussy. "Just wanted to thank you for all that hard work."

[awkwardgiraffe726]

He didn’t so now when he shows up like the psychotic hot mess that he is maybe he can actually put in some back breaking work. I mean let the girl ride the stache and put up a sweat 🤣

Fun in the Front Seat

Warnings: This may have nonconsent. Please do not read if these elements or any dark elements make you uncomfortable.

Character: Lloyd Hansen, plus! reader

Summary: you change your approach to men.

Please reblog if you enjoy and leave some feedback! Muah 💋

Your ass hits the steering wheel with each tilt. Even with the seat slid all the way back, you're cramped in the front seat. As you rock in Lloyd's lap, his tongue lolls out hungrily and he groans.

Men really are that easy. You should have listened to Celia all the times she said so.

You bring your hands up to frame his face and giggle. Your thumb touches the cut on his brow and he winces. He slaps his hands on your hips and digs his fingertips in. You purr.

"Yeah, baby," you goad him.

You drag your hands away and unclasps the few hooks left on the front of your dress. You pull it open and yank your bra under your tits. He growls and you grab the back of his head. You pull him toward you and smothers him with your chest.

You bounce on his lap as he drowns in your tits, his saliva smearing all over as he nibbles and sucks anything he can get a hold over. He slips his hands down under your ass and urges you on.

"That it?" You grip his head as you slam your ass down. "That what you like, big boy?"

His nails dig into your skin and you hiss. You hang your head back as your body works all on it's own. His voice garbled as he's lost in your cleavage.

You huff and push him back against the seat. He grunts as he hits it hard and he chuckles. His eyes skin down your body. He bites his lip and snarls.

"Damn sweet, cheeks, you're a deluxe meal all on your own--“

"You talk to much," you hiss and push your hand over his mouth.

He laughs into your palm and his eyes roll back. Your flesh claps down on his thighs. His feet are tangled in his pants as your skirt is hiked up to your waist, your thong crooked around his intrusion.

He growls rumble hotly and your thighs light up and tingle. Your almost there. You grind against his pelvis as your voice spikes towards your looking release.

You turn your hand and poke two fingers into his mouth. He sucks and flicks his tongue around them. You keep hold of his shoulder as you buck wildly, riding out an intense orgasm.

He bites your knuckles as a surprised noise rolls from his chest. He guides you down and holds you in place, hammering into you from below as he quakes. He collapsed as he finishes. You rock again until he's squirming and whining.

He pushes your hand away from his mouth and bares his teeth. "Stop, stop, stop. God. My balls." He babbles. "Damn, you really know how to drain a man."

You laugh again and wipe your slick fingers on your dress. You pout and pet his fuzzy mustache. His nose twitches.

"You all done, big boy?"

"Damn it, look at me. I got my head bashed and now you're on me like a succubus," he pinches your nipple and you smack his hand away. "As nice as those are, you need to get off me."

You narrow your eyes. Be like a man. Okay. You shrug and climb off of him. He flinches as he falls out of you. His cock bobs in the condom and he cups his balls.

"Je-sus." He snarls. "Fuck."

"Such a good boy," you tap the end of his nose. "That was fun... While it lasted."

"You're fucking crazy," he shakes his head and stifles a yelp as he rolls the condom off. He uses a napkin from the center console to catch the mess dripping from him. "You do realise a man needs to recharge."

"But you're not any man, are you baby?" You fix your bra and dress.

"You're a sweet talker," he snorts as he wraps up the condom and shoves it in the empty coffee cup on the holder. "You need to fuck off though."

"Oh, I got exactly what I wanted." You pinch his cheek playfully.

He swats you away. He stares at you then his cheek ticks. "If you think I'm driving you home..."

"Honey, I think it's clear I know how to take care of myself."

You bend to get your purse off the floor. "That was a fun time."

You hook your purse over your shoulder and open the door. You step out and fix your thong then pull your skirt down. You wink.

"Ta ta."

You slam the door and hear him holler. Men and their cars. You strut away towards the gas station across the street. You can get an Uber.

You go inside and grab a drink while you wait and some snacks. You're tipsy and need something to chew on. The cashier seems wary of you.

You go outside and your ride is waiting. You can still see the Maserati parked in the empty lot across the road. Whatever.

You drop into the back seat and confirm your ride pin. You peek open the bag of Cheetos as your mind wanders. Your thighs are still tingling. That was fucking amazing. And he was a fucking dick after. You played it off but it's needling you.

Well, you proved tonight that you can do whatever you want. You simply need to want it enough.

[awkwardgiraffe726]

Ma’dam🤣😏 not her pissing him off because she didn’t let him think he was amazing. I got him in all his pettiness stalking her Uber

Fun in the Front Seat

Warnings: This may have nonconsent. Please do not read if these elements or any dark elements make you uncomfortable.

Character: Lloyd Hansen, plus! reader

Summary: you change your approach to men.

Please reblog if you enjoy and leave some feedback! Muah 💋

Your ass hits the steering wheel with each tilt. Even with the seat slid all the way back, you're cramped in the front seat. As you rock in Lloyd's lap, his tongue lolls out hungrily and he groans.

Men really are that easy. You should have listened to Celia all the times she said so.

You bring your hands up to frame his face and giggle. Your thumb touches the cut on his brow and he winces. He slaps his hands on your hips and digs his fingertips in. You purr.

"Yeah, baby," you goad him.

You drag your hands away and unclasps the few hooks left on the front of your dress. You pull it open and yank your bra under your tits. He growls and you grab the back of his head. You pull him toward you and smothers him with your chest.

You bounce on his lap as he drowns in your tits, his saliva smearing all over as he nibbles and sucks anything he can get a hold over. He slips his hands down under your ass and urges you on.

"That it?" You grip his head as you slam your ass down. "That what you like, big boy?"

His nails dig into your skin and you hiss. You hang your head back as your body works all on it's own. His voice garbled as he's lost in your cleavage.

You huff and push him back against the seat. He grunts as he hits it hard and he chuckles. His eyes skin down your body. He bites his lip and snarls.

"Damn sweet, cheeks, you're a deluxe meal all on your own--“

"You talk to much," you hiss and push your hand over his mouth.

He laughs into your palm and his eyes roll back. Your flesh claps down on his thighs. His feet are tangled in his pants as your skirt is hiked up to your waist, your thong crooked around his intrusion.

He growls rumble hotly and your thighs light up and tingle. Your almost there. You grind against his pelvis as your voice spikes towards your looking release.

You turn your hand and poke two fingers into his mouth. He sucks and flicks his tongue around them. You keep hold of his shoulder as you buck wildly, riding out an intense orgasm.

He bites your knuckles as a surprised noise rolls from his chest. He guides you down and holds you in place, hammering into you from below as he quakes. He collapsed as he finishes. You rock again until he's squirming and whining.

He pushes your hand away from his mouth and bares his teeth. "Stop, stop, stop. God. My balls." He babbles. "Damn, you really know how to drain a man."

You laugh again and wipe your slick fingers on your dress. You pout and pet his fuzzy mustache. His nose twitches.

"You all done, big boy?"

"Damn it, look at me. I got my head bashed and now you're on me like a succubus," he pinches your nipple and you smack his hand away. "As nice as those are, you need to get off me."

You narrow your eyes. Be like a man. Okay. You shrug and climb off of him. He flinches as he falls out of you. His cock bobs in the condom and he cups his balls.

"Je-sus." He snarls. "Fuck."

"Such a good boy," you tap the end of his nose. "That was fun... While it lasted."

"You're fucking crazy," he shakes his head and stifles a yelp as he rolls the condom off. He uses a napkin from the center console to catch the mess dripping from him. "You do realise a man needs to recharge."

"But you're not any man, are you baby?" You fix your bra and dress.

"You're a sweet talker," he snorts as he wraps up the condom and shoves it in the empty coffee cup on the holder. "You need to fuck off though."

"Oh, I got exactly what I wanted." You pinch his cheek playfully.

He swats you away. He stares at you then his cheek ticks. "If you think I'm driving you home..."

"Honey, I think it's clear I know how to take care of myself."

You bend to get your purse off the floor. "That was a fun time."

You hook your purse over your shoulder and open the door. You step out and fix your thong then pull your skirt down. You wink.

"Ta ta."

You slam the door and hear him holler. Men and their cars. You strut away towards the gas station across the street. You can get an Uber.

You go inside and grab a drink while you wait and some snacks. You're tipsy and need something to chew on. The cashier seems wary of you.

You go outside and your ride is waiting. You can still see the Maserati parked in the empty lot across the road. Whatever.

You drop into the back seat and confirm your ride pin. You peek open the bag of Cheetos as your mind wanders. Your thighs are still tingling. That was fucking amazing. And he was a fucking dick after. You played it off but it's needling you.

Well, you proved tonight that you can do whatever you want. You simply need to want it enough.