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blueberrisdove-sideblog · 4 months ago

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꒰ঌ ໒꒱. ） WHAT ARE YA LOOKN’ AT ?

－ℱ）paring : anaxa, phainon, aventurine, aglaea, mydei x f!reader

－ℱ）warnings : nsfw/smut, creampie, scissoring with aglaea, c*mplay, man handling, size kink, nipple play, boob obsession, hair pulling, chocking, biting and dumbification in aglaea’s part!

－ℱ）synopsis : they keep staring at your tits? (mdni)

－ℱ）note : not proof read!! header is a doujinshi and you can find it on X from : sakuranotomoru !!

( 𝐀𝐍𝐀𝐗𝐀 )

You noticed it again.

The way Anaxagoras kept staring. His gaze, sharp and unashamed, lingered far too long on your chest—tracking every small movement, every shift of fabric that strained against your curves. He wasn’t even trying to be discreet.

You finally snapped. "Why do you keep staring at my chest?"

He didn’t flinch, didn’t look away. Instead, a slow, knowing smirk curled his lips. "Because you make it impossible not to."

You huffed, crossing your arms—a mistake. The motion only pushed your tits together, and his gaze flickered lower, dark with amusement.

"Anaxa," you warned, but before you could say anything else, he moved.

He was fast, deceptively strong despite his slender frame. His long fingers wrapped around your wrist, pulling you forward until you were flush against him. The heat of his body was unmistakable, his breath fanning over your ear as he whispered, "You expect me to resist something so tempting?"

His hands found your tits, cupping them through your clothes, thumbs brushing over your nipples. You gasped, shivering under his touch.

"You do this without even realizing," he murmured, voice thick with hunger. "Walking around, teasing me… and now you're acting so innocent?"

Your protest died on your tongue when he pushed you back against the nearest surface. His lean frame pressed against yours, long fingers tracing down your waist before yanking your clothes aside.

"Let me show you exactly what you’ve been doing to me."

Before you could respond, he spread your thighs, his fingers teasing at your soaked cunt. He chuckled, soft and mocking. "Already so wet," he mused. "Was it the way I looked at you? Or were you hoping I’d do this all along?"

You whined, barely able to process anything before he lined himself up—his cock hard, thick, pressing against your entrance.

"You can take it," he murmured.

Then he thrust in, deep and unforgiving, stretching you open with a force that made your back arch.

You never should’ve asked.

A sharp gasp left your lips as Anaxa buried himself to the hilt, stretching your pussy wide with a single deep thrust. His cock was thick despite his slender frame, filling you in a way that made your body tremble.

"Fuck—so tight," he groaned, voice smooth but edged with hunger. His fingers dug into your hips, holding you still as he pulled back just enough to slam into you again.

Your back arched against the cold surface beneath you, your nails clawing at his sleeves. He barely seemed fazed, eyes locked onto your tits as they bounced with each harsh thrust.

"Look at you," he murmured, breathless but still smug. "Taking my cock so well, yet you had the nerve to question why I was staring?"

You tried to form a response, but all that came out was a choked moan when his hand slid up to your throat. His fingers wrapped around it, applying just enough pressure to make your breath hitch, to remind you of how easily he controlled you.

"That’s it," he whispered, tilting his head. "Let me hear you struggle to speak."

His free hand cupped your tits again, slender fingers rolling your nipples between them, tugging and pinching until you whined. The sharp pleasure mixed with the tight grip on your throat sent waves of heat pooling between your legs.

"Your pussy’s clenching so tight around me," he noted with a breathy chuckle. "Do you like being handled like this? Having me choke you while I fuck you dumb?"

A desperate whimper escaped you as he thrust even harder, cock dragging against your walls in a way that had your body tensing, aching for release. He wasn’t gentle. Every movement was calculated—deep, rough, unrelenting.

His thumb flicked over your clit, rubbing circles in time with his thrusts. "Come on," he coaxed, voice dropping lower, silkier. "Be a good girl and come for me."

His fingers tightened slightly around your throat, cutting off just enough air to send you spiraling. Your vision blurred, pleasure crashing through you as your pussy clenched around him, spasming with the force of your orgasm.

Anaxagoras groaned, hips stuttering as he chased his own release. His grip on your throat loosened just enough for you to gulp in a breath before he slammed into you one last time, spilling deep inside with a sharp, shuddering moan.

For a moment, all you could hear was your ragged breathing, the aftershocks of pleasure still making your body tremble.

Then, his lips brushed over your ear, and in that same smooth, teasing voice, he murmured, "Still wondering why I was staring?"

( 𝐏𝐇𝐀𝐈𝐍𝐎𝐍 )

You could feel his gaze before you even looked up. It wasn’t the kind of glance someone tried to hide—Phainon wasn’t subtle like that. No, he was outright staring, heavy-lidded eyes locked onto your chest with a lazy smirk pulling at his lips.

"You're doing it again," you muttered, shifting under his attention.

"Am I?" His voice was all amusement, but his golden eyes didn’t waver. "Can you really blame me when you're presenting such a perfect view?"

Before you could huff out a response, his fingers were already on you, tracing the curve of your breasts through your clothes. He wasn’t hurried—he never was. Phainon enjoyed taking his time, savoring the way you shivered at his touch, the way your breath hitched when his thumb ghosted over your nipple, teasing it through the fabric.

"You make it too easy for me," he mused, rolling the sensitive bud between his fingers. "So responsive already. I haven't even gotten you bare yet, and you're already squirming."

Your hands gripped his forearms, unsure if you wanted to push him away or pull him closer. "Phainon—"

"Shhh, let me enjoy myself," he purred, his other hand sliding under your top, fingers warm as they brushed against bare skin. "You have no idea how much I think about these." He gave a slow, appreciative squeeze, his smirk widening as you gasped. "Soft, perfect—exactly how they should be."

You whined, heat flooding you as he rolled your nipple between his fingers, pinching just enough to make your thighs press together. He noticed, of course. He always did.

"That desperate already?" He chuckled, letting his other hand drift lower, tracing the waistband of your clothes. "I barely touched you, and you're getting wet. You must love this even more than I do."

His knee nudged between your legs, spreading them apart before pressing up just enough to make you feel the friction. "I bet I could make you come just from playing with these pretty tits," he murmured, pinching just a little harder, loving the way you shuddered. "Should I prove it?"

His cocky smirk told you he already knew the answer.

Your breath hitched as Phainon’s fingers rolled your nipple again, slow and deliberate, like he was savoring every little reaction. His knee between your legs pressed up, adding just the right amount of friction to make you squirm.

"You’re so sensitive," he murmured, his voice dripping with amusement. "I wonder—if I sucked on them, would you moan for me? Or would you try to keep quiet, knowing how much I’d tease you for it?"

You barely had time to process before he tugged your top down, exposing your breasts to the cool air. He made a satisfied sound deep in his throat, blue eyes darkening as he took in the sight.

"Fuck, look at you," he murmured, thumbs brushing over your hardened nipples. "You were made to be touched like this, weren’t you?"

You gasped when his mouth replaced his fingers, hot and wet as he sucked one of your nipples between his lips. His tongue flicked over the peak before he bit down just enough to make your hips jerk against his thigh. He chuckled against your skin.

"See?" he murmured, pulling back just enough to breathe against the damp skin. "I could spend all night here, playing with you, tasting you, making you beg." His fingers tweaked your other nipple, rolling the sensitive bud between his fingertips. "And judging by how soaked you already are, I wouldn’t even have to touch your pretty pussy to get you off."

Your hands clenched in his clothes, your body burning under his attention. He was relentless, sucking and teasing until the heat between your legs grew unbearable.

"Ah, but I’d be cruel if I didn’t reward you for looking so fucking pretty like this." His hand finally dipped lower, slipping beneath your waistband. The moment his fingers found your soaked cunt, he groaned.

"Fuck. You're dripping," he murmured, rubbing slow circles around your clit before dragging his fingers through your folds. "So wet, just from me playing with your tits. Maybe I really should make you come like this��without even touching your needy little pussy properly."

He pressed two fingers inside you anyway, stretching you open as his mouth returned to your nipple, sucking greedily. His free hand teased your other breast, fingers tugging and rolling the stiff peak as he set a slow, devastating rhythm inside you.

"Come for me like this," he murmured against your skin. "Come while I’m sucking on your tits, and then I’ll give you my cock, since I know that’s what you’re really craving."

Smug bastard. But with the way he was touching you, you wouldn’t last much longer to argue.

( 𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐄 )

Aventurine’s purple eyes had been on your chest for the last five minutes, and he wasn’t even trying to be subtle about it. Lounging back, one arm draped lazily over the couch, he smirked as his gaze flicked between your face and the swell of your tits.

"You always this much of a tease, or is today special?" he mused, tilting his head.

You huffed, crossing your arms—not that it helped. If anything, it only pressed your tits together, and judging by the way his smirk deepened, he knew exactly what you were trying to hide.

"Mm, cute," he murmured, reaching out. He didn’t ask for permission—Aventurine never did. His fingers traced along the curve of your breast, slow, deliberate, like he was mapping out a winning play.

"Fuck, you’re soft," he murmured, squeezing lightly before his thumb brushed over your nipple. Even through your clothes, the touch sent a shiver down your spine. He grinned. "Sensitive too. No wonder you were trying to cover up."

Before you could retort, he tugged your top down, exposing you to the cool air. He exhaled sharply, eyes dark with something deeper than amusement.

"Now that’s a jackpot."

His mouth was on you before you could think to protest, hot and greedy as he sucked a nipple between his lips. His tongue flicked over the stiff peak before he bit down, just enough to make you gasp.

"Yeah," he murmured against your skin, voice low and smug. "I knew you’d like that."

His other hand palmed your other breast, fingers rolling and teasing until your back arched. He played with you like he had all the time in the world, like this was some high-stakes game he was guaranteed to win.

When his hand dipped between your legs, his grin turned downright wicked. "Already soaked?" His fingers traced over your clit, teasing but not quite giving you what you needed. "And I haven’t even given you my cock yet."

He pressed two fingers inside you, slow but firm, stretching you open as he sucked harder at your nipple. Your fingers twisted in his hair, your body burning under his touch.

"Bet I could make you come just like this," he murmured, thrusting his fingers deeper. "Tits in my mouth, my fingers stretching you open—yeah, you’d look real pretty falling apart for me."

And with the way he worked you over, teasing and relentless, you knew he was right.

Your breath hitched as Aventurine sucked another deep bruise into the soft flesh of your breast, his tongue flicking over your nipple in slow, teasing circles. His fingers inside you curled just right, dragging against that spot that made your thighs tremble.

"You're not even trying to hold back," he mused, pulling away just enough to watch your expression. His fingers didn’t stop, fucking into you slow and deep. "Cute. Thought you’d put up more of a fight."

"Shut up," you gasped, hips rocking into his hand, desperate for more.

Aventurine chuckled, his free hand pinching your other nipple, rolling it between his fingers. "Oh? Didn’t sound very convincing." He tugged a little harder, making your breath stutter. "Maybe you should beg properly if you want me to give you what you need."

Your pride warred with your desperation, but the way he was playing with you, teasing every sensitive part of you with practiced ease, made it impossible to stay quiet. "Aventurine—please."

"Please what?" His fingers pulled from your pussy, dragging your slick over your clit before retreating entirely. "C’mon, sweetheart. I know you can say it."

You whined, frustration curling in your gut as he went back to palming your tits, rubbing your saliva-slick nipples between his fingers but giving you nothing where you needed it most.

"I want your cock," you finally admitted, breathless.

His smirk widened. "Now that’s what I like to hear."

He sat back, undoing his belt with an easy flick of his wrist. The moment his cock sprang free, thick and flushed, your mouth went dry.

Aventurine caught your chin between his fingers, tilting your face up so you had to meet his gaze. "You gonna be good for me?" His cock nudged against your slick folds, not pushing in yet, just teasing. "Or do I have to work you up even more?"

You shuddered, already feeling dizzy from how much he’d teased you. "I’ll be good—just fuck me already."

"Mm, good answer." His hands found your hips, fingers digging in as he finally thrust inside, stretching you open with one slow, deliberate stroke.

Aventurine groaned, his head tipping back briefly before his gaze locked onto your tits again, watching how they bounced with each roll of his hips. "Yeah," he muttered, thumbing one of your nipples. "This is exactly where you belong."

( 𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐀𝐄𝐀 )

Aglaea’s touch was always deliberate. Never rushed, never careless—just the perfect balance of control and indulgence. Right now, that control was turned entirely on you, her cool fingers dragging over your bare chest, pausing to roll your stiff nipples between her fingers with calculated precision.

"You look so pliant like this," she mused, voice smooth as ever. "I wonder—were you always this weak to being touched, or am I simply that skilled?"

You whimpered, unable to form a coherent response. Your head felt hazy, warmth pooling in your belly as she continued to toy with your tits, alternating between firm pinches and slow, teasing circles.

"Already slipping, are you?" Aglaea’s lips quirked into the faintest smirk, her gold eyes sharp with amusement. "And here I thought you had more to offer."

Her words should’ve embarrassed you, but the way she kept playing with you—never giving you enough to satisfy, only enough to make you crave more—had your mind melting too quickly to care.

"Speak," she commanded, fingers twisting just right, making your back arch. "Tell me how it feels."

Your breath hitched. "S’good—"

Aglaea tsked, shaking her head. "Articulate."

You tried again, but with the way her thumbs were brushing over your swollen nipples, your tongue felt heavy. Your thighs rubbed together, desperate for more friction, but she only chuckled.

"Mm. Thought so." She dipped a hand between your legs, pressing her fingers against your dripping cunt. "You're soaking. And all I’ve done is play with your tits."

Your hips jerked, but she didn’t move, keeping you right on the edge.

"How predictable," she murmured, finally sliding two fingers inside, slow and deep. "So easily reduced to this. A soft little thing, eager to be filled but barely capable of forming a sentence."

Her other hand never left your chest, teasing and rolling your nipple in tandem with every thrust of her fingers. Your mind fogged up further, thoughts slipping away with every precise movement.

"You’re taking me so well," she mused, voice low and sweet. "But I think we can empty that little head of yours even more, hm?"

And with the way she was working you over, it was only a matter of time before you gave in completely.

Aglaea watched you with that same calm amusement, her fingers still buried deep inside you, teasing, stretching, keeping you just on the edge. Every slow thrust was deliberate, her other hand never ceasing its attention on your chest, pinching and rolling your nipples like she had all the time in the world to ruin you.

"You're already struggling to keep up," she mused, tilting her head. "I wonder—how much more can you handle before your mind turns completely to mush?"

You whined, hips bucking against her fingers, desperate for more. Words were hard to string together, your body pliant and open under her touch.

"Mm. Perhaps we should push a little further." She withdrew her fingers, ignoring your pathetic whimper at the loss, and instead, shifted herself closer, positioning her body against yours.

Before you could even register what she was doing, you felt the smooth press of her soaked cunt against yours. Your breath stuttered as she hooked her leg over your hip, rolling her hips forward, making sure you felt everything.

"Look at you," she murmured, her golden eyes dark with something deeper than amusement. "So dumb and needy, just from a little playing. And now you get to grind against me properly—if you can even keep up."

You gasped as she moved, the slick heat of her cunt rubbing against yours in slow, languid strokes. Every grind sent sparks up your spine, the sensation of her wet folds pressing into yours too much and not enough at the same time.

"You feel that?" Aglaea purred, her fingers returning to your breasts, playing with your swollen nipples in time with her movements. "Every little shift, every drag of my clit against yours—ah, you’re shaking already."

Your thighs trembled as you tried to match her rhythm, but your body was too wrecked, too lost in the overwhelming sensation of her taking her time with you, dragging you closer to the edge at her pace.

"Mm, poor thing," she sighed, voice dripping with mock sympathy. "Already too fucked out to do anything but take it? That's fine. You don't need to think—just let me use you to get myself off."

Her pace quickened slightly, the wet slide of your cunts rubbing together filling the space between you. Every shift sent more pleasure flooding through you, your brain completely melting under her touch, her voice, the way she played with your body like it belonged to her.

"Go on," she murmured, her lips grazing your jaw as she pinched your nipple hard enough to make your breath catch. "Cum for me, like the dumb little thing you are."

With the way she was grinding against you, the stimulation to your clit, the way her hands and words completely unraveled you—you had no choice but to obey.

Aglaea’s smirk deepened as your body tensed, thighs trembling, a broken moan slipping from your lips as the pleasure crested. The wet friction between you grew even slicker as you came hard, your walls clenching around nothing, back arching into her touch.

"That’s it," she murmured, rolling her hips through your orgasm, not slowing down in the slightest. "Just like that. So easy to unravel, aren’t you?"

Your breath came in short gasps, your body still shuddering in the aftermath, but Aglaea wasn’t done with you. Before you could fully register it, her fingers tangled in your hair, yanking your head back just enough to expose your throat.

"You’re not done yet," she chided, her voice still smooth, still composed—but there was an edge now, something sharp and possessive beneath her usual amusement. "Did I say you could stop?"

Your whimper was cut off as she leaned in, lips dragging along the sensitive skin of your throat before her teeth sank in, biting down hard enough to make you cry out. The mix of pain and pleasure shot straight to your core, and your hips jerked, grinding up into her as she bit deeper, claiming you in a way that made your head spin.

"Mm, such pretty sounds," Aglaea mused, licking over the fresh mark she’d left before her teeth found your shoulder next, sinking in just as deep. "You take everything so well, don’t you? All it takes is a little tug on your hair, a little bite, and you’re already falling apart again."

She pulled your head back further, forcing you to meet her gaze. Her eyes were half-lidded, hungry, her lips swollen from the marks she was leaving on your skin.

"You’re going to give me another one," she purred, her hand trailing back down to your chest, fingers pinching and rolling your overstimulated nipples, making your breath stutter. "You’re going to cum again, right here, rubbing that dumb little pussy against mine."

Her pace quickened, her own breaths coming heavier now as her clit dragged against yours, the wet slide between you turning downright obscene. Her grip in your hair tightened as she leaned in, biting down on your lower lip this time, sucking it into her mouth before pulling away just enough to murmur—

"Be good for me and cum again, or I’ll keep going until you can’t think at all."

With the way she was using you, the way she played with your body like it was hers to control, you knew you wouldn’t last much longer.

( 𝐌𝐘𝐃𝐄𝐈 )

Mydei’s eyes had been on your chest for a while now. He wasn’t even pretending to be subtle about it, his golden gaze flicking down every time you shifted, every time your top dipped just a little too low.

"You’re not very discreet," you teased, folding your arms beneath your tits, knowing exactly what that would do.

His smirk was slow, calculated. "Why would I be? You’ve been parading them in front of me all night."

Before you could snap back, he was already moving. One step closer, his gloved hand reaching out, fingers tracing the curve of your breast over your clothes. A deliberate touch, slow and indulgent. His thumb brushed over your nipple, and even through the fabric, the sensation sent a shiver up your spine.

"See?" he murmured, tilting his head. "You react so easily. Did you want my attention this badly?"

You swallowed hard, heat curling low in your stomach as he palmed your breast fully, fingers squeezing just enough to make you bite back a sound. He leaned in, breath warm against your ear.

"Go on," he purred, lips ghosting over your jaw. "Ask me properly."

Your pride kept your mouth shut for all of two seconds before his fingers pinched your nipple through your top, sending a sharp jolt of pleasure straight to your core.

"Mydei—"

"Mm. That’s not quite begging, but I’ll allow it."

He wasted no time tugging your top down, exposing you fully to his gaze. His pupils dilated, golden eyes dark with something deeper than amusement. His mouth was on you in an instant, tongue flicking over your nipple before his lips sealed around it, sucking hard.

Your back arched as he lavished attention on you, his other hand kneading your other breast, fingers rolling the sensitive bud between his fingertips. He groaned against your skin, like he was savoring the taste of you.

"Perfect," he muttered, pulling back just enough to admire the way your nipple was slick with his saliva. "And already so worked up."

His hand drifted lower, fingers slipping past your waistband, finding your soaked cunt with ease. He hummed, amused. "So wet, and I’ve barely even touched you here. Seems like your tits really are your weak spot."

His fingers pushed inside you, stretching you open, fucking into you slow and deep. You barely had time to adjust before his other hand wrapped around your throat, squeezing just enough to make your breath hitch.

"Let’s see how dumb you can get for me," he murmured, tightening his grip as his fingers sped up, working you open until you were a trembling mess beneath him.

When he finally pulled his cock free, hard and leaking against your thigh, you didn’t even have the chance to beg—he was already lining himself up, the thick head pressing against your entrance.

"Take it," he ordered, his voice smooth but firm as he sank into you, stretching you inch by inch. His fingers flexed around your throat, his other hand pinching your nipple hard as he bottomed out.

A guttural groan rumbled from his chest. "Fuck. Look at you, stuffed full of my cock." His grip tightened slightly, just enough to make your walls flutter around him. "So good, so tight—like you were made for this."

He set a brutal pace, hips snapping against yours, his hands never straying—one wrapped firmly around your throat, the other still teasing your breasts, fingers rolling and pinching, making sure you felt everything.

"You’re going to cum for me," he murmured, voice low and commanding. "And when you do, I’m going to fill you up—leave you dripping with my cum, just to see how pretty you look all messy for me."

With the way he was fucking you, his cock hitting deep, his hands keeping you right where he wanted, you knew you wouldn’t last much longer. And neither would he.

Mydei’s golden eyes were sharp, watching the way your body reacted to his every move. His hand never left your throat, keeping you at just the right edge of breathless, as though he was savoring the control, the power he had over you.

"You look so small under me," he murmured, his voice smooth, but the satisfaction in it was unmistakable. "Like you were made to be filled."

You couldn’t help the way your body trembled under his touch, his words stirring something deep within you. The way he seemed to relish in the way your body barely fit him, the way his cock stretched you more than you thought you could handle, had your mind spinning.

"Can’t even take it all, can you?" he teased, his fingers tightening just slightly around your throat, his other hand gliding over your chest, gently pressing against your tits. "How cute. You’re barely able to take the size of me, aren’t you?"

You moaned, half-dazed, as he fucked into you with slow precision, every inch of his cock filling you, making you feel stretched beyond what you thought was possible. It was so much, too much, and yet it felt perfect.

Your thoughts grew more hazy, every thrust making your head swim, your body instinctively arching back into his. The sensation of him inside you, of him keeping you right on the edge, made it so hard to focus.

"Such a dumb little thing," Mydei murmured, his voice low and rough as he leaned down to bite your neck, marking you, claiming you. "Don’t even know what to do, do you? Just here to be fucked by me, to take all of me and fall apart for me."

You could only nod, body completely at his mercy. Words were slipping away, replaced by the overwhelming sensation of him. The way his cock filled you, the way he teased your body, leaving you weak and unable to think properly.

"You’re mine now," he whispered in your ear, his voice dark with something possessive. "Just a little thing for me to fuck, for me to use until you’re so dumb you can’t even remember your own name."

You couldn’t deny it. His size, his dominance, the way he made you feel so small, so completely under his control—it was all consuming. You were already losing yourself in him, and part of you didn’t care to fight it.

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softaestluv · 5 months ago

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John Price who has a chubby wife— loves his chubby wife, in fact. Thinks the more fat on a woman the better.

Chubby wife whom he keeps all to himself. Not because he isn’t proud to have you by his side. If anything he loves taking you to his work events so you can get all dolled up. Keeps a firm grip around your waist all night, quite possessive of you he is, but he also enjoys feeling the fat of your hip cave under his large palm. Watching the supple flesh spill between his fingertips in the soft fabric.

You hate the way your belly shows in all the dresses you have to wear for these events, but god, John couldn’t love it more. Traces his eyes over the chubby little bump in the material. Loves that he can see the silhouette, how the fabric pulls taut at your curves.

Or your breasts, round and heavy. Cleavage seeping from the tight confines of the material. Poor girl can’t help it when they’re that big, no top can seem to hide them. Distracts him all too often when people are trying to talk to him and all he can focus on is the deep slope of your breasts.

And your ass, wide and curved. Jiggles with every step you take, enjoys watching you walk in front of him just as much as he prefers you tight by his side. Practically foams at the mouth when your dress is short enough so he can see the back of your thighs. Has to will his boner away when he can see the shadows of cellulite that decorate the backs of them.

Irritation burns his throat when his sergeants approach you, try to charm you the best they can. You’re too sweet to explicitly ignore them or shush them away, but that’s what you had him for, why he was so bloody protective of you. Would have thought that his sergeants would respect their captain and not drag their eyes over his girls figure. Though, he couldn’t blame them when you looked like that. Who wouldn’t look? He couldn’t take his own eyes off you.

Enjoys the sharp inhale you make when he pulls your back against his chest, leans his head close to you and asks if this muppet is bothering you, darling?

Loud enough for the other man to hear, but John doesn’t even bat him an eye, keeps his eyes trained on you. Revels in the fact that you press your self deeper into his touch, slotting your ass closer to his hips. The man always excuses himself with a quiet ‘my apologies, sir’ but John doesn’t even care, really. Too focused on his pretty girl to pay attention to anyone else.

He always leaves these events too early, especially for a captain. Should probably stay later than most considering his rank, but he can’t help himself. Staring at you for just a couple hours in a pretty little dress without burying his cock inside you is almost unbearable.

Truthfully, a quickie in a closet or spare room might suffice, has taken you away from these parties just to return shortly with a new hickey adorned on your neck and his cum dripping down your thighs. But a quickie is never enough, not sufficient enough for John.

John’s body is burly, grooved into protruding muscles, smoothed over with a layer of fat and thick curly tufts of brown hair. Sinewy muscles and meaty, pure strength.

And you.

Well you are chubby, soft and round. Pretty doe eyes encased between plump cheeks. The perfect delicacy for him to melt into.

Being captain comes with its stresses, especially at his age. Pieces of his patience are shaved away with each passing day. His back aches, knees popping everytime he squats, temples pulsing terribly behind his eyelids. He’s sore most days than not, irritated and tired behind his desk. Moronic and insolent sergeants ruining him to his wits end.

It’s draining ordering those around who will not listen. But his sweet chubby wife, you, make up for it. Quite obedient you are, never has to tell you twice. Perfect acquiescence entangled in each little dimple on your flesh.

Coming home to you is easy. Hoisting your plush thighs either side of his head is even easier. Melting his aches and pains away with his face buried in your cunt. You tend to be hesitant sitting on his face, nervous that you will squish him to death. It’s cliche, but he mumbles refusals to you one too many times.

Nonsense, darling he wishes to be smothered by you, couldn’t have a better place to be.

It’s the truth, savors the image of you above him. Bulge of your belly pressed to his nose, breasts plump and heavy, drooped low, so he can see your nipples, pert and rosy. Thighs thick and suffocating around his face, pretty little mewls muffled to his ears by your flesh. Soft fat blocking his view of your face, can only get a glimpse of it if you angle your head a certain way. Something he usually would not appreciate, but he enjoys the expanse of your skin just as much.

Spends his time between your thighs, makes you cum on his tongue several times before he’s pleased enough. Keeps his large palm fisted around his cock while he does so because the taste of your arousal is just as addicting as your fat. Could finish like that, sat atop him, cum on his lips. Has before, but you do not prefer it that way. Sweet as you are, you are quite greedy, or maybe he has just spoiled you too much. Always want him to stuff you full of him.

And he does, without a second thought because your pussy feels even better wrapped around his cock than his tongue. It’s only fair that you match him, puffy and swollen cunt compares to his fat cock.

It’s a tight fit after all, but you can take it, can’t you, sweetheart?

Transfixed on your curves, the way your belly squishes together when he bends your legs back. Rolls smushed, breasts spilling to your sides from the weight of them. Each thrust is like a cascading wave, watches it ripple over your body, fat jiggling softly. He can never spend nearly enough time grazing your flesh, wishes to sink his teeth into every inch of fat until it’s all his.

He likes being pressed above you, fucking you messy into the sheets, but he thinks he likes you on top just as much. Weighed down under your heavy body as you ride him. Finds too much pleasure watching your chubby thighs try to fuck yourself on his length, legs shaking from exhaustion, whining weakly as you paw at his chest. Beg him to fuck you, that you simply can’t lift yourself any longer, can’t smash his fattened tip against the right spot.

What’s wrong, sweetheart? He’ll drawl, palming at your breasts, Can’t make yourself cum, huh? Come on, use those thick thighs of yours.

And you do try. He spoils you, but teasing you is just as satisfying. Enjoys watching you struggle to make yourself cum until tears are welling in your lashes and all you can do is rut your hips against his.

He gives in eventually, flipping the two of you around. Folds you how he pleases because even through it all he can still carry you easily. Fucks you the way you want, the way you deserve after being subject to his torment for so long.

Though it’s not just sexual gratification. You’re always warm and so soft. His worries seem to dissolve under your touch, snuggled tightly around you. Harden edges melt into your plush flesh, face buried between your breasts more often than not when lying together. Pulls you atop him, the heavy weight welcomed, grounds him of sorts. Even if his breath does become strained, you lull him to sleep.

He’ll wake up to the both of you sweaty and clammy, struggling to adequately fill his lungs with air, but he only pulls you closer, not quite ready to leave the confines of his girl.

#cherri writes #smut #cod price #cod smut #john price #john price x reader #john price x you #john price x y/n #call of duty #fanfic #plus size!reader #chubby!reader #curvy!reader #softaestluv #cherris drabbles

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callmenigma · 11 days ago

Text

His - Part 2

Here is the second and the last part of the 'His'.

Pairing: Jinu x Fem!reader Warning: NSFW, smut, human/demon relationship, smut, vaginal fingering, penis in vagina, rough sex, hair pulling, creampie

Tags: @bypanana

You arched back against him with a soft, desperate sound, your body seeking his instinctively—your hips pressing against the undeniable hardness straining behind his pants. You could feel how ready he was, how much he wanted you. How much he'd been wanting you.

And it sent a pulse of heat straight through you.

You turned your head, trying to glance over your shoulder, to see him—those glowing golden eyes that always undid you. You’d seen him like this before: the lilac markings blooming across his skin, the faint otherworldly energy curling around him like a second skin. A being that wasn’t meant to exist in the same world as you, and yet—

He belonged to you.

And you to him.

You managed to catch a glimpse—those burning amber-gold eyes fixed entirely on you, like you were the only thing that existed. And gods, he was beautiful. Terrifyingly so. A creature born of shadow and fire and hunger, and still somehow looking at you like you were something divine.

Your breath caught in your throat, but before you could say anything, his fingers flexed between your legs—reminding you exactly where you were.

"Ah, ah," he chided, voice smooth and wicked, his smirk pressed against your neck. “Eyes forward, little prey. No peeking.”

His fingers moved just slightly, enough to make your knees tremble.

“Didn’t anyone teach you it’s dangerous to look back when you’re being hunted?”

He chuckled when you whimpered, squirming as his fingers ghosted closer—just barely circling your entrance under your panties without giving you what you were silently begging for.

“You’re getting impatient,” he murmured, voice thick with dark pleasure. “Tried so hard to run from me… and now you’re pushing back into my hand like a needy thing.”

You trembled.

“Tell me, sweet girl... how much do you want me?”

You whimpered softly, hips twitching against his hand as your fingers clutched at the one still wrapped around your jaw. Your voice came out breathy, raw with need.

“So much… please, Jinu— I’ll be good. I promise.”

That did something to him.

He chuckled—low and warm, the sound rich with satisfaction and something almost reverent.

“You will, huh?” he murmured. “My perfect little prey, begging so sweetly…”

Then he felt it.

The subtle shift of your hips, the press of your thighs trying to close—trying to create just a little friction, just enough to relieve the ache building between your legs.

And his grin sharpened.

“Ohh,” he breathed, amused. “Trying to sneak a little pleasure, are we? Even when I’m right here? While my hand is on your dripping cunt?”

You gasped at the word, at how filthy it sounded in his voice—so dark and possessive it made your knees weak.

He nuzzled into your neck again, and this time, he let his fingers press a little harder, sliding down just enough to ghost over your entrance—still not giving you what you craved, but letting you feel just how close he was.

“You want me to give you one finger?” he whispered. “Maybe two?” Another kiss behind your ear.

His glowing eyes were locked on the way your body writhed for him, desperate and trembling and so achingly his.

“Please…”

And gods, he’d never loved anything more.

You bit down on your lip, hard, trying to hold in the moan that clawed up your throat as his finger finally—finally—slid into you. Slowly. Deeply.

Your head fell back against his shoulder with a soft thunk, your eyes fluttering closed, and your legs—gods, your legs—buckled under the slow, stretching pressure of him inside you.

“F—fuck,” you gasped, hands scrabbling at his forearm, trying to stay upright, but it was useless. You were already shaking.

Jinu chuckled, low and pleased, as he held you up like you weighed nothing—one arm still wrapped securely around your middle, the other buried between your legs, his long finger curling inside you with maddening precision.

“Ohh, there she is,” he purred, dragging his lips down the side of your throat. “My perfect girl, falling apart already. Can’t even stand, can you?”

You whimpered in response, half a sob, your body melting against him.

He felt it.

The way you buckled onto his hand like your body was trying to get off on one finger alone, shameless and desperate.

He groaned at the sensation—your heat, your tightness, the slick sound of you taking him so greedily.

“Look at you,” he growled, voice darker now. “In the middle of the fucking street, and you’re dripping around my hand like this. Humping my fingers like a needy little thing.”

You let out a strangled sound, somewhere between a moan and a broken plea.

And then, without warning—he added a second finger.

You cried out, your whole body jolting in his hold, your head pressing hard against his shoulder, the stretch just this side of too much—but it was perfect.

“Shhh,” he murmured, kissing behind your ear, voice thick with heat. “Just a little more. Gotta make sure you can take me, pretty girl.”

His fingers moved, slow and deliberate, scissoring slightly, curling again to find that devastating spot inside you.

He groaned again, the sound almost pained with how hard he was now, his cock straining against his pants with every sound you made, every little flutter of your body around his fingers.

You whimpered, unable to hold still, grinding back into his hand with a desperation that left no room for shame.

And then his voice dropped, low and lethal, molten heat poured right into your ear:

“Tell me, sweet thing—would you take me here?”

He paused, fingers buried deep inside you, letting you feel the tension, the weight of the moment.

“Right now, right against this wall, while the city keeps walking by?” His mouth found your neck again, kissing it slowly, hungrily. “Would you let me fuck you where anyone could see?”

You nodded frantically, the movement sharp and desperate.

“Yes—yes, please—”

His grin widened.

“Would you be my best girl?” he asked, voice rough with possession. “Let me take you right here… let me have you like this? Trembling and soaked and mine?”

You nodded again, breath catching as you rocked helplessly on his fingers.

“Anything,” you whispered. “I’ll be anything—just take me, please, Jinu—please—”

And gods, that sound?

That broken, pleading need?

It was his undoing.

His hunger. His heaven.

And tonight, he’d make sure you never forgot what it meant to be caught.

Jinu’s fingers slid out of you with a slow, wet sound that made your breath hitch—and then, suddenly, his arm was gone.

He let you go.

Your legs buckled instantly, and you nearly crumpled, but your hands shot forward at the last second—pressing against the wall in front of you to keep yourself upright. Barely. Your palms splayed out flat against the rough surface as your body trembled, thighs shaking violently beneath the weight of your need.

You mewled, a desperate, broken sound—your hips arching back toward him instinctively.

You felt empty.

Your cunt clenched around nothing, fluttering hopelessly where his fingers had just been. You didn’t want him to let go. You didn’t want space. You wanted him inside.

“J-Jinu,” you whimpered, breath hitching as your forehead dropped against the cool surface of the wall.

But he only pulled away a step—only long enough.

Only long enough to free himself.

You heard the rustle of fabric, the metallic sound of his zipper sliding down, and then—

Fuck.

He groaned low, rough in the back of his throat as his cock sprang free—thick, heavy, flushed dark and already leaking at the tip.

He didn’t hesitate.

One large hand gripped your hip while the other shoved your tiny skirt up over your ass, baring you completely to him.

Your panties were soaked—clinging to your heat like a second skin—and he hooked one finger in the fabric and dragged them aside, baring your slick folds to the night air.

“Fuck, sweetheart,” he growled, his voice shaking with restraint.

Jinu leaned forward, his chest flush against your back, his mouth brushing your ear as he thrust against you once, slow and thick, not entering—just letting you feel.

“You want this,” he whispered, voice filthy and reverent all at once.

You whimpered, eyes fluttering shut as your hips rocked back instinctively. You couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe—just felt, every inch of your skin on fire for him.

“You need a demon,” he purred, grinding again. “Not some soft, trembling human who wouldn’t know what to do with you.”

His teeth scraped over your ear, his voice dark with hunger.

“You need me. You need the one who chased you, caught you, owns you.”

He pulled back just enough to drag the head of his cock through your folds, sliding against your soaked entrance, teasing the stretch you were desperate for.

“Say it,” he murmured, lips against your cheek, his hips just barely flexing.

“I need you,” you gasped, pressing back hard, trying to take him in. “Please—I need you, Jinu—no one else—just you—”

He groaned, deep and primal.

“Gods, listen to you,” he growled. “Begging for a demon in the middle of the street.”

He pushed forward just an inch—enough to breach you, to feel your walls flutter and grip—and fuck, he shuddered.

“You are mine,” he whispered, and there was nothing teasing about it now. Just raw, aching possession. “You’ll take every inch, won’t you, pretty thing?”

You nodded, voice wrecked.

“Y—yes, Jinu. All of it. All of you.”

He smiled, sharp and hungry.

And then, he gave you what you begged for.

Jinu didn’t wait.

He pushed forward—slow, deep, devastating.

A guttural moan tore from his throat as he sank into you, inch by inch, until he was buried to the hilt. Your walls clenched around him, slick and tight, and he swore under his breath like it physically hurt to feel something so perfect.

His grip on your hips tightened—hard, possessive. His fingers dug into your skin with bruising force, holding you in place, anchoring himself as your body took every thick, throbbing inch of him.

He’d deal with the bruises later. You would feel him tomorrow—he’d make sure of it.

You let out a strangled cry, your hands clawing at the wall in front of you, nails scraping against the brick as your legs threatened to give out again.

“F-fuck,” you gasped, voice shaking, “so—deep—”

Jinu groaned behind you, his body pressed flush against yours, the heat of his chest searing through your back.

“You feel that?” he growled, his breath hot against your ear. “That’s me—every inch. Stretching this pretty cunt just like you begged for.”

You whimpered, overwhelmed, your forehead pressed to the wall as you fought to stay upright. But gods, it was too much—his size, the way he filled you so perfectly, the bruising grip of his hands keeping you right where he wanted you.

He pulled back just slightly—only to slam forward again, the force of it jolting through your spine, dragging a broken moan from your lips as your body shuddered.

“So fucking tight,” he groaned, thrusting again, harder this time. “Clenching around me like you need this. Like you were made to be filled by me.”

And you were.

You could hear the world continuing just a few meters away—the distant hum of traffic, the chatter of people walking past on the other side of the alley. So close. So unaware.

But none of that mattered.

All you could feel was him.

Jinu’s cock dragging deep, then deeper, every thrust making your walls flutter, your toes curl, your entire body tremble like it didn’t belong to you anymore.

His hand slid from your hip to your stomach, pinning you back against him as he rutted into you with relentless rhythm, his other hand braced above yours on the wall.

“Such a good girl,” he breathed, voice ragged with lust. “Taking me like this. Letting me fuck you where anyone could see. Letting me ruin you.”

You whimpered again, eyes fluttering, overwhelmed by the stretch, the pressure, the sheer intimacy of it.

And gods—he loved that sound.

“Don’t stop making those pretty noises,” he hissed. “Let me hear how good I make you feel. Let them all hear it.”

He slammed into you again, and your cry rang out before you could swallow it down.

“That’s it,” he growled, his mouth at your neck, fangs grazing your skin. “You’re mine, sweet girl. All mine.”

And in that moment, between the heat and the pressure and the praise, there was no one else in the world.

Just you.

And the demon who would never stop chasing you—because he’d already caught you.

And he’d never let you go.

Jinu could feel it.

The way your walls clenched around him, tighter with every thrust—your body fluttering, trembling, pleading.

You were so close.

Your moans had gone breathless, almost broken, your fingers scrambling against the brick as if trying to ground yourself while your hips met his with wild, frantic need.

“Fuck,” he growled against your neck, breath hot and uneven. “You’re close, aren’t you? I can feel it—your sweet little cunt’s about to squeeze the life out of me.”

You whimpered in response, nodding, gasping his name like a prayer.

“I know you’re close,” he growled, pulling back just enough to see your face. “You gonna come for me, sweet girl?”

You nodded again, frantic, panting. “J-Jinu—so close—I—”

His hips stuttered. Just once.

Because fuck, he was close too.

Too close.

He didn’t slow—he couldn’t—but he shifted, grabbing a fistful of your hair and pulling you up, your back arching beautifully against his chest. His mouth was on yours the second your head tipped back, claiming you with a kiss that was nothing short of savage.

He drank down every mewl, every whimper, devouring your sounds like they were the only thing keeping him alive.

“Taste so fucking good,” he panted against your lips. “You gonna come for me, pretty girl? Gonna make a mess all over my cock?”

You whimpered against his mouth, your whole body shuddering.

He was so deep, every thrust hitting that devastating spot inside you with unrelenting precision—and still, somehow, he held back. Barely. He wanted to fall with you.

Your body trembled like you were barely holding on, and he wanted it. All of it.

He kissed you again, biting your bottom lip before pulling back, panting against your mouth.

“Come with me,” he growled. “You feel that? How close I am? You’re gonna let me fill you up, pretty girl?”

You whimpered, nodding frantically, breath hitching as your fingers clawed at the wall in front of you.

“W-where do you want it?” he rasped, his voice nearly breaking. “Tell me, baby. Tell me.”

Your voice cracked, barely audible over the slap of skin and your own mewling moans.

“Inside,” you whispered. “Please—I want it inside—Jinu, please—now—”

That was all it took.

He slammed into you one last time, buried to the hilt as his grip on your hips tightened and his fangs grazed your neck—not biting, just owning.

You shattered with a cry, your climax crashing through you like a wave—your entire body locking up, hips jerking, eyes rolling back as you came hard around him, spasming and pulsing and gasping his name like it was the only word you remembered.

And Jinu—

He followed you instantly.

With a low, guttural growl, he spilled inside you, hips stuttering as he came deep, heat pouring into you in thick, pulsing waves. He held you tight—one arm around your stomach, the other buried in your hair—as if grounding himself in the feeling of you milking him for every last drop.

You were still shaking when he slumped forward, mouth at your shoulder, breath ragged, his body trembling against yours.

“Good girl,” he whispered hoarsely. “My perfect fucking girl…”

And for a moment—just a moment—the city was silent, the chaos of the world forgotten, and there was only this:

You. Him. And the fire between you that would never burn out.

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em1i2a3 · 16 days ago

Text

Night Sky

Pairing: Bob/Robert Reynolds/The Sentry/The Void x Super Soldier!Thunderbolts!Fem!Reader!

Summary: You and Bob are getting ready to attend your first gala together, and the both of you get increasingly distracted by one another, leading to an intense night of stolen glances and sneaking around the gala to get some relief.

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI! Smut and Fluff y’all, Reader and Bob are in a fairly fresh relationship, this is the first gala they’ve ever attended (it’s Val’s first gala she’s throwing for the team), The Reader and Bob are in their honeymoon phase (y’know that phase where you literally can’t get enough of your partner? lol)

Smut Warnings: Unprotected P in V Sex (I’m not the sex police or anything…But I mean…Wrap it up y’all), Dirty Talk, Teasing, Heavy Makeout Session, Begging, Fingering, Oral Sex (Female Receiving), Semi-public sex, Cum Eating (technically)

Author’s Note: Y’all…I’m starting all these series and I’m so excited to literally attack and devour all of them at this point. So exciting! I’ve been going through my old drafts that I had at the beginning of writing for Bob and there’s so many ideas I feel like I can expand on and I’m so excited to share them with all of you <3

Word Count: 8,190

The bathroom door was open, cracked just enough for the warm light to spill into the bedroom in golden ribbons, pooling onto the dark-stained hardwood floors in glowing strips that stretch toward the foot of the bed. The bedroom itself was dim, hushed by the setting sun filtering in through the gauzy curtains, casting everything in soft, bruised lavender and light gold. The contrast between the two lights–muted twilight in the bedroom and the cozy amber of the bathroom–made the space feel dreamlike, suspended in time in a way, caught somewhere between indulgence and anticipation for the night's events.

The air is heavy with warmth and the remnants of steam, still clinging from the shower you and Bob had taken together fifteen minutes ago. The mirrors are no longer fogged, but the scent remains–intimate and heady. Your perfume kisses the air, soaking into the walls now: tart mandarin rind softened by crushed blueberries, mixed with fresh neroli and a whisper of earthy sage. It was absorbed into your skin and hair, thick and rich, and Bob swears that it’s coating his tongue. Every time he breathes in, it’s like tasting you without even touching, and it’s driving him insane with thoughts of what he wanted to do to you.

You were standing barefoot at the bathroom sink, your toes curled slightly against the sticky tiles. The skin of your legs were still faintly dewy from the shower, a sheen of moisture plastered on the curves of your calves and thighs. You wore nothing but a strapless black bra that cupped your breasts like it was created with your body in mind–they were smooth, sculpted satin that gleamed faintly beneath the overhead light–and the matching lace cheeky-cut underwear that you paired it with purposely. The lace was fine and intricate, clinging to the round of your ass, teasing the line where your thighs began, cutting high and soft like a sigh. The sheer panels of it glittered faintly when you shifted around. There was no pretense or artifice, it was just you–confident, stunning, and absolutely breathtaking.

Your hip was cocked slightly to one side in front of the mirror, a natural bend that made the curve of your waist more pronounced. One hand steadied you on the counter, fingers splayed across the marble as you leaned forward, close to the mirror, lips pursed and tucked between your teeth in concentration. In your other hand, you held a sleek black wand, drawing the sharp wing of your eyeliner with slow, practiced precision–like you had done it a thousand times. Each pass of the brush was patient and careful–so still and measured it looked mechanical in a way–like everything had turned to stone alongside you just so you wouldn’t break the line.

The bathroom mirror captured your profile perfectly–the subtle tension in your jaw, the delicate flutter of your lashes, the slope of your bare neck. Light glimmered on your collarbones, across the subtle swell of your chest, down the smooth plane of your belly. You shifted slightly–unthinking–leaning closer to perfect the flick of your liner, and your back arched just a little. The motion was automatic, unconscious. But it shifted your whole silhouette: the new angle drew your butt back a bit, accentuating the curve of your spine, which in turn made the lace of your underwear ride up just a little more. You didn’t notice.

But he certainly did.

Bob was standing in your bedroom in front of the tall mirror that was mounted on the inside of your closet door. It was angled in such a way that it reflected the entire bathroom doorway–and you, framed in the soft yellow light like you were carved out of something absolute and divine.

He was in the middle of getting dressed, or he had been until he caught sight of you. Now it seemed like he had been turned to stone. His tailored black dress shirt–fresh from the hanger and steamed straight–was only half-buttoned. He had gotten all the way up to the center, but the top buttons were still open, revealing the smooth line of his collarbone and his soft muscles beneath his pale, lightly freckled skin. He had slicked his light brown hair back with some water and a comb, but it was already starting to fray, coming out of its confines to frame his face slightly. His sleeves were unrolled and hanging, his belt was unbuckled, and the bottom of his shirt was still loose over his waistband. The tie that he had draped around his neck–which was emerald green to match your dress–could’ve been considered decoration at this point, because he hadn’t moved in minutes. His pupils had dilated so much from staring at you that the oceanic blue was barely visible, and he could feel something twisting low in his gut, burning hot under his skin. The longer he stared at you, the more the image seared into him, into memory, into need and desire.

The light from the bathroom hit you just right, illuminating the soft curve of your spine, and in that glowing sliver of reflection he could see the faint lines he had left on your back in the shower. His scratch marks, from when you had gasped against him, fingers curled into his shoulders, bodies pressed slick and close under the hot water that burned the both of you. Those marks were fading already, but in this lighting, they stood out just enough to taunt him. It was proof that he had you once–and the relentless reminder that he wanted you again right then and there.

His stomach clenched.

All he could think about was walking toward you–quietly, so you wouldn’t notice him until you were stepping past the threshold between the bedroom and bathroom–and lifting you onto the edge of the sink. The thought of your thighs spreading open for him, your calves knocking gently against the cabinets, your head tippin back as he buried himself in every inch of your body–it played like a reel behind his eyes, vivid and urgent. He imagined your clammy hands, reaching for his shoulders to balance yourself. He imagined the sound you would make when he kissed you just so he could taste your lipgloss, or when he grabbed your hips and–

He swallowed hard, shaking himself out of his thoughts. The gala was too important.

There were too many first impressions that needed to be made. Val had been clear–this night mattered, you all needed a good public image, to display trust and unity. If two people from the team didn’t show up to the event, there would be questions, headlines, consequences, and probably a long winded lecture about how you tarnished the team’s attempt to look good in the public eye again. Though this didn’t stop Bob from wishing that you and him could be locked in this warm, perfumed room for the entire night, and the Sentry Serum certainly wasn’t helping his case.

Ever since that first time–when you had grabbed him by the collar of his sweater and kissed him like your life was on the line–Bob had been put under your spell. One taste of you and it was over for him. He wanted you constantly. Insatiably. It was like you were seared into him–into his bloodstream, his bones, and into every sharp, aching edge of his restraint.

And sure…You had the Super Soldier Serum, but you handled it all differently. You had discipline, and you had mellowed out over time. Gone were the days when you could go at it for hours, all day and all night, until you and your partners were both gasping for breath and dizzy from the high. Bob mourned the loss of that era–even though he didn’t even exist to you back then. He often told you, half-joking and half-devastated, that he wished the serum he took existed just a few years ago when you were clawing at the walls like that.

Even now though, your sex drive still met his tenfold. You were just better at managing it. At holding yourself together in moments like this, when the room felt full of pheromones and half dressed people. When the air was thick with tension and heat.

Bob was doing his best though. He really was.

His eyes glanced over at the emerald green dress you had picked for the gala that was still hanging on the closet door beside the mirror. It was simple, strapless, and elegant. It was going to hug every curve of your body, make your waist look like it had been drawn in with ink, and bare your shoulders and collarbones completely. He was already picturing you in it. Twirling once, maybe. Pressing into his side at the gala, while the both of you ordered drinks, and posed for the cameras.

But he was also picturing it crumpled on the floor of this bedroom, somewhere near the foot of the bed, or bunched up at your hips as he drove into you, his hand pressed against your mouth to muffle your cries because you were both too far gone to remember the concept of quiet.

He sighed at the thought, before reaching back to his shirt buttons with unsteady fingers, managing one, then another. His throat felt tight, and his pants did too, but he chose to attempt to ignore it.

And then you said his name.

”Bob.” Your voice was casual, light, like you had absolutely no inclination of what you were doing to him, “Can you come here and tell me if this is even?” He almost groaned aloud, but he managed to keep it locked behind his teeth as he took a slow, steadying breath and stepped away from the mirror. Each movement felt like it required divine strength. He crossed the floor in a few slow strides, and stepped into the bathroom doorway, leaning against it like a man wounded. Your gaze met his through the mirror for a moment before you turned, fully, lazily, like you weren’t wearing next to nothing and didn’t just know exactly what kind of hell you were putting him through. You raised your chin slightly and motioned him forward with two fingers, your lips pulling into a little pout.

”You can’t see if they’re even if you’re standing all the way over there,” You murmured, sweet and dangerous all at once. Bob let out a long breath through his nose–a low, strained exhale like he was trying to summon every last scrap of restraint that hadn’t already been incinerated from the heat building in his stomach.

He shuffled closer with slow, measured steps, biting the inside of his bottom lip. His pupils were still blown wide, and now that he was close–chest to chest close–you could feel the heat rolling off of him in steady waves, and see little flecks of gold shimmering in his eyes. His dress shirt was still slightly open at the collar, and his jaw was clenched like he was holding back something absolutely feral. He reached up with one large, steady hand and gently tilted your chin toward him. His fingers were warm against your jaw, the pads of them rough and trembling. You closed your eyes beneath his touch, lashes fluttering shut as the golden light spilled down over your face completely.

Your breathing synced with his almost immediately–like you had tethered to each other and somehow became one body. His minty toothpaste lingered faintly on every exhale, sweet and sharp, ghosting over your skin as he leaned in to inspect your eyeliner. You felt the heat of his breath along the bridge of your nose, across your cheekbones, down your lips.

”They’re perfect…” He murmured, voice rough and strained, “Sh–Sharp enough to kill a man.” A smirk tugged slow and wicked onto your glossed lips as your eyes opened just slightly glinting under the bathroom light.

”A man named…Bob, perhaps?” You teased. He groaned–loudly this time, no restrained left in it–as your hands slid up to rest on his stomach, fingers brushing against the slight part in his shirt. You could feel the way his muscles clenched beneath your palms, his whole body buzzing under your touch like he was barely hanging on.

“You’re an ev–evil…Diabolical woman,” He whispered, like he was cursing you and praising you all at once. His voice was cracked around the edges, laced with tension and want. He leaned in slowly, and you didn’t move. You didn’t pull back. You just tilted your head slightly, lips parting like a challenge, like you wanted him to close the distance. Your voice dropped low and sultry as your hands fanned wider against his stomach, curling slightly at the hem of his shirt.

“Oh yeah? Are you going to punish me for it?” You asked. Bob froze, his eyebrows raising, and hands tightening just slightly, one cupping your jaw, the other holding the counter–steadying himself because he didn’t want to pass out. His nose brushed yours.

”You know exactly what yo–you’re doing,” You nodded slowly, deliberately, your smirk blooming into something darker.

”That I do, Robert.” He let out a breath that was part laugh, part grunt, his face heating up at the way you said his name.

“Y/N…I sw–swear to God,” He muttered, jaw clenched, “We’ll be late if yo–you keep pushing it.” You hummed softly, trailing your nails over the skin of his abdomen–it was featherlight, but sharp enough to make his fingers twitch against your jaw, like he was trying to hold himself back. Your tongue poked out to lick your bottom lip slowly.

”Think you can fuck me in ten minutes?” Bob inhaled sharply through his nose. He didn’t move at first–just stared down at you, like the very question had ignited something primal in him that was just beyond the surface. Then he leaned in, his mouth brushing the shell of your ear as he whispered, voice wrecked and shaking:

”You’ve got me so wo–worked up I really think I won’t be able to last more than five to be honest.” You giggled, low and teasing, as your hands slid further up his shirt, skimming the ridges of his abs, feeling them tense and move beneath your touch.

“Then be a good boy,” You started, lips at his cheek, “And get me on the bed.” His restraint broke with a breathless sigh. He gripped the backs of your thighs and lifted you up with a low grunt, your legs instantly locking around his waist, your ankles crossing at his back like instinct. You kissed him the second he hoisted you up against him, your hands on his cheeks, mouth messy and open, devouring. The stickiness of your gloss clung to both your lips, smearing onto his in smudged cherry streaks. You kissed him like you had nothing to lose, and he kissed you like it might be the last time he ever got to.

He stumbled blindly toward the bed, nearly crashing into the nightstand in his urgency. Your moans were low and breathy in his ear, your fingers tugging his hair when you pulled back for just a second.

“Let’s be sure we don’t ruin my makeup…Cause then we’ll really be late.” You whispered, breathless from the kiss. Bob’s laugh was gravelly, bordering on dangerous. He gave your ass a sharp smack that made you gasp, then smirked when your nails dug into him in response.

”I’ll be sure not to,” He rasped, and then kissed you again–slower this time, but somehow even more urgent than before. He felt around for the mattress, then gently laid you down on your back near the edge of the bed. His hands were everywhere–palming your thighs, sliding up your sides, brushing over your ribs–and then, with a quiet groan, he hooked his fingers into the waistband of your underwear and tugged them down your legs.

”Fu–Fuck, Y/N,” He whispered, eyes dragging over you like he was seeing you for the first time all over again, “God, you’re so fucking beautiful. I want you co–constantly. You have no idea how hard it is being near you like this, all the time. All I fu–fucking do is think about you.” You smiled softly, feeling yourself growing hot beneath his gaze, as he dropped your underwear beside the bed. His hands moved fast now–stripping out of his dress pants and boxers in one motion, moving them over so they didn’t get crumpled. His cock was already flushed, aching, and leaking, and his pale cheeks flushed deeper when he looked down at how worked up he already was.

You writhed softly on the bed, lifting your knees just a bit, tilting your hips in an invitation. Your hands reached for him again, pushing his shirt up his stomach to feel the skin beneath, You knew where he liked to be touched–how he liked it when your nails scraped lightly over the soft muscle just above his navel, how his hips jerked when your palms pressed low and firm. You did it now, slowly, smiling when his breath caught and his cock twitched. A soft groan escaped his throat.

”I’m really not going to la–last,” He warned, as he wrapped one hand around the base of himself, “You’re already doing too much. You’re just–fuck–you’re just so perfect.” He moved between your thighs, sliding the flushed head of his cock through your arousal–slick, slow, and with the goal to tease. He pressed it against your clit, dragging it in slow circles, smearing precum and slick in messy strokes, making your thighs tremble slightly. Your back arched, and your hips lifted slightly to chase the sensation.

”Does that fe–feel good?” He asked, voice low and filthy, “You like that, hm? You like how wet you are for me even though I didn’t even touch you?”

“Yes,” You breathed, panting softly, your nails digging into his skin again, “Bob, please. Don’t tease me–fuck, I’m already ready. I need you in me.” His head fell forward slightly.

”I could slide right in,” He continued, teasing your entrance before trailing back up to your clit again, “Could just fucking bu–bury myself in you.” You brought your free hand up and wrapped it around his wrist.

”Bob…Fuck me please. I need it–I need it so fucking badly.” He sighed, leaning down slowly, bracing himself with one hand by your head, the other guiding himself to your entrance. He kissed you again–slower this time, sweet and desperate–then rested his forehead to yours and whispered.

”Gonna fill you up, stay st–still for me.” And with one, slow thrust, he pushed inside. The stretch was instant and perfect–like you were built to take him in with ease. Your slick heat welcomed him inch by inch, and the both of you gasped in euphoric unison–Bob’s jaw falling open as he watched your eyes flutter shut, until his hips pressed flush to you, his whole body trembling.

“Jesus Christ…Oh Je–Jesus…I–I can’t.” He moaned, biting his bottom lip, almost drawing blood. You reached up to caress his heated cheek, running your thumb along the smooth skin just beneath his eye, as you wrapped your legs around his hips, pulling him even closer, locking him in.

”You said five minutes…Prove it.” You whispered against his mouth, with a devilish smile coming up on your lips. He let out a strangled groan at your words, his mouth crashing into yours with a sharp desperate heat. It wasn’t soft this time–your teeth knocked, your breath caught, your lips parted on a gasp that he swallowed whole. His body pressed harder against yours, hand leaving your hip to grab your wrist, pinning it down beside your head as he rutted into you with a force that bordered on feral. Your back arched off the bed, head tipping, eyes fluttering as he thrust into you with that aching, purposeful pace–deep, rhythmic, punishingly good. The slick sounds of your bodies moving together filled the quiet room, only slightly muffled by the way you both tried to keep your moans quiet, gritted behind clenched teeth and bitten lips.

”F–Fuck,” Bob rasped, his voice cracking, “You’re ma–made for me…Squeezing me so good–I can barely–“ Your hips lifted to meet his, and his head dropped, groaning into your neck. Your free hand reached up and swept his hair from his forehead, damp now, soft and curling loose again from where he’d tried to comb it earlier. His mouth hovered against your jaw, hot and trembling.

You were pulsing around him, each stroke sending your muscles fluttering tight, and he felt it, every time–made him whimper with it, a sound so breathless and raw it turned your blood molten.

“Look at you,” He choked, still thrusting into you with that ruined rhythm. “Pulling me in, taking me so deep–“ You squeezed around him deliberately and his hips stuttered. He whined–high and desperate–his thrusts becoming erratic, hands tightening where he held you down.

“I’m gonna…Fuck…I’m cumming–” He buried himself in you with one last deep thrust, so deep it punched the air out of your lungs. His whole body trembled violently as he let go, cock twitching inside you, his breath stalling out against your skin. You felt it immediately–warmth, thick and spreading, coating your walls as he spilled inside you, filling you up. You clutched at his back as he trembled through it, his body pressed fully against yours now, his face hidden in the crook of your neck. His weight was comforting, grounding, and you both stayed like that for a long, ragged breath.

He collapsed over you like gravity had finally claimed him, his heart pounding hard against your chest, breaths coming fast and shallow. You let out a long sigh, brushing your lips against his temple.

“Mmm…Now you’re gonna be hot and bothered all night knowing you’re dripping out of me under that dress of mine.” Bob let out a breathless, strangled laugh, still dazed, his face flushed and sticky where your gloss still kissed his skin.

”I think we’re both gonna be going cr–crazy…” He huffed, voice muffled against your neck, “But let’s–let’s play nice with each ot–other…No teasing, please. I literally won’t be able to handle it.” You smirked, shifting just enough for your thighs to squeeze around his hips.

”No promises, Bob.”

——————————

The gala was in full swing.

Lights glittered like champagne bubbles across the high ceiling of the ballroom, casting silver and gold refractions against the glassy floor. Crystal chandeliers shimmered above like suspended stars, flickering with every subtle sway of air. Music drifted in soft and elegant from a string quartet tucked near the floral arrangements, their instruments creating a lull of sophistication meant to distract from the silent tension that came with the first Thunderbolts appearance.

Everyone had arrived in the same limo–one of those stretch black monsters outfitted for appearances, not comfort. You were all piled inside like a ticking bomb: Alexei took up half the bench seat just manspreading, Yelena sat slanted in the middle row nervously fiddling with the top of her pantsuit, Ava shifted against the window staring out into the city that passed by, Bucky had his arms crossed and eyes narrowed at Walker’s knee bouncing too close to his, and Walker had been trying–and failing–to make casual conversation to fill the silence. Bob had sat next to you the whole time, tense and warm beside you, his thigh pressed tight to yours, one arm slung over the back of the seat while you kept your legs crossed just to keep from shifting directly into his lap.

Now, though–now that the flashbulbs had stopped and you were inside, shielded from the camera shutters and the scrutiny of the security and press–it was easier to breathe.

The bar was low-lit and mirrored, sleek glass shelves stacked with every top-shelf liquor bottle imaginable. But neither of you or Bob were drinking–both by choice, both out of necessity. He didn’t trust what even a buzz would do to his control with the serum thrumming hot in his blood, and he didn’t want to test that tonight of all nights. And you…You liked keeping your wits about you when you were this close to him, especially when you were currently feeling him leak out of you with every step you took.

Bob stood beside you in all black, and somehow, it made him look more powerful than when he wore the cape. The tailored dress shirt fit him like a second skin, the cut sharp at his broad shoulders and tapering down to his trim waist. The top buttons were done now, but not all the way–just enough to keep things proper, just enough to reveal a faint peek of the freckled skin at the base of his throat. The sleeves were rolled at his wrists to show the expensive timepiece you had helped him pick out for the night, the emerald tie knotted tight and straight down his chest, exactly matching the deep green of your gown. He smelled like citrus and heat, sandalwood and ozone, a faint spritz of your perfume–clean skin, warm silk, and the barely-there ghost of sex. You had helped him slick his hair back after your quickie, palms soothing through the soft light brown strands as he leaned down for you, eyes on yours the whole time like he couldn’t focus on anything else. It had dried by this point, styled but slightly tousled at the temples, because your fingers couldn't resist touching him.

He looked perfect. And you knew it.

You turned your head toward him slightly, glass lifted to your lips, and looked at him over the rim with a slow blink that made your lashes kiss your cheekbones. The drink was cool against your tongue–sparkling water with blood orange and something floral, maybe rose–but the look you gave him was anything but innocent.

Bob stared, his fingers twitching against his own glass, jaw tightening slightly as he swallowed a mouthful of lemony ice water, eyes fixed on your lips. He could still feel the soft smear of lip gloss on his lips if he focused hard enough. Every time he looked at your dress, he imagined what it would feel like bunched up in his fists. Every time you leaned just slightly closer, he remembered how warm you were beneath him just an hour and a half ago. And now you were giving him that all too familiar look.

“Yo–You’re doing it again.” He muttered under his breath, eyes sliding to yours, voice low and intimate, only for you.

”Doing what?” You asked innocently, licking some of the sparkling water off your lips.

“That look,” He rasped, trying to sound annoyed, but it came out a little breathless, “Like you don’t know you’re dr–driving me insane.” You shrugged, resting one hand on the bar, fingers splayed, the soft fabric of your dress stretching just enough across your hip as you shifted your weight.

”Am I?” You whispered back, just loud enough for him to hear over the music. He leaned closer to you, his nose almost brushing your temple, his voice raspier now, his control thinning by the second.

”It’s not fa–fair Y/N.” You raised your eyebrows.

”What’s not?”

”I’m su–supposed to smile and shake hands and make a good impression, when all I can think about is how I want to shove my face under your dress and ha–“

“Bob,” You murmured, cutting him off with a warning edge and a soft, teasing smile. But he didn’t stop. He couldn’t. Not when you were pressed this close to him, not when the memory of your breathy moans still echoed in his skull like a bell,

“If you’re this frustrated maybe we should find a corner,” You added sweetly, “So you can cool off.”

“Or,” He said, voice dropping slightly, “So I can remind you that you’re the one who started all of this.” He leaned in, letting his breath ghost along the shell of your ear, and you shivered–just slightly. Your fingers drummed against the bar, and before you could say anything back, Bucky’s voice cut through the heated mood.

”Everything okay lovebirds? You two look like you’re about to jump each other’s bones.” Bob choked on his water, droplets sputtering out of his mouth. You reached over and patted his chest once, trying to keep your face neutral as he coughed into his fist and flushed bright red from the collar up. Bucky didn’t even try to hide the smug twitch at the corner of his mouth as he leaned lazily on the bar beside you, sipping from a glass of whiskey like this wasn’t the most chaotic comment he’d made all week.

“Yeah,” You murmured smoothly, offering Bucky a side glance and a wicked little smirk, “We’re alright. Or at least we’re trying to be.”

“Mhm,” Bucky hummed, voice all low amusement as he let his gaze flick from your face to Bob’s, who was still recovering from nearly asphyxiating on his drink. “The stamina from the serum certainly doesn’t help with that, huh?” You smirked wider, eyes cutting back to Bob who was fidgeting with the knot of his tie like it was strangling him, his ears turning a flush cherry red.

”It certainly doesn’t.” Bob inhaled sharply through his nose and then very suddenly downed the rest of his water like a man desperate for salvation. He raised his hand as soon as the glass hit the bar again.

“So–Sorry, can I get another water, please?” The bartender nodded without missing a beat, chuckling softly as he plucked the glass away.

“Pretty sure in about an hour or two you guys will be left off the hook,” Bucky offered casually, voice low enough to feel like a kindness, “I think mainly Yelena and I are going to have to stick around and chat with the press and stuff.” You raised a brow, turning your head just slightly to glance at Bob. He looked like he was trying not to visibly sweat. His jaw was locked, his pupils still huge, and he was holding himself so tightly together it was like watching a building creak under the weight of too much pressure. One hand braced the bar, the other curled around his thigh, fingers tapping like a countdown.

“I don’t know if he’s going to survive that long,” You murmured to Bucky without breaking eye contact with Bob. He blinked slowly, like he couldn’t believe you’d said that out loud, but he made no move to contradict you. He just reached for the new water the bartender slid over and drank half of it in one long, continuous gulp.

Bucky snorted quietly. “Hm… I’m sure you guys will figure it out.”

And then, a beat.

He leaned in, real casual-like, voice dropping low and conspiratorial, just for you.

“And…You didn’t hear it from me,” He added, swirling the ice in his glass, “But there’s a little coat check area past the left hallway that’s not being used right now. Pretty tucked away. Real private.” He sipped from his drink again, then smiled–innocently, if you could call it that, “Do with that information what you will.” He added. You glanced sideways at Bob seeing his knuckles had gone white around his glass, like he was one well–timed whisper away from committing a felony of passion in the coat check area. You raised your glass to your lips to hide the grin curling across your mouth.

”Thank you Bucky, I think we’re going to have to go…Check it out.” And Bob–sweet, emotionally wrecked Bob–let out a low, barely audible whimper as he gulped the rest of his water like it might put out the fire you kept stoking inside of him. Bucky gave a casual nod as he turned away, sipping his whiskey like he hadn’t just casually handed you two a loaded weapon wrapped in plausible deniability. He melted back into the crowd with an ease that only came from having seen far, far too much, leaving behind the slow burn of his suggestion like a match on dry kindling. The second he was out of earshot, Bob leaned into you–fast, close, his breath hot against the shell of your ear. His voice was wrecked with desperation, thick with restraint barely holding together.

“We… We need to go th–there right now.”

It wasn’t a suggestion. It was a quiet, slightly begging declaration of need.

You raised an eyebrow at him, turning your head just enough to meet his gaze, lips curving into something coy and dangerous. You glanced down at your still half-full glass of sparkling water and tapped one manicured finger against the side of it.

“I wanna finish this sparkling water though,” you murmured with mock sweetness, lifting it slowly toward your mouth. The glass sparkled faintly under the chandelier light, almost innocent in your grip.

Bob groaned quietly–but the way his eyes squeezed shut, the way his jaw clenched like he was physically restraining himself from combusting right there at the bar–it told you just how close to the edge he already was.

“I–I feel like I’m gonna tear this gala apart,” He muttered, voice thick and pained and a little wild now, “I feel like if I keep looking at you, I’ll snap. I can’t–fuck, Y/N–please.” You smirked, then tipped the glass back and drained it in a single, slow gulp, throat working visibly while Bob watched like it was pornographic. The moment the glass was empty, you set it down on the bar with a soft clink and turned toward him fully, stepping into his space.

“I’m just joking, Bob,” You whispered, reaching for his hand with your warm, sure fingers, “Let’s go find that coat check.” Bob exhaled like you’d just saved his life. His shoulders dropped, just slightly, with relief and longing all tangled up in one. He clutched your hand tightly like he might shatter if he let go.

You began leading him away from the bar, heels clicking softly on the polished floor as you weaved through the clusters of guests. Bob followed like a man possessed, his free hand twitching at his side like he was restraining himself from doing anything too obvious, too reckless. You passed other attendees in glittering gowns and crisp tuxes, the music swelling, the chatter buzzing like champagne in the background. But the moment felt thick with something else. Private. Singular.

No one stopped you. No one noticed. Or if they did, they didn’t dare interfere.

You turned left down a quieter hallway just past the floral installations, where the lighting dimmed and the voices behind you softened into background hum. At the end of the corridor was a half-open wooden door with a small placard reading Coat Check–the light inside a soft yellow glow that spilled just faintly across the carpeted floor like a halo.

You slipped inside without hesitation, Bob following, and gently nudged the door shut behind you. The space was small and warm, lined with hooks and racks that were completely empty and abandoned.

The moment the latch on the door clicked, Bob was on you.

”Th–Thank God–“ He rasped, grabbing you by the waist and spinning you so your back met the wall with a soft thud. His mouth was on yours before you could even exhale, all desperate heat and groaning need. His hands were everywhere–gripping your hips, fisting the side slit of your dress, running up the bare skin of your thigh until he was holding you like he’d die if he couldn’t. Your arms wrapped around his neck, nails scratching lightly through the back of his hair as you kissed him back just as eagerly. His body was trembling with restraint, but he was already pressing into you, his hard length pushing against your inner thigh through the fabric of his dress pants.

“You’re go–gonna kill me,” He breathed, his lips dragging down the slope of your jaw, tongue flicking out to taste the salt of your skin like he couldn’t help himself. He groaned softly against you, his voice thick, trembling. Desperate. You tipped your head back with a smirk, eyes fluttering shut, your chest rising and falling fast as your back arched just slightly against the coat room wall.

“Not trying to do that,” you murmured breathlessly, your fingers tightening in his hair, “but if it happens…You’ll be dying a happy man.”

Bob huffed a laugh against your skin–wrecked and aroused all at once.

“Da–Damn right I will.”

He pressed against you harder for a moment, enough for you to feel every twitch of his cock through his dress pants, before his breath hitched and he dropped to his knees with the kind of urgency that made your lungs seize. His hands slid down your thighs, warm and hungry, guiding your legs apart. The silk of your gown rustled as he pushed it up with trembling hands, bunching it at your waist. You helped him, fingers threading beneath the fabric to lift it higher, exposing the soft heat between your legs, still slick from your earlier quickie. The lace of your underwear was already damp, glistening at the center.

Bob sucked in a breath like it punched the air from his lungs.

“Jesus Christ,” He whispered, worshipful and in awe “You’re still dripping me…And yo-you’re so fu–fucking wet.” You nodded shakily, the cold air against your inner thighs making you tremble.

He dove in like a man gone mad.

His lips found the skin of your thighs first–hot, wet, greedy kisses that left your skin sticky with his mouth. His breath ghosted over the sensitive spot just beneath your underwear, and he moaned like he was already tasting you. His hands slid up the backs of your thighs, guiding one leg over his shoulder, and he shoved your soaked underwear to the side with a rough, trembling hand. The moment your slick heat was exposed to the open air, Bob groaned again, deep and needy.

“So fu–fucking pretty,” He gawked, eyes locked on your core like it was the only thing that had ever mattered, “You have no idea what you do to me. I’m so addicted to you, sweetheart–I ca–can’t go a few hours without wanting to be inside you, without dreaming about tasting you again. You’re my goddamn drug.”

Then his mouth was on you.

He licked a long, slow stripe through your folds, groaning low in his throat at the taste. His tongue curled up, slipping over your clit with practiced reverence, before dipping lower to collect your slick–and the remnants of himself–with hungry, worshipful devotion.

“Fuck,” He groaned, burying his face deeper, letting his nose press against your mound as his tongue circled your entrance. “You ta–taste like us.” Your whole body jolted at that, a choked moan breaking from your lips as your hand slammed back against the wall for balance. He sucked your clit into his mouth, lips plush and slick as he flicked his tongue against it, firm and rhythmic, then pulled back just long enough to speak, panting.

“I want you to feel what you do to me,” He breathed, “I wa–want you trembling on my tongue. Come on Y/N. Let me ha–have it.” One thick finger slipped inside you, and you gasped, hips jerking. He thrust it in slowly, then added a second, scissoring you open with obscene, wet sounds that echoed in the tiny coat check room. His mouth returned to your clit, more desperate this time, more frantic, his fingers curling inside you, pressing right against that spot that made you cry out.

“There,” he growled, licking harder, tongue flattening against you as he fucked you with his fingers, “You’re squeezing me so tight. You go–gonna come for me? Come on my fi–fingers Y/N…Give it to me.” Your head fell back, a strangled moan escaping your lips as you writhed against the wall. The way he fingered you—so firm, so intentional—was only matched by the frenzied worship of his tongue. You could feel every breath he took against your skin, every moan that vibrated into you, every filthy word he muttered between slurps of your arousal.

“Taste so fucking good…Can’t get enough… I’ll stay down here all go-goddamn night if you let me–fuck–I need it so bad.” He whimpered. You were close. Too close.

Your thigh trembled against his shoulder, your hand fisting in his hair as you ground yourself against his mouth, whining with every stroke of his fingers.

And Bob–God, Bob was a mess. His face was glistening, lips red and swollen, tongue working you over like you were the only thing that had ever existed. He looked up at you, eyes blown black with desire, gold flecks shimmering, begging without saying a word.

You cried out as your orgasm crashed through you.

Your hips bucked against his mouth, your muscles seizing, thighs quaking, and he held you steady through it–groaning as your walls clamped down on his fingers, as your slick spilled into his mouth. He drank you down, licking you through every pulse, whispering broken praises against you.

“So perfect…Do fuckin’ good for me…That’s it, baby, let me taste every drop… God, you were made for me, weren’t you?”

You collapsed against the wall, panting, legs weak, and Bob finally pulled back just enough to kiss your inner thigh, then the other. His face was wrecked with arousal, mouth glossy with your slick–and his.

And then he licked his lips. Slowly.

“Still sweet,” he rasped. “Even better with my cum still inside you.”You whimpered, dragging your hand down to his cheek, and he nuzzled into it like he’d just found religion in the way you touched him.

“You okay?” He whispered. You nodded immediately, letting out a long unsteady sigh, brushing your fingers against the damp strands at Bob’s temple.

”God, I don’t think I’ll ever get used to how good you are with your fingers and that tongue of yours.”Bob pulled back slightly, still on his knees, lips swollen, cheeks flushed and glistening.

“Wo–Would you consider me a pro?” He asked, voice still hoarse from moaning into your core. You laughed, soft and breathless, and cupped his jaw.

“You’re god tier, Bob.”

That made him smile–crooked and dizzy, boyish and wrecked. He leaned in and kissed your inner thigh again, then murmured against it:

“Fuck, I wanna be inside you again. Right here, right now. Can’t–I can’t walk back out there without it.” You whimpered, your legs trembling as you leaned harder into the wall.

“You’re gonna have to hold me up,” You breathed, “because my legs are literally shaking.”

Bob let out a soft laugh, voice still ruined. “Request granted.”

He stood with purpose, his body rising slowly, his mouth finding yours the second he was level. The kiss was messy–open-mouthed and starving–your lips still sticky with your lip gloss, his face still damp with you. The taste of your arousal and his own cum was thick on his tongue, and you moaned the moment your mouths connected. His hands fumbled between you as he unbuckled his belt, the soft clink of metal barely audible over the frantic sound of your kissing. He shoved his dress pants and boxers down just enough to free himself, his cock already rock-hard and flushed, slick at the tip from the earlier release and his never-ending want for you.

You clutched the fabric of your gown at your hips, hiking it higher as he palmed your thighs, lifting you like you weighed nothing. You gasped against his mouth, arms wrapping around his neck, legs around his waist.

He pressed you to the wall in one fluid motion, his body anchoring you there, thick and trembling between your legs.

“Fuck, yo-you’re so hot,” He rasped, kissing down your neck as he adjusted himself, the flushed head of his cock sliding through your soaked folds, catching at your entrance. “You’re everything, Y/N. Ev-Everything I’ve ever wanted. Every second I’m not in you, I’m aching for it.” You whimpered, holding tight to his shoulders.

“God I need you so bad.” You whimpered, voice shaking, and right then and there, he pushed in. One slow, deliberate thrust, thick and stretching, filling you until you couldn’t breathe. You choked on a moan, burying your face in his neck as your walls clamped around him, still sensitive, still soaked, still fluttering from his mouth. He grunted low and deep in your ear, trembling.

“Yo–Your body takes me so fu–fucking well.” He rocked into you harder, hips snapping up in short, powerful thrusts that sent your back bumping gently against the wall with every motion. The slick sound of your bodies filled the air–obscene and perfect–and the heat of his breath fanned across your cheek.

“So deep,” You mewled, your voice cracking. “I can feel you everywhere, Bob–God, you fill me up so good.”

“Say that again,” He gasped against your mouth, his thrusts getting faster, rougher now. “Say it–tell me how good it is–how go–good I make you feel.”

“You make me feel full,” You moaned. “So full, so fucking claimed. I swear, no one’s ever touched me like this, Bob–no one.”

That made him falter–a soft, broken sound spilling from his chest as he buried his face in your shoulder. His thrusts didn’t stop. If anything, they got deeper. Rougher. His hands gripped your ass like a lifeline, dragging you down against him with every thrust, grinding his pelvis against your clit.

“You own me Y/N…My bo–body, my soul…It’s all yours.” Your lips crashed into his again, teeth clashing, tongues messy and desperate, swallowing each other’s moans. He muffled every whimper you made, and you swallowed every breathy praise that left his mouth.

“You feel so good—so warm and tight and wet,” he groaned. “Every time I’m inside you it’s like I’m home.”

Your hips rolled against him, grinding as much as they could with how tightly he held you.

“Don’t stop,” you begged. “Fuck me until I can’t think. Until I forget my name. Until the whole fucking gala forgets we were even there.”

Bob let out a cracked, filthy laugh and thrust harder, the head of his cock nudging your cervix.

“You’re ruining me,” He groaned. “I’m never go–gonna be able to live without this–without you.”

The world narrowed to heat and pressure, to the way he moved inside you and the way your name kept falling from his mouth like a prayer. Your second orgasm built fast, molten and overwhelming, and Bob felt it. The way your body clenched around him, the way your thighs shook.

“Come for me again,” He whispered, forehead pressed to yours, “Please…My go–god please.” You shattered around him with a muffled cry, biting his shoulder to keep from screaming. Your entire body tensed and bucked against his, as you came hard–hot and wet and shaking in his arms.

And Bob lost it.

“Fuck…Fuck, I’m gonna come inside you, again–I have to–I need to–”

“Do it,” You breathed. “Fill me up again. I want it–I need it, Bob–want to feel you leaking out of me for the rest of the night.”

That was it.

He buried himself to the hilt, groaning so deep it sounded broken, and came inside you with a force that made his knees buckle slightly. He stayed locked there, cock twitching deep inside your fluttering walls, forehead pressed to yours as he moaned through every pulse.

The silence after was thick with heat, both of you panting, trembling, fused together.

His arms were shaking from holding you up. Your dress was wrinkled and rucked high, your hair mussed, your lip gloss long gone. And neither of you cared.

Bob pressed the softest kiss to your nose, then your jaw, then your lips.

“You okay?” He whispered, thumb stroking the back of your thigh.

You smiled, eyes half-lidded, chest still rising and falling.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been better.”

Little did you know that tomorrow morning there would be press reports about this secret rendezvous plastered in every single magazine in New York, completely dampening the memory of this night for you and for Bob, and in turn stirring up the first PR scandal of the Thunderbolts Team.

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yourlipstogodsears · 15 days ago

Text

NSFW ABCs: Jack Abbot

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

Jack needs to hold you. Needs to kiss every red mark or bruise. Rubs lotion on the beard burn from his scruff on your thighs. He uses his arm crutch to go to the kitchen and get you a water bottle and orders DoorDash because he’s not the best cook and he doesn’t want you waiting 35 minutes for something to eat to help you settle back down to earth. He’s got a heated blanket he can plug in during the winter time if you need it. He knows sometimes after sex you don’t like clothes on your body. Just skin to skin cuddles and warm blankets.

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

Jack loves his eyes. Most importantly he loves how eye contact affects you in the bedroom. His steely gaze during foreplay making you wet, his soft furrowed expression when you refuse to make eye contact for the first time turns into a cocky glint in those eyes of his. He found her weakness and it’s not even anything remotely sexual. It’s just the way he uses eye contact to his advantage.

Now his favorite part of his partner is their plush thighs. He loves a little extra cushion to grip onto as he fucks into her. His hands gripping her thighs as he holds her down against him to take every last drop he can give her.

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

Jack abbot loves eating pussy, he wants your cum dripping down his face like the sweetest fruit he’s ever tasted. “One more baby.. gimme one more” he will grumble greedily and knock you into another white hot orgasm. He loves the taste of your cum, he swears you taste like honey.

He also pays for you to be on birth control or get an implant just so he can cum inside your tight pussy. It’s a need not a want. To fill you with his cum is his favorite thing, playing with it as it dribbles out of your overflowing messy hole. “Shh shh shh baby.. lemme just put this back where it belongs..” he’d purr as he eased two thick fingers back inside you, making sure to keep his cum inside. Hell he’s content falling asleep like that.

D = Dirty secret (pretty self-explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

From the first time you two had sex he was all in. He didn’t show it not til months later. But the first time your pussy wrapped around Jack he had to stop himself from writing vows in his head.

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

Jack is middle aged, ex military. Theres no way in hell that man hasn’t had partners. Looking how he looks now and you can just imagine what he looked like with his auburn hair and army green uniform.

He’s also a doctor. He knows the erogenous zones, he can find the clit. He’s steps above your average man. He can make you tremble and shake and finish over and over til you have to beg him to stop. He’s a pleasure dominant of course.

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

Mating position. He can be as deep as he needs while seeing your face. Teasing and taunting about the size of his cock. “Ohhh you poor baby… is this too much for you?” he fakingly coos, “oh if it’s too much I can always pull out..” he teases while his body does the opposite and pushes til his hips hit hers, his cock bulging her tummy.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

Jack is always very serious. he’s no nonsense in the trauma room, no nonsense when it comes to consent and boundaries. But if something happens during sex- accidentally squirting, farting, queefing. He doesn’t make mention of it, it’s a bodily function. It’s nothing to be scared about. If you’re embarrassed, he might joke about it because if you can’t laugh about it you shouldn’t do it is his motto.

H = Hair (how well-groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

Jack is older now, so the carpet per se is salt n peppered. He’s relatively groomed. His chest is hairless but below the belt is lightly brushed with pubic hair. not a jungle but not exactly smooth. The army instilled a routine for him to be well groomed from 18 years old and on. So when he was honorably discharged he just kept up the routine.

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

Jack can be romantic when he wants to be. He can be rough and dominant and mean or he can be sweet. Sometimes he’ll sprinkle in a mix. Roughly handling your hips, his cock drenched in your cum as you take your punishment. “Atta girl.. there you go.. almost done..” he’d reassure you even in the roughest of scenes.

J = Jack off (handjob headcanon)

Jack never whines or is pathetic during sex but during handjobs. Absolutely. He’s panting, back arches softly as he leans against the wall of a supply closet. You’d teased him that morning sliding on his favorite thong of yours to wear under your scrubs. He can see the where the lace lays on your ass when you bend or reach for things. So now he’s locked in a supply closet, hand in his pants muttering to himself.

“Jesus Abbot.. pull it together.. couple more hours” he says as he begins to tug roughly on his cock after spitting quietly into his palm.

He’s whining softly and mumbling your name, mumbling praise like you’re there with him. He’s never one to really jack off unless he needs to. But ever since you and him became a thing, he’s started to want to. To want to picture you in his mind and cum for you.

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

Jack Abbot is a possessive man. He’s quiet and observant of men who hit on you. He’s not explosive or angry. He just sits there knowing you’re his. the reason he’s so calm is because of the collar you wear. It’s not a collar in a traditional sense of the word in the BDSM community. It’s subtle. It’s hidden like an everyday piece of jewelry. It’s a silver chain with a little lock that keeps it around your neck. Only he has the key for it to come off. It’s devotion, not ownership. I’m yours and you’re mine.

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

Edge of the bed. He loves the fact you tell him he feels even bigger than he’s standing than laying down. The blood flow is greater making him swell more inside her. Jack lets you rest on the bed while he does all the work. On your tummy with your ass up or on your back and your legs straight agaisnt his shoulders and Jack holding your head up by the roots of your hair to force you to watch him fuck your weeping cunt.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

Every little thing about you from the way you move, look, sound and smell. Just you being you is enough for him to want you. When you playfully banter sexually and tease as foreplay during work or around the house and wait for him to pounce on you is what he kinda enjoys. The thrill of the chase per se even though he’s already got you as his girlfriend.

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn-offs)

Blood play, Knife Play- self explanatory.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

He loves both. He is absolutely feral about the way you look sucking his cock. It’s the prettiest most erotic thing he gets to see besides his cock sliding into you. You’re gorgeous to him even struggling to take his full length down your throat.

He loves eating you out. It’s only if his favorite pass times. just because he feels like it.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

Jack switches pace depending on emotional state or energy level. He will match your mood no matter if he’s fresh off a shift.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

He loves them. There’s a hidden taboo aspect that turns him on. Doing something he shouldn’t, in a place he shouldn’t is arousing.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

Jack abbot is a war veteran. Nothing scares him, except hurting you. So he’s okay with experimenting within reason. Nothing that could permanently hurt you if done wrong.

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

First time inside you Jack cums immediately. He’s embarrassed but everytime after he lasts a moderate amount of time. It’s not hours long but it’s enough to get you both off.

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them?)

Jack doesn’t own toys before you date him but they will buy some with you in mind. Tossing one to you when you are laying in the bed or couch. “Gotchu something. Try it before I come home in the morning.. I wanna play with you a bit after my shift.”

U = Unfair (how much does he like to tease?)

If Jack doesn’t tease during sex something is truly and deeply wrong.

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

Jack abbot talks and never shuts the fuck up. He refuses to. He needs you to know how good it feels, how good you’re being for him. He wants it to be interactive and quiet sex isn’t his style. Unless it’s a heat of the moment thing at work where “shh don’t want them to hear do you?” Is sexy.

W = Wild card (random headcanon)

First time with Jack he uses a vibrator on your clit so it makes the first entry as painless and easy as he can. He nods when you whine at the buzz and get soaking wet and he runs his tip through it. “Atta girl getting this wet f’me.. gonna go slow and talk through it.. just breathe for me..”

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

Jack is covered in freckles on his shoulder and body. It’s one of the things that drives you wild. He’s big below the belt. Thick and long, maybe 7 inches. Nothing crazy just bigger than average.

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

Ever since Jack went to therapy and started to talk about his feelings he’s gotten lighter emotionally which makes his mental state more apt to allow sexual exploration. He’s not bogged down with dark thoughts.

Z = Zzz (how fast they fall asleep afterward)

He doesn’t fall asleep til you do. He holds you and cuddles and debriefs it. He wants clear honest communication, always.

#the pitt #shawn hatosy #dr jack abbot #jackabbotbrainrott #jack abbot x you #jack abbot blurb #jack abbot #dr abbot #jack abbot x female reader #jack abbot x reader

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mercurial-chuckles · 8 months ago

Text

Pluvial Kisses!

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Word Count: 664

Warnings: Tooth rotting fluff, Bucky being the absolute fuckin dream of a man! *heavy sigh*

A/N: I took a walk around my home today. It was my kind of weather, and I got inspired!

Note: Do not Steal, Copy or Plagiarize any part of my work! I wanted to post a photo, but the sound of the rain was so soothing that I decided to post the video I took instead.

Video credits to me! GIF credits to the creators! Thank you! Unedited—written it on my phone. :D

Thanks @buck-star for the divider!

Check out my other works: Masterlist

Indulge Away!

Full from a delicious meal, you and Bucky decided to wander around your home together.

As you walked, the drizzle began as a mist, just light enough to be romantic without soaking through your clothes. Up here in the hills, surrounded by trees showing off their best shades of amber and crimson, it was almost impossible not to get lost in the beauty of the place, even with the gentle fog settling around you both.

Bucky grumbled, casting a longing glance back at the house, clearly itching to drag you into its warmth.

"You'll fall sick," he muttered, though the crisp air and the gentle drizzle felt too perfect to leave behind. When you resorted to your best puppy-dog eyes, his resolve crumbled.

He narrowed his eyes, giving in with a sigh, "Got me fucking wrapped around your finger," he groaned, pulling you snugly against his side as you walked, each step perfectly in sync in the cozy silence.

The path wound up toward the hill's edge, leading to a small pond nestled in a hollow, its surface dancing with delicate ripples as the rain tapped lightly against it.

You both stopped, breathing in the earthy, damp air. The pond shimmered under the mist, casting an almost magical glow around the place. His warmth seeped through his light jacket, and a little sigh escaped you in contentment.

A stray lock of hair fell onto your forehead and tickled, so you tried to push it behind your ear, and in the process, your beanie fell into a puddle beside you.

"Oh, shit," you giggled. Bucky leaned down and picked it up but it was too drenched.

"Tragic. My absolute klutz," he teased, his low voice teasing.

"Oops," you grinned, holding out your hand to take the beanie from him, but he rolled his eyes, moving it just out of your reach. Instead, he pulled you closer, one arm enveloping you and your sweater-clad form.

You looked up into his eyes, and he chuckled, crouching down to your level. He rubbed his sharp, cold nose against yours before moving up to place a wet kiss on your forehead, tickling your skin in the process.

You sighed happily as Bucky moved your chin up, his thumb rough against your skin as he caressed your lower lip, sending a shiver down your spine. His blue eyes locked onto yours, a smirk tugging at his pink lips, and you instinctively licked yours in anticipation. His gaze shifted to your lips, his fingers moving to caress your cheek, and you leaned into his touch.

Bucky tilted his head slightly, placing a soft kiss on the tip of your nose before capturing your lips. The kiss was anything but gentle. At the first taste of your lips, he tugged at your lower lip and deepened the kiss, groaning at the sensation. You leaned into him fully, your hands gripping the back of his neck, your fingers threading through his beanie-covered hair.

'Wait? Where's his beanie?'

When you pulled back with a hint of worry, half-expecting to have dropped it, you saw his short, thick hair in disarray--no beanie in sight.

He chuckled at the confused, dazed expression on your face, the sound vibrating through his chest as he looked down at you, his eyes twinkling.

His fingers patted your head, and you instinctively touched your hair, realizing he'd slipped his beanie onto you instead.

Smooth move, Sergeant.

"Bucky..." you started, but he simply leaned in, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your cold cheek, his nose brushing your skin with warmth.

"Not a word, or I'll keep shutting you up," he warned, his voice low as he murmured against the corner of your mouth, his lips brushing your skin with a teasing tickle.

"Such a controlling little shit," you replied playfully. He snickered, a low, fond sound, as he brought his other arm around you, completely engulfing you.

"I know," he shrugged, "And you absolutely love me," he chuckled, his forehead now against yours, eyes soft and loving as he pulled you close, his warm breath mingling with yours.

"I love you," you whispered, and he grinned, kissing you again, slow and gentle.

You could smell the wintry pine clinging to him, a scent as cozy and familiar as the woods surrounding you. The warmth of his kiss made the rain feel like it sizzled against your skin, his scent and closeness grounding you, making everything feel perfectly right.

"I love you," he whispered back, hugging you tighter as he sighed contentedly.

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sunbeamlessreads · 2 months ago

Text

The Wager - Lando Norris x Reader One-Shot

❝ “Eyes on the track, Norris.” ❞

lando norris x reader

~3.6k words | rated: E

tw: 18+, explicit sexual content, dom/sub tension, semi-public style risk, overstimulation, orgasm control

he said he could handle five laps. you said he wouldn’t last two. there’s only one way to prove it.

notes: this is my apology for making lando such a douchebag in my last piece. went in with present tense again. i think it kinda works for the papaya boys, no? enjoy! <3

(i also admittedly didn't proofread this as much as usual so i apologize if it sucks.)

my masterlist

request guide

His sim room is dim except for the dull, shifting glow of LED lights tracing the walls, pulsing in sync with engine revs on Lando’s screen. He’s been here for at least an hour, maybe more, laser-focused—shoulders tense, jaw tight, hands gripping the wheel like he’s in an actual cockpit.

You’re in the doorway, leaning against the frame, wearing nothing but one of his hoodies. It hangs low, nearly brushing the tops of your thighs, soft and loose, the sleeves covering your hands. Your skin’s warm beneath it, and a little flushed—maybe from watching him so long, or maybe from what you’re planning.

He hasn’t noticed you yet. Not really. Just a distracted smile earlier when you brought him a drink. Since then? Silence. His attention’s been chained to the corners of a virtual Silverstone, chasing tenths of a second like they owe him something.

Your eyes trail over him now—the way his thighs flex slightly every time he shifts, the way his bottom lip tucks under his teeth when he brakes late. His headset’s pushed back around his neck, and a single bead of sweat slides from his temple to his jaw.

You step into the room without a word and let the door click shut behind you.

“Still trying to shave off that tenth?” you ask, voice syrup-smooth, laced with mischief.

He responds without looking.

“Not trying. Dialing it in.”

You smile. There’s the Lando you know—cocky, precise, addicted to speed and winning.

You drift closer, hips swaying just enough to be deliberate. You round his chair slowly, stopping just beside him, eyes locked on his screen like you’re playing innocent.

“Mm," you trail a finger across the edge of his steering wheel. “I wonder…”

“Wonder what?” he asks, flicking his eyes toward you briefly.

“If you’ve got more control out there—” you tap the glowing screen gently, “than in here.”

His brow lifts slightly. That got his attention.

You move behind him now, running your fingers across his shoulders, down his arms, mapping every muscle beneath the fabric. You lean forward, letting the warmth of your breath kiss the shell of his ear.

“I bet,” you whisper, “you can’t hold out for a whole race.”

That makes him pause. Really pause. His hand leaves the paddle mid-corner, and the engine whines as his car drifts off line.

“Hold out?” he echoes, voice thick with skepticism—and interest.

“Mmhm.” You glide your hands down his chest, over his stomach, featherlight. “I bet I can make you come in five laps.”

He laughs once, but it’s low and tense, like he’s trying to stay calm.

“Five?” he repeats, indignant. “You think you can break me in five?”

You press your body against the back of the chair, hips nudging the rig seat.

“No, baby. I know I can.”

He turns his head to look at you over his shoulder—mouth parted slightly, eyes dark now. He sizes you up like he’s about to take you apart with his hands and teeth.

“And if I make it through five?”

You slowly circle to face him, easing yourself onto his lap—one knee on either side of his hips. You don’t grind down yet, but you settle, letting him feel the heat of you through his joggers. You make sure he notices you’re not wearing anything underneath his sweatshirt.

You curl your fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck, tangling gently, pulling him just close enough that your lips brush his.

“If you make it through five,” you murmur, “you get me.”

A pause. Then you whisper the rest like a promise wrapped in sin.

“However. Wherever. Whenever.”

He exhales sharply, jaw clenching, hands still locked on the wheel because if he touches you now, he’ll ruin everything too early.

You reach down between you, slow and unhurried, palming him through his joggers. He’s already half-hard. The thrill of your challenge, the sound of your voice—he’s trying so hard not to show it.

“You’re on,” he mutters. “Five laps. Don’t go easy on me.”

You grin.

“Wasn’t planning to.”

And as he restarts the session, you start to move—just enough to make him twitch. Just enough to make him wonder how the hell he’s supposed to last.

Lap 1/5

The moment the race loads, you feel it—not just the hum of the sim coming to life, but the shift in Lando’s body beneath you. He squares his shoulders, tightens his grip on the wheel. His voice had been so sure a minute ago, all bravado and arrogance. But now?

Now he’s already working not to react.

You try to stay as out of the way of the screens as you can to at least give him a fighting chance.

Your thighs rest on either side of his, warm skin brushing against his joggers. His seat is snug, built for speed and pressure—not for having someone perched in his lap, slowly undoing him with the smallest touches. You feel him beneath you, hardening slowly, restrained only by thin fabric and sheer willpower.

And still, you don’t rush.

You breathe him in instead. He smells like clean sweat and fabric softener, like tension and heat and the lingering scent of cologne he probably applied this morning without thinking about how close you’d be later.

The first corner of the track comes and goes, and he nails it.

Good.

You want him calm. In control. Thinking he’s got this.

Your hands find his chest, fingertips dragging over the curve of his pecs, then lower, to the subtle ridges of his abs. Not pressing—just trailing. Ghosting. Enough to make his muscles twitch beneath your hands. Enough to make his breathing stutter, just once.

He exhales, shaky.

“That all you’ve got?” he mutters, not looking at you, trying to stay cocky.

You grin against his skin.

“Don’t worry. I’m just getting comfortable.”

You shift slightly—just enough to make sure he feels your bare heat press against him through the fabric. A gentle grind, one slow circle of your hips. His hands tighten on the wheel.

You press another kiss just below his ear. Then another, a little lower.

Your voice stays sweet, nearly innocent:

“How’s your sector time?”

“Shit,” he mutters.

You smile.

Your hips begin a slow rhythm—barely moving, but perfectly timed. Every time he shifts gears, you shift forward. When he straightens out for a straight, you rock back just a little. It’s not enough to drive him over the edge—not yet. But it’s enough to plant the idea. That pull. That ache.

And you can feel him growing harder under you, his body reacting even as he tries to stay stone-faced.

He keeps his eyes on the track. He thinks ignoring you will help.

You know better.

You start trailing your fingers under the hem of his shirt, this time tracing the edge of his ribs, featherlight. He twitches beneath your touch, his hips jerking upward once—reflex. He catches himself, swearing again.

You glance at the screen. One lap just passed halfway.

You lean in and whisper like it’s a secret.

“Four and a half to go, baby.”

He growls under his breath and tightens his grip again. But he doesn’t tell you to stop. You feel it—the way his hips lift an inch into you. Not consciously. Not controlled.

An instinct.

A slip.

You smile.

He wants to win.

You want to ruin him.

Lap 2/5

The moment he crosses the lap marker, you feel the change.

He exhales—just a little too sharp—like he’d been holding his breath since Turn 9. Like the first lap took more out of him than he’ll admit.

You don’t let him settle. You don’t let him recover.

You roll your hips forward again, just slightly more than before, then back. A little faster. A little firmer. His joggers provide friction now—barely a buffer between your heat and his restraint. His cock is hard beneath you, thick and twitching under the fabric, but he hasn’t moved. Not a single touch.

That’s okay.

You plan to do all the touching for him.

Your hands slide lower, sneaking beneath the hem of his shirt to find skin—warm, taut, twitching under your palms. You trail your fingers across his abs, then down, slow, until you’re just above his waistband.

You don’t go beneath.

Not yet.

Instead, you rest your hand there, light but suggestive, letting your thumb trace lazy circles against the band of his joggers.

He shifts in the seat, just barely.

“Eyes on the track, Norris.”

You murmur it against his jaw, then kiss just below his ear—barely touching. Just enough for him to feel it.

He grits his teeth. “You’re playing dirty.”

“You agreed to the rules.” Your tone stays breezy, but your hand doesn’t. “Not my fault if you’re losing already.”

You feel the rise of his chest under your palm—he’s breathing harder now, trying not to show it. His foot jolts slightly on the throttle. His car clips a curb. You hear the penalty chime—just a second’s warning—but it’s enough.

“Shit,” he mutters under his breath.

You laugh softly.

“What was that?”

He doesn’t answer.

So you keep going.

You shift your weight forward again and let your lips brush further against his ear.

“Want me to make it worse?”

Still nothing.

You grin—

Challenge accepted.

You lower yourself just enough that you’re flush against him again, your folds hot and slick against the barely-there barrier of his joggers. You rock once—firm, intentional. He groans, just barely, a sound caught in his throat.

Your voice is soft, almost cruel in its sweetness.

“Two laps in. I haven’t even touched your cock yet.”

You reach down, palm him through the fabric now, slow and deliberate. He bucks into your hand instinctively, and that’s the first time his focus slips completely. His car veers wide on a turn, and you hear the wheels screech as they kick up gravel.

“Concentrate,” you whisper, laughing gently against his skin.

“You’ve still got three laps left.”

His response is a low, broken sound that could be frustration or arousal—or both.

You press your mouth to his neck again, your hand still working him through the fabric, your body moving in that slow, taunting rhythm.

You feel him throb beneath your palm. He’s close already. You could push him now—finish this before the third lap even starts.

But you don’t.

Because you want him begging.

Lap 3/5

The moment he crosses the line into lap three, you feel the shift in him.

His thighs tense beneath yours. His arms strain on the wheel. The hard line of his cock is pressed firmly against you now, no longer just reactive—but aching. Desperate. His control is hanging by threads.

And you’re ready to cut every single one.

You rock forward again—this time with real intent. Not teasing. Not suggestive. Deliberate. Precise.

You grind against him with the rhythm of the engine’s growl, syncing your pace with the sharpness of each gear shift. Every time he accelerates, you move with it—hips rolling, breath hot, dragging friction over him that feels anything but accidental.

He makes a sound this time.

A real one.

A low, strangled curse punched out between clenched teeth as you slide your hands under his shirt again and let your nails drag across his stomach. His abs tighten beneath your touch, and you feel his hips twitch up once—seeking more, chasing it despite himself.

You smirk against his neck.

“Feel that, baby?” you murmur, lips brushing skin. “You’re practically pulsing.”

He growls. His voice is rough now, raw at the edges.

“You’re making it impossible to drive.”

“That’s the point.”

You move again—harder this time, a slow, grinding rhythm that drags your slick heat directly over his cock. You can feel him now—hot and thick and wanting more. The only thing separating you is a single layer of fabric.

You lean close to his ear, your voice velvet and wicked.

“Want me to ride you while you finish the lap?”

He groans—a real one, involuntary and half-broken—and his car jerks again on the screen. He recovers, but barely. His knuckles are white on the wheel. Sweat beads along his hairline. He’s silent now, like if he speaks he’ll give in.

You slide your hand down his chest again—slower this time. Taunting. You dip your fingers beneath his waistband now, finally—just a little. Just enough for him to feel your nails against bare skin.

He jerks. His hips buck up into you with force.

You don’t flinch.

You hold steady.

“Three laps,” you whisper. “You’re already fucking shaking.”

His voice is barely a rasp.

“You’re evil.”

You smile.

“You’re hard.”

Your hand brushes against the base of him, just once, and he twitches so violently the rig seat creaks. His breath catches like you’ve just punched the air out of him. His hips thrust up again, instinctual, and your body moves with his—grinding back down.

“Fuck,” he hisses.

You drag your tongue along his throat now, your hips meeting every unconscious thrust, letting his body tell you what his pride won’t.

And you’re so close to taking it.

To breaking him.

But not yet.

You press a kiss to his flushed cheek, then whisper sweetly in his ear:

“Still think you’ll make it through five?”

He doesn’t answer.

He can’t.

Lap 4/5.

You feel it—the way Lando’s whole body tenses underneath you. Not from the race. Not anymore.

Because he knows what’s coming.

Your hand is still wrapped around him, just beneath the waistband of his joggers, fingers teasing but never giving him enough. You feel him throbbing—full, flushed, leaking now. His cock twitches every time you shift your hips, even just slightly.

You look up at the screen.

His car is still on track, somehow. Barely.

You lean in, lips brushing his jaw.

“You made it through three,” you whisper, slow and mocking. “Good boy.”

His breath stutters. He swallows hard.

“But you’re not gonna make it through four.”

And then—before he can reply—you slide your hand fully inside.

You grip him, slow and firm, and pull him free from his joggers. He lets out a low, strangled moan, hips jerking up into your hand automatically. His cock is heavy, hot in your palm, already slick at the tip.

He grips the wheel tighter like it’s the only thing tethering him to Earth.

You shift forward, rising just slightly onto your knees. One hand holds him in place. The other guides your hoodie up, exposing the slick, desperate heat between your thighs.

You hover.

Just above him.

Just close enough that he can feel your warmth.

You hold him there.

“You still think you can last?” you ask, voice syrup-sweet.

He nods once—tight, desperate. “Yeah.”

You smile.

And sink down onto him in one slow, devastating slide.

He practically gasps. Chokes on it. His head drops back against the seat. His hands? They don’t move. He’s still gripping the wheel like it’s the only thing keeping him from coming right now.

You bottom out with a soft moan, intentionally dragging every inch of him into you. He’s so deep inside you it’s almost painful—in the best way. He throbs violently, twitching inside you.

You stay still for a moment. Let him feel it. Let him suffer in the tension.

“Lap four,” you breathe into his ear. “Let’s see what kind of endurance you really have.”

And then you start to move.

Slow at first—grinding against him in long, deep strokes, your thighs pressing against his, your core clenching around him just to watch his jaw go tight. He’s panting now, fully gone, biting back sounds that are barely human.

He shifts slightly in the seat and his hips jerk up once—uncontrolled, needy.

You don’t slow.

You ride him with purpose—steady rhythm, deliberate pace, perfectly timed to the corners he’s trying so hard to take cleanly.

Every time he tries to focus, you tighten around him. Every time he regains rhythm, you pull him deeper. You watch him unravel.

“How’s your lap time now, baby?” you purr, bouncing slightly harder. “Still think you’re gonna make it?”

He’s sweating. Trembling. You feel him gripping the wheel like if he lets go, he’ll lose everything.

“Fuck,” he grits out, barely audible.

You’re soaked, your thighs slick against his. Every time you sink down, the pressure builds, and you know he’s holding on by a single, fraying thread.

He turns to say something—but his voice fails him. Just a strangled moan.

You lean forward, mouth at his ear again, grinding your hips in tight, pulsing circles that make him jerk beneath you.

“One more lap to go,” you whisper. “You really think you can take it?”

He whimpers.

You smile.

Because you already know the answer.

Lap 5/5

The moment it flashes on screen, he stiffens beneath you like he might have a chance. Like he’s got just enough control left to make it to the line.

You smirk.

Good. Let him think that.

His hands are shaking on the wheel with how hard he’s gripping it behind you.

Not from adrenaline. Not from the track.

From you.

From the way you’re riding him like it’s your only mission—to destroy him one perfect roll of your hips at a time.

You plant your hands on his chest and start to move with intent—grinding deep, slow strokes that force him to feel every clench, every pull, every slick slide of your body swallowing him whole. His head drops back against the rig seat, jaw slack, mouth parted in a silent groan.

But he doesn’t let go.

His hands stay on the wheel.

His eyes flicker between the road and you. His knuckles are bone-white. Every muscle in his body is tight with restraint, as if his sheer willpower might keep him from tipping over the edge.

“You’re shaking,” you whisper, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “You’re not going to make it.”

“I am.” The words barely scrape out of him.

You chuckle, slow and low, clenching around him mid-thrust. He bucks into you so hard the rig creaks, but his grip stays on the wheel.

You ride him harder now—hips slapping softly, slick heat dragging down his cock with perfect, punishing pressure. His entire body jolts with every downward roll of your hips.

“Tell me what you’re thinking about,” you whisper, lips brushing his ear.

He groans—deep and wrecked—and tries to focus. Tries to stay in it.

You press your forehead to his and grind in a slow, delicious circle.

“Not the track, is it?” you purr. “You’re thinking about how close you are. How good it would feel to just let go.”

“Fuck—” he gasps, hips jerking up against your rhythm. “No. No—I can finish—”

“You can’t.”

And you make sure of it.

You change your angle—just slightly. And he feels it. Buried even deeper. You clench around him again, dragging a desperate sound from his throat. His back arches against the seat.

He’s trembling. Fully. Visibly.

You slow your pace just enough to tease, your voice syrup-sweet against his cheek:

“I can feel it, baby. You’re right there.”

“I—I’m fine,” he lies.

You pick up speed.

His breath hits high and frantic now, his body jerking with every bounce, every squeeze of your thighs.

“You think you’ll last?” You move faster. “You think you’ll make it across the line without coming in me?”

He whines.

Actually whines.

You dig your nails into his chest, pull his head back, make him look at you. His pupils are blown, his lips pink and parted. He’s wrecked and still trying.

Still trying to win.

You grin.

And then you slam down once, hard, angled just right—and he breaks.

His whole body arches. A sharp, guttural moan tears from his throat as he spills inside you—deep and hot and uncontrollable.

His foot slips on the pedal. On screen, his car jerks wide, flies off the track.

DNF

You collapse into him, both of you panting. Your lips press to his jaw, soft now, breathless.

He’s trembling.

He doesn’t speak.

He can’t.

And you whisper, just for him:

“I told you.”

Lando’s head is tipped back against the seat, sweat-damp curls sticking to his forehead, breath coming in sharp, uneven pulls. His hands are finally off the wheel, one dangling limp at his side, the other gripping your thigh like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.

He’s still inside you. Still pulsing from the aftershocks.

You shift your hips—just slightly—and he twitches, letting out a broken sound that’s half a whimper, half a curse.

“Fuck me,” he groans, voice ragged.

You lean forward, kiss the corner of his mouth—sweet, smug, slow.

“Oh, I did.”

His eyes snap open.

There’s fire there still—under the wreckage. Under the loss. The glint of a man who isn’t done, even when he’s spent.

He reaches up and cups the back of your neck, dragging you down into a kiss that’s too deep for someone that wrecked. Desperate. Tongue and teeth and the bite of someone who’s not ready to admit defeat.

When he pulls back, his lips are slick, his eyes heavy-lidded but sharp.

“Just because I lost,” he murmurs, “doesn’t mean I don’t get to take you… whenever. However.”

Your breath catches.

He grins—slow and dark, still breathless but already hardening again beneath you.

“That was only round one.”

You blink, caught off-guard by the shift in him—the way he’s already coming back to life beneath your thighs.

“Already?” you whisper.

“You said I couldn’t last five laps.” He grabs your hips, guiding you down again, grinding into the mess between you. “Let’s see how many rounds you can take.”

Your eyes flutter.

He’s not asking this time.

And just like that, the game starts over.

notes: i really hope it isn't terrible and makes sense lol. i wanted to get this one out quickly, especially after his sprint win yesterday.

taglist: @literallysza @piceous21

IF YOU’D LIKE TO BE ADDED TO A TAGLIST FOR ALL OF MY FUTURE F1 FICS, COMMENT BELOW

#f1 #f1 smut #f1 x reader #f1 imagine #ln4 #lando norris #lando x reader #lando norris x reader #lando norris x you #lando norris smut #lando smut #catie tries her best

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st4rfckerz · 20 days ago

Text

Telescope

ʚ word count: 1k

ʚ summary: you drive clark crazy without even realizing it

ʚ warnings: mdni, clark is lowkey a pervert, masturbation, voyeurism

The evening air settles gently over the fields, tinted with the soft gold of a fading sun. Inside the barn, it’s quiet, just the occasional shift of wood as the structure cools for the night.

Clark stands near the open barn doors, his telescope propped up on its usual spot in the middle of the floor. He adjusts the lens slowly, gaze steady as he peers through it, scanning the darkening sky.

It’s his everyday thing—this quiet watching, this still kind of waiting. The stars begin to appear one by one, and he tracks them like he always has.

Clark’s hand moves slowly over the telescope’s adjustment knob, guiding the lens across the horizon. He passes over the tree line, the dark outline of the Kent field, and begins to sweep across the neighboring yard—just out of habit.

He almost keeps going.

But something small tugs at his attention.

A soft glow, warm and steady, shines from a window across the way.

He shifts the telescope back, just slightly, retracing the angle until it lands there again. Your bedroom window.

The curtains are drawn open, your lamp casting a warm, golden glow across your room. You’re inside, walking around in an almost cropped t-shirt and tiny shorts, completely at ease in your space. The shirt rides up slightly every time you stretch or twist, and your shorts cling snug around your hips. You’re not doing anything meant to be seen—just folding a blanket, fluffing your pillow, pulling your hair out of a loose knot and letting it fall.

For a moment, Clark forgets the telescope is even in his hands. He doesn’t even move. He knows he should look away, but he doesn’t.

His throat bobs with a quiet gulp, the warmth rising under his skin spreading too fast, too thick. He shifts his stance but doesn’t move from the scope. His hand tightens just slightly on the side of it.

You glance toward the window once absentmindedly and he freezes. But you don’t see him. You just keep moving, and the curve of your smile, even at nothing in particular, makes something twist low in his stomach.

He swallows again, hard. Every part of him is tense, like he’s standing too close to a fire.

He shouldn’t be watching.

Out of instinct, he presses a firm hand down against the growing strain in his pants, trying to will it back—trying to get control.

But it only makes things worse.

The pressure sharpens, his body reacting faster than his thoughts can keep up.

“Shit,” he mutters under his breath.

The guilt sinks in fast—sharp and immediate. He knows he should look away. Shut it down. Go back to the stars or literally anywhere else.

But he just can’t.

His eyes flutter shut, breath catching in his throat as the tension coils tighter. The image of you, soft light on your skin, the way your shirt clung, the curve of your body as you moved around so casually—plays behind his eyes like a loop he can’t break.

His hips buck up involuntarily as he squeezes himself harder, a low moan rumbling in his chest. The rough fabric rubs deliciously against his sensitive flesh, the friction sending jolts of electricity through his nerves.

With a shaky breath, he reaches down and unbuttons his jeans with trembling fingers. He hesitates for a moment, his hand hovering just above the waistband of his boxers, a final chance to back out and put an end to this inappropriate and self-indulgent act. But the throbbing ache in his groin was too intense to ignore any longer.

Holding his breath, Clark quickly unbuttons his jeans and shoves his hand into his boxers, his fingers brushing against the hot, hard flesh of his erection.

Clark gasped as he wrapped his fingers around his pulsing shaft. It was so hot and hard, the skin velvety soft and smooth as he began to stroke himself with long, slow motions. His thumb swipes over the sensitive head, smearing the bead of precum that had already formed at the tip.

He watches you bend down, reaching for something near the foot of your bed and it’s the last straw for him.

Your shorts ride up just slightly, the fabric pulling tight as you shift your weight. It’s not deliberate. Not posed. Just the natural way your body moves. But the soft curve of your ass shows through, framed by the stretch of those tiny shorts, leaving very little to the imagination.

His hand moves frantically over his aching cock, stroking and squeezing with desperate, urgent motions. The pleasure was overwhelming, the sensations more intense than anything he had ever experienced before. He could feel the pressure building rapidly, his balls tightening as his climax approached.

“Oh fuck,” Clark panted, his voice a low, guttural rasp as he chased the release he so desperately craved. His hips jerked and bucked erratically as he fucked into his own hand, the obscene sounds filling the quiet room.

When it’s over, it hits him all at once.

The heat, the tension, the ache that had been building—it’s over before he fully realizes it, and what’s left behind isn’t relief.

It’s guilt.

It settles heavy in his chest the moment it ends, raw and immediate. He exhales shakily, dragging a hand down his face as he sits back from the telescope like it might accuse him out loud. The barn feels too quiet now. Too still. The air around him thick with something he doesn’t want to name.

He sits there in the dim barn for a long while, the sounds of the night pressing in around him—crickets, the rustle of the breeze through the rafters, distant dogs barking.

But underneath the shame, beneath the heat still clinging to his skin, is something even harder to ignore: need.

It makes his stomach twist. Somehow the guilt doesn’t cancel the desire. It just complicates it.

He fixes his pants and stands, eventually, running a hand through his hair as he steps away from the window and the telescope and the silence he’s drenched in.

Clark closes the barn door behind him, the creak echoing too loud in the quiet.

He knows he’ll see you tomorrow.

#nai writes ୨୧ #childhoodfriend!reader #childhoodfriend!reader x clark kent #clark kent x reader #clark kent x you #clark kent smut #clark kent blurb #clark kent drabble #clark kent fanfiction #clark kent au #smallville #tom welling #st4rfckerz

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sacrificiallane · 5 months ago

Text

nsfw ﹙ just the tip ❞ with Luke Castellan request. ! ❛ i would kill to have luke say 'just the tip baby i wont take your virginity' and then ruin me ❜ / tw ! coercing , luke takes your virginity without asking , mean!Luke

He is so desperate ! Literally, Luke thinks it's so unfair, how you're looking all pretty for him... yet won't let him in. It's killing him, please.

He just doesn't get this whole 'saving yourself for marriage' thing. It's stupid, he thinks, how you let him have his tongue buried between your thighs but not his dick ―

"Please, baby" his voice borders on a whine as he bumps his drooling tip against your clothed cunt and pries your thighs a little further apart. "Just let me ―" he groans. Momentarily, he thinks about just ripping the fabric in half and having his way with you... but he is a patient boy. For now.

"I told you, just the tip, hm?" Luke is taking a different approach then. He doesn't want to scare you, after all. So his hands ― all gentle and loving ― find a way to your face, to carefully caress your cheeks.

"You trust me, no?" he coaxes further, invading your space by nuzzling his nose to yours. An endearing gesture that makes it just so easy for him to get his way...

When you answer a soft 'yes, Luke...' he smiles.

Luke knows how to sweet talk you into things. He's a son of Hermes, after all, one of the cleverest and most mischievous of the Olympian gods.

"And you know I would never do anything that's bad for you, right?"

Your teeth press into your bottom lip and Luke gets even harder Luke's fingers press the slightest bit harder into your skin, "right?" he doesn't like how you're hesitating, it's a normal question after all. I mean, why would you not trust him, after all? He is always taking care of you!

When he asks again, you know you have to answer "yea..."

He smirks, "good" and his hand starts to relax, and to wander.

He knows your body by heart, so the boy doesn't even have to look anywhere but your eyes when his fingers ghost over the drenched part of your panties.

Luke watches closely for your reaction. It's when your eyes trail down as well, when you feel him prodding, tugging and teasing, dangerously close to the part that you were denying him just moments ago, he acts quickly!

In an attempt to distract you from what he was really doing down there, and fearing that you'd deny him again and again, his lips press against yours in a hot kiss. It has you relax, at least, and gives him enough time to messily pull your panties to the side and press his bare tip against your slit. His tongue licks broadly into your mouth, to swallow any disagreeing noise of yours. He knows what's good for you!

When you do start to get a bit more whiny though, and try to move further up his bed ― you're nervous, of course, and Luke loves you too much to just ignore such a thing! ― he is quick to mutter sweet words meant to soothe you. Whispering how he loves you, and how good you are for him.

His unoccupied hand smoothes over your hair, and his forehead bumps against yours when he literally bullies his thick head through your walls.

"Fuck..." a breathless hiss and his eyes flutter close. You are so tight! Wrapped around him like a vice, and Luke can just barely make out how you open a little further for him, and suddenly all of his common sense wanders south, and he craves you even more.

He really can't help it this time...

"Sorry, I'm sorry―"

A loud gasp spills over your swollen lips when his hips suddenly snap flush against your own ― and his length slips all the way into your fluttering walls until you are completely full of him. So full, he can see himself slightly outlined through your tummy. "Gods―" another thrust. In and out again, just to watch your reaction of having him poke your deepest parts.

"You ― just the tip ―" you were stuttering, trying to find words as he was greatly taking care of needs you weren't even aware of having ! Your fingers curl further around his sheets, cramping a little, when an especially hard thrust had you seeing stars for a moment.

Luke doesn't even think of slipping out again. Instead, he shushed you softly, and pressed one hand over your mouth. Gentle, of course. But you were so loud ! And your sweet innocent voice trying to make sense of him, had him so close to spilling.

"It's okay―," he mutters in a breathless whisper, "you're fine."

Luke would never make you do anything you aren't ready for. He swears !

And when your eyes roll back and your legs start shaking, your own climax hitting you so quickly that you don't even know how or when to warn you... he's there, with you, to rub soothing circles into your naked skin and remind himself that this is all just for him.

Well, and there goes your 'saving yourself for marriage' ― "Guess I will just have to marry you then..."

𓂃 🖊 more .

#luke castellan 𓂃 written by lane #luke castellan smut #luke castellan x reader #luke castellan x reader smut #luke castellan x you #luke castellan x you smut #luke castellan x y/n #luke castellan x y/n smut

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dragoneyelashart · 1 month ago

Text

greedy ★⋆˙

smut ୨ৎ warnings: g!p billie, oral (billie receiving), unprotected sex, breeding kink, sub!top billie, daddy kink summary: billie needs a little extra money for the summer, and you decide to let her help out around your house.

wc: 2.6k

you didn’t mean to answer the door like that. well. that’s a lie. you knew what you were doing when you slipped into the bikini this morning, thin straps barely there, the fabric hugging your curves like a secret whispered against your skin. the color, a deep, sultry maroon, made your sun-kissed skin glow, the kind of shade that caught the light and held it, teasing without revealing too much. the top was simple but perfect: a triangle cut that lifted and framed you just right, leaving your collarbones and shoulders exposed to the summer sun.

around your hips, you tied a lightweight, sheer coverup skirt, soft, translucent chiffon that fluttered with every step, teasing glimpses of your bikini bottoms beneath. the skirt hit just above mid-thigh, swaying and shifting in the warm breeze like it was made to move with you, effortless and a little bit dangerous. the whole look was casual, sultry, and absolutely you, a subtle invitation, wrapped in sun-soaked confidence.

you didn’t expect her to look quite so wrecked, though. she stands on your porch like she forgot how her legs work. her hair is messy, loose strands falling over her face, catching the sunlight in wild, unruly waves. she’s wearing a simple tank top, soft and slightly worn, stretched just enough to hint at the lean muscles beneath. her baggy pants hang low on her hips, practical and loose, with the hems just brushing the tops of her scuffed sneakers.

in her hands is a tool kit, the kind she probably borrowed from her dad without asking, and her eyes flicker around nervously, down at her own pants, then back up to you, like her brain hasn’t quite caught up with the way her dick is already reacting to the sight of you.

“i—uh,” she stammers. “hi.”

“hi sweetheart,” you say, soft and amused, leaning on the doorframe just enough to make your chest rise a little higher. “billie, right?”

she nods, but she’s not making eye contact anymore. her eyes flick to your thighs, to your chest, to where the strings of your bikini tie tight at your hips. you can practically feel her getting hard. no, see it, once you glance down.

her pants do a terrible job of hiding nine inches of anything.

“you’re right on time,” you add, giving her a slow once-over. “you want something to drink before you get started?”

“water,” she says, voice cracking just slightly. “please.”

you step aside to let her in. her shoulder brushes yours, and you swear you hear her breath hitch.

she follows you inside like a puppy, quiet, a little too eager, trying not to stare at the sway of your hips as you walk ahead. the kitchen’s cool from the A/C, but her skin’s already flushed. nervous, maybe. or just hot in all the wrong ways.

you open the fridge, bend at the waist just a little more than necessary, and hear it, sharp breath behind you. you smirk.

you hand her a cold bottle of water and lean back against the counter, sipping your own. her eyes are everywhere except your face.

“you sure you’re good to work in this heat?” you ask, tilting your head.

“yeah—yeah, totally,” she mutters. “just, uh… gotta get used to it, i guess.”

her voice is tight, and she keeps adjusting her pants. the fabric’s doing nothing for her anymore—it’s stretched high and obvious over the hard line of her cock, thick and pulsing and definitely not something she can hide.

you let your eyes linger.

she sees you looking, and freezes.

“sorry,” she blurts, color rushing to her face. “i—it just—happens sometimes. i didn’t mean—”

“don’t apologize,” you say, and your voice is low now, smooth like honey over warm skin. “it’s flattering.”

she blinks, mouth slightly parted. she doesn’t move.

“you ever get distracted like this doing yard work before?”

she shakes her head, stiff. “no. never.”

you take a slow step forward. then another. she stays rooted in place, but her eyes are wide now, caught between panic and something needier, darker, lower.

“you’re cute,” you murmur. “do people tell you that?”

she nods. “not like this.”

you smile, wicked. “not when they’re old enough to be your—?”

“don’t,” she says, voice cracking again, this time with need.

you reach out and tug at the hem of her hoodie, lifting it just enough to see the outline of her abs, the pale strip of skin above her waistband.

“what if i do?”

her breath shudders out of her, and you know you’ve got her now. you’ve had her since the moment she walked up your driveway.

your hand grazes the waistband of her shorts, and she twitches.

“this okay?” you ask, even though her cock is straining so hard against the fabric she probably couldn’t speak if she tried.

“please,” she whispers.

you palm her over the shorts, slow and firm, and she nearly folds in half. her hand shoots out to grip the counter behind you like she needs something to hold onto.

“fuck,” she mutters, voice rough.

“you’ve been hard since the porch,” you say softly. “poor thing.”

she whines. actually whines.

you tug the waistband down just enough to free her cock, and fuck, fuck, it’s big. thick, flushed, leaking already. you wrap your fingers around it and she jerks like she’s going to come already.

“been a while?” you ask, pumping her slowly, teasing.

she nods again, rapid and desperate.

“how long?”

“months,” she gasps. “i—I didn’t think—”

you hush her with a look.

“you’re doing so well,” you murmur. “so good for me.”

you drop to your knees, slow and smooth. the tile floor is cool beneath you, but all you can feel is heat, radiating off her, thick in the air between you, pulsing under your skin.

she’s panting now. hands still braced on the counter like she doesn’t trust herself to stand.

her cock twitches once, hard, and you glance up at her with a lazy smile.

“shy all of a sudden?” you murmur, lips barely an inch from her tip.

“n–no,” she breathes, but her voice breaks on the edge of it.

you tilt your head and lean in, licking a slow stripe up the underside. she chokes on her breath, hips jolting forward like she didn’t mean to. her cock is hot and heavy against your tongue, salty-slick from precome, and you hum as you taste her.

“fuck—fuck,” she whispers, like a prayer, like she’s already overwhelmed.

you wrap one hand around the base and take her in, just the tip, wet and swollen and trembling against your lips. her knees buckle slightly and she whines again, desperate and already losing control. you flatten your tongue and let her slide a little deeper, sucking slow and steady while your hand strokes the rest.

“holy shit,” she mutters, eyes squeezed shut. “i can’t, fuck i can’t—”

“yes you can,” you say, pulling off just long enough to murmur it against her skin. “you will, baby. be my good girl c’mon”

you take her deeper this time, relaxing your throat inch by inch until she hits the back. her thighs are shaking, and her fingers curl tight around the edge of the counter, white-knuckled and straining.

you moan around her, and the sound makes her curse, low and guttural.

“oh god” she rasps. “you’re—so good, oh my god—”

you bob your head slowly, rhythm steady and slick. spit gathers at the corners of your mouth, dripping down your chin as you work her deeper each time. you can feel her pulsing under your tongue, twitching in your hand, already close and fighting it.

she looks down at you like she can’t believe this is real, as if she’s dreamt it before but never dared to imagine it this vivid. your mouth on her. your eyes locked on hers. your lips stretched wide around her cock.

you pull off again just long enough to stroke her faster with your hand, letting her glisten with spit.

“you’re gonna come for me, baby?” you whisper, voice thick and dark. “gonna let me taste you right?”

she nods, frantic. “yes. yes—please—i’m gonna—fuck—please—”

you suck her deep one last time, hollowing your cheeks and humming like you want her to feel it in her bones.

and she breaks.

her whole body goes rigid, and she lets out the quietest, most wrecked sound you’ve ever heard, a broken whimper as her cock jerks in your mouth, thick ropes of come hitting the back of your throat. you take it all, swallowing without flinching, hands never stopping their pace.

you stay there a second longer, licking her clean, letting her breathe.

when you finally pull back, she looks like she’s about to collapse.

you smile up at her, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand.

“good girl,” you say softly. “so sweet for me.”

her knees give just a little, and you catch her hips in your hands like it’s nothing. you watch her try to recover.

she's pink in the face, still trembling a little, like she hasn't come down from it yet. there's a drop of sweat at her temple, her lips parted, breath shallow. you give her thigh a soft pat and rise to your feet, brushing your fingers through your hair like none of it even fazed you.

"now," you say, sweetly, "didn't you have a list of things to do today?"

she blinks at you like she doesn’t speak english.

“you can start with the side gate. it sticks.”

you press a water bottle into her hand, smirk still curling your lips, and gesture toward the back door.

“chop chop.”

she looks stunned. dizzy. her cock still half-hard and damp in her shorts, clearly aching. but she nods and stumbles outside, and you watch her go with a smug little roll of your hips.

you rinse your mouth at the sink, pour yourself a cold glass of sweet tea, and head to the living room. the air feels sweeter now. heavy with satisfaction. you flop down onto the couch and scroll through your phone, every now and then catching glimpses of her through the back window.

she's not getting much done.

mostly she’s just… pacing. fidgeting. adjusting herself constantly. at one point, you see her press her palm flat to the wall, forehead against her arm, like she’s trying not to scream.

pathetic, you think, lips twitching.

but you don’t realize how far she’s slipping until you walk into the kitchen again an hour later, barefoot, glass in hand, and she’s suddenly there, behind you.

you barely hear the screen door shut.

then it’s heat. weight. her, right up against you, her chest pressed to your back, her breath ragged in your ear as her hips grind against your ass, slow and desperate.

“i—i can’t,” she whines. “i can’t take it. please.”

you let out a breath, startled but not surprised.

“billie—”

“please just the tip,” she begs, rutting against you like she’s lost her mind. “just for a second, please, please—i need it, i need it.”

her cock is hard again, throbbing against the curve of your ass. she’s leaking through her shorts, and you can feel it. sticky. wet. your thighs clench before you can stop them.

you turn around, glass thunking against the counter.

“you couldn’t last a full hour?” you taunt, raising an eyebrow.

she whimpers, shakes her head.

“no—no, i can’t—i tried—but you—your mouth—fuck—please let me in, i’ll be good, i swear—”

you glance her over, eyes trailing from her flushed cheeks to the twitch of her hips. her hands are gripping the counter on either side of you now, trapping you between her arms. she’s trembling. full-body, wrecked.

“fucking pathetic baby, go on then, just the tip,” you warn.

“yes—yes, just the tip—i promise—”

you grab her hand, drag it between your thighs.

“then make it quick, baby.”

you don’t even get your bottoms off all the way, just push them aside and let her fumble for her cock, already dripping. the moment she slides in, it’s like she breaks.

you gasp at the stretch, even the tip is too much, thick and hot and swollen from earlier, but before you can tell her to stop, she’s already moving. grinding. inching deeper without permission.

“oh my god,” she moans. “you’re so warm, so soaked, i can’t— daddy i can’t—”

“billie—baby—just the tip—”

“i’m sorry, i’m sorry daddy” she gasps, “but i have to, please—fuck—”

and then she thrusts.

hard.

you choke on your own breath as her cock sinks in deeper, too deep. she’s not slow, not gentle, not asking anymore. she’s fucking you like something snapped inside her. like her brain shut off and her body’s only got one gear now: ruin.

you brace yourself on the counter, eyes wide, mouth open. she’s panting behind you, moaning shamelessly, hips slamming into yours like she needs to break you open.

“you feel so good—so tight—i’m gonna lose it—fuck—”

“b–billie, wait—slow down—”

“i can’t,” she cries out. “been waiting so long daddy, tr—tried to be your good girl but —fuck — your mouth, your body, need it—” your knees nearly give out from the force of her thrusts, your legs trembling beneath you, muscles locking and then failing with every brutal snap of her hips. the counter edge bites into your palms as you scrabble for something solid, anything to hold onto. the countertop, the cabinet handle, the slick curve of the sink. all of it feels too far, too smooth, too useless.

and she just keeps going, fingertips slipping on the smooth tile. her cock drives into you again and again, relentless and wild, dragging shocked little gasps from your throat each time she bottoms out. the sound of it, skin on skin, wet and obscene, bounces off the walls like it means something. every slap is a sharp echo, every thrust a gut-punch of pressure and heat. your slick drips down your inner thighs, pooling where her hips meet yours, and she’s using it, gripping your waist like it’s the only thing tethering her to reality, slamming into you so hard the cabinets rattle.

your stomach brushes the counter now with each thrust, the hard granite cold under your skin, grounding you just enough to feel how badly you're unraveling. your mouth drops open, but the only sounds that come out are gasps, high-pitched, desperate little hiccups of breath that feel like they don’t even belong to you anymore.

“fuck, baby, you’re so deep, gosh—”

the words fall out of you, shaky and half-slurred, barely coherent through the moans clawing their way up your throat. your voice wavers, pitch climbing, your whole body twitching with every brutal snap of her hips.

but she’s not listening.

she’s gone somewhere else entirely now, eyes half-lidded, mouth parted, her face twisted in something dark and wild. there’s no trace left of the nervous, soft-spoken girl who stumbled in this morning. no hesitation. no shame. just raw, animal hunger bleeding out of her in every brutal thrust.

the shy energy she clung to earlier has shattered, scattered across the tile floor like broken glass. what’s left behind is something messier, darker, needier. she doesn’t just want you, she wants to own you. carve herself into your body, leave a mark that won’t wash off. she’s gripping your hips like you might disappear, dragging you back onto her cock with a force that knocks the breath from your lungs.

you’re soaked, dripping. stretched so full you feel like you might split open around her. her cock slams into you again and again, thick and relentless, and your legs tremble like they can’t decide whether to hold you up or collapse beneath you.

she fucks you through every word. every gasp. every shaky plea. like she wants to fuck the dominance out of you, needs to. and she does.

bit by bit, thrust by thrust, she tears it out of you.

until all that’s left is the slick sound of skin slapping skin, her ragged breath at your neck, and your whimpering, fucked-out voice breaking as you try to keep up with her.

within seconds, you’re gasping, broken open around her cock, your voice going high and panicked.

“please—too much—slow down—i can’t—i can’t—”

she moans, deep and rough.

“you said just the tip,” she pants, “but you’re taking me so deep daddy, feels so good.”

you’re drooling. you’re soaked. your thighs are shaking and your dominance is gone. completely stripped away.

now it’s you who’s begging.

“billie—fuck baby—m’ gonna come, m’ so close—slow down”

but she doesn’t.

if anything she fucks you harder. relentless. like she’s wrapping her whole body around you, locking you in place with the sheer force of her need. every thrust is deep and perfect, hitting that soaked, sensitive spot inside you that makes your legs kick uselessly under you. you can’t even stand anymore. you’re just there, pinned between her and the counter, your body open and helpless and trembling.

you feel like you’re being devoured. her cock fills you so perfectly, thick and throbbing, sliding through slick heat like she was made for this, made for you.

your moans dissolve into incoherence, little high-pitched gasps and garbled sobs of her name. your nails scrape the counter. your forehead drops to the cool tile. every inch of your skin is burning. every thought in your head is gone.

and billie?

she’s gone, too.

whatever sweet, nervous girl showed up this morning doesn’t exist anymore. she’s feral now, needy, obsessed, completely unhinged in the way she chases her pleasure through yours. her mouth is at your shoulder, breath hot and open, teeth dragging across your skin like she wants to bite. her voice is thick and wrecked, each moan a promise that she’s not slowing down.

“daddy, feels so good” she groans. “so wet, want you to cum for me mama, please”

your orgasm crashes into you, your whole body locking up and then shuddering violently, mouth open in a silent scream. your cunt pulses around her, soaking everything, dripping down both your thighs as your body milks her cock for everything it can give.

she moans behind you, a desperate, needy sound, and her hips stutter. “billie, baby, cum in me, please,” billie’s breath hitches, her hips slowing just enough before she finally releases inside you, warm and heavy, every movement softening as she collapses against your back, whispering “thank you’s” profusely.

you squeeze her gently, a slow smile tugging at your lips. “i think you’ve earned that summer money, princess”

taglist: @amara-eilish @bilswifee @iamnicoke @jayjaywetforbils @bittersuitekim @bxllxebxtch @bitchesbrokenpromises @ijustlovemaths @ilovealiceosemann @bilssturns @peytonneilish @chrissv4mp @too-sapphic-to-function @thebluediner @aka-persephone | send an ask or comment if you want to be added to my taglist!

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sidollie · 2 months ago

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Simon Riley on mother's day .ᐟ cw// ᴍᴅɴɪ, beeding kink, overstimulation, reader having baby fever and simon being a gentleman

ᯓ★ Simon Riley was a man of action. He had been that way for years, believing that words alone were never enough to make someone understand how he felt. That's why he expressed everything he felt about everyone through what he did and to the people he loved, he was fucking great—like you, his lovely dollie.

He wasn't the type to write poetic letters or whisper sweet love confessions in the night no, but he showed his love in quiet, deliberate ways—the way he'd tuck you in at night, making sure the blanket was snug comfortably around your body, or how he always walked on the outer side of the sidewalk with an arm securely wrapped around your waist,

His rough and calloused hands held you like you were something breakable, something precious and to him you definitely were, his precious wifey. He didn’t say “I love you” that often, but you felt it in every lingering glance, in every calloused thumb brushing over your knuckles and ever since you both started dating every Mother's Day, he brought you flowers and took you out for dinner.

Just like today, your favourite flowers wrapped in a brown paper always with a small hand written note—“To my future kid's mum, Happy Mother's day.” He hands it to you with your favourite pastries and books that was on your TBR list for a long time now as he presses a soft kiss to your forehead whispering in your ear,

“Happy mother's day dovie”

You laughed gently swatting his chest as you took his sweetly packed gifts.

“Thank you si~”

“Yer welcome swee'heart”

But a small part of your brain couldn't help but imagine how he would look like a dad—Simon Riley making breakfast in your kitchen, shirtless. His back muscles rippling under the weight of your daughter perched on top of his broad shoulders, her tiny hands tugging on his hair as he sets the pan on the stove top letting it heat up. While your son is busy dipping his chubby fingers in pancake batter, just the thought of him with kids, your kids makes your thighs clench and the familiar feeling of arousal pool in your lower stomach

And maybe the idea of having kids with simon wasn't that bad so tonight you had decided — you wanted the note to come true. You wanted simon riley to be the father of your children, that's why, under your pretty navy blue dress that you had picked out for the dinner date, you secretly wore a white lace lingerie set. It was sexy and delicate, the lace barely covering anything at all.

And the moment you stepped inside your house, he was on you. Your back pressed against the door as he kissed you hungrily, his tongue dominating it's way into your warm mouth He heaved slightly, his lips resting against yours as he whispered,

“ya look stunnin' in that dress swee'heart but we both know ya look better without it”

He picked you up and bent you over the console table in the hallway, ignoring the way you gasped and tried to squirm away. He pressed a kiss to your nape, trailing them down your back as he unzipped your dress, letting the fabric fall to the floor. His calloused hands caressed the smooth skin of your back, tracing over the delicate lace as his voice gravel thick,

“Y’like that? course you do, yer such a greedy lil thing”

He rubs his calloused hand on the plush skin of your ass, caress ing it before he lands a sharp smack to it. You let out a small whimper before gasping as he spanked you again, continuing his actions until your skin tinges a soft pink

“yer arse turns such a pretty colour, luvie.”

He yanks your lace panties down and spreads you open for his hungry eyes, your pretty cunt glistening with arousal all for him. His thick fingers rub on your soaked slit, spreading your wetness as his other hand unbuckle his belt. His cock hot and heavy hanging out for you as he lazily strokes it once, twice before lining it up to your warm hole, plunging all of it in at once.

A loud grunt resonates from within his throat as he bottoms out in you, your cunt clutching onto him like a vise as he closes his eyes in pure bliss. The feeling of your pretty pussy stretching wide to accomodate to him, despite the previous times he claimed your tightness.

“fuck, dollie... yer tight cunt's milking me”

Your eyes immediately tear up as he thrusts in to the hilt, his fat tip resting snugly against your gooey spot as pleasured mewls fell from your mouth. He grabs a hold of both your arms and he pulls them behind your back, using them as leverage as he pounds into your moist cunt.

“S-si want it! want you to fill me... wanna be a mo-mother”

“oh yeah?! You want me t'fill ya up? Hm? Ya want my cum in ya lil womb hm? Gonna carry my brats?”

He growled, his mouth pressed down on your nape again as he bites and licks while speeding up, thrusting his thick cock deep in you. Grunts and groans fell from his lips, his one hand presses down on your lower belly, the bulge of his cock visible as he imagines how you'd look swollen full of him.

A few more thrusts and he’s spilling inside of you, his cock still burried in to keep all of his thick seed in your cunt. But he doesn’t stop, not until you're shaking, overstimulated, and ruined—until you’re truly and thoroughly bred by him.

“Can't wait t'see ya swollen and barefoot, luvie”

@sidollie, @cataxos

⤷masterlist ✉

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wendichester · 3 months ago

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𓂃˖ ࣪⊹ voicemail²,

summary.you and dean broke up, he tries to call you a couple of hours after.

pairing. dean winchester x reader genre. fluff with a cutesy bit of smut

wordcount. 1140

notes / warnings. yall can never leave my sad endings alone, can you? 😳// heavy angst turns soft. crying. unprotected shower sex. possessive language.

ᯓ★ read part 1

You don't sleep after that voicemail.

You can't.

You just lie there, crumpled around your pillow, chest aching in that hollow, unbearable way that feels a lot like missing a piece of yourself you didn’t realize you needed until it was gone.

His voice plays over and over in your head. The toothbrush. The broken apologies. The please.

And something inside you just snaps.

You’re out of bed before you even know what you’re doing—pulling on jeans, shoving your arms into a hoodie, grabbing your keys with shaking hands. It’s raining outside. Cold, needling rain that soaks you the second you step off the porch. You don't care. You drive anyway, windshield wipers screeching, heart hammering so loud you can hear it over the storm.

The closer you get, the worse the ache gets.

You don’t even remember pulling into the motel lot. You just see the Impala parked there, black and gleaming under the shitty streetlamp, and your throat closes up so tight you can barely breathe.

His room is on the ground floor.

Light on.

You walk up to the door like it might blow away if you don't move fast enough. Fist raised, knuckles trembling. You almost don't knock.

You almost turn around.

And then the door yanks open like he’s been standing on the other side the whole time, holding his breath, waiting.

Dean looks like hell.

Grey t-shirt. Sweatpants. Sleep-rumpled hair. Red-rimmed eyes that go wide and shattered when they land on you. For one terrible second, neither of you says anything. You just look.

And then—

He surges forward, grabbing your face in his hands like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go. His forehead presses to yours, breathing you in, arms coming around you so tight it almost hurts.

“God,” he chokes out. “God, you’re here.”

You’re crying again. You don’t even try to stop it. Big, messy, gasping sobs into his chest while he holds you like he’s piecing you back together with nothing but touch.

“I’m sorry,” you manage between broken breaths. “Dean—I’m so sorry—I didn’t mean it—”

“Hey, hey, shh, it’s okay.” His hands smooth over your back, your hair, like he can fix it if he just touches enough of you. His voice is thick, raw. “You’re here. That’s all I care about. You’re here, baby.”

He kisses the top of your head, your forehead, your temple, frantic, desperate little presses of his mouth like prayers.

You bury your face in his neck and just breathe him in. Leather and rain and salt and him.

He pulls you inside without letting go. The door swings shut behind you with a soft click, locking the two of you away from the whole fucked-up world outside.

You don’t know how long you stand there.

Minutes. Hours. Lifetimes.

Eventually, he pulls back just enough to cup your face, thumb brushing your cheekbone.

“I thought I lost you,” he whispers.

“You didn’t,” you whisper back. “You never could.”

His mouth crashes into yours, all teeth and tongue and aching forgiveness. It's not slow. It's not soft. It’s desperate and wild, the kind of kiss you give when you know you almost lost everything.

You cling to him, hands fisting in his t-shirt, trying to climb into his skin, trying to make up for every second you were apart.

When he finally pulls back, both of you are breathless, trembling.

“You’re soaked,” he says, running a hand down your wet hoodie.

“You gonna fix it?” you challenge, voice still shaky.

Dean’s mouth twitches like he’s trying to smirk, but his eyes—they’re nothing but wide-open devastation. He steps in closer, hands slipping under the hem of your soaked hoodie, fingertips skating along your cold, damp skin.

“Gonna fix everything, sweetheart,” he rasps. “Gonna make you feel so good you forget why you ever left.”

And God, you believe him.

Because when Dean Winchester loves, he loves like he’s on fire. Like there’s no tomorrow.

The clothes come off fast and clumsy—both of you half-laughing, half-breathless as he backs you toward the bathroom. The door bangs open, the shitty fluorescent light flickering overhead. Dean kicks it shut with his foot, eyes devouring you like you’re the only thing keeping him alive.

The shower hisses to life, steam curling into the air.

Dean lifts you up like you weigh nothing—your legs wrapping instinctively around his waist—and presses you back against the tile. His mouth is everywhere—jaw, neck, collarbone—biting and kissing and gasping against your skin.

“Missed you so goddamn much,” he pants, voice breaking open. “Missed this. Missed you.”

You tug his face up, kiss him like you’re trying to climb inside his soul.

“I’m here,” you whisper against his mouth. “I’m not going anywhere.”

That’s all he needs.

He’s inside you a second later, hot and thick and perfect, stretching you open with one desperate thrust. You both cry out—half pain, half god, yes, full-body relief.

The water pounds against your back, but you barely notice—too busy clawing at his shoulders, too busy moaning into his mouth, too busy feeling.

Dean fucks you like it’s the last twenty minutes of the world ending. Hard, fast, deep—savoring you, worshiping you, hands everywhere, mouth filthy against your ear.

“You’re mine,” he growls, each thrust slamming the words deeper into your bones. “You’re my girl—you hear me? Always been my girl.”

“Yes,” you sob, nails raking down his back. “Yours. Always.”

Your body shudders around him, pleasure crashing over you so hard you see stars. Dean follows with a broken, wrecked groan, spilling into you with his face buried in your neck, arms trembling from how hard he’s holding you.

Neither of you moves for a long time.

Just the shower hissing, your hearts pounding, your bodies clinging together like drowning people in a shipwreck.

Dean finally pulls back to look at you—hair dripping, lashes wet, cheeks flushed—and presses his forehead to yours.

“I love you,” he murmurs. “Love you more than anything.”

You kiss him—slow and deep and aching—like sealing a vow.

Later, you’re curled up in bed, wearing one of Dean’s soft, worn t-shirts. It swamps you, smelling like him, like leather and soap and salvation.

Dean slips in beside you, still damp from the shower, and tugs you into his side without hesitation. His bare chest is warm under your cheek; his hand settles on your back, thumb rubbing slow, sleepy circles.

The motel room hums with cheap neon light bleeding in through the curtains.

Dean leans down, mouth brushing your temple so soft it barely counts as a kiss.

“I love you,” he whispers again, voice rough and raw, like he’s praying it into your skin. “Always.”

You smile against his chest, eyes fluttering closed, heart finally, finally quiet. “I love you.”

Home. Not the place. Not the motel.

Him.

It was always him.

ꔛ. navigation 𓂃˖ ࣪ all drabbles; compatibility readings; support my work .ᐟ

#dean winchester #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester x you #dean winchester fluff #dean winchester angst #dean winchester smut #dean winchester fic #supernatural #spn #.docx

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theywereafairy · 24 days ago

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Paper Rings

⋆˚࿔ Pairing: Javier Peña x F!Reader

Wordcount: 5.6k

⋆˚࿔ Summary:

Javier brings you to a wedding in Laredo, his hometown, his past, his baggage. It’s the first time he’s brought anyone around like this, and the tension in the air is thick with small-town gossip and quiet judgment. But when someone makes a shitty comment about him, you don’t just defend him, you show them. What follows is slow, worshipful, passionate love making and the kind of soft aftercare only Javi could give.🤭

⋆˚࿔ Warnings:

Worship-level smut • established relationship • small town tension • public makeout scene • oral (f receiving) • PIV (unprotected) • grinding with clothes on • filthy talk • possessive Javi • “you’re mine” energy • praise kink • begging kink • Javier Peña being soft in love but still nasty in bed • post-orgasm aftercare • future marriage tease • overwhelming feelings and emotional vulnerability

⋆˚࿔ Author’s Note:

Hi besties 🥹 I wrote this one-shot after going to a wedding this weekend and couldn’t stop thinking about how Javier Peña would act if he brought someone back to Laredo. This man has me in a full chokehold and I need him to know what it feels like to be loved that deeply.

Hope you’re all doing okay and finding joy in little things. you deserve it. Sending hugs, hydration, and Javi smut to everyone who needs it. 💌 Would love to hear your thoughts, reblogs, or screams in the tags🫶🏼

You told Javi he didn’t have to take you.

You’d said it softly, the night he first brought it up, tracing the lines of his collarbone while his arm lay heavy around your waist. You could tell it was weighing on him, the idea of bringing you home. The hometown. The family. The questions. Not from you, never from you, but from everyone else.

Still, he asked. Told you he wanted to. Told you he wanted them to meet the woman he was with. His words, not yours. The woman I’m with. Like he still couldn’t quite bring himself to say girlfriend out loud, but every time his fingers curled around yours or his lips brushed the corner of your mouth in public, it meant the same thing.

So you said yes.

Now here you were, in a borrowed garden behind a family friend’s wedding venue, ankle-deep in gravel and stares. The sun had dipped low enough to cast everything in a gold-dusted haze, champagne flutes catching light like diamonds, laughter echoing off pergolas wrapped in string lights.

You stood there, half-finished drink in hand, and reminded yourself to breathe. The air was thick with the scent of roses and barbecue smoke, and still, still, you couldn’t stop noticing the eyes. The way they lingered too long. The brief glances exchanged between groups like they were passing a secret around.

A breeze ghosted over the lawn, catching the hem of your dress and brushing it softly against your shins. You smoothed it down with one hand, your fingers trembling just slightly. The music drifted up from the patio, slow and syrupy, a twangy country ballad you didn’t recognize.

Then he appeared at your side. Javi didn’t say anything at first, just rested his hand at the small of your back like he’d been waiting for the exact second you needed it. His fingers splayed warm and wide, grounding you instantly. The scent of his cologne hit you a moment later. Dark, smoky, familiar, and your body responded before your brain had time to catch up.

Javier Peña, in a fitted beige suit that should’ve looked too polished on him but didn’t. The shirt beneath was slightly unbuttoned, just enough to tease the hollow of his throat. His hair was combed back in a way that made you ache a little, like he’d actually tried. For you.

His eyes scanned your face like he could read the tension there, and maybe he could. Of course he could. He’d been watching you all night from across the lawn, you were sure of it. Watching the way the women tilted their heads when they looked at you. Watching the way the men did too.

You leaned into him without thinking. Just a little. And he pulled you closer without hesitation.

“Too much?” he asked, voice low, brushing the words against your temple.

You shook your head, swallowed hard. “Not with you.”

He smiled, just barely. It was a private thing, the kind of smile no one else got. The kind you’d seen in his kitchen at midnight or across his pillow in the soft haze of morning. And for a moment, the noise of the wedding dulled around you. Like none of them mattered. Like the two of you were a secret no one else deserved to understand.

But they were still looking.

You barely heard the man approach.

It wasn’t even someone you recognized, just another sharp-suited ghost from Javi’s past, someone who had probably once shared a beer with him at a high school football game, or nodded to him at a gas station before the war on drugs turned Javier Peña into something to talk about over breakfast tacos.

He said it with a laugh. That was the worst part. Like it was just some harmless joke tossed between old friends.

“Look at you,” the guy chuckled, sloshing beer over the rim of his glass. “Back in Laredo, showing off another knockout. Guess you always land on your feet, huh? One hot mess for another.”

It took a second for it to register. For the words to sink in. Your spine straightened first. Then came the cold flash of disbelief. Another?

You looked at Javi.

He wasn’t meeting your eyes. His gaze had dropped to the gravel like it was suddenly the most interesting thing at the wedding. Shoulders tense, jaw tight. His usual sharp tongue was nowhere to be found. No snide comeback. No smirk. No venom disguised as charm.

You’d never seen him like this. Never seen Javier Peña shrink. And it pissed you off.

This man, this man who held you like you were fragile and made love to you like you were made of fire. This man who touched you with reverence and kissed you like you were a prayer he didn’t think he deserved to say. This man who had lived, who had bled, who still carried ghosts he never spoke about, and some asshole thought he could reduce all of that to gossip and a cheap punchline?

Absolutely the fuck not. You turned, slow and deliberate, facing the man like you were squaring off in a ring.

“I’m sorry,” you said, your voice as smooth as the champagne in your glass. “Were you saying something?”

He blinked, faltered, maybe realizing just a little too late who he was dealing with.But you didn’t wait for an answer. You didn’t need one. Instead, you turned back to Javi, and without hesitation, cupped his face in both hands.

His eyes snapped up to yours, wide and confused, and you could see it, the hurt, the flicker of something raw that he hadn’t meant for you to see. He looked like he might say something, but you didn’t give him the chance.

You kissed him. Hard.

There was nothing delicate about it. No tentative brush of lips. No polite affection. This was a kiss made for headlines. A kiss designed to scorch.

You pressed your mouth to his like you were trying to fuse your body to his, like you were trying to prove something. That he was yours. That you were his. That every whisper and sideways glance and snide little insult meant nothing compared to the way he made you feel.

His hands found your waist in half a second, tightening as he groaned into your mouth, surprised but not resisting, not even close. His fingers dug in, dragging you closer, chest to chest. You deepened the kiss, parting your lips and letting your tongue glide against his with a slow, teasing stroke that made him shudder against you.

It was obvious how the tension melted from his shoulders and the kiss turned hungry. When his grip turned bruising, when his mouth slanted over yours like he needed it. Like he needed you. Right here, right now, under the fairy lights and the weight of small-town scrutiny.

You kissed him like a woman who knew exactly what she was doing, who wanted to be seen, who wanted them to watch. You licked into his mouth and moaned, just a little, just enough, and felt his breath hitch in response.

When you finally pulled back, his lips were swollen. His eyes were blown wide. His hair had come loose at the front from where your fingers had curled into it.

You turned, casually, to the man still standing there with his drink frozen halfway to his mouth. No one said anything. No one had to.

Javi’s hand slid to yours. This time, it was him who kissed you, softer now, but just as firm. Just as certain. And the silence around you was louder than any applause.

You didn’t leave his side after that. Not for the rest of the night.

Javi didn’t ask you to, didn’t need to. He stayed close like he was afraid if he let go, the crowd would close in again. And you weren’t about to let them. So you curled your fingers into his where everyone could see, laughed at all the right moments, and leaned into his side like you belonged there. Because you did.

And God, he felt it.

Every time you touched him, a hand on his chest, a brush of your lips near his ear, he melted just a little more. Loosened up. His shoulders relaxed, the corners of his mouth curled into that trademark half-smirk that made your knees weak. He was back to himself, but… softer.

Still, the comments didn’t stop completely.

“You two want a room?” someone muttered under their breath as you passed near the bar. Javi didn’t even flinch.

He just kept his arm around your waist and shot back, deadpan, “Nah. We’ll just use yours.”

You laughed, unabashed, and watched the man blink like he didn’t know what hit him. There was your Javi.

But even as the hours slipped past and he put on a good face, even as he leaned down to whisper teasing little things in your ear like bet you regret wearin’ that dress now, baby, or you keep lookin’ at me like that and I’m gonna get real fuckin’ disrespectful about it, you could still feel it. The way he held your hand tighter than usual. The way he tucked you closer every time someone walked by too slowly or looked too long. The way he looked at you when he thought you weren’t paying attention, not like a man showing off a prize, but like someone trying to memorize a moment he thought he might not deserve.

He needed you tonight, more than he’d ever say out loud.And you were going to give him everything.

The hotel was nothing special, beige walls, scuffed floors, a bedspread with a pattern that hadn’t been in style since the nineties. But to Javi, it was sanctuary. It was privacy. It was you, alone with him and no one else’s eyes on the two of you.

You could’ve stayed at Chucho’s, he’d offered. But there was already a cousin bunking in the guest room, and Javi had leaned into your ear with a low murmur that made your thighs press together: “I need you all to myself this weekend, cariño. No interruptions.”

So when you reached the door to your room, keycard in hand, you barely had time to blink before he had you pressed up against it. His palm slapped flat against the wood beside your head, his body crowding yours, the warmth of him sinking through your dress like fire.

You gasped, but you were smiling, both of you a little tipsy, a little giddy from champagne and lust and the afterglow of shared defiance. Your back hit the door and his mouth hovered just inches from yours, his eyes dark and wild, locked onto you like you were the last thing left on Earth worth looking at.

“You tryin’ to kill me in that dress?” he asked, voice low, almost amused.

“I thought you liked it,” you teased, breath catching.

“Oh, I fuckin’ love it,” he said, his lips brushing your jaw, then trailing lower. “Love it even more thinkin’ about you out of it.”

And then he kissed you. Not on the lips, not yet. He started at your collarbone, his mouth warm and open, peppering reverent little kisses across your skin. He dragged them slowly, one after another, up your neck, pausing to suck softly just below your ear before biting down, gentle but sharp enough to make your breath hitch.

You giggled, flushed and breathless, and he smiled against your skin.

“I can’t believe you’re fuckin’ mine,” he whispered, his voice ragged with sincerity. “Mine, baby. You…Jesus…you stood up for me today like it was nothin’.”

“It wasn’t nothin’,” you said, and he kissed your ear in thanks.

He finally reached for the key in your hand, unlocked the door behind you without even looking, and then you stumbled backward together into the room, lips colliding like magnets. The door clicked shut behind you. And then it was just the two of you, tangled in the dark.

Javi’s hands were on your waist, your ribs, your face, everywhere. Like he didn’t know where to touch first. Like he couldn’t believe you were real.

“You’re too good for me,” he muttered as he kissed you again, deeper this time. “Too fuckin’ good.”

“Shut up and show me how much you want me,” you breathed against his lips, and that was all it took. He backed you toward the bed, mouth never leaving yours, until the backs of your knees hit the edge. Then he dropped to his knees.

You blinked, dizzy. “Javi…”

He didn’t even let you finish.

“Lemme thank you properly, baby,” he murmured, voice thick with heat as his fingers tugged your dress up your thighs, higher, higher. “Lemme take care of my girl.”

He pushed the fabric up around your hips and buried his face between your thighs like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And then - God.

His mouth was all heat and devotion, licking long, slow stripes through your folds like he was tasting something sacred. His tongue circled your clit, soft at first, featherlight, teasing. Then firmer. More deliberate.

“Fuck…Javi…” you gasped, one hand tangling in his hair, the other clutching the bedspread.

He groaned against you, the sound sending vibrations through your core. Loving it. Getting drunk on you.

“You hear that, baby?” he rasped, breath hot against your soaked skin. “That’s how wet you are for me. Fuckin’ perfect.”

He wrapped his arms around your thighs, locking you in place, and didn’t stop. Didn’t pause. He licked and sucked like he had all the time in the world, like this, you, was the mission now. His tongue flicked faster, rhythm steady, sinful, devastating, and when he moaned again, your knees nearly buckled.

“You taste so fuckin’ sweet,” he whispered, voice low and reverent. “Could spend the whole night down here, cariño. Just like this. My mouth on your pussy. You let me, baby?”

You could barely breathe, your body already arching into him, heat coiling tight in your belly.

“Javi…, I’m gonna—”

He didn’t stop. He tightened his grip, sucked your clit into his mouth, and that was it. You shattered, thighs trembling, hips stuttering forward as he groaned into your release like it was his own.

He licked you through it, slowly now, gently, like he was savoring the aftershocks. Like he was proud.

When he finally pulled back, his chin was glistening. His eyes were dark, burning with something more than just lust.

“Look at you,” he murmured, standing, kissing your stomach, your chest, your mouth. “My perfect girl. Took me so good.”

You whimpered, still shaking, already aching for more. And the night wasn’t even close to over.

He didn’t stop touching you.

Even as your legs trembled and your chest heaved from the orgasm he’d just coaxed out of you, Javi kept his hands on you like you might float away without them. One on your hip, the other sliding up your spine, gentle and grounding. His lips found the curve of your neck again, soft, reverent, like he was trying to press all his love into your skin.

“That’s my girl,” he whispered, voice low and rough. “Took it so fuckin’ good, baby. You should’ve seen yourself.”

You whimpered, half-laughing, still trying to catch your breath. He was still fully dressed, his beige suit slightly wrinkled, his shirt damp with heat, and you were standing there, clinging to him, panties soaked, heart beating like a war drum.

He stepped back only enough to look at you, eyes flickering over your body like he wanted to memorize it again from scratch.

“Can I take this off you?” he asked softly, fingers already toying with the straps of your dress.

You nodded, and he smiled, a real one, wide and devastating, before slipping it down your shoulders with almost clinical precision. Slow, careful, like peeling open a gift he’d waited all night to touch. The fabric pooled at your feet in a whisper, leaving you in nothing but ruined underwear and trembling anticipation.

“Fuck me,” he breathed, running a hand down your side like he couldn’t help himself. “You’re perfect. You know that? Just fuckin’ perfect.”

You reached for him, fingers slipping under the buttons of his shirt, finally undoing them one by one, your hands greedy for skin. He let you undress him without a word, just watching your face, breathing heavily as your palms smoothed over the warm planes of his chest.

God, that chest.

Golden and dusted with bright hair, soft but strong, familiar from a thousand sleepy mornings and shirtless photos he swore he didn’t like you taking but never actually stopped you from snapping. You kissed just below his collarbone and felt the way his breath hitched, his cock pressing harder into the front of his slacks.

The bulge was impossible to ignore. Neatly contained but straining. A dark, wet patch had already formed at the tip, pressing through the fabric and smearing against your thigh as he rocked into you without meaning to.

You moaned, needy and involuntary.

He grunted, burying his face in your neck. “Look what you fuckin’ do to me,” he growled, rolling his hips against yours again. “This is what happens when you talk to me like that. When you stand up for me. Shit, baby, never knew I could get this fuckin’ hard just watchin’ you be mine.”

“Javi…”

He kissed you, hot and possessive, and kept grinding into you, rutting against your soaked underwear like it was the only thing holding him back. The friction was just right, dragging over your clit with maddening pressure. Every pass of his cock made your stomach flip, your breath catch.

“Feel that?” he rasped. “Feel what you do to me? I could get you off like this, fuck, just keep goin’, let you ride it, get you all messy before I even take it out.”

You whimpered, hips rolling up to meet his thrusts.

But then, finally, he stepped back, hands going to his belt, moving with a desperation that made your mouth go dry.

He stripped in one fluid motion. Pants, briefs, finally gone. And then there he was, thick and leaking and ready, eyes locked on yours like he was about to ruin you. He held out his hand without speaking. You knew the drill.

You leaned forward, lips parted, and spit into his palm. He groaned low in his throat, spreading it over his length with slow, deliberate strokes, eyes never leaving yours. Your pulse pounded in your throat.

“Can I go raw, baby?” he asked, voice like smoke. “Need to feel you. All of you. Don’t wanna miss a fuckin’ thing.”

“Yes,” you breathed. “Yes, please.”

He leaned in close again, nudging your nose with his, his cock brushing against your stomach, hot and heavy and so ready it made you dizzy.

“You’re so fuckin’ sweet when you beg, baby. Gonna make you beg again once I’m inside you. That okay?”

You nodded.

And then he reached down, lined himself up, and, slow, careful, possessive, started to slide in.

He pushed in slow. Painfully slow.

Like he wanted to savor every single inch, watch the way your mouth parted, the way your lashes fluttered, the way your fingers clutched his arms like they were the only things keeping you tethered to earth.

You gasped, back arching, body trembling, as he filled you inch by inch, dragging the head of his cock along your walls with torturous precision.

“Fucking hell, baby,” Javi groaned, jaw clenched, hips straining to stay steady. “You’re so fuckin’ tight for me. Like you were made for this. Made for me.”

You whimpered, burying your face in the crook of his neck, legs wrapping instinctively around his waist.

He sank deeper, slow, steady, intentional, until he was fully seated inside you, cock pulsing against your walls, and you swore the air had been knocked out of your lungs.

“I’ll never get used to this,” he whispered. “The way you feel. The way you melt around me like that. Jesus, mami, you’re perfect.”

He stayed there for a second, not moving, just feeling you. His forehead pressed to yours. His hand brushing hair back from your face with something that almost felt like reverence.

“You okay?” he murmured, voice barely a breath.

“Yes,” you whispered. “Move, Javi. Please.” And just like that, something in him snapped.

“Oh, I love when you beg,” he growled, hips rolling forward with a slow, deep thrust. “Say it again, baby. Say it nice for me.”

“Please,” you gasped, voice high and breaking. “Please, Javi, I need you. I need you so bad.”

“Yeah, you do,” he grunted, thrusting again, harder now, his hands gripping your hips like he wanted to mold them to his. “You need this cock. Need me to fuck you nice and slow, let you feel it for days.”

You cried out, the stretch, the drag, the way he filled you completely, it was too much and not enough. The pace was maddening: slow, deep, unrelenting. His thrusts weren’t hurried. They were measured. Devastating. Like he wanted to reach every part of you and leave his name there.

You clung to him, nails digging into his shoulders.

And he loved it.

“That’s it, baby,” he groaned. “Hold on to me. Let me take care of you.”

He kissed your neck, your jaw, your lips. He couldn’t stop touching you, couldn’t stop talking.

“You feel what you do to me? How fuckin’ crazy I am for you?”

“God, look at you takin’ me so good, so fuckin’ pretty like this.”

“This pussy’s mine, right? Say it, baby. Say it’s mine.”

You said it. You’d say anything he wanted.

“Yours,” you gasped, voice wrecked. “Always yours, Javi.”

That did something to him. His hips stuttered, his breath caught in his throat, and he buried his face in your neck with a low, broken sound.

“I love you,” he said, like it hurt. “Fuck, I love you. So much.”

You froze, then melted instantly, all your walls crashing down at once. That was all it took to send you spiraling.

“Javi, oh my god, I’m gonna…”

“Do it,” he whispered, hand sliding between your bodies, fingers finding your clit, circling just right. “Come for me, baby. Let me feel you fall apart.”

You shattered with a cry, clenching around him, body convulsing as pleasure washed over you in waves. He groaned, a long, desperate sound, and slammed into you once, twice more before spilling inside you with a curse, holding you so tight it bordered on worship.

For a moment, the room was just breath and sweat and the sound of your hearts trying to recover.

Then he kissed your shoulder.

“You think those bastards heard this and are jealous out of their minds?” he murmured, voice rough and teasing.

You laughed, shaky, blissed out, utterly ruined. “Shut up and hold me.”

You didn’t know how long it had been.

Minutes, maybe. Maybe more. The world felt far away now, dulled and quiet, like it had exhaled with you. The room was warm, lit only by the bedside lamp Javi had turned on earlier, casting soft gold across tangled limbs and wrinkled sheets.

You were still wrapped around him, skin to skin. Your leg draped over his hip, your cheek pressed to his chest, damp with sweat. His fingers traced soft circles along your spine, over and over, like he wasn’t quite ready to stop touching you.

Neither were you.

“Hey,” he murmured, voice gravelly from sex and sleep and everything in between. “You okay?”

“Mmm.” You nodded, breath fogging against his skin. “Better than okay.”

He smiled, you could feel it against your forehead. That lazy, post-orgasm kind of smile that only came out when he was completely at ease. When he let the walls down.

His hand slid down to your thigh, massaging gently, then back up to the curve of your hip. “I wasn’t too much?”

You lifted your head, brow furrowed. “Are you serious?”

He just shrugged, shy in that rare way you’d only seen a handful of times. Like he was still surprised someone could look at him the way you did. Like maybe it still didn’t quite compute.

You leaned in and kissed him. Soft, slow, nothing urgent, just lips on lips, a quiet thank you.

“You were perfect,” you whispered.

He looked at you like you hung the stars. Then he tilted his head back against the pillow and sighed, the kind of long, content exhale that said he could stay here forever.

“When we get married,” he said suddenly, like it was the most natural thing in the world, “I don’t want a wedding.”

You blinked, lips parting. “Oh?”

“No guests. No tux. No church. Just you and me. Naked. In bed.” He grinned. “Maybe with cake.”

You snorted. “Chocolate or vanilla?”

“Tres leches,” he said immediately, tapping your hip. “Keep it cultural.”

You laughed again, heart full and aching. But then something stuck in your mind, the way he’d said it.

When.

Not if.

You shifted, propping yourself up on your elbow so you could really look at him. “When?”

His eyes flicked to yours, a beat of silence passing. Then he nodded, totally serious.

“Yeah. When.”

Your throat tightened.

“Not if?” you asked quietly.

Javi reached up and brushed your hair back from your face, eyes warm and steady.

“Obviously when,” he said, like it was obvious. Like there was never a question.

You didn’t say anything at first. Just let your head drop back to his chest, your arm curling tighter around him. His hand found yours and laced your fingers together, thumb stroking the back of your knuckles.

And in that moment, wrapped in him, pressed against skin still warm from love, you knew. Knew he meant it. Knew you did, too.

Eventually, he spoke again, voice soft and close to sleep.

“Let’s stay like this forever.”

And you smiled, eyes closing.

“Okay,” you whispered. “But I still want cake.”

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