#it's smutless | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

syoddeye · 4 days ago

Text

sliding scale

You're in need of a handyman. He has needs of his own. cw: discussion of kids/pregnancy, john price inserting himself into your life, heavily implied breeding kink, unsettling and smutless (my brand)

You win the jackpot. Okay. Not the jackpot, but you're hit by a respectable windfall. It's like a cheesy movie you'd watch around the holidays: A distant relative dies, you receive a very serious letter, and suddenly, your account isn't as sad as it once was.

So, you do the impossible. The unthinkable. You buy a house.

An old, well-loved house from an elderly couple.

The day you close, they tell you about raising their kids in the house and mention the names etched on the door frame. When you arrive home that evening, the empty house feels grand and hollow, but there they are, just where they said. Names climbing upward in uneven increments, faded with time, but legible. You trace your finger along the marks, imagining small hands and the measuring tape, the years slipping by. It makes you smile, despite yourself.

You've never wanted kids, not really, but the thought of this, people leaving bits of themselves behind—it makes you mushy. You figure, once the dust settles, you'll let rooms to friends, maybe friends of friends. Start a fun little commune of sorts, a collective of people coming and going.

The first night, you drink nonalcoholic wine straight from the bottle and lie on your mattress on the floor, staring up at the ceiling. There's no furniture yet, just your overnight bag and the smell of fresh paint from a patch you tested on the living room wall. You fall asleep smiling. The house needs a lot of work, but you're not worried. Some TLC and elbow grease can go a long way.

Over the next few weeks, you move in and start working. Anything is possible with the power of YouTube tutorials and the local tool library.

You start in the primary bedroom and bathroom, learning to tile, install flooring, and connect plumbing for the perfect vanity and sink you found at a thrift store. It feels good to learn how things fit together and see the fruits of your labor. At night, you sleep in one of the old kid's rooms. The wallpaper is covered in rockets and planets. A couple of glow-in-the-dark stars cling to the ceiling.

The bathroom comes together wonderfully, and you feel invincible.

But then you get to the kitchen.

After an outlet zaps you, you decide you may be in over your head. That there really is a limit to what one person can do on their own. You start looking up local contractors, but everything is out of your budget. You've been doing all the work yourself for a reason. Then, after digging for ages, you find a promising lead: John Price - Handyman - Sliding Scale.

On the phone, John seems normal. Charming. Funny. He tells you he's impressed you bought a house on your own. (You've heard that a lot lately, and while it feels patronizing, you let it go. You did jump up a band upon inheriting your chunk of Great Uncle Leroy's money.) He agrees to come by and see what he can do.

You have to admit he makes a good impression when he shows up. He's punctual, polite, and looks the part. Broad chest, thick arms, big hands resting on his hips as he surveys the kitchen. After only a few minutes, he says he'll take the job. No hesitation.

You explain your tight budget and that you'll work alongside him when you're not at your day job. You show him the money you've set aside, expecting him to back out, but he just shakes his head and nudges the folder back across the table.

"Said I'd do it. Don't you fret, darl."

You vet him afterward, just to be sure. His references check out. The reviews are solid. He appears to know a little about everything. You text him to confirm, formally offering the job, and he accepts.

On the first day, you let him in and immediately have to avert your eyes. You didn't realize a toolbelt could look like that on someone. His sleeves are rolled up, exposing his forearms, and the way he moves—confident, purposeful—makes you grateful you're heading out to work. You tell him when you'll be back and leave quickly, gripping the steering wheel tighter than usual thinking about the hunk of man in your house.

When you return, the kitchen looks different, unfinished, but vastly improved. John's already fixed things you didn't think could be fixed. Over lunch, he even scoped out other problems around the house: a crack in the basement wall, a loose board on the stairs, and spots where the flooring must be replaced. He gushes about the house, praising its character, the way it's held up over time.

John's face grows serious, and stares down his nose when he finally asks, "You're not gonna ask me to paint over the wood or rip out the built-in hutch, are ya?"

His relief over your answer is palpable: No. That's why you bought the house in the first place. You describe what you love about it: the glass doorknobs, the dining room archway, and transom windows above the doors. He nods. He knows exactly what you mean.

Before he leaves for the day, he stops at the doorframe and points to the tallest name etched into the wood. You explain it belonged to the previous owners, a family with seven kids.

"Seven," he repeats, eyebrows raised.

"Right? Can you believe that? Seven!" You laugh. Frankly, anything more than two sounds insane.

But John doesn't laugh. He stares at the names for a moment, his jaw tight. "Yeah. Difficult to imagine."

After he leaves, you scold yourself. You don't really know John. You've known him for all of a day. What if he came from a big family? Or what if he doesn't speak to his family anymore, if things are complicated with his parents? You feel awful, and the guilt channels itself into stress-baking.

The next morning, when he shows up, there's a platter of breakfast pasties waiting on the counter. He hesitates, looks almost bashful, until you insist. He takes a bite, then another, and looks at you with genuine astonishment. He says if you leave food like this every morning, he'll knock his rate down even further.

It makes sense, financially speaking, so you agree. You start making breakfast for two, and in return, he keeps the repairs affordable. The ritual becomes routine: John shows up every weekday morning, you eat together, he gets to work, and you leave. You look forward to seeing him. Hearing his voice rumble out good mornings and goodnights.

For two weeks, you come home to find steady progress on the kitchen. You help him out for an hour or two in the evenings, and by the time it's nearly finished, you've started discussing other parts of the house.

You mention the two smallest children's rooms aren't really usable for tenants. You show him your plans to knock down the wall between them and create a library or office space.

But this time, John doesn't agree.

"First I'm hearing of this," He leans back in his chair at your table. His arms cross over his chest, legs spreading wide. Even sitting, you see what he's doing. Trying to take a posture that carries authority, to cow you. "Tenants? What about a family?"

You try to steer the conversation back to your plans, to the picture you've sketched. "I'm not planning on having one. So, like I was saying—"

"Why buy a house this big, then? Why spend all this time fixin' it up if you're not planning to honor its legacy?"

The tone of his voice shifts completely, with no trace of the easy, flirty banter that's been your norm for weeks. His words drip with disdain. His brow knits together. Nostrils flaring. He looks genuinely upset. Mystified that you're not going to fill the house with your…your brood.

It's as if your refusal to have children is an affront to him personally.

It sends a chill down your spine. Instantly, your image of him—this dependable, good-humored man—cracks apart. You glance past him, searching for the right words, and focus on the kitchen instead. The cabinets, the fixtures, the paint. All of it bears his mark now, and it leaves a sour taste in your mouth.

The realization settles like a stone in your stomach. You can't keep working with him. Not if your plans for the house, your house, are going to be a problem.

You tell him as much, as gently as possible.

His anger bleeds out of him quickly, melting into embarrassment and shame. His shoulders drop, and he folds into himself in a way that seems almost impossible for someone his size. "Don't know what came over me, darl."

He packs up his tools while apologizing again, both for his outburst and for the unfinished work, and gives you the spare key you lent to him for emergencies. Before he leaves, he asks you not to write a review, not even a positive one, and you agree. Things had been good until now. You don't want to ruin him over this. People have bad days.

With the kitchen functional and nothing too big left on your plate, you cut your losses and decide to finish the work alone.

Progress is slow on your own, of course. One pair of hands, only so many hours after work to chip away at the list after work. Still, time moves faster than you expect. You push through exhaustion, head often swimming, and work late into the evenings. One night, you finish patching the floor and tackle the basement's cracked wall. Only when you get down there, it's already done. Smoothed over perfectly.

You tell yourself John must've fixed it before everything went south. But then you notice other things. Several odd jobs from your list are already complete.

Squeaky door hinges turn silent. The dings and nail holes in the walls, spackled over. The second toilet that kept running starts working correctly. It's partly a relief, like the house is taking care of itself, but also deeply unsettling. You don't remember doing it, you've never sleepwalked or slept-repair in your life, even in your overtired state, and you're still too sore over your falling out to text John and ask if he did it all.

Instead, you decide to take a break. A few days off work, a proper rest. Let the house settle, let yourself breathe. Nothing happens. No floating tools. No ghosts. It's like the house is waiting for you to look away.

Paranoia sets in. You order cameras—indoor and outdoor, enough to cover every angle.

The day they arrive, you barely make it through the door before tearing open the box. But something stops you. Your eyes catch on a strange wooden box sitting on the dining table. It's a shadowbox.

Inside the box is the slat from the front doorframe, the one with the heights and names of the seven kids who grew up here. It's been cut out, perfectly, and framed like an artifact.

Your stomach drops. You scramble to the doorframe and run your hands over it, frantic. The patchwork is seamless, so clean it's like the names never existed.

Then you notice the boots. Tucked in and lined up next to your own pairs. The extra jacket hanging on the hooks.

A shadow falls over you.

You freeze, heart in your throat, and slowly turn with eyes the size of dinner plates. Towering above you, sleeves rolled to his elbows, fists planted on his hips, is John. Grinning.

"Work alright today?" He bends down and pulls you to your feet by your wrist, wrapping you up in an embrace and welcoming you home. He sways slightly with you, like you're dancing, his chest rising and falling against yours. He looks at you with a clear fondness and affection, but there's something off, like a splintering foundation. Stable until you look too close.

You try to push yourself away, palms flat against his chest, but he doesn't let go. "What are—What are you doing here? What are—Why did you do that?" You glance again toward where the measurements used to be.

He chuckles, soft and unbothered, a wistfulness threaded in his words. "Well, we're gonna need the room for our little ones, yeah? Oh, we'll have seven or more, dependin' on what takes. Sliding scale and all that."

At your stunned, horrified silence, he slots a hand into the back pocket of your jeans. He gives your cheek a little squeeze and starts steering you toward the kitchen. The one he built for you.

"C'mon. Lemme tell you all about my plans for us."

#price x reader #john price x reader

1K notes · View notes

writerpeach · 1 year ago

Text

A White Christmas

IVE An Yujin x Jang Wonyoung x m!reader

1153 words, semi-smutless but still 18+, unedited, just a little something short and sweet for Christmas

part 4 of annyeongz

It’s nearly midnight.

The fireplace crackles on a cold Christmas Eve, but you’re not lacking in warmth one bit. With Wonyoung and Yujin snuggled up next to you, a warm mug of cocoa in your hands, and this gorgeous snowfall that doesn’t seem to have any end in sight, you have everything you could ask for. There’s a marathon of cheesy movies playing in the background that’s gone mostly ignored—but you enjoy the cheesy, the clichés, and the overly-happy-ever-after endings, because sometimes a little bit of escapism hits the spot.

Wonyoung seems completely fascinated by snow, like every snowstorm is the first one she’s ever seen. And there’s something so special about it, how the snowflakes stick to the window, slowly blanketing everything as the night carries on; there’s something so pure and innocent about the never-ending white flurries—not unlike these two pretty girls on either side of you, although certainly their purity has been in question at times.

Yujin is more focused on the fireplace, her soft brown eyes watching intently while Wonyoung indulges in stealing little pecks from the side of your cheek, the corner of your mouth, wherever she can land kisses without you turning your head, whenever the inclination hits her. It’s not dissimilar the way the snowflakes coat the ground, falling here, falling there, and everywhere in between.

“When are we opening presents?” Wonyoung asks out of nowhere, her bright eyes look up at you expectantly, as her plump lips look so inviting for another kiss that you can’t help dive into.

You look at the time and cock an eyebrow; there’s still a few minutes left until the clock strikes midnight. Your finger runs along the rim of your warm mug, and it’s hard not wanting to oblige Wonyoung as you take a sip, because patience and her go together like oil and water. Despite your efforts, Wonyoung knows you’re weak for that adorable pouty face, and you can only fight it for so long,

“When it’s Christmas,” Yujin pipes up, a smile spreading over her pretty lips. “But only good girls get presents…”

Watching the pout deepen on Wonyoung’s lips, you look around the room, at the stockings above the fireplace, and the presents underneath the tree that are mostly for you. (Because god, these girls are impossible to shop for when they can buy anything their heart desires.)

You can only imagine what’s in those wrapped boxes piled around the tree. Car keys? An expensive watch? A dozen different gift cards with an obscenely almost unlimited limit? There’s nothing that you really need, but you can’t deny these two another chance of spoiling you against your better judgment.

“But I am a good girl. Right, daddy?” It doesn’t take long for you to share a laughter with Yujin, as if Wonyoung hasn’t behaved anything less than sinful.

“Pretty sure Santa is going to skip right on over this place then. After the way you were screaming daddy in the shower earlier...you might be on the naughty list forever, princess." Yujin smirks devilishly, and Wonyoung huffs out loud, like she’s been told Christmas is canceled.

“Fine. Santa can’t give me what I want anyways. Only daddy can…” Wonyoung whines cutely, nuzzling her head against your shoulder and kisses into your neck. You hesitate giving any reaction, knowing all too well what she really wants. It isn’t under the tree, or in the stocking—

“Dear daddy, I want a big load on my face for Christmas.” Wonyoung says it all cute and pouty, which makes it even more absurd, but she does that on purpose, knowing that the innocent girl facade is her secret weapon to getting what she wants. You roll your eyes and set the warm mug down, as you know if this keeps up you’re not going to finish it.

“But you get that every day. Sometimes more than once. It has to be something you don't get often," Yujin says. Wonyoung shoots a glare in her direction and looks offended that Yujin could ever suggest otherwise, as if she’s forgotten how regularly she’ll whine to get whatever she wants.

“I didn’t get it yesterday. Daddy came inside Yujinnie. Twice. And I only got a taste. So that doesn't count. I need another big, creamy load for Christmas. An extra thick one.”

Wonyoung makes this the most ludicrous request, as if she's asking for the last slice of cake.

The thing is, Wonyoung is as insatiable as Yujin. There have been countless occasions where you've unloaded deep inside one of these two beauties and before you're even halfway recovered, the other starts tugging your dick back to hardness so she can have her turn. You know what they’re capable of, and that’s precisely the issue—

“Don’t be greedy on Christmas, princess,” Yujin warns, and the look on her face makes you shiver, even if you aren't even on the receiving end of that look. "Daddy can stuff your stocking later."

Wonyoung ignores it, of course, because she’s doing this bratty routine she’s done a thousand times, trying to get her way. There’s surprising restraint from Yujin, who’s always so eager to add fuel to the fire, as if it gets her off just to have Wonyoung push boundaries, because they both know they have you wrapped around their pretty little finger.

"But I've been so good. Haven't I, daddy? I sucked your dick this morning while you were still sleeping, until you came in my mouth... and when Yujin was riding you earlier in the kitchen, I waited so patiently until she was finished. And then I cleaned her all up when you came inside of her, daddy…”

"Oh my god. Shut up," Yujin groans and leans in for a kiss to stop the whining. You look at the time—midnight has come and gone, and these two are already just going at it, swapping saliva right over your lap, and it’s better than anything that’ll fit under that tree.

“Merry Christmas, daddy,” Yujin says and leans in to exchange kisses with you, parting her lips for this deep embrace that you get lost in far too easily. You’re too breathless to respond, because Yujin’s kisses always leave your head spinning in the best possible way.

“Merry Christmas,” you say in return, as she gives one more lingering kiss, and you both know Wonyoung is right there waiting her turn, getting all whiny for attention. “Merry Christmas, princess.”

You kiss Wonyoung, and it’s like you can taste Yujin on her lips, which makes it seem as if you’re kissing them both at the same time. Not that you have complaints about being caught in the middle of these two making out, because when you’re not swapping between their lips, you’re getting the best possible view.

“So…presents?” Wonyoung asks, which makes Yujin giggle at how shameless she is, as she goes back to sealing those lips shut with another kiss. And you know that whatever happens in this room is going to end how it always does, with them both sharing you—

And that is their ultimate Christmas gift.

---------

Merry Christmas/Happy Holidays/Happy Monday!

Wanted to put out a little thing to end the year on, a little epilogue to the annyeongz series, something that wasn't a billion words long and didn't have a reliance of smut.

This year was a bit difficult, but I'm so thankful for everyone who continues to read, comment, send asks (even though im bad at answering), or just lurks on this mess of a blog 💞

#IVE #Wonyoung #Yujin #reader insert #christmas #kpop smut #kpop fanfic #kpop fanfiction #annyeongz

892 notes · View notes

brisingr-sword · 5 months ago

Text

i have never had an interest in reading smut in my life until watching deadpool and wolverine. nineteen smutless, asexual years yet suddenly that honda odyssey is haunting

#deadpool and wolverine #poolverine #deadpool 3 #logan howlett #wade wilson #honda odyssey

265 notes · View notes

sissylittlefeather · 5 months ago

Text

Heartbreak Hotel

A/N: Whaaaaaaat a smutless one-shot? Never have I ever lol. No, but really. This idea came to me and @ccab and I couldn't not write it. This is Elvis during the filming of King Creole and a very shy reader.

Warnings: kissing, an erection, some sexy thoughts, and a foot rub

Word count: ~2.7k

"Y-you want me to do what?" You hold your clipboard to your chest and shake your head nervously. Surely your boss isn't asking you to do what you think he is. You're not even sure how you ended up working on the set of King Creole anyway. Your father must've had something to do with it.

"Go to the hotel and bring Elvis back to the set. I know we told him we were done for the day but we really need him to try on his wardrobe for tomorrow and the costume people just finished it." You understand the logic behind the request. That's not the part that confuses you.

"But why m-me, sir?" You anxiously chew on your bottom lip. It's been hard enough for you to work here with Elvis wandering around. Walking up to him directly is about the last thing you want to do. It's not that you don't like him. Quite the opposite, in fact. You love him. But you've always been a little mousy and shy and unsure of yourself. The idea of talking to him makes you want to crawl into a hole.

"You're young and cute. This assignment is going to really piss him off. We figured you might soften the blow. He can't very well yell at you." You blink several times and your eyes go even wider. The fact that it won't just be Elvis, it'll be angry Elvis, really makes your heart race like a rabbit's.

"W-what if he won't come?"

"Not an option. Convince him. Now, just go." You consider quitting your job right then, but you know that's not realistic. Sighing deeply, you turn to walk from the small office.

"Y/n!"

"Yeah?"

"Clipboard."

"Oh... yeah..." You hand him the clipboard and cross your arms tightly on your chest.

"Y/n. Please try not to look like you're about to cry." You nod your head and try to rearrange your face, but you are about to cry.

******

Somehow, the next thing you know, you're in the lobby of one of the nicest hotels in New Orleans.

"Can you please call Mr. Presley down here? I-I-I need to speak to him." The receptionist nods and calls up to his room. You don't hear the conversation, too distracted by looking around at the fancy decor.

"Alright. I'll let her know." You turn back to the receptionist. "He says you can come on up. He's in the penthouse. Just push the button with the "p" on the elevator."

You stand there with your mouth hanging open and she turns away to do some other task.

No. He was supposed to come down, not you come up. You look at the elevators and swallow deeply. Then, you walk over and push the button.

Once you're on the elevator, it dawns on you that you're going to be walking into what is essentially his home. That thought hits you like a freight train and you feel like you're going to throw up or pass out or both. Just when you decide you're not getting out of the elevator, the doors slide open and there's a quiet ding. The room is carpeted and you see him sitting on a couch.

"Hey, honey, come on in." He hollers without moving. You feel like you're about to die, but you inch your way into the room anyway and the doors close behind you. He leans forward a little and gestures for you to walk towards him. "C'mon then, I won't bite."

You take a few steps into the room and then try to speak. All that comes out is a quiet squeak, though and you shake your head, frustrated with your own incompetence. He can tell you're struggling, so he stands up and walks towards you. That does not help. He's even taller, more attractive, and more intense up close than far away.

"What is it, honey? They send you to fire me or somethin'?" You look up at him and squeak again. He tucks a piece of your hair behind your ear and strokes your cheek gently. "You're a shy little thing, ain'tcha?"

"They want you back on set." You breathe a sigh of relief that you were finally able to talk.

"Back on set? No, I'm home for the night." You blink a few times, not really sure how to respond as he shakes his head.

"Please..." It comes out of you as a whispered plea and you want to scream at how pathetic you sound. He smiles softly.

"Okay. But only because you're too damn sweet to say no to." He squeezes the top of your arm and then encourages you toward the elevator with his hand on the small of your back. You really hope he can't feel how sweaty you are as he touches you.

You get back on the elevator and he pushes the button for the lobby. The elevator begins its descent and you stand next to each other in silence. A breath of relaxation washes over you. It's almost over.

Then it happens.

Somewhere between floors 5 and 6 the elevator screeches to a grinding halt. It knocks you off balance enough for him to have to catch you in his arms, your hands on his chest to steady yourself.

"Woah, honey, you okay?" You look up at him frozen in fear. He holds you for a few seconds too long and then stands you back up. His hands stay on your upper arms and you swear it's like he doesn't want to stop touching you.

And he doesn't. He rather enjoyed the feeling of you pressed up against him, your eyes wide and seeking reassurance. But he can't just move in and kiss you like he normally does with other girls. You might actually pass out. So instead, he leans his back against the wall of the small elevator and tries to smile at you in the sweetest way possible.

"Do I make you nervous, honey?" You look over at the elevator buttons like pressing one might get you out of this nightmare, but probably not. "Nobody else here. You're gonna have to talk to me."

You reluctantly look up at him and try to breathe steadily. You're finally able to whisper a response.

"Yes." His face breaks into an amused smile.

"Why?"

"Have you met you?!" It comes rushing out of you before you can stop it.

"I'm not sure how to answer that, sweetheart."

"I mean... I'm sorry..."

"Don't apologize. I'm just not sure I know what you mean is all." For some reason, it's getting a little easier for you to talk to him.

"You're ridiculously famous. You have a presence. And you're unbelievably attr-" You stop yourself and look at the floor, blushing. He steps forward off the wall and tips your chin up, so that you have to look into his face.

"Unbelievably what?" Part of you wants to slap the cocky smirk right off his face, but you'd die before you did that. Finally, you squeak it out.

"Attractive." He steps forward again almost closing the gap between your bodies.

"You know, you're not so bad yourself."

"Gee, thanks."

"No, I'm serious, honey. I'd letcha eat crackers in my bed." Without thinking about it, you burst into a fit of giggles. "It wasn't that funny..."

"I'm sorry; it's just the image of me sitting in your bed eating crackers. Like that's what I'd be doing if I was in your bed." He runs his finger down the side of your face and moves just the smallest bit closer to you.

"What else would you be doing in my bed?" All of a sudden, you're not laughing anymore. Now you're thinking of all the things you might be doing and it makes you blush an even deeper red than you have before. Your heart is going so fast it feels like it might leap out of your chest. He senses your anxiety and backs up a little. "You don't have to answer that, honey. I'm sorry."

He's not used to how delicate you are. It's endearing. Like you need him to take care of you. It's a job that sounds better and better the longer he's on this elevator with you.

You nod and stay quiet, but you kind of miss how close he was to you. His presence, albeit intimidating at first, is comforting.

He turns and slides down the back wall to sit on the floor of the elevator. Then, he pats the floor beside himself. You decide there's not much else to do and he actually seems pretty harmless, so you sit down next to him on the floor and lean back against the wall. It feels good to sit down. You wore new shoes to work today and your feet have been killing you for hours. A small whimper falls from your lips as you try to stretch your feet a bit. You're dying to take the heels off, but you don't want to freak him out.

"What's wrong, honey?" He hears you whimper and his eyebrows come together with concern.

"Oh, nothing. My feet just hurt from these new shoes."

"Take 'em off."

"Really? You don't mind?" He chuckles a little.

"Not at all. There's no tellin' how long we might be stuck in here. Get comfortable." Normally, you'd never do such a thing but your feet do hurt really badly and he's right. You're trapped. You reach down and slowly pull the shoes off of your feet, wincing in pain. Your hose make it look like you have webbed feet, but you really don't care as you gingerly wiggle your toes. He watches you, dying to kiss you. You might be the cutest thing he's ever seen and your feet are so small and pretty.

"Do they hurt bad?"

"Yeah. I shouldn't have worn these today." You tap the shoes together in your hands. "I suppose beauty is pain, though."

He laughs and then an idea settles on him. He's not sure how you'll respond, but it's worth a try.

"You want me to rub 'em?" You look up at him suddenly for three reasons. First, you can't believe he said it. Second, it sounds amazing. And third, there's a hint of something in his voice that almost sounds like uncertainty.

"I couldn't let you do that."

"Why not? I really don't mind and what else are we doin' right now?" The vulnerability on his face melts you and you know you can't say no. You smile bashfully and turn to lean against the other wall and put your feet in his lap.

"Well, alright then. Thank you." He smiles a very natural and relaxed smile and then goes to work massaging one of your feet. You'd be lying if you said it didn't feel amazing. His hands are strong and he seems to know what he's doing. You moan a little louder than you intend to, but your feet were so sore that the relief is almost overwhelming. He looks at you when you moan and bites his bottom lip, thanking God that your eyes are closed as his gaze travels down over your figure. If you weren't so shy, he'd probably already have you half undressed. But he kind of likes that you're shy. It's cute and he can't complain about the added challenge. It's almost getting too easy to get girls to say yes.

You spend the next twenty minutes or so like this. He switches feet halfway through, but you sit in silence, moaning and whimpering every once in a while. What you don't know is that you're driving him absolutely crazy with the sounds you're making. If you're this vocal with a foot massage, how might you be in bed? The thought sends a shiver of pleasure down his spine and he shifts to keep your feet away from his erection. Surprisingly, you're the one who breaks the silence. You look up at him and he's looking down at your feet while he works. You can see his eyelashes and for some reason that makes him seem more real.

"What's it like? Being famous?" He takes a deep breath before he answers, not looking up from your feet, like he's trying to decide how honest he should be. He looks up into your eyes intensely.

"Lonesome. I was trying to think of a nicer word, but that's all that comes to mind. Don't get me wrong, I'm very grateful for everything that's happened. I wouldn't change any of it. But it's really very lonely, not knowing who loves you for you and who loves you for who they think you are."

By the end of it, his voice is thick with emotion and you don't think, you just act. You move back to sitting next to him and entwine your arm with his, taking his left hand in both of yours. He looks down at you as you settle your head onto his shoulder. Something inside him flip-flops and he doesn't feel so alone all of a sudden. He presses his lips to the top of your head gently.

You feel him kiss your hair and are overwhelmed with the need for him to kiss you more. He seems to sense this and tips your chin with his other hand, so that you're looking up into his face. There's only a few inches between his lips and yours and you notice his eyes flicking down as he leans in slowly.

"Can I...?" He asks quietly practically against your lips. This time your whisper is appropriate.

"Yes." He doesn't wait another second to dive into a kiss. It's sweet at first, but before too long, you part your lips and his tongue slides into your mouth. He holds the side of your face and you both sit up and turn towards each other as the kiss deepens. His hand drifts down to your hip and he squeezes it, pulling you towards him gently. You start to lift your leg to climb on top and straddle him, but just as you do, there's a soft ding and the elevator doors slide open.

You gasp and scramble back, wiping your mouth and shoving your shoes back on your feet. He looks at you dumbstruck with how quickly you shifted gears. He's still in the mindset that you're about to crawl in his lap.

"Honey, wait?" He rushes to his feet and tries to smooth his clothing. There's nothing he can do about his massive hard-on, though, so he turns and shoves it up under his belt. He feels you touch him near his hip, but he's too focused on what he's doing to acknowledge it.

By the time the doors open all the way, you're both mostly presentable. He's ushered out of the elevator by a group of his friends and family, led by his manager. You watch as they fuss over him and he makes eye contact with you through the crowd.

He'd give almost anything to be back in that elevator with you to finish what he started. But more than that, he already misses the feeling of companionship. The heavy weight of loneliness is starting to settle in his chest again. He looks down and back up and you're gone.

******

You wipe the tears from your face as you make your way back to your car outside the hotel. If only the doors hadn't opened. What might've happened? Oh well. You'll never know. It's up to him now.

******

Elvis manages to keep it together long enough to assure everyone he's fine, do the wardrobe check, and get back to his hotel. He stands in front of the elevator when it opens and seriously considers taking the stairs to the penthouse. But he doesn't. Instead he steps onto the elevator and slides his hands in his pockets as the doors close.

He gasps softly.

Out of his pocket he pulls a small silver bracelet. It's not his. It must be yours. You must've slipped it into his pocket while you put yourselves back together when the doors opened. He turns over the little silver pendant and finds your first and last name in script.

He smiles widely and kisses the bracelet. Looking up, he whispers.

"Thank you."

He's not sure if he's talking to you or God. Maybe both. Either way, now he can find you. He steps off the elevator and heads into his bedroom.

The pieces of his heart start to come back together and he sets your bracelet on his nightstand.

Tomorrow. He'll find you tomorrow.

******

The End?

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

@ccab @elvisfatass @elvisalltheway101 @aliypop @18lkpeters @dkayfixates @tacozebra051 @your-nanas-house @deniseinmn @joshuntildawn13 @lookingforrainbows @60svintage @littlehoneyposts @epthedream69 @louisejoy86 @rjmartin11 @from-memphis-with-love @deltafalax @atleastpleasetelephone @cinnamoroll-things @burnthheparaphilia @jhoneybees @cattcb @everythingelvispresley @returntopresley

#elvis presley #elvis #elvis presley fanfiction #elvis fanfic #elvis presley fic #elvis fanfiction #elvis fic #elvis presley x reader #elvis x reader #elvis x y/n #elvis x you #elvis presley x y/n #elvis presley x you #elvis presley fanfic #elvis fluff #elvis presley fluff

235 notes · View notes

sapnapstummy · 21 days ago

Text

um, hi

okay so... the tickle fic might be a little more mature that I originally intended 🫣

#i'm going to keep it smutless BUT dream can get hard in sapnaps body...as a treat #blazerambles

7 notes · View notes

writinground2 · 1 year ago

Text

Know my Place - Alessia Russo

Based on a request for some soft smut, but since I don't write smut, some angsty smutless smut.

One of the models leaned over Alessia to be close to Leah, she tried to think of the woman’s name. Jules? Julia? Jenny? It felt like they all blurred together and neither footballer was invested enough to overly care at this point.

“- about Y/N,” Alessia tuned in just at the end of the model speaking, only catching Y/N’s name.

“Sorry, music is bit loud, didn’t catch all that,” Leah played it off, tilting her head towards the girl to convince her she hadn’t heard what was said.

“I was saying, tell me more about Y/N,” the model motioned her head towards where Y/N was leaned against the bar. Alessia rolled her eyes.

Y/N had gone up to get them drinks between pieces at the fashion show Leah had dragged them to. An event the blonde was strongly regretting by this point. Every time she looked away; another person seemed to be vying for Y/N’s attention. Alessia wasn’t a jealous person, but it was difficult to see everyone staring at her girlfriend like a piece of meat. A fact that she knew made Y/N incredibly uncomfortable.

Y/N was tall with lean muscle, well defined through any outfit she wore. She had short hair, shaved neatly along the side, with it textured artfully on top. Tonight, she was in well-tailored dress pants and a crisp white dress shirt with the first few buttons undone. The shirt displayed the sharp definition of Y/N’s arms and strained across her shoulders, while the pants stretched tight across on her hips and tapered down her legs. Easy to say, Y/N easily drew a lot of attention.

Alessia ground her teeth as she watched another nameless model walk her fingers along Y/N’s forearm, settling just above her elbow. She knew Y/N wasn’t interested, nor would she ever return any flirtatious advances. Unfortunately, Y/N was friendly and was easy to talk to, so many people mistook her friendliness as flirting. If only they knew Y/N’s flirting more resembled a bumbling teenager. Alessia smirked as Y/N moved her arm out of the models grasp, tucking both behind her back as she took a partial step back.

“-she’s gotta be like the team bike,” Alessia tuned in, both footballers furrowing their eyebrows at the poor American reference, “you know, everyone gets a ride sort of thing,” she finished with a wink.

“Excuse me?” Leah was able to find her voice before Alessia could.

“Come on, someone like that has to get around,” the model moaned crudely in the back of her throat, biting her lower lip, “bet she takes a new girl home every night. I know I would let her top the fuck out of me.”

Alessia stood abruptly, forcing the model huff and sit back in her spot. She didn’t wait to listen to Leah verbally accost the model, immediately making her way to Y/N.

Y/N lit up as soon as she recognized Alessia coming towards her. Alessia felt her heart flutter. They were in a room filled with literal supermodels, and Y/N looked at her as if she was the only person around.

Alessia didn’t care if she was rude or not, she slid directly in between the two, cutting off whatever the other woman was saying. Y/N’s hand instinctively settled on Alessia’s hips. Though Y/N stood only slightly taller than the blonde, she stood on her toes to kiss Y/N’s forehead. While a kiss to the lips would make it clear to anyone she would be going home Y/N, after hearing the way she was spoken about, something more delicate seemed more appropriate.

Hearing a huff followed by the click of heels, the blonde grinned.

“I think I’m missing something,” Y/N tilted her head, seeing Leah approaching, looking quite irritated.

Y/N hands Alessia her drink, before reaching Leah’s out to her once she’s within distance. The defender taking large gulps of it. Y/N and Alessia taking smaller sips.

“Sarah was saying how much she wants you to fuck her tonight, they’re all competing for you to take them home.”

It briefly registered to Alessia that the models name didn’t even start with a J like she thought. More so, she was disgusted at the way her girlfriend was being spoken about. She could feel Y/N shrink on herself and the hands drop from her hips.

Y/N took an uncomfortable sip of her drink.

“Time to go,” Alessia soothed a thumb over Y/N’s cheek.

Y/N finished her drink and allowed the striker to set her empty glass on the bar for her. The ice rattled as Leah slammed her empty glass down and turned to lead them through the crowd.

“I’m so sorry for making you come tonight Y/N,” Leah looked at Y/N through the rear-view mirror as she drove.

“It’s all good, Leah, really,” Y/N forcing a smile on to her face.

Alessia looked over the passenger seat to see Y/N absently staring out the window. She knew where Y/N’s mind was going to. Sex had been something Y/N had been quite hesitant about. Y/N had expressed her concerns which were feeling too similar to some of the events of tonight.

The car was hardly to the curb and Y/N was opening her car door, opening Alessia’s for her and offering a hand to help her out. Leah offered another apology before everyone said their goodbyes.

Y/N was quiet on the ride up to their shared flat.

“Do you want to – “Alessia started to ask Y/N while they toed off their shoes inside the door. Y/N cut her off with a rough kiss, forcing her against the door.

The blonde indulged her for a moment, letting Y/N dominate the kiss. When her hands moved to under the flowing shirt Alessia wore, she gripped Y/N’s wrists to slow her movements.

Y/N withdrew her hands from Alessia’s shirt, instead bracing her hands on either side of the strikers’ head and forced a knee between her legs.

Alessia moaned, “hey, slow down bambina,” she pushed her away gently.

“Why? This is all I’m good for,” Y/N leaned her head against Alessia’s.

“No, you’re not, love,” Alessia held Y/N’s face in her hands, soothingly running her thumbs along her cheek bones, “I know tonight reminded you of some old feelings, but you’re not just meant for sex.”

She glided a hand to back of Y/N’s neck to tug her face to rest in the crook of her shoulder. Alessia kept them in that position for a minute before moving to guide them toward their bedroom.

“Still coming over tonight? I’ll cook,” Alessia asked softly, hand grazing Y/N’s back softly as she moved to sit in her locker next to her.

“Little Netflix and chill? Bow chicka wow woa,” Katie hollered from the other side.

A few players whooped at the comment. Alessia flushed at the attention, sinking further back into her cubby. Y/N clenched her jaw and focused on changing quickly, ducking out of the room before anyone noticed.

The couple had only been on a few dates. Alessia could sense that Y/N was a little hesitant, so she had held back and let Y/N direct their pace. Waiting patiently for Y/N to offer a chaste kiss before abruptly rushing from the blondes flat.

Y/N hadn’t been what Alessia was expecting. Not that she would change anything about Y/N, but she was unexpected. She had seen Y/N interact with girls at the bar, how they all threw themselves at her, it caused many rumours about Y/N being a bit promiscuous. Y/N’s looks only encouraging it, with a more masculine fashion and demeanour, many people assuming her to fit the typical ‘fuck boy’ stereotype.

When Y/N had picked her up with flowers at her door and fumbled over complimenting her “beautiful, look these are you”. Blushing, she had shoved the flowers into Alessia hands. The blonde immediately knew all the rumours were wrong. Y/N would open the car door for her and walk her back to the door at the end of their date, only offering a hug before darting back to her car.

She knew Y/N wasn’t the arrogant person that bed women as she pleased. Alessia knew Y/N was a gentle soul just looking to have her heart handled the way she handled everyone else’s.

Y/N arrived at her house that night for dinner, once again bringing her flowers. She had sat at the table while Alessia cooked them dinner, asking questions about everything, wanting to know all she could about the blonde.

After dinner, the pair had moved to the couch, where Alessia had quickly settled herself against Y/N’s chest. It was rare for her to feel comfortable setting her weight against someone like this, but with Y/N’s build matching her own, Alessia couldn’t help but bask in the feeling of the strong arms holding her tight.

Some mindless series was playing in the background. Alessia shifted herself so her face was tucked directly under Y/N’s chin, Y/N only shifting slightly to adjust her hold on the blonde. Sighing, Alessia shifted a few more times, waiting for Y/N to look down at her. As soon as she did, Alessia stretched herself up to meet Y/N’s lips.

Caught off guard, Y/N hesitated, before kissing back. Alessia adjusted herself to be straddling Y/N’s hips, grinding down slightly, hoping for Y/N to understand her intentions.

The blonde felt Y/N clench her jaw where fingers were rested but ignored it as Y/N tightened the grip on her hips, encouraging her movements.

Growing frustrated that it wasn’t progressing further, Alessia sat up fully, waiting until Y/N made eye contact with her, she took her shirt off and quickly followed with her bra. When Y/N didn’t move her hands from her hips, she took both wrists and forced Y/N’s hands to her chest.

Alessia could see Y/N clench her jaw again but felt her graze her thumbs across her hardened nipples and resumed her own grinding. Y/N slowly let her hands roam the blondes body but still made no move to progress anything further.

“I want you on top of me,” the defender leaned to whisper in Y/N’s ear, nipping the lobe as she pulled away.

Pulling away, she saw Y/N’s jaw clench and her eyes screw shut.

Taking pause, she pushed a hand on Y/N’s chest, halting her from switching their positions. Y/N looked confused but waited to see why the blonde stopped moving.

“This isn’t too fast, is it?” she ran her thumb along the exposed portion of Y/N’s collar bone. When Y/N paused, she already knew her answer.

“It’s fine, it’s what you invited me over for,” she started to shift again, so Alessia would be on her back.

Applying more pressure, she forced Y/N to lay back on the couch. Leaning down, she plucked her shirt of the floor and put It back on.

“I didn’t invite you over for sex Y/N.”

She felt like she was punched in the chest at the surprised look on Y/N’s face.

“Amore,” the term slipping out, “I invited you over for dinner and a movie, we don’t need to have sex. I’m sorry for getting carried away,” she spoke so softly.

She felt that punch again when Y/N’s surprise shifted to that of confusion, as if the concept of not having to have sex was foreign to her.

They sat in silence for a beat while Y/N seemed to process what was happening. That it wasn’t expected of her to have sex, that she wasn’t invited over for the only intention to be sex.

“But you want sex?” Y/N slowly asked, waiting for a nod, she continued, “but you didn’t invite me over to just have sex?”

Another nod, slower this time while the blonde worked out where Y/N was going with this.

“And we don’t have to have sex?”

Feeling that punch again, she nodded one more time.

“Firoe mio I do want to have sex with you,” she applied pressure to keep Y/N on her back, “but, I didn’t invite you over to just have sex. We can wait as long you want to have sex.”

Alessia could feel all the tension suddenly leave Y/N’s body as she sunk deep into the couch. Y/N closed her eyes and took a few slow breaths. Her eyes flew open when she felt Alessia begin to move on top of her.

“I’m just adjusting, I’m not going anywhere,” the blonde was quick to reassure her, this didn’t seem like a conversation to be had while straddling the girl.

Y/N nodded and mutters a soft apology, which Alessia waved off as she moved to sit next to Y/N, quickly taking hold of her hand.

“Did you think I only wanted to have you over to have sex?”

“Well yeah,” Y/N fidgeted with their interlaced fingers, “that’s all people usually want from me.”

Alessia felt her heart shatter now. She tried not to take it personal that Y/N would assume that of her, but she knew Y/N felt this way for a reason, that many people before conditioned her to expect that.

“I used to try and date like normal, but I figured out pretty quick I’m only good for one thing. People stick around for a bit, they pretend they aren’t just here for sex, but as soon as I asked for more, they’re gone. Sometimes they’ll be up front about just wanting sex. I don’t know if that hurts more than people pretending to want to date me.”

“I want to date you.”

“It’s alright Less, I know what I’m good for at this point. The sex is good –“

“Why’d you agree to go on a date with?” the striker cut her off.

“Sometimes I forget my place I guess,” she shrugged with humourless chuckle.

“I asked you out because I want to date you and get to know you more and grow a life together. I did not ask you out just for you to fuck me.”

Y/N’s eyes shot to Alessia at her sudden crude wording.

“I’m serious,” her blue eyes bore into Y/N’s while she spoke, “of course I want sex with Y/N, it’s natural and you are beautiful. But I want it to happen when we both want to happen and when you believe me that I’m not with you just for that or that I will leave after.”

Y/N had to look away so Alessia wouldn’t see her tears. Taking a breath, she looked back over, “I want to have sex with you too, but, if it’s ok with you, I think I’d like to wait a bit.”

“Of course, tesoro,” Alessia placed a gentle kiss to her forehead before guiding them to be laying back down, this time with Y/N held tightly to her chest.

“So how good is good?” Alessia teased later.

“Good enough you’ll need a recovery day after,” Y/N turned over, briefly tugging the blondes’ bottom lip into her mouth.

Alessia gulped, licking the lip Y/N had just tugged on.

True to her word, a few weeks later Alessia was glad for the day off when she woke up. She was sore in the best ways possible. Y/N having pulled sounds out of her she didn’t know she could make the night before.

#woso imagine #woso x reader #alessia russo imagine #alessia russo x reader

542 notes · View notes

the-californicationist · 11 months ago

Text

Good Fences (Fluffuary #28) - Finale

FEB28: Reader Request - John Needs a Shave

Concept idea from my besites, @ofdivinity01 and @glitterypirateduck! Hope y'all like it!

xoxoxoxoxoxox

John’s hand was cleaned and bandaged, but he had hurt it pretty badly. He had been cleaning a huge fish outside on the patio, one that he had caught himself from the river behind your house, and the knife caught and slipped, jamming into his palm. It was healing fine, but he was struggling with his grip.

“Bloody hell!” He shouted from the bathroom, and you heard a metallic clatter follow with it.

You hurried to check on him, rushing to his side,

“John? Are you alright?”

“Yeah, love,” he sighed out of frustration, “It’s just this hand. Can’t grab my shaver properly. Tired of this messy face, and I’m sure you are, too.”

He smiled down at you, half-shaven and half-wild. You shook your head,

“It’s okay, babe. But, we can’t have you walking around half-finished. Can I help?”

“Ever used a straight razor?”

“No,” you sighed, “But, I can go slowly.”

“Aye,” he nodded, “Alright.”

“Here,” you said, staring up at his great height, “Why don’t you come have a seat in the kitchen.”

You set him up by the sink, filling up a bowl with water to wash the razor, and squirting some shaving cream into your palm. He was sitting in the chair, and you hovered over him, smearing the soft foam onto his skin, making sure to leave his chops and sideburns untouched.

“Chin’s the hard part, so just do little strokes,” he instructed, “And, hey,” he grabbed your arm, “Thank you for this.”

You kissed his forehead,

“No problem, John. I’ve got you.”

You set to work, shaving off his chin bit by bit. The razor made quiet little scraping noises, and you tried to cut as close as you could to the skin without nicking him. It was hard to get the right angle.

“Sorry,” you said, “Do you mind if I sit in your lap. It’s hard for me to –”

“Tha’s fine, love,” John uncrossed his leg and patted his thigh.

You straddled him, trying to ignore the fire that rose in your belly. You focused back on your work, moving down to his neck. With each little swipe and swish of your blade, you noticed that he was breathing a little harder. You stopped, looking up at him,

“Are you alright? Do you need a break?”

There was a low rumble in his chest that was almost a moan, and then he answered darkly,

“No…”

He put both of his hands on your hips in a very familiar fashion, and you shifted your weight. As you did, you felt him, hard as a lead pipe beneath you.

“Ahh…” You smiled, “I see. Be patient, mister. Almost done.”

He grunted in response, choosing to remain silent.

You didn’t spare him any mercy while he was under your body. You shifted back and forth, teasing his rigid cock, shaving even slower, taking longer than you needed to. And by the time you were done, cleaning up the stray foam, your husband was a panting, growling mess.

The last wipe of the dry cloth brought his face down to yours, his mouth only inches from your lips, and you could taste his warm breath.

You kissed him languidly, not giving him any room to be ravenous with you, and you smiled coyly,

“All done, babe. How does it feel?”

He scooped you up, leaving the chair in the kitchen, and lay you on the couch, shucking your pajama pants off of your body and spreading your legs apart with his rough hands. He chuckled,

“Why don’t you tell me?”

That's all, folks! Here lies the end of our smutless, fluffy adventure. Thanks so much to everyone for all of their support. I would've stopped weeks ago if it wasn't for y'all. Looking back, I think this exercise really helped me improve, and it got me out of my rut.

If you had a good time, please consider donating to my coffee fund. This derpy cat needs caffeine, and your hard-earned dollars are very much appreciated.

Reblogs, comments, and kudos (AO3) also bring me so much joy, so thank you for interacting with me and my work. More Price is on the way!

Y'all are the best ✌️🩷

P.S. Do these two deserve a smutty follow-up tomorrow? I think they do. 😈 It is a leap year, after all.

AO3 Link

147 notes · View notes