#Dog Belly Belt

[petslike79]

Dog Belly Belt

While dog belly bands can make your dog feel comfortable, they can also cause problems. If you buy a Dog Belly Belt band that isn't designed to wick away moisture from the dog's skin, you may be risking fungal and bacterial infections. This is why most belly bands are designed to be used with an absorbent pad to keep your dog's belly dry.

For more details Contact@9845994396

[andy-clutterbuck]

8x14 | Still Gotta Mean Something

[ohhcinnybuns]

This art of Dazai in Atsushi’s get-up screams catzai

Like, What do you mean this man is not going ‘merow meow?’ I can hear it!

[robo-writing]

Logan happy trail. Logan happy trail. Logan happy trail—

You’d never stoop so low as to say you have a favorite part of Logan—he’s your boyfriend after all, you love him for all his faults and features. There isn’t a single thing you could ever definitively point out and say “that’s my favorite.”

However, if you had to choose—

“Christ doll, you’re lookin’ at me like a starving dog,” he says with a smug. “What’s got you so worked up?”

You’ve been waiting for him to come back from training all day, sitting on the couch practically counting the seconds. The training session he just came from must have been intense; shirt off, his entire torso glistening with sweat—his happy trail on full display.

You don’t even pretend to be ashamed, blatantly staring at the lovely trail of hair that starts from his belly and moves further down to where the rest is covered by a pair of low-hanging jeans. You’re forcefully pulled from your ogling, hand at your chin, removing your attention from his beautiful patch of hair to his face.

“Y’know, it’s rude to stare,” He whispers. His eyes hold only bad intentions, and you’re happy to oblige, leaning into his touch.

“Kinda wanna do more than just stare,” you whisper back.

His thumb reaches to stroke your cheek. You enjoy the soft touch, hands wandering closer to his torso to stroke the hair that’s been tempting you since he walked through the door, until he catches them in his own with a shake of his head.

“Baby, you know that’s bad manners,” He lets your face go and hooks his thumbs below his belt line, pulling his jeans down even further, exposing the veins that start to run from his v-line.

“If you want to touch, ask nicely.”

The words leave your lips embarrassingly fast. “Can I touch you? Please?”

Your thighs are rubbing together, hands at your side obediently. When he nods his head you reach forward, sliding your hands across his hot skin, nails scratching lightly with each pass, the softest groans escaping Logan with each touch.

“Good girl,” he praises. “Take what you want.”

Spurred on by his words you pull his pants down, boxers strained by the visible outline of his cock. Feeling mischievous, you place a kiss through the fabric, smile widening as you feel it twitch between your plump lips. He hisses in response, fingers curling around your hair.

“Don’t be a tease, or else I’ll leave you here all by yourself,” he says, tugging your head slightly. “We got a deal?”

You couldn’t say no if you tried, so pent up just the sound of his voice gets you riled up. “Promise, just lemme have a taste, I’ll behave.”

He mumbles something under his breath, tugging himself free. Pretty and pink, his cock in full view, still every bit as beautiful no matter how many times you see it. Your tongue peaks out from your lips, tracing every vein with excitement, a smile on your face as he strokes your hair.

“Just needed a taste, is that it?” He groans, rubbing his shiny tip against your lips. “Just needed your boyfriend’s fat cock in your mouth, didn’t you?”

You moan in response, opening your mouth as he feeds you what you’ve been waiting for. Slowly, gently, your tongue massaging the salty skin, inch by inch. Your hand reaches up to scratch at his happy trail and you can feel his cock twitch in response, a gruff laugh vibrating from his chest.

“Oh fuck me, you’re evil,” he sighs. You give him another scratch in response, enjoying the pre-cum that coats your tongue after.

The size of him never fails to make you work for it, heavy against your tongue as your spit runs down your chin. The sounds you make are lewd, sloppy—his fingers push your head further, forcing you to make more. One hand reaches to fondle his balls, the other still resting against his pubes. The feeling leaves Logan breathless, involuntarily thrusting against the wet heat of your mouth.

There’s only a single thread of self-control stopping him from grabbing your head with both hands and fucking your mouth, and you needed it cut yesterday. You force his hands into your hair, stare up at him with your best bedroom eyes, then lap at his balls.

His reaction is heavenly—eyes rolled back, hips stuttering, stomach sucked in as he calls your name.

“Darlin’ you’re gonna kill me,” he huffs, taking your head in his heads. Your lips return to the head of his cock, suckling at his sensitive tip when his fingers tighten in your hair.

You see his eyes darken, your only warning coming in the form of a command. “Keep your mouth open for me doll.”

Your pussy throbs, tongue unraveled as every inch of him slips past your lips and into your throat. Your eyes roll at the feeling, nose touching that oh-so-divine hair that got you here in the first place.

“Gonna fuck your mouth,” he grunts, “Ready for me?”

You moan your approval around his thick length, then gag as he makes good on his word. Every thrust has your hands bracing against his thick thighs, forced to do everything in your power not to choke. Your eyes water, nose full of his musky scent, drool pooling down your chest so much that it leaves a stain against your shirt.

Your brain is filled with nothing but Logan—his taste, his smell, the sound of his moans—it sends your body into overdrive, grinding against the fabric of the couch as he continues to use you for his own pleasure. You’re almost certain you’re leaving a stain against the pillows.

“Real desperate for it huh?” He hisses, using your mouth as a toy. “Gonna cum just like this ain’t you?”

Your lust-addled brain can’t even begin to form a response, but Logan smiles at your fucked-out expression anyway. He doesn’t need you to confirm what he already knows.

When he comes it’s with a shout, leaving you choking against his cock as you struggle to swallow it all. What you can’t runs from the sides of your mouth, his dick coated in a mix of saliva and seed. You greedily gulp down air, a cock-drunk smile plastered against your features as you kiss at his softening cock, then bury your face and nuzzle again his happy trail, tasting the sweat that lingers. The sticky feeling between your legs makes you think at some point you came, pussy still throbbing with that familiar aftershock.

You look like hell, but damn it if you aren’t satisfied—hair a mess, spit and cum staining your skin, tears running down your cheeks—Logan thinks you’re beautiful like this.

“I know vacuums that got less suction than you, fucking hell,” Logan says, still out of breath from what was most certainly a mind-blowing orgasm. He leans down to kiss at your cum-stained lips, messy and unoriented. “Hope you’re ready for me to return the favor princess, because we ain’t finished.”

[poppy-metal]

ok OK i need to get back into the mindset to finish this p2 of dilf!Art so i need to talk to you about dilf!Art who uses you for free use but in the sense of coming up behind you with a “m’sorry just need it” before mounting you like a fucking dog and humping the shit out of you

he needs it so bad :((( especially when you're doing household tasks.... acting like a little housewife.... doing the dishes - making food - things you dont even have to do, because he's rich, he has staff, but you like to take care of him sometimes, of his home. makes you feel good. accomplished.

and art - well. hes a simple man. he's always hyped up after time on the court. its just training, exercise. but tennis always gets his blood pumping - especially now that he actually enjoys it again. a day of slamming balls across the court, working his style, perfecting it, he's drenched in sweat. his bones aching. he just wants to take a fucking nap. have dinner with you and his daughter.

when he comes into the kitchen and sees you, half bent at the waist as you rinse a pot, he just. stops and stares. he registers the oven on, and something baking inside it. his tennis bag drops.

you look over your shoulder. smile at the sight of him. flushed and tall next to the kitchen island. "hi," you tell him sweetly. "you're back!"

"im back." he echoes. swallows. puts his hand on the counter next to him with his fingers splayed out. looks behind him into the living room. "where's lily?"

you follow his gaze - "she's upstairs reading. she's halfway through percy jackson. she'll probably talk your ear off about it at dinner."

he blinks and turns back to give you his full attention. his lips are parted. he licks them. "you're cooking." he states. takes one step forward.

tilting your head, you study him. his chest is moving up and down more quickly than normal. his cheeks are pink, which could be from his activity from outside, but his eyes are dark. oh. hes turned on. by you cooking?

"i am." you tell him. "nothing fancy. im not as good as the chef you hired." you shrug. "but i thought something simple might be nice, i dunno."

"it is nice." he's covered most of the space between you now. "you're nice."

you turn back to the sink, biting your bottom lip to hide your giddy smile. being praised by art sends warmth right to your lower belly. its like sinking into a warm bath. you feel the heat of arts body behind you - "i just wanted to make you happy." you tell him softly.

arts arms come up on each side of you, caging you in. you feel his chest brush against your back and you breathe in. his forearm brushes against you as he reaches out and shuts off the running water to the sink. "im very happy." you feel his nose against the back of your neck next, trailing up, up, up, his hips meet your ass next. hes a wall of solid muscle behind you. "you smell so good. how do you always smell so good - "

you tilt your neck, letting him have access to you which he takes full advantage of. nuzzling into your throat. lips at the shell of your ear, tugging it between his teeth. "Its -" you try, fumble and try again. hard to talk in full sentences when art donaldsons hard cock is pressing against the crease of your ass. "its um. warm vanilla."

"mm." he hums. your hips are pinned between the sink and his pelvis. the short sundress you're wearing is already drawing up your thighs as he pushes forward with his body, making you bend. "i wanna tell you how much this means to me, and how much i appreciate you - but I'm distracted by how much i really, really want to fuck you."

you wiggle your butt against him. feel warm wet flood between your legs. "you know," you pant, "you know you can have anything you want - anytime - b-but the food -"

arts hands are already at your thighs, shoving your dress up and up, up around your hips, puddling it around your waist - "I'll be quick." he promises, and you hear the clink of his belt as he yanks it through the loops - the sound of his shorts hitting the ground next. "need to feel you -" you feel him, warm and hard at your inner thigh, "fuck, you're not wearing any panties. you wanted this -"

you cant even deny it. arching back into him as he finds the seam of your pussy, "i always want you." you whine, toes curling when you feel him split you open - parting you and pushing inside slick and easy. "ohhhhh-"

"you're so good." art sounds agonized. his fingers dig into your hips as he starts to thrust - smacking his hips into your ass - quick, hard pounds of his cock. he really fucking - "needed this." he groans. "needed your - fucking tight little pussy. always fucking need it-"

the pain of the counter digging into your hips just adds to the pleasure somehow. feeling completely pinned on arts cock, forced to take what you're given as he takes what he needs from your body. your warm tight body.

"its yours." you moan, soft and worshipful. "whenever you want it - its yours -"

arts teeth are sharp as they dig into the back of your neck. you think briefly of a rabbit caught in the jaws of a predator - your heart beating rapidly as you're held in place - art groans into your flesh like hes wounded. wet slaps filling the kitchen as he fucks you harder.

you tighten around him. know soon he'll be filling you up, pumping you full. you hope dinner will be salvageable. you dont think you give a fuck, though.

[alnilaem]

Simon as the maintenance guy who works at your apartment complex. He’s as unseemly and off-putting as he is enormous, and every time you see his sweeping stature or heavy gait (weighed down by his utility belt) you can’t help but remind yourself, he has a master key—he has access to your flat whenever he pleases.

He strays around the complex like a lost dog looking for its owner. Or, in this case, something to do.

When you call for him to fix a leak in your flat, you’re sure to offer him homemade muffins and tea, wrapped and bowed in a little apron as he gets to work. He’s flattered, telling himself to spend a little longer on your sink. To you, Simon works diligently. He leaves with a belly full of blueberry baked goods, and refuses your tip.

After that, you see him around a whole lot more.

In the lift on your way back from work as he updates the safety regulations (which were revised just last month). Ministering to your garden on the complex rooftop, where he seems to be checking the exhaust fan (which you distinctly remember was already cleaned the week prior). In the parking lot, right beside your parking space, where he inspects a pillar for any fissures or clefts (it’s a brand new augment to the building).

Simon becomes shamelessly forthright with it, often inviting himself to your flat. He brings his toolbox along like a stray cat that drops dead mice at your doorstep, insisting you have stuff that needs to be fixed.

Is your smoke alarm intact? Do your doors latch properly? You probably need your vents cleaned.

You’re timid and reticent with all of Simon’s unheralded appearances. He’s so big and so broody, but he’s done so much for you. You can’t exactly tell him to leave you alone, not without sounding like a prick.

Simon and his “visits” become more frequent. Even when you’re not home. The kicker is, Simon honestly doesn’t see anything repellent about his actions. He’s being there for you; is that not what friends do? … Are you not his friend?

[simonriley09]

Experienced!Johnny x Virgin!Reader.

Johnny always had eyes for you, no matter who you were with or what you were doing. Your pathetic excuse for a boyfriend was with you? his focus was only on you. You were simply just doing paperwork? he's watching. So when he woke up at night to the sounds of moaning and skin slapping noises coming from your room? he's creeping up to the door and peeking into the keyhole, Watching your boyfriend try to take your virginity but your moans are clearly faked... he's not even rubbing your clit... just a razor burn on your labia.

Your boyfriend didn't even last long.. just 10 minutes and he was walking to the door, leaving you there, cum filled and unsatisfied. Johnny hid as your boyfriend walked out before sneaking in your room. He crawled ontop of you and you froze, looking up at him. "Johnny...?" you whispered. "M'here love. Saw yr' boyfriend leave. Bet he didn't make you cum." He said quietly, staring into your eyes. "But we didn't-" "Shhh... i saw." "... No.. he didn't make me cum.. he only came in me and left." Johnny's hand slowly crept up your thigh, leaving goosebumps. His thumb dragged tight, slow circles on your clit making you squirm and whimper. His other hand unbuckles his belt, pulling it off before is jeans come off too, leaving him in just a shirt and boxers. "Gonna eat tis pretty pussy... yr' gonna cum on my face even if you don't want to, yea?" "But-" He cut you off. "No buts, just relax m'luv." He then layed down on his belly and put your legs over his shoulder, getting comfy before starting to lap at your pussy, getting it wet since your boyfriend didn't have the decency to make you wet. You gasp and paw at his mohawk, toes curling and heels digging into his lower back as he suckles on your clit.

You've never felt pleasure like this, the coil in your belly tightens incredibly fast before you can even warn him you're arching and shaking, letting out a loud squeal as you cum on his tongue. He pulls away before stripping his shirt and boxers off, his fat veiny cock slapping against his abs, leaving a small trail of pre-cum. "Johnny i can't take that! it's fucking huge!" "Y' can. And y' will." He slowly inserted the bulbous tip into your dripping cunt with a squelch, making you let out a soft gasp and clench. He hissed as you clenched, patting your thigh as if to tell you to loosen up. After a while of clenching you relaxed and let him slide the full thing in, he finally bottoms out and stays there for a few seconds before letting out a sharp, slow thrust, hitting your cervix slowly. you let out a soft whine, grabbing his sides as he slowly starts thrusting... it got a bit faster after a while, leaving you moaning uncontrollably. He kept thrusting into you when he suddenly pushed your knees to your chest, ramming his cock so deep into you that you throw your head back and scream out in pleasure, toes curling so hard you swear you can't feel them anymore. Johnny groans, drool coming down from his mouth onto his chin, dripping onto the bed while his brain goes to mush with how good your pussy feels. He's acting on instincts, like a dog in heat, just humping and ramming his cock into your pussy until he cums. You're practically on your 12th orgasm as he continues to ram his cock into your pussy, you've lost all feeling in your legs, they're just shaking and shaking with each thrust. Despite it being 45 minutes in... Johnny still hasn't cum. You squeal and scream in pleasure as his cock slips past your cervix and keeps thrusting straight into your womb, the bulbous head splitting you open on his veiny cock wider than ever. Your brain goes fuzzy as you get cock drunk on the feeling of him splitting you open over and over again. Your back and thighs are aching from the position but it feels so good. Your gushing with each thrust, squirt going everywhere but Johnny doesn't care, he's just humping his cock into the warm hole he has infront of him. Finally after what feels like forever, he finally blows his load straight into your hole, his hips stuttering and stopping after a while as he whimpers. He slowly pulls his softening cock out, watching your gaping hole leak cum and blood. He's panting, he finally lets go of your legs too, letting them fall next to him before he lays down behind you, pulling you into him so he's spooning you. His hand softly rubs circles on your tummy. "Stuffed full?" You nod, still panting as he snuggles his head into your nape, breathing in the faint scent of shampoo, skincare and pheromones you give off. He's now just kissing your nape softly, falling asleep with you. The next day let's just say.. he woke up n broke up with your boyfriend over text. <3

[pricegouge]

Get Her a Dog (She'll be Happier For It)

Part Five | master list | taglist | MDNI

Soap x reader, Price x reader, eventual PriceSoap x reader

series cw: cheating. dubcon. angst. cuckholding. pet play.

chapter cw: angst, cheating, dubcon, breeding kink. john gets slapped

reader is fem and fat

He comes home with a puppy some weeks later, timed perfectly to coincide with your house finally starting to look like a home; no boxes left to be chewed up, as if he were really trying to be considerate. A puppy was not discussed but you're helpless against its charms, infatuated from the moment it first teethes on your fingers. You name him Gilbert because it makes Johnny laugh the hardest, though it gets shortened to Gil within the hour. 

You've heard that one of the biggest tests a couple could go through was a move, but clearly that statistic was measured among couples who tackled these issues together , as the move goes through surprisingly easy, even despite the stress of handling most of it yourself. Not to say Johnny doesn't help where he can, touring houses with you and signing paperwork without a fuss. It's just hard to wrangle him when he's suddenly needed much more often around base so you shoulder the brunt of the work and clap excitedly each time he praises you for a job well done when you make progress, traversing the unknown terrain of legalese and open houses with no aid besides an (admittedly very helpful) realtor. Johnny calls it your solo mission, makes it into a bit of a game for you. It's sweet, fun. Everything you've been missing about his company, and despite all the apprehension the ambitious project had instilled in you, you end up feeling closer to your husband than you have in years. It's nice to feel like a team, and you wonder if maybe this is the exact reason he spends so much time with his own. Hard to be mad at him when you think of it like that.

He's with you when you attend your final open house, broad shouldered and strong in the oversized kitchen; the only man among those assembled who can fill it out, make it seem homey instead of austere. You make out like teenagers in the master bath when you both decide this is it, the one . Johnny lifts you onto the counter with a heavy grunt as you whisper against his lips about putting a baby in you, fueling him on as he rips his belt off and rucks up your skirt. He only shushes you when your begging gets too loud, afraid of being caught, though it's almost rendered meaningless with the way you whine when he pulls out, painting your belly. Johnny tells you you should wait until after the move to avoid stress on the baby and you can't deny he's right so you put on a happy face for the rest of the tour, keep it in place through the whole hair pulling process of finalizing the sale. It's not hard to fake, pleased as you are with Johnny's initiative to move, and it's still in place on moving day when the two of you collapse, exhausted but relieved, onto the mattress that still sits on the floor of your new bedroom. 

It finally breaks that first night, when Johnny's got you on your back, heavy weight bearing down on you where he leans against the backs of your thighs, pinning you in place underneath himself. He's worked himself into a sweat, breath coming in heavy huffs which spill hot as a bellows across your cheek. You're useless but to clutch at his thick shoulders, moan your encouragement. He answers in deep grunts, synchronized with the slap of his full balls against your ass. You don't beg him this time, don't think you need to with the way his eyes are locked on the sight of your cunt clenching around him, trying to keep him buried deep. 

You know something is wrong when he pulls out to jerk himself off over your tits, but he's so sweet afterwards that you let it slide, allow yourself to be lost in the warmth of his embrace, at least for the night. You weren't ovulating, anyway.

He comes home with a puppy some weeks later, timed perfectly to coincide with your house finally starting to look like a home; no boxes left to be chewed up, as if he were really trying to be considerate. A puppy was not discussed but you're helpless against its charms, infatuated from the moment it first teethes on your fingers. You name him Gilbert because it makes Johnny laugh the hardest, though it gets shortened to Gil within the hour. 

Gil is a handful, the best kind of trial run - one you're not sure you can give your husband the credit for considering you're not entirely certain he had the foresight necessary to assign you a trial, though one you're committed to rise to regardless. The dog's a quick study, breezing through potty training within two weeks, though the chewing takes a little longer to break. He trains you just as much as you do him, molding you into the perfect dog owner in record time. You coordinate vet visits with practiced ease, spend an inordinate amount of time reading dog psychology books (seriously, you never realized how developed the field was), and walk him religiously - a practiced balance between just enough for exercise and not enough to hurt his fragile little joints, meticulously calculated based on vet feedback. Johnny becomes enamored with him just as quickly as you, though he's not quite as strict about adhering to the rulebooks as you. (Another perfect insight gained into your upcoming trials as new parents. You were learning so much already.) There are some days you don't know who has more puppy energy, Johnny or the dog, Gil often collapsing into a small, fluffy heap long before Johnny would clamber to his feet, complaining about his bad knee. When you tell him he could be helping burn off Gil's energy by training him to play fetch properly, he interrupts before you can prattle on about what your books say about the benefits of fetch by reminding you that wrestling is how puppies play with each other, so that's what he will be doing.

"Besides," he affirms, scooting Gil's supine form along the kitchen tile with a heavy hand planted on the pup's bloated, exposed belly as the beast gave half-hearted nips to his owner's thick fingers, "it's good. Teaches him how tae handle rough pats and stuff, jes' in case."

"Like, in case an overeager baby pokes him too hard?"

You tell yourself you're imagining the way his shoulders tense, thick delts creeping up toward his ears. "Aye, exactly."

***

The idea for the housewarming party comes up after Gil's first obedience class, when the trainer comes around your car at the end of class to ask how you've liked it and Gil barks his head off at her from the backseat. You're shocked, having never seen him behave this way but the instructor just smiles, unconcerned.

"Do you have many guests around the house, Mrs. MacTavish?"

It takes you by surprise, realizing that you haven't really, not since the move. Behind it comes an odd sense of pride in your husband, ashamed you hadn't realized before that moment how far he's come from needing to be with the boys nearly every night. "No, not often lately."

"I see. This is pretty normal behavior for a puppy. Just a little territorial. It should be an easy fix with proper socializing, given how smart Gil here is. I'd start with having some guests over and make sure you calm that -," she motions to Gil's anxious whining from the other side of the glass illustratively, "- reaction before allowing your guests inside. I don't sense much aggression in his behavior, probably all bark and no bite," she laughs, "but do you think you'll need help?"

Ego flares hot for a second, undeserved and unaccounted for. You'd blame the strange way you've equated raising this dog with proving you're ready for a baby if you stopped to think about it for more than three seconds but you don't, too busy biting out a positive response.

Johnny takes to the housewarming party idea enthusiastically, probably happy to have this strange self-inflicted embargo on visitors lifted. You treat it all very officially, happy for the distraction amid dog walks and dog parks and dog grooming and -.

It starts with handwritten letters instead of texts, though you can't admit to yourself why until you're thumbing through your contacts list for P.O. boxes and your thumb hovers over John's name too long, the urge to call him hard to combat. You don't need the back and forth, the memory of how you'd almost kissed him still far too fresh despite how you've tried to bury it deep. You leave his invitation short and impersonal, even managing to make yourself laugh when you picture yourself spraying it with your favorite perfume like some lovesick teenager. But the invite is sealed unsprayed, and it's shuffled off into the post just as unceremoniously as the rest of them, and when John texts you days later to confirm he will be there, you note it just as mildly as the rest as well, and you lay yourself down that night with some sense of pride. 

Even if you're ovulating now and your husband definitely shouldn't be letting you drift off to sleep with any dignity.

***

Years of hosting the boys for dinner should have prepared you for an evening such as this, but friendly gatherings around the tiny kitchenette of the old apartment were one thing, and the first proper dinner of your forever home was another beast entirely. It didn't help that in all your excitement of fancy proper invites you'd managed to invite Kate and her wife, though the severe woman had shown up stag and you can only imagine that meant she'd been in town on business, a fact that lends itself to the intensity with which she stands in your kitchen now, probably thinking to be congenial but only serving to make your hands shake as you pull a bread bowl from the oven under her watchful eye. You can hear Johnny greeting yet more guests in the other room, his loud boisterousness infectious enough to have the newcomers laughing with him before they'd even properly stepped through the door. You keep an ear out, asking Kate if she'd like to go say hi to the new guests when you detect the light lilt of Kyle's latest fling because you were determined to pawn her off on someone before she watched you - disinterestedly, scathingly - ruin the whole dinner because you were not made out for the cooking reality show lifestyle and you couldn't handle the pressure of her very presence.

"He'll come to me," she says mildly, sipping on her wine so elegantly it didn't even stain her teeth and you curse when she proves herself right, Kyle filtering in mere moments later as if paying respects to a mob boss. His easy charm loosens Kate incrementally, but you attach yourself to his date, Maddy, regardless, throwing yourself into her company for as long as she offers it, your little gaggle growing when your cousin joins some minutes later.

Gil trots around happily, the mild concern you'd had about his approachability dead and buried after the first guest's arrival had prompted only a singular bark before being reprimanded with a water bottle, rewarded for being calm on the second greeting with trainer treats. He'd been nothing more than a vibrating bundle of excitement ever since, wagging his tail with each new guest and chewing on the end of your aunt's ugly scarf only once. You coo at him about being a good boy whenever he deigns to approach you, but for the most part he's just happy enough to mingle, weathering clumsy pets with a dignity better suited to a much older dog. Johnny catches the impressed way you watch him at one point, nodding smugly as if he alone could take credit for the dog's behavior. The peck you press to the corner of his lips after draws hoots from his teammates when he can't let you go without a proper kiss.

John comes uncharacteristically late, though you're aware of his arrival from the moment Johnny answers the door for him like a neighboring planet with which you are locked. Orbital resonance, affecting each other before you even lay eyes on him. From the kitchen, you pretend not to listen as he greets his boys each in kind and you wonder how quickly he notices your absence, if he's calculating the appropriate time necessary to wait to come through and greet you with just as much care as you. For all the restraint you'd shown while sending his invite, now that you can hear the rough scratch of his voice in your home again, you suddenly remember it wasn't always near-misses, and you want your friend back. Want him to scoot Maddy and your cousin off to the side so he can help you put the finishing touches on the meal, or maybe distract Kate who is still having a hard time mingling with the other women .

He does neither, instead distracts himself with Gil for as long as the dog lets him, commenting to Johnny about he wasn't aware the two of you had adopted. 

You nearly slice through your own finger when you hear Johnny's answering laughter over the sound of cutting chives, the way he says it was at John's own behest.

It irks you, more than it ought to. You'd joked to yourself from the beginning that you didn't believe Johnny had an idea like that in him but still, Gil has been the highlight of your days ever since Johnny had brought him home and you didn't much relish attributing the idea to John at this point, especially not after…

'John's own behest.' Where did he get off anyway?

You move through dinner with a practiced detachment - though, one you've never had to use on most of the assembled before. When he does finally come to greet you, John is put off by your careful reservedness, though he seems to be the only one to notice it, blessedly. Johnny sets the jovial tone for the night with ease, the assembled crew following after his general cheer easily. You even see Simon loosening up a bit, playing with Gil when he thinks no one is watching him. Determined to have a good time with your friends and family, you allow yourself to be carried along as well, settling in between Johnny and Kyle at the table when dinner is finally served. It's nothing terribly formal, an overflow of guests having taken up residence on the couch in the adjoining living room. When you look around you see plenty of people already eating, the din of laughter having abated a few decibels seeming to confirm that at least everyone seems to like the food enough to keep them from chattering too much, a point Johnny seconds when he doesn't sit immediately, instead deciding that was the moment to thank everyone for attending. 

"Okay, sorry, this'll only take a sec, but ah jes' want tae thank everyone for coming tonight. Ah ken it's a wee bit of a trek outside the city now, afterall." Johnny pauses to allow the small crescendo of polite laughter. He seems slightly embarrassed, the apples of his cheeks ruddying under so much attention, but he did it to himself and you're not about to share the spotlight so you let him flounder, ever the better under such circumstances out of the two of you. "Honestly, though, everyone here tonight is very important tae us and I ken I speak for both me and the missus when ah say we love each'a ye's and thank ye fer always bein' there fer us." He plows over the small collection of coos from your family evidently unable to weather the storm. "An' a special thanks tae ye, cap. Wit'ou' ye talkin' some sense intae me, there never would'a even been a new house tae warm!" He holds out his glass as if to give a toast. You see a handful of people follow suit, but Johnny only has eyes for his captain, watching expectantly as the older man struggles to bite back the grimace the sergeant's words brought on. After a slight pause, John raises his tumbler stiffly and Johnny grins, seating himself with a small, pleased smile. 

John avoids your eyes, long enough that the moment stretches while everyone waits to see if you'll take up the reins, or if Johnny will follow through on the toast he'd started. Distracted, you tuck your hands into Johnny's arm as if to portray the doting wife, but you remain seated, as if confused. Your voice is thin and brittle when you tell everyone to please dig in. The tension swells and ebbs, a tide brought in by a collective shrugging on shoulders, let out with a handful of awkward chuckles. Johnny seems oblivious, tucking into the spread with a borderline indecently appreciative moan. His hand finds your leg under the table, squeezes to gain your attention so he can compliment the chef. You feel vapid and airy when you tell him it was nothing really, as if you've become untethered from the scene around you. There's something you're missing, or rather something you haven't missed at all but which you refuse to look directly at. 

Diagonal from where you sit, John refuses to look directly at you.

***

Without the distraction of wrapping up the meal, you're actually expected to host. A terrible development considering you're two Scottish expletives away from filing for divorce. Irritation eats at you, has you peeling absently at hangnails with too much abandon. After your second trip to the bathroom to staunch some mild blood flow and contemplate your financial standing without Johnny, you emerge to find John waiting for you in the hall, his face stern and grim, yet dire. The same expression you'd nearly kissed off of him. 

You pass by him without a word when he goes to reach for your elbow. 

The worst part is that none of it is even John's fault. You don't know the circumstances under which he told your husband to get his head out of his ass, but he's not to blame for the fact that it was necessary in the first place. Effect, cause. There's a whole song about it. But you don't want to be mad at Johnny for once, not after how well the two of you had been doing. Finding out Gil had been John's idea was bad enough, but that wasn't an issue in the same way knowing your husband would have been content to live the rest of your days - raise a kid - in some cramped York flat was. All the ways Johnny had changed, all the maturity he'd shown. All the reasons you'd been feeling so much more positively about your marriage as of late. 

All because of John.

You're becoming less adept at hiding your frustration as the night drags on. Kate is among the first to leave but she lingers in the door, eyes hard and scrutinizing as you ramble farewells, for once too unconcerned about putting on a good face for her. It's not your smartest decision, as Kate - who has likely known something was wrong since the moment she stepped through the door - chooses then to show her hand, parting with a cryptic, 'He's no better,' before making her exit properly and the thing is, is that you know that, but without lense of Johnny's would-be recent growth to obscure them, all you can focus on are all his massive shortcomings the last few months. 

He'd called buying your forever home together your solo mission, for Christ's sake. And you'd thought it was cute.

By the time the party has dwindled to the small collection of regulars, Johnny's mates, you've had just about enough of playing your role, wandering off to the kitchen without so much as an excusal. There's a version of tonight that ends with you making too much noise while cleaning up, a passive aggression that would draw the attention of the other team members who'd then filter out the same way Kate did earlier, with small, meaningless words of advice that will also go unheeded. It's hard to decide what you do want when the list of things you don't seems to go on forever, but a fight with Johnny when you're so very wound up is not a good idea and even you can recognize it in the moment. 

Though there's another option, left of center.

Where before your dance with John was oppositional, it was too graceful, coordinated to be adversarial - more polar, fixed and measurable. Whatever it becomes as the night drags on is too pointed, an aggression gauged by the lack of it. John yields when you linger, follows when you need space. Peripheral presence, stalking.

So you let yourself be herded into the laundry room and you hiss and you spit but he doesn't weather it for once, instead using every opening he can find to lay blame at your feet, tell you you should have been more outright with your wants from your husband all along. You demand to know how he can say that when he of all people has known your building frustration with Johnny's disinterest in listening to your desires, and he turns it back on you by suggesting you never should have told him in the first place, should have spent all your energy learning to communicate with the man you'd said your vows to. 

You surprise yourself, how low you're willing to sink. "Oh and I should take your advice on that, should I? Did you learn to listen before or after she left you?"

To his credit, John barely flinches. Or maybe he does, in his own way, such tells trained into unrecognizable ticks. John draws himself up to his full height, lets himself drift half a step closer into your space so his next words seem uncharacteristically menacing. "Your welcome for the house. Your welcome for the dog, " he snarls - sarcastic and cruel. A side of him you've always known existed but which has been carefully kept from you. 

Bait is easy to spot, harder to resist. "Where do you get off, anyway, suggesting we get a dog? Afraid I can't handle a baby? Think I need some sense talked into -?"

"Of course not. I think you'd make an excellent mother. " Though his words are reassuring, his tone still falls over you like a rock slide, threatens to crush you under his frustration. "But it was either a dog or nothing because that man -," his fist clenches hard where it hovers by your ear, pointing over your shoulder in the vague direction of the living room on the other side of the wall, "- was not going to give you a baby. And I know you're lonely, so I -."

Slap.

Through the stinging in your palm, you have a brief moment of satisfaction, noting the way John indeed does flinch as you scowl up at him. "Some substitute."

If you had thought about the way you pictured this route going before setting upon it, you suppose you would have pictured a moment of stunned silence, storming past John's shocked expression, perhaps knocking your shoulder into him just to watch him sway on locked knees. But you hadn't thought it through, because you're impulsive and a fool for thinking you've known John well enough to predict him. But there's that other side of him, that side you've never seen before tonight which can call even your reckless husband to heel, out there in whatever hells they toiled under. It's that part of him who stands before you now.

John is confident where you'd expected confounded, decisive where you'd expected dazed. Your hand doesn't even make it back to your side before he's grabbing you by the wrist with a firm, callused grip and spinning you until your back rests flush against his chest, his arms wrapped around your front so he can pin you there, keep a hand planted over your mouth when he leans in to huff harsh breaths over the shell of your ear. "You're a spoiled little brat, you know that? Soap's a good lad, just needs some guidance. But you're so bloody impatient you can't wait for him to grow into it."

Protests fall flat from your tongue, get swallowed up by the firm hand which remains clamped across your jaw. John shuffles forward and you're forced to move with him, your steps clumsy and tangled with his own until he gets you hinged over the dryer, his body still flush against the back of your own. He presses close enough that his knees worm between yours, heavy boots knocking your stockinged feet aside to make room for himself. When his free hand paws across your hip to the apex of your thighs and just grips you there, your breath stutters through his fingers, heavy and humid.

"Got you a house, woman, christ , what more do you want?"

When his grip changes on your jaw, you seethe. "You know what I -."

"Yeah," John's fingers slip through your folds with slick ease when he pushes the gusset of your panties aside, his fat digit testing your cunt with barely any preamble. "I'll get you that, too."

It's rushed, skirt thrown over your hips and a few fingers to make sure you're wet enough. John's not quite as thick as your husband (a relief when you think about what it had taken to accept Johnny's fat cock in that open house quickie), but he seems to feed into you forever, forcing a place for himself so deep within you that you were certain he'd take all of you with him when he left it, all your soft vulnerable bits pulled right along behind him. 

Lucky he doesn't seem to be going any time soon. 

For all his rush to get inside you, John takes his time about bottoming out. Takes even longer after , pressed up flush against you with his fingers circling your clit carefully, just enough to keep you from tipping over that edge of pain. His other hand cups your breast, seems to take its measure with a satisfied huff. You wonder if he's imagining them all full and swollen, and pull a curse from him with the way your cunt flutters at the thought.

"John, we can't -."

"Really shouldn't," he agrees, but his hips have finally started moving, and he leans you further into the dryer, the hard metal biting into the plush flesh of your thighs. Your hands brace against the top of it, send some of Johnny's folded t-shirts tumbling to the floor.

"I mean it."

"'S'what you wanted, sweetheart." His next thrust scrapes along the entirety of your back wall and you can feel the way your cunt grips to keep him close. "Want this pretty pussy bred, yeah? I've got you."

Your voice is too whiny to be taken seriously when you try again, the thin sound of his name too desperate.

John's hand trails down to your belly, holds you there just as reverently as he did your tit. "Tell me you want it, sweetheart. Tell me you want to filled with my fuckin' seed."

It's not worth it to respond at first so you let yourself be carried by the slow tide of his movements, entire body rocked up and back with how deeply he fucks you. Your panting by the time the rigid line of your spine loosens with it, your head lolling back onto his shoulder so he can brush a whiskery kiss against your cheek, trailing up to your mouth. His lips are more chapped than you'd expected, his beard softer. You don't think about what it means that you'd had expectations. He tastes like smoke and burnt tea, heavy and bitter because god forbid he add any sweetener to anything. You want to sit him down at your kitchen island and make him a proper cuppa. You never want to see him in your house again.

"Don't cum inside."

A low grumble builds in his chest, like an avalanche against your back. You can hear the echo of it in his voice when his lips glide against yours, deceptively soft. "No? Don't want my baby, sweetheart?"

"John, I'm married, " you plead, though the ring you actually bothered to wear today feels more like a leash than anything now - a flimsy mark of ownership, easy enough to slip. 

There's no masking the snarl in his voice this time. "Yeah, I'll fix that too."

[whitefeathers]

MDNI. cw: daddy kink, green cum from temp V … LOOOL SORRY I was inspired by another amazing butcher simp so…,,

daddy!Billy Butcher who comes home from a mission with a one track mind, hyped up on temp V and adrenaline. He’s not even got the blood out from under his fingernails before he’s unbuckling his belt, shoving his jeans to the floor, and mounting you like a fucking dog in a rut.

He pins you down beneath him in a mating press, your thighs up by your ears, the soft squish of your legs against Billy’s squidgy, hairy belly driving him fucking mental. He’s balls deep in you, keeping you pinned beneath his weight so all you can feel is him, all you can smell is him, all you can think about is him. But he’s not doing this for you. He’s being completely selfish, using you as his fleshlight, grunting and murmuring pure filth to himself.

“Little cunt belongs to daddy, yeah? Hard fuckin’ mission, got covered in fuckin’ brains, needed to get my cock warm and choked by this perfect pussy. Fuck, yes, squeeze me, gonna breed you… needed this, needed to fuck you, my perfect princess, lil ditsy bitch, the perfect cocksleeve…”

He needs his little babygirl’s cunt to take his adrenaline out on. His balls slap wetly against the cleft of your ass, hanging low with age but still full to the brim with fertile cum. Sweat and your squirt matte down his thick pubes, making the squelch even more obscene and fucking wet.

That’s how Billy likes to fuck. Balls deep in a tight pussy, pounding right up against that gummy spot that makes you clench down and squeal for daddy. Warm, wet, deep, hard.

“Ya cunny is cryin’ for me, gonna fill ‘er up, yeah?”

You nod furiously, and Butcher grunts and stills. Neon green cum spurts up into your womb - fuckin’ temp V messing with his body fluids, fuck - and he pulls out, lighting a cigarette and tugging you into his chest for a cuddle.

[jen-with-a-pen]

(In Your) Arms Tonight - 2/2

summary: Wade tests out his previous hypothesis with great success. Might experiment more later.

pairing: Logan Howlett x Wade Wilson / Worst Wolverine x Deadpool

word count: 3.6k

warnings: MDNI 18+, Wade's POV-ish, blowjob, itty bitty blood mention, slight angst, nightmares/PTSD, pining, cursing, claws, crude humor and language, fluff, touching, *cue start of something new from high school musical*, Wade's a little shit, cum drinking bc i guess that's what happened, deepthroating, lowkey face fucking, bad flirting but it's kinda reciprocated, wade is the throat goat next question, wade kissed his roommate and they both liked it

a/n: here she is :') thanks yall for the patience and all of the magnificent love and comments for part one ❤❤❤ means the world to me, especially since it's my first time stepping out of stucky territory as a whole. also got a little away with the tags 😅 hope yall enjoy this !

Not beta'd. Half-written on my phone, edited and revised in ellipsus + gdocs. Please let me know if there are any spelling or grammar mistakes!

If I've missed any tags, PLEASE let me know!

gif by @tomshiddles | dividers by @saradika-graphics | warning banner by me ❤️

My AO3 | My Masterlist

Read this fic HERE on AO3

❤️ Reblogs and comments are appreciated, as always ❤️

PART ONE | PART TWO

Wade forgot to turn the AC back on. 

It's his turn to sleep in bed tonight and he's got the worst case of swamp ass you can get this far from a fucking swamp. He's already thrown the covers, sheets, pillows, and his boxers off; he swears if he gets up there will be a sweaty version of a goddamn chalk outline on his mattress. 

He stretches. Notices he can feel both hands now, fully grown and everything, fingernails and all. Smirks to himself as he flexes his new fingers before reaching over to the nightstand– it's actually a really sturdy cardboard box, but it works just as good– for his phone. The screen responds with a bright 3:02AM overlayed on a photo of him and Vanessa. 

There's a pang in his heart for a moment. The same type of twist and pull he felt when Logan got up to leave after their big adventure (AKA saving their universe.)

“See you around?”

Wade tried to swallow the hard lump of desperate hope that had been bubbling inside of him the entire time they ate their shawarma. Hopes it wasn't obvious in his voice. Not a total cry for help, but definitely more of a solemn whimper and puppy dog eyes.

No matter how many times he was used to it– the people he loved leaving or dying or what have you– it still stung like a bitch. 

“Probably not.”

And Logan didn't mean for it to come out so harshly, but that's what happened when– and if– he got too close. To anyone. To everyone. 

With that, Logan rose from the bench, gathering his cowl and TVA jacket up from the place on the bench separating him and Wade and started walking. Dogpool whined and scratched at Wade's arms to chase after him. 

Wade had to do something. Anything. He couldn't let this one– this Logan. His Logan– walk off into the sunset.

No.

Not without him. 

“Logan!” 

And then he turned around. 

And now they're here. 

He feels a similar yank and tear elsewhere in his body– lower belly, groin area– whenever thoughts wander back to that glorious time in the Honda Odyssey; Adamantium stabbing in and out of his chest cavity, puncturing his lungs and literally taking his breath away. The tight feeling of multiple seat belts holding him down to the second row passenger seat and the sickeningly happy grin adorning Logan's face when he tied the last knot. Wade remembers smiling just as bright under his mask.

That one definitely got filed into ye ole spank bank for safe keeping.

Sighing, Wade remembers he's sweating like a hog and drops his legs over the edge, planting two clammy feet onto the creaky floorboards. He throws on his previously discarded pair of boxers just in case Logan has a case of insomnia. Gotta take a man out to dinner before you show him your dick, like a gentleman. 

Wade peaks his head out into the living room, TV glow assaulting his pupils like a flash bang. The door creaks open wider and Wade steps further out. He doesn't want to wake either furball– you'd be surprised how grumpy Dogpool gets when she doesn't get her beauty sleep– as he tiptoes out in front of the couch. 

His breath catches in his chest. 

Logan lies propped up on the couch, head resting on the arm with a throw pillow behind for support, arms crossed over a bare, hairy chest rising and falling slowly. A sheen of sweat coats his skin that reflects the changing colors of the TV. Half a snuffed cigar smolders on the coffee table ashtray. The semi-permanent crease between his brows is softer, perfect pink lips parted as he snores quietly.

And to top it all off, he's in his fucking boxers; his jeans are discarded on the opposite end of the couch, kicked off in his sleep to beat the heat.

Wade can't breathe. He can't help but stare, committing the heavenly scene to memory. A knowing smile slowly spreads across his chapped lips.

He's happy. Happy at how peaceful his roommate looks. Happy that Logan is finally feeling safe enough to sleep here. Genuinely. Wade knows first hand what it can be like to be constantly on the run, chasing peace and release, rest and safety. 

Tip toes make way to the thermostat, Wade presses the 'on' button to the AC when there's stirring behind him. Head turning slowly, he catches the tail end of Logan mumbling something in his sleep. 

“...Wade, please.” 

Wade freezes like a carjacker caught in an impound lot. Surely he didn't hear Logan, his roommate Logan– The X-Man, The Wolverine– fucking whining Wade's name in his sleep. 

What were the symptoms of heat stroke, again? 

Wade shuffles back over to the couch. Feels like a creep watching his fucking roommate sleep, waiting another moment to see if he needs to take a power drill and give himself a DIY lobotomy or not. 

“Mm… No, Wade…No, please, don't–” Logan murmurs softly. Struggling, brow furrowing, Adam’s apple bobbing. “Ngh… Don't hurt ‘im… please.” 

Logan begins to shake. His head whips from side to side against the pillow, hands dig into the couch cushions, grunting, fists clenching as his claws itch to defend from the phantom threat. Muscles tensing and chest heaving, his breathing grows harder, faster, more frantic. 

He's having a nightmare.

Wade recognizes the signs immediately. He knows where Logan's at: some distant memory with talons and sharp teeth assaulting his brain without him knowing. Hell on earth on the worst nights, a light ego beating and insomnia on the better ones.

Wade knows– his stopped two months ago. When Logan came home.

Without another thought– one in which he probably should’ve given– Wade climbs onto the couch to straddle Logan’s hips in the most non-horny way he can make it. Hands press into the center of Logan's chest. He gently calls his name, preparing for the sharp stab of Adamantium through an appendage and/or organ. Nothing he isn't used to at this point, but he secretly prays it isn't something totally major.

“Logan. Peanut, hey,” Wade whispers. He presses further into Logan, heat radiating off rough, hairy skin into Wade's tingling fingers. “Logan, it's me, Wade. You're having a nightmare, you’re scaring the kids–” 

SHNK. Intestines. Ten or fifteen points, depending on if it's big or small.  Wade's thankful it wasn't a kidney or his stomach– those are a bitch and a half to grow back.

“Okay– that was maybe warranted,” Wade grunts. Both sets of claws penetrate straight through his lower abdomen as Logan jolts awake, sitting up as much as he can while pinned under Wade. A gnarled scream catches in his throat. White-hot knuckles graze the skin of Wade's stomach, who is really, really trying his hardest not to get a boner right now. 

“Th’fuck's goin’ on?” Logan slurs, face inches from Wade's bare chest. He blinks. Once. Twice. His brow returns to its permanent crease as he adjusts to the scene before him: bright TV glow contrasts with dark shadows Wade casts over him.

Wade is on top of him and his claws are inside of Wade.

Face scrunching– not inherently in disgust, Wade hopes– claws retract with a muted grunt. Wade can breathe again while his body begins repairing itself. His hands are stuck to Logan's heaving chest, fingers fanning out over each delicious pec. Thick arms rest on either side of him, elbows bent and resting on Wade's thighs.

Wade swallows, praying the man currently underneath him either A. doesn't know where his hands are at the moment or B. this is going exactly the way he wet-dreamt it a few weeks ago. Completely unprompted too, by the way– he's no stranger to the sick side effects of PTSD, he wouldn't knowingly exploit that in order to get into his roommate's pants. He's got more class than that.

Well, most of the time, that is. Again, completely unintentional. Coincidence, if you will.

Maybe he does need that DIY lobotomy.

"Where th'hell am I?" Logan asks, voice less threatening and more alert. His eyes flick from the TV and travel up Wade to meet sympathetic chocolate eyes already on him. Wade peels each finger off Logan's chest and sits back on his knees. Gaze softening, hands fall into his lap inches above the chiseled V pointing to down under Logan's boxers. He doesn't dare move a fucking muscle.

His pinky finger twitches.

"You're okay. You're here, in my world, Peanut. Twenty-first century. New York. We use fifty-cals now, not muskets. You were having a nightmare–"

Wade's throat hitches. He's not gonna cry, no– he's not that much of a fucking empath, for chrissake– but what he wants to say versus what he probably should say get lodged together on the way down to his mouth from his brain.

"I– I did the pressure thing Dogpool does with me, sometimes. Except I thought you'd wanna wake up to this pretty face 'nd not one with drool."

Logan looks skeptical, searches Wade to see if he's actually telling the truth for once, features relaxing once he mulls it over in his head. Wade's gnawing at the inside of his cheek when Logan's thumbs subconsciously start rubbing slow circles over the toughened skin of his upper thigh. Upper-outer, to be exact, but right now Wade doesn't really want to dwell on the minute details.

"So," Logan starts, "you woke me up… 'cause I was havin' a nightmare…?"

"Well, not exactly because you were having a nightmare, no." Wade runs a hand over the top of the couch, distracting himself. "Al really likes this couch. Antique, actually. Vintage find. Be a shame if some man with claws–"

Logan's palms press into Wade's thighs. A warning.

"Mouth."

Wade sighs. Hands fall into his lap once more and he is absolutely not fighting to gawk at Logan's V that lights up like a road work sign pointing to a detour. The semi-hard abs just above definitely do not make him want to run his fucking tongue across them like a cheese grater.

He looks back to Logan, clears his throat. "Look I– I've been there. Am there, honestly. Didn't want you t'be alone whenever you woke up, but I also know how hard it is to wake up. So," he shrugs, voice lowering, "thought I'd help. Help you come down from it, I mean."

Logan stares back in response, eyes trained on Wade like a hunting dog and a downed fox. Wade swears the corner of his lip twitches along with the meaty hands on his legs.

He's gotta get the fuck out of here.

"So!" Wade starts, "Seems everything's in working order. The doctor will be in soon–" Wade starts to scramble off before realizing Logan's holding him down. Sharp claw stubs poke into scarred skin and a deep growl rumbles out of Logan's chest. Not necessarily threatening, no, more of a 'you're not goin' anywhere.' Wade gulps, hands raise up jokingly, forcing his racing mind to think of a naked, cross-country skiing Al to stave off the blood violently rushing to his stubborn cock.

Logan sits up, closing the space between him and Wade. Hazel eyes study wide brown ones. Logan takes a breath, shaky but sure.

"Don't want y't'go. Not– not yet."

It's hesitant. Unsure but curious, quiet enough Wade thinks he's hallucinating again. Wade mulls it over, leans forward with hands back on Logan's chest, skin and muscles taught underneath with tactile tension.

Wade sucks in a breath, moves his hands higher to Logan's collarbone and it's grossly apparent how tense Logan is. Hostile to any sudden movement, untrusting of touch to the point his fists shake against Wade's legs. A slow, tender hand inches up Logan's throat and onto his cheek. Wade feels through the rough facial hair and unkempt stubble, a thumb finds the shaved spot at the point of Logan's chin and strokes gently. Fists start to unclench, but there's a hesitancy still lingering in the air, under Logan's skin. Wade thinks it smells like fear. Inches away, face to face, breaths fan eachother's faces.

There's a shift in the air and Wade leans forward.

Logan doesn't stop Wade from connecting them together, lips touching lips in the softest manner possible. Almost feels like there's nothing there, Wade's too gentle. Nobody moves, breathes, at first; they're each trying to make sense of what the fuck exactly is happening. Logan isn't saying no, isn't sawing through Wade's skull and Wade isn't pushing himself on Logan.

Okay, maybe leaning in to kiss his roommate might be pushing himself on Logan to the logical bystander, but in the moment it just felt right.

To Wade's surprise, Logan's the first to move.

His lips start molding into Wade's. There's pressure, a little pushing, chapped skin and the remnants of tobacco on his breath when his lips part and his tongue pokes ever-so-slightly through. Wade pushes back, hoping his breath isn't as abhorrently delicious as leftover cigar. He tilts his head, nose poking into Logan's cheek as his does Wade's, and lets his tongue explore a little more. Logan allows him in, meeting him at the tip and hungrily welcoming him. Breaths turn heavy, panting, while hands begin to roam, more comfortable now that they've crossed the line into 'spit swapping' territory.

Wade drinks him in. Greedily swallows the choked-back groans Logan keeps holding in his throat that come out as muted mewls. Fingernails wantonly dig into one another and leave temporary marks that disappear under rapid replacement cells.

It feels like forever when Wade finally comes up for air, unable to focus with the growing hardness digging into his thigh.

"I–fuckin' shit– I think I have an idea." Wade pants like a dog in heat– and fuck, he might as well be at this point. Logan pulls back with lidded eyes and kiss-swollen lips.

"'s that?" He's hesitant. Hands tense slightly over Wade's back, his whole body stiffens.

"Do you– do you trust me?"

Wade holds his breath.

Logan only nods. Adam's apple bobbing, lips part in anticipation and curiosity.

Wade strokes Logan's cheek in reassurance, shoots him a wink before shimmying down his body to the other end of the couch, keeping Logan's legs in between his thighs. Fingers hook around Logan's boxers, in turn causing Logan to jolt up immediately. A set of claws unsheathe an inch away from Wade's throat.

"Th'fuck are you doin'?"

Wade only smiles, taking a hand away and kissing the tip of the middle claw, gently pushing it back into Logan's fist and coaxing him to lay back down. What he's about to do would be easier with an in-tact esophagus.

"Relax, Peanut," Wade coos, "'m not gonna hurtcha."

Logan stares at Wade. Eyes pinch, still suspicious.

"…Promise?"

A sharp pang ripples through Wade's heart.

"Promise."

Logan hesitates, relaxes, gives another go-ahead. Wade's fingers curl once again around the waistband of his boxers and slowly, but surely, pull them down and off him. He can't help the immediate salivatory reflex upon seeing Logan in all his glory; the deep V lights up like a fucking Vegas sign pointing straight to the jackpot.

Logan's big– like, big big. Biggest Wade's ever seen (and Wade's seen a LOT.) An automatic response, Wade's asshole clenches, mistakenly preparing to take Logan. Wade forces himself to relax– that's not happening tonight. He promised Logan he'd go slow, no surprises, no whipped cream or leather cuffs.

Not yet, at least.

His own cock weeps happy tears through his briefs. He cannot believe how perfect– how beautiful– how fucking huge Logan is.

"What're you gonna do?" Logan whispers, hesitant eyes hooking on Wade and every little movement he makes.

"If it's alright with you, 1972 Burt Reynolds, 'm gonna suck every ounce of tension out of your perfect, hairy body and make you feel the best you've felt in a looong time."

Logan scoffs a laugh, brow furrowing as he shakes his head slightly. "Don't know who–"

Wade shushes him. "Don't worry, baby girl. I'll be your Sally Field."

Wade smirks at Logan's confusion and mentally makes a note to his future-self to show Logan the glory that is Smokey and the Bandit.

A gentle hand steadies the base of Logan's cock while another slowly wraps around his stiffness, standing at attention and beginning to cry, begging for Wade's touch. Heavy breathing and bitten-back grunts fill Wade's ears. It's a heavenly symphony he's lucky enough to have a front and center seat for. Free ticket, too.

"Ngh– Red, whatever you're gonna do– ah–!"

Wade presses his lips to the base, bush of hair tickling his nose and lips while he kisses his way up to the head, tongue poking out to lap up the precum. Before siccing his lips around Logan, Wade looks up once more, mostly searching for permission to help him feel pleasure for once instead of pain.

Logan reads Wade's mind and sends a small nod in response.

With a shit-eating smirk, Wade welcomes Logan into his mouth, flattening his tongue and curving his lips over his teeth so as not to scratch the sensitive, velvety skin. Drool spills out the corners of Wade's mouth and swallows a gag when Logan jams into the back of his throat, digging into his uvula. Squeezing the base and cupping the balls, Wade begins to bob his head to the rhythm of Logan's mess of 'fuck's, 'shit's, and–

"Mmm–Oh–oh, my god," Logan moans. A calloused hand runs over Wade's bald head, scars and grafts rippling under his touch while another hand grips tightly onto the side of the couch. Wade slurps up every drop of precum, relishing in the sweet musk of Logan's scent, head bobbing and tongue swirling in tandem. Logan's hips buck up into Wade, fucking his throat without meaning to. No amount of lozenges or peppermint tea will be able to cure the sore throat Wade knows he'll have come morning.

"F–fuck, Wade, baby– shit– that feels so–!"

Another lengthy dive down onto Logan hits the very back of Wade's throat, pulling a long, strenuous 'fuck' from the deepest part of Logan. He bucks harder into Wade who stalls, choking on Logan's cock while his own strains against his briefs. Another swipe of tongue, another gag and seeping drool, and Logan is officially done for.

"F–fuck! Motherfucker! Oh my, god, Wade–!"

Curses and chants and shaky breaths fill the living room as Logan spills into Wade with an 'O' on his lips and a hand on the back of Wade's head. There's a sharp shngk and a sting at the tip of Wade's ear as red warmth drips down onto Logan's thigh; his claws unsheathe into the couch this time, not Wade, who slurps and sucks every last drop of mutant cum from Logan's softening cock like it's the Fountain of fucking Eden.

He comes up for air, finally, lungs gasping against a swollen, fucked throat. He sits back panting on his thighs and Logan's legs underneath, a mix of cum and drool and the slightest bit of blood running down his cheeks and neck. Wiping away the mess with the back of a hand, blurry vision focuses back into reality and onto his roommate.

His roommate. Logan. Wolverine. Who's dick he just sucked the ever-living hell out of.

Well this is awkward.

Wade swallows, offers a crooked half-smile to the man who he just sucked, fucked, and milked dry.

"How 'bout them Yankees?"

Logan barks a laugh. A real, genuine laugh, one with teeth and spread lips and legitimate amusement. Wade preens.

"That was–" Logan wipes beads of sweat off his brow, "Fuck it. That was fuckin' amazing, Wade." He stuffs a hand behind his head, blinks a couple of times to recalibrate. "Didn't know that mouth did anything else 'sides talk."

Wade shrugs cutesily. "It impresses me sometimes, too. Helps when I have a willing participant. Just hope you signed the paperwork."

Logan shakes his head. Arms reach up to grab onto Wade, pulling an ear to Logan's lips.

"Now how 'bout we take care of you next, baby? Hm?"

\|/ \|/ \|/ \|/ \|/ \|/ \|/ \|/ \|/ \|/ \|/ \|/ \|/ \|/ \|/ \|/ \|/

Morning sun and a weight on his chests wakes Logan from probably the most peaceful sleep he's had in… well, ever, honestly.

There's a wetness and mix of smells wafting into his nostrils that make him stir next; combination of what feels like a tongue on his cheek making way towards his lips, dog breath, and the sweet smell of something cooking in the kitchen. Eyes fly open when a whine vibrates on his chest, finding himself greeted by Dogpool wagging her rat-tail with eyes bugging out of her little head.

"Gah– get off me, mutt," Logan scolds, sitting up and gently shoving Dogpool onto the couch cushion next to him. He runs a hand over his face and into his hair, the crick in his neck a little less noticeable this morning.

"Gooooood morning, sunshine!"

Logan looks up with tired eyes still adjusting to the morning light to find Wade in his robe covered in flour with a mixing bowl cradled in his arm as he stirs. Last night comes screeching back to Logan as soon as he locks eyes with his roommate, mouth going dry and dick twitching in his boxers.

Wade only smiles, not at all hiding his obvious glance at Logan's crotch. "You want chocolate chips or blueberries in yours?"

Logan shakes his head. "In my what?"

"Pancakes, Peanut. In your pancakes."

"Oh. Yeah." Logan blinks, then scoffs a laugh to himself. "Yeah, Mouth. I'd, ah– blueberries. I'd like blueberries."

[iwritebigbellies-blog]

The party was great. You were in your element, gregarious and happy, drinking like a fish, laughing with all our friends, helping to bbq and serve. We got there early and left late, and in between you ate so much that you were practically a sphere, belly so full it had lift, and your shirt couldn't cover it.

Not that you noticed. You were so drunk and happy that nothing crossed your mind but your most basic desires: more laughter, more beer, more food, more.

"Come on," I laughed, trying to wrangle you to the door. You got distracted by the host's cat, finally making an appearance. "You've turned into a pumpkin, Cinderella."

"Just let me finish my beer," you said, looking around for it. It was long gone, but I rolled my eyes and found you another. "Chips?" you ask, sitting on the stairs, patting the cat, giving me your best puppy-dog eyes.

"Absolutely not," I said incredulously. "Look at you, babe. You are going to literally explode if you eat one more bite." I bent over to poke you in the belly, which had no give at all. You looked at yourself like you just noticed, and gave it a pat.

"Maybe I overdid it a little," you muttered. "But I--" Then you were interrupted by an enormous belch and I couldn't help laugh again as you flushed red and blew out a slow breath. "I just really like chips."

"Come on, tubby," I said, reaching out with both hands. You took them and struggled to a stand, and it was a serious struggle. You outweigh me by almost three times, these days. Tonight, it was even more. You finally stumbled forward, laughing, and bumped into me, taking me in both arms for support.

"Sorry," you murmured into my ear. "I've had--" You hiccuped again. "--a lot."

Your huge, tight gut pressed heavy into me, leaving nothing to the imagination. I cupped the exposed bottom of your belly and almost buckled at the knees. You were so big, fatter and tighter than ever, weaving unsteadily on your feet, breathing heavy. I wanted to pull you closer, back to the wall, and ram my tongue down your throat. But this was not the place.

"Understatement of the year," I muttered back, trying to make light. "You've eaten yourself into the next size category. Where would you even put chips if I found you some?"

You responded by relaxing. Leaning into me, your belly expanded, hanging ponderously into my hands. "Here," you said.

I was going to lose my mind. When I stood straight, you did too, leaning back with a moan. You put your hands on the small of your back, arched, then placed them on the sides of your belly again when your shirt didn't come down to cover it.

"Let's go," I said gently, taking a belt loop and tugging you towards the door.

"Home?" you said, a little disappointed. I led you out to the street first, ordering a cab.

"Absolutely not," I replied, meeting your eyes. "We're going out for dessert." Your eyes widened, and you rubbed the sides of your belly absently, pressing and testing. "Wouldn't you prefer some ice cream?"

"Yes," you said instantly, without thinking. It had been a while, since you'd been thinking. Even as your eyes lit up at the prospect of that sundae, scoops of ice cream on brownies and fudge, whipped cream and crumbled cookies and a milkshake on the side; you were short of breath, widening your stance to accomodate how bloated you'd gotten over the evening. You didn't notice, but I did.

Later, when you were slouched in your seat, moaning in happiness, or pain, or happiness, your belly bare and bumping the table, your pants unbuttoned and tugged open as wide as they would go, you finally caught up.

"I..I think I'm done," you said, panting, understatement of the year. "Can I just sleep here? I don't think I am going to walk ever again. Oh my god. I am so full, baby. Look at me. I'm so full. I'm so--urp--oh my god. I'm not going to fit out the door."

I walked behind your chair and hugged you, reaching my hands over your shoulders to gingerly rub a stomach that was so distended, it shone. "Take it slow, my love. We'll get you there."

We levered you out of the seat and started the long, slow waddle to the door, you moaning and carrying on about how much you'd overdone it, still too drunk for any dignity. As we passed the front cash, I paused.

"Two more milkshakes, to go." It wasn't clear who was more stunned, the waiter or you. "And have you got chips? A bag." He filled the order, and you whimpered.

I handed them to you after we climbed for the next cab. You tore them open mechanically, and closed your eyes in bliss when the first hit your tongue. "Thank you," you said.

I snuggled close and started rubbing your huge belly, sliding my hands under your shirt. You closed your eyes and leaned into it, moaning again. "Anything your heart desires," I said. "Just keep eating."

[petslike79]

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[tanuki-kimono]

Hello ! I've been really into Gegege no Kitarou recently, and looking at his mom made me wonder : back when kimonos were worn on a daily basis, how did pregnant people style them ? Did they wear other types of clothes that don't compress the stomach as much instead ? If you happen to have any info on this, it would be very cool :)

Hi! It's hard to imagine as many kitsuke pictures now promote perfect tubular silhouettes with not a fold out of place, but in the past kimono were worn far more loosely than they are today!

Kimono was then worn everyday (=no time for perfect polished photoshoot looks ;), many kistuke accessories we now use didn't even exist (=they were not needed!).

During Edo period to late Meiji, feminine silhouettes were far more flowy/willowy than what we have today:

Kimono tended to be longer (hikizuri for ex.) and adjusted far less tighlty on the upper body (=people were working!). Depending on the period obi were narrower, or worn differently (criss crossed for ex.) or laxer than what we do today.

Pregnant women had no trouble adjusting their clothes to their changing bodies :)

The kimono was worn looser and looser as belly and boobs grew. If possible, kimono could have been unstitched and retailored (if fabric allowed it) to the bigger size needed.

Obi and ties were set above (and/or under the belly depending on time), like so:

And pregnancy belts were widely used.

One belt was a type of sarashi (soft cotton roll, which was also used for chest) named hara-obi 腹帯, which provided support:

Another special belt was the Iwata-obi 岩田帯, used during Obi-iwai 帯祝い, a ceremony taking place on the day of the dog during the fifth month of pregnancy. This was meant to ensure safe birth, as dogs were thought to give birth easily - hence why inu hariko are good luck charm for expecting women:

The obiiwai was also a way to announce a pregnancy to the community (as miscarriages, abortions, and infanticides were sadly quite common then).

Iwata obi are still a thing, here are modern ones:

Finally, as a side note, what pregnant women could do if they felt smothered by their kimono? Well, just open the damn thing to wear it much like a robe!

Japan had not the same shaming view of female breasts than the West then. It was quite common to see some working class people in underwear/loosely dressed, or have both sex share spaces in the nude (baths for ex.).

Tbh, unless she was living a sheltered life (no work, servants, etc.), I don't see why a pregnant woman would have bothered with a properly adjusted kimono, when she could have just be much freer and comfortable xD

Hope this helps!

[reevesdriver]

Downward Dog (NSFW)

Request: from @trish-stratus "Hi! I love your John Dutton fics! Was wondering can you please write a fic of the reader teaching John yoga, and teases him that he'll live to 150 if he does it. And he shows her what he's got. A little smutty please 🙏"

Word count: 812 (Kinda short I know but I hope you like it)

Character: John Dutton

Reader: Female reader

Warning(s): NSFW / 🔥🔥🔥 / Smut

Support me: Kofi

(AN: I love calling John old man in my fics, he's a dilf.)

John cleared out a spare room in the house so you could set up your own little gym and everyday, without fail, he'd come and watch you working out. Right now you had your yoga mat spread out across the floor and he sat on the couch where he liked to watch you stretching.

"Come on John I think you'll enjoy it more if you participate." You say

"I'm happy sittin' here and watching you darlin."

"You could join in, I've heard that doing yoga can increase your life span especially if you're older, you'll live to 150 if that's the case."

"You saying I'm old?"

"Mhmm." You smirk. John may have been a little older than any of our other lovers but he rarely showed his age. He could still mount his horse like a younger man and he helped out around the ranch if he needed to though Rip was normally by his side commanding someone else to do it.

You hear John suck his teeth behind you as you lowered your palms to the mat and walked your feet back until you were in downward dog. It was easily, hands down, your favourite position as it stretched in all the right places and unbeknownst to you it was also Johns favourite position to see you in. "You know this is a really good position John, it works out your arms, legs and your belly too."

"Yeah I can see that."

"Are you going to listen as I teach you some positions or are you just gonna stare at my ass all morning."

"I can do both, I'm a visual learner."

"Oh really?" You sink down to your knees and start with cow to cat pose. Johns eyes are fixed on your ass every time it raises and dips between positions. "Come and join me on the mat, it'll make you feel miles better if you finish a routine with me."

John grumbled behind you his heavy boot hitting the floor as he uncrossed his legs. You take a peak and see him pulling his boots off and removing his watch before he comes and stands next to you.

"This is stupid." He says when you stand and move into a new position, one that's a little easier for him since it's his first time joining you.

"It's not stupid, it's good for you. Now stop talking and do what I'm doing." You stretch your arms out and slowly lunge forwards. John follows your direction but doesn't stretch as far as you.

"Come on babe you can do better than that."

"This is as far as I can go with my jeans on."

"Maybe if you took them off it would help more." You say with a smirk and a wink.

John laughs and slowly stands up straight. Without hesitation his hands go to the buckle of his belt and quickly he undoes it with minimal effort then works the buttons and zipper of his jeans open and drops them down his thighs. One his pants have gone his shirt follows soon after. "Well now I feel a little over-dressed." He says playing with the hem of your t-shirt.

He tugs the bottom of your t-shirt up and you raise your arms so he can pull it over your head. You take a step back and push your pants down your thighs and to the floor before kicking them out of the way with your foot. "That make you feel any better?" You say closing the gap between the pair of you again.

"Mhm, much better darlin'." He says before his lips roughly meet yours. His hands grip your waist as he pulls you flush against him, the growing bulge in his boxers presses against your belly as his tongue grazes yours.

Rough hands move from your waist and up your spine where John expertly undoes the clasp of your bra and pulls it from your body throwing it haphazardly to the floor. You let out a soft sigh when he cups your breasts and pinches your nipples. Moving a hand you grope John through his boxers before sliding your palm against his belly and beneath the waistband, cupping his thick cock.

John wastes no time in getting you both to the floor and pulling your underwear down before shoving his boxers down just enough to pull his cock out and slide it into you. The yoga mat underneath provides subtle comfort under your back as his pelvis meets yours with every rough and rhythmic thrust.

"Fuck John." You whine before your walls clamp around his shaft. After a few more thrusts John pulls out and laces your belly with his cum. "Same time again tomorrow?" You ask with a blissful smile.

"If your workouts end like this all the time then I might just have to keep joining you."

[woso-dreamzzz]

Cookies III

Laura Coombs x Reader

Summary: Laura comes home to something she doesn't like

Meeting you had been the greatest accident of Laura's life.

Something that she mused about all the time when she drove home from practice.

It had been snowing earlier in the day, the whole city covered in a soft, white fleece of snow that had Laura's toes freezing in her football boots all practice.

That snow had turned to hail on the one day of the year that Laura had to walk home from training because her car was getting serviced. Originally, she thought that it was snowing and she'd always enjoyed snow even if it made her toes so cold that it was like they were about to freeze off.

Then the hail hit and she was left without an umbrella and freezing cold toes. The hail got harder and harder and Laura was forced to take refuge in whatever the first shop she came across was to wait it out.

You called it a coincidence. She called it fate.

She'd stumbled into the bakery you owned and fell in love on the spot. You were behind the counter, boxing up the pastries that hadn't sold that day when she came sliding in.

You'd welcomed her in, guided her to the back and turned on the oven for her to prop her cold toes in front of to warm up.

You'd baked her a cake at that moment, a big one that tied her over until the hail was done and she could make it home for dinner.

Although she never exactly made it home for dinner. She took you to a restaurant instead, somewhere halfway between cosy and fancy where you spoke about everything that came to mind and earned her your number in return.

She returned to the bakery almost every day to help you lock up and walk home.

Now, you had nearly four years of marriage under your belt and a dog going through the teenage years.

"Hey, Butterscotch," Laura greeted the dog as she stepped through the door.

She hung up her coat and slipped off her shoes, freezing suddenly when she noticed the amount of shoes lined up next to yours. She wildly looked up at the coat rack where coats she recognised hung up over your own.

The voices coming from the kitchen were also recognisable and she stormed into the room.

Her teammates were scattered around.

Lauren and Esme were both sitting at the table while Sandy and Jill were actually sitting on the table, each of them munching on warm cookies with half-melted chocolate chips inside.

Leila and Laia were stroking Butterscotch (the traitor), who had happily trotted straight up to them and flopped onto her back for belly scratches.

Kerstin, Bunny and Jess were sitting up on the counters while Alex and Kelly were both standing by the mixing bowls, listening closely to your instructions.

"How," Laura said through gritted teeth," Did you all get here before me?!"

"Must've taken a detour," Alex said dismissively," Why, Coombsy, unhappy to see us?"

"I see you all for hours at training," Laura replied, arms crossed over her chest," I don't need to see you at my house. What are you doing here?!"

"Baking," Chloe said," What does it look like?"

Laura grumbled something unintelligible under her breath before swiping a hand over her face. "Obviously. But why? None of you are bakers."

"Chloe had an idea," Kerstin admitted, swiping a finger through the batter and sucking it off with a pop," About selling cookies and cakes and stuff at the games to raise money for charity."

"It's not really special if they're store bought," Chloe carried on," So Alex called the best baker we know and here we are."

"Don't worry, baby," You told your wife, pealing away from supervising the mixing to pull her into a hug," They're all going to be put to work eventually. Maybe you can make some of them help you clear out the backyard shed while everything bakes."

Most of the team go wide eyed.

You'd be complaining about the messy shed for nearly two years now and Laura kept putting off sorting it out until she had help and, with her whole team here, it look like she had all the help she needed.

"Excellent," She said, eyes alight with the idea of getting revenge for the invasion of her house. "Esme, Lauren, there's boxes in the garage. Kerstin, Leila-"

"You can't take Leila," You cut in," I've got her down for making my filling. And you can't have Laia either because she's meant to be making my cupcake frosting."

Laura nodded. "Okay, Jess, then. You guys can get the shovels out. Move it girls. Let's go!"

Alexa and Chloe snickered and Laura whirled on them.

"Don't start laughing now," She said," Because I'm coming back for you two as soon as you're done."

[bodythieves]

horny cowboy content warning - mdni

(grinding and such, it’s kinda long too)

this is just downright pathetic.

How were you supposed to be anything but pathetic, though? With Arthur Morgan sitting before you, a delicious heat from the fire that licks your back in waves, and a knot in your belly that just wouldn’t come undone? To add to that, Arthur’s hands are all over you. Calloused, thick fingers, moving along your sides and your ribs. The man’s hands continue due north, pushing between the soft fabric of your shirt and your sun-beaten, tired skin. He pushes your button up away, and it falls to the dirt, and you don’t give one damn.

You never have, you never would, and you never could.

The cicadas sing loudly throughout the New Austin night. Arthur would complain, he always complained, big old baby. But you, you liked it. If it were up to you, you’d sit and listen to the cicadas and crickets and katydids sing and gladly take up a dime an hour doin’ it.

Apart from the critters of the night, there was a sweet, misconstrued mess of mumbling breaths between your lips and Arthur’s. A gentle clang and clack of spurs, belt buckles scraping against one another as you slid your way up from your kneeling position in the dirt. You were slotted between his legs, hands braced on either side of him. Palms pushed so deep into the dead wood of an abandoned wagon’s step, you could’ve sworn your flesh had been worn raw.

You had been begging him. On your knees, jeans pressed forcibly into the dry dirt beneath them, whimpering like a lost dog. Only time you rarely found yourself on your knees, was when you were praying to a god you didn’t quite believe in, about things you were in quite desperate need of.

“I can’t take it no more,” you shuddered out, your voice sounding so fraught and pitiful, you could hardly even recognize it yourself. You rolled yourself forward again, that wicked scrape of belt buckles making your skin’s hair stand at attention.

Arthur didn’t seem to register what you said. That, or he was down right ignoring you- probably both. Wouldn’t be surprised if it was both. However, his hands did drop from your rib cage, and went to grab your rear, his fingers now splayed in the pockets of denim there. You could hear him let out a gruff groan, his head ducking low and against your shoulder as he pulled you up into his lap.

Instinctively, your knees spread, and made themselves right at home beside Arthur’s hips, the crotch of your jeans now snugly pressed against the engraved metal that fastened Arthur’s leather belt taut against his waist. Settling into the position was easy, this dance now familiar between you and Arthur, like you didn’t even need a beat behind you to fall in to the rhythm. Arthur was quick to press his hips against yours, the wagon’s step shifting beneath the two of you.

“Hell’s bells, you smell damn good,” he grumbled lowly, damn near inaudibly, that thick tone rumbling through your shoulder and collar like a thunderclap.

“Vanilla,” you mumble in response, taking in a deep breath as you turned your head down and to the left, nose deep into Arthur’s hair. He’d been letting it grow out. You didn’t mind it. Made it easier to tug on. “Off the trees.. gotta do what you can with what.. what ya-”

Whew. God damn. Spit it out already.

It didn’t matter. Arthur wouldn’t let you finish your sentence, he didn’t wanna talk. Not right now, damn it. Talking would surely serve to irritate him, and you weren’t really in the position to be using words. You could barely even form a coherent thought; just sitting there, miserably grinding your apex against his belt, huffing and puffing, your jeans feeling as if they would snap from how tight and stiff your stomach felt.

It was almost like you had blacked out for a second, your thoughts swimming around in a wild current and then finally coming to as Arthur pulls your head down for a kiss, one hand moving from your rear to wrap around your waist and hold you down against his groin. The man huffed lowly, kissing you with brandy-wine and tobacco still on his tongue, his arm clutching your bare torso tight, his hips lazily moving upwards in a search for you. You, loving the friction that that damn belt brought, pushed your rear down and grabbed on to his shoulders for a moment.

“Christ,” you breathe out, your stomach now as hot as the flames that warmed your back. Your movements became more and more anguished, your hands moving to find Arthur’s shoulders. Bitten and jagged nails dug into the man’s shoulders, your sighs filling his ears. You didn’t even need anything more than this, and evidently, neither did Arthur.

“Ain’t present,” The cowboy caviled, pulling away so he could let his head fall back. His arm was still locked around you, holding you in position. He, on the other hand, shifted and spread his legs. Arthur’s trousers were growing exponentially tighter and more uncomfortable, his own breathing now rasped and shaking.

Still grinding your hips, pushing yourself against his bulge and buckle, you watched him like he was the pure picture of desire. Light hair tossed back and disheveled, stuck to the sides of his head from his sweat. You always liked how New Austin treated him. His thick brows pushed upward and he gritted his teeth, jutted out his lip, his stubble making the expression all the more attractive. Opening his blues to catch your eyes and let out a throaty groan, you felt yourself start to come undone, the mixture of eye contact and bare chests against one another making you feel absolutely drunk with lust.

Then, the grinding. You hissed and jerked in his arm, which only rewarded you with a closer tug to his body. Arthur continued to buck beneath you, but no longer lazily. Rather, with conviction and confidence, like he wanted you to get off like this. Bare chest, jeans clad tight, spurs clanging, and in his lap.

Like he wanted to get off like that, too.

notes: I DID IT. IM ABOUT TO PASS OUT BUT I DID IT. no proofreading no plot just this. enjoy goodnifht.