#tropes and tales

[tropes-and-tales]

It's That Simple

Day 16:  Praise Kink (Bob Floyd x F!Reader)

(For the 2023 Kinktober event that I created on my own because I am boring and basic and am trying to keep it simple this year...found here!) 

CW:  Light angst, kinda (Bob gets deflated); talk of panic attacks and self-doubt; smut (handjob); 18+ only.

Word Count:  5656

AN:  This was requested by an anon!

AN2: If you've been around a bit, you know the drill: this isn't edited or re-read or beta'ed.

It’s another terrible first date.

Bob struggles to even snag a first date.  He’s unassuming; he lacks the swagger and extroversion to stroll up to a woman and talk her up.  Most of his dates are obtained from other members of the Daggers—double dates, set-ups, stuff like that.

The latest one was set up by Fanboy, a friend of his sister.  Within moments of meeting his date, Bob knows it’ll be a mess:  she makes a face when she greets him at the door, and it goes downhill from there.

It ends when she gets a text.  An emergency, she tells him, and Bob is too smart and perceptive to buy the lie.  But he’s a gentleman, so he nods seriously and offers to drive her home or wherever she’s needed, which she declines.  He pays the bill of their abortive dinner, and he pretends not to notice how his date practically skips out of the restaurant and into the waiting car of a friend.

He should go home to lick his wounds.  Another failed date, another night alone.  He sees the stretch of his life in front of him and despairs that he’ll ever meet someone, and he should go home to sulk, but he goes to the Hard Deck instead.

He might as well break the news to Fanboy, at least, and maybe Nat can cheer him up with her usual sarcastic humor.

-----

The Hard Deck is as packed as always, and Bob—in his date clothes of dress pants and a button down shirt—stands out among the uniformed pilots and fellow wizzos.  He finds the Dagger Squad, confesses his failure to Fanboy, then settles into a stool near Nat and Rooster.

Nat puts a hand on his shoulder and gives him a comforting squeeze.  “I’m sorry, Bob,” she says.

“Her loss,” Rooster offers.

Bob shrugs.  It’s not anyone’s loss but his, but he offers them a weak smile that fools neither of them.

It’s Hangman who sidles up to Bob, and in an uncharacteristic moment of thoughtfulness, the cocky pilot offers to be his wingman—which makes Bob laugh, and it comes out laced with some bitterness.

“No offense, Bagman, but you’d be a terrible wingman,” Bob says.

“What?  Why?”

Bob lifts his hands in a helpless shrug.  “Because you’re….you.  And I’m not like you at all.”

“So?”

He scoffs in frustration at Bagman being so obtuse.  As if any woman would look at Bob if he walked up to them with Jake at his side.  It’d be like an Aston Martin rolling up alongside an old Honda Civic, and that’s the analogy he uses to make Jake understand.  But Jake shakes his head, clasps him on his shoulders and gives him a friendly shake.

“Nah, Baby on Board.  You got it all wrong.  You just need some confidence.”  Another teeth-rattling shake.  “Trust me, there’s a girl out there for you.  C’mon.”

Bob finds himself powerless to resist as Jake pushes him off of his stool, then shoves him gently in the direction of the crowded bar.

-----

The first pair that Jake sidles up to is a bust, but it’s not Bob’s fault:  Jake had hooked up with the one woman before, forgotten about it completely.  He’s moments from getting a drink tossed in his face when Bob tugs him away from the danger and they pull back, reevaluate.

The second pair is a bust too.  The first woman doesn’t even let Jake get the full sentence out before she’s wagging her ring finger in his face.

“Married,” she says, her words clipped.  “Move along, sailor.”

The third pair?  The third pair works out.  Jake hones in on one immediately, a blonde with big doe eyes, but the second one—you—rolls her eyes at him.

But when you turn to study Bob, you don’t roll your eyes.  You hold out a hand, introduce yourself, ask for his rank, then pat the empty chair beside you.

“Settle in, Lieutenant,” and your smile is easy.  “Let’s chat while we watch your friend strike out, huh?”

-----

It turns out you’re drunk, but that’s not necessarily a bad thing.

For one, you’ve fallen in with Bob Floyd, the most gentlemanly man a drunk, single girl could come across.  He’d never take advantage, and in fact, he’ll end up driving you home at the end of the night, getting you into your apartment.  He will take your shoes off of you, tuck you into your bed, and press a glass of water and a couple of ibuprofen on you before he sees himself out.

For another thing, Bob Floyd has fallen in with you, the most fiercely sweet drunk that a down-on-himself man could come across.  You’re one of those loud cheerleader types when you drink; the kind of woman who chats up other women in the bathroom, who tells them they’re beautiful, that you love them.  With your friend and Jake otherwise engaged, Bob finds himself caught in the tractor beam of your charm.

“You look sad,” you tell him around the rim of your glass.  “Are you sad?”

You’re drunk and Bob is sad, and you’re staring at him with wide eyes that glitter in the low light of the bar, so he tells you.  He tells you about his terrible date, the latest in a string of terrible dates, that he’s been single for so long and he’s not entirely convinced he’ll ever meet someone, that he’s too scrawny, that his glasses are terrible (one date called them serial killer glasses), that he’s too reserved to ever catch the eye of a woman, too unremarkable looking, let alone—

“No!”  You cut him off by exclaiming it, a near-shout, and your hand finds his forearm and grips him there.  “You’re gorgeous, Bill!  Don’t even say you aren’t!”

He grins despite himself.  “It’s Bob.  But thanks.  I mean, it’s nice of you to say—”

“Bob.  Yes.  Sorry.  Bob, not Bill.  I say it because it’s true.”  You release your hold on his arm and sit back in your chair, your eyes narrowed now as you study him closer.  You’re quiet for a long beat, and Bob squirms under your attention, but then you tell him more and he swears he breaks out in a full-body blush.

“You’re gorgeous, really,” you tell him.  “It’s just that you have a sneakier handsomeness, you know?  Like, that one there—” You gesture broadly at Jake.  “—He’s, like, Ken-doll handsome.  Like, he catches your eye because it’s all symmetrical and stuff, and he’s fine, but symmetry can be boring and someone like you, it’s sneaky.  You have a nice face, and these nice blue eyes, and nice hair, and I bet people think about you after the fact like, ‘oh, that Bob guy, he’s not bad at all,’ and then even later it’s like, ‘oh, Bob, he’s pretty handsome.’  Because you’re that sneaky sort of handsome and that’s the worst damned kind.”

Bob isn’t entirely tracking what you mean, but he shakes his head at the unearned praise, and he can’t stop the smile that’s plastered on his face.  He probably looks like a dope.

“Why’s that the worst kind?” he asks.

“Because it’s deadly!”  You lean forward again, put your hand on his arm again.  “Sneaky-handsome guys are like a virus because by the time you realize they’ve infected you, it’s too late.”

Bob chuckles.  “I’m a virus?  Suddenly my night has gotten worse, somehow.”

“No, not at all.  It’s just…”  You trail off, polish off your drink.  You wave down Penny for another.  “It’s just that you sneaky-handsome types never understand the power you have.  Ken-doll over there knows he’s hot, and by the mere fact of him knowing he’s hot, he loses a considerable amount of hotness.  But you have no idea you’re handsome, and that makes you even hotter.”

“I think there’s a string of women in the San Diego area that would disagree with your assessment,” Bob replies.  “But I appreciate the compliment, nonetheless.”

“Oh, them.”  You flap a hand, a dismissive wave.  “There’s a lot of idiots in the world, Bob.  You can’t let a string of women in the San Diego area make you feel bad.”

“I guess I just need to find someone who isn’t an idiot.”

“Ah, well!”  You set your drink down and wave your hands in front of yourself in a ta-da sort of flourish.  “Cal Tech graduate, Bobby.  I work for NASA.”

He feels a warm flush at you calling him Bobby.  “You’re a rocket scientist?  Definitely not an idiot, then.”

“Astrobiologist, actually.  And only an idiot sometimes, but never when it comes to the sneaky-handsome men here at the Hard Deck.”

Bob shakes his head, a little embarrassed at how much he likes you, a drunk stranger, talking him up.  He tries to dial it back, afraid he’s going to fall in love before last call.

“You’re way too smart for me, then,” he tells you.

That makes you arch an eyebrow at him.  “You afraid of smart women, Bobby?”

“Not at all.  It’s just that smart, beautiful, and sweet?  Do you understand the power you have?”  He keeps his tone light, teasing, but he’s in over his head with this:  he’s definitely going to fall in love before last call.

Of course he is.  His question makes you laugh, a warm sound that knocks free the lump in his chest from his earlier failed date.  Your laughter makes him feel drunk even though he hasn’t touched a drop; he feels warm and light and big-headed at how kind you’ve been to him, how sweet, but your laughter is the sound that makes him fall in love with you.

-----

The two of you stay until last call.  Bagman and your friend disappear hours before then, and you shrug at Bob, say you called it all wrong, that you didn’t think Jake was your friend’s type.

Bob drives you home.  You’re unsteady on your feet, so he hovers near you, but you manage reasonably well until it’s time to unlock your door.  He watches you try it, then he reaches out and takes the keys from your hand.

It’s the first time he touches you.

He gets you inside.  He gets you to your bedroom, and you flop gracelessly across the mattress, and Bob immediately goes into caretaker mode.  He slides your shoes off of you, sets them in a neat row by your closet.  He makes his way to your kitchen, gets you a glass of water, then stops in the bathroom.  He rummages through your medicine cabinet—you use the same brand of toothpaste as he does, the same type of toothbrush, and Bob marvels at the strange intimacy of learning these things, the everyday things that not everyone is privy to about you.  He finds some ibuprofen and shakes two out, then takes them and the water back to you.

You’re already drifting off to sleep, and Bob has to cajole you into sitting up.  He gets you perched on the side of the bed and gives you the pills and water, which you take without complaints.  He takes the empty glass back from you, and then there’s a moment—

—you sit on the edge of your bed and Bob stands over you, and you look up at him with your bleary eyes and he sees fear.  You’re understanding what you’ve done, maybe:  you’ve invited a strange man back to your place and you’re drunk, and he could do anything, and Bob sees the flicker of uncertainty, the beginning of fear in your eyes.  It makes him feel sick because he’d never take advantage.  It makes him sick that the world, being what the world is, makes this fear lance through the whiskey fumes in your head.

He reaches down to the foot of your bed where there’s a blanket neatly folded.  He shakes it out, urges you to lie down, and when you do, he covers you up.

“Be sure to drink more water when you wake up,” he tells you softly. 

The nascent fear fades out of your expression, and it’s replaced by a loose, goofy grin.  You free a hand from under the blanket and give him a sloppy salute.  “Aye, aye, captain.”

Bob sees himself out but not before he’s struck with a bit of brave optimism.  He sees the little whiteboard by your refrigerator, and he writes out his name and his number.  He drives home and sends up a silent prayer that his sneaky-handsome virus has already infected you, charmed as he is by your earnestly drunken (albeit clunky) analogy from earlier in the evening.

He wakes up the next morning and feels less hopeful.  He queues up a playlist and sets out on his morning run, but his morning pessimism is misplaced:  you call him a mile into his run, and Bob stutters in his steps to hear your voice—a little rough, but sunny nonetheless.

“I’m looking for a guy named Bobby,” you tell him over the phone, and he can hear the smile in your voice.  “Lieutenant Blue Eyes.”

-----

The two of you make plans to meet up at the Hard Deck, but you don’t call it a date so Bob doesn’t either.  He’s in unfamiliar territory:  things have always been a date or not a date in the past, but he’s noticed that many of his Dagger teammates speak in looser terms—meeting up, hanging out—with potential partners.  He’s unsure how to handle it; if he seems too casual, you might miss his interest.  If he comes on too strong, he might scare you off.

He decides to just turn up in his uniform, as he usually does, and when he arrives at the Hard Deck, you are already there.  You’re perched in a bar stool and chatting to Penny, but when he strolls in, you see him.

You smile at him as he walks over to you, but then you shake your head in a mock-rueful way.

“Oh, no,” you say as you hop off of your stool.  You open your arms and Bob steps into them, and you hug him warmly like you’re old friends.  “I thought maybe it was just whiskey-goggles that night, but you really are cute.”

Bob chuckles.  He releases you, then takes the stool beside yours.  “Well, I’ve been downgraded.  You called me handsome that night,” he points out.

“Sneaky-handsome, actually.”

“There seems to be a whole spectrum here that I was never privy to.”

You wave down Penny who comes and takes your orders.  Once your drinks are in front of you—a hard cider for you, a shandy for Bob—you click your glass against his.

“Here’s to the sneaky-handsome men of the world,” you say.

Bob ducks his head and grins  “And to the rocket scientists,” he adds.

A date or not a date…the evening passes in a blink, and you leave Bob that night entirely sober after long conversations and a lot of easy laughter.  You pull him in for another hug before you part, and this hug lingers longer than the hug you gave him as a greeting.  When you pull away, though, you gaze at him with a somber expression.

“I wanted to thank you for the other night,” you tell him.  “For being a gentleman when you took me home.”

“Of course.”

“No, I mean it.”  Your hands on his upper arms squeeze him a little firmer.  “You could have taken advantage, and you didn’t.  You’re a good one, Bob.”

He shakes his head, tries to wave you off, but you squeeze him again.  You don’t let him shrug off your thanks.  You don’t let him downplay his goodness.

“You are a good man, Bob,” you repeat, and you stare at him, like you’re daring him to disagree. 

Bob, who finds that you’re something of a force to be reckoned with, wouldn’t dare to disagree.

-----

He’s still not entirely clear if this is dating or not.  Neither of you actually says the word.  You text each other steadily, and you meet up sometimes at the Hard Deck, but your schedule isn’t great and Bob’s is even worse.  He worries that he’s missed his chance.  When he talks about it to the other Daggers, Hangman rolls his eyes and tells Bob he should have taken his shot earlier, that Bob is pretty much friend-zoned now, but Nat rolls her eyes at that and says he’s overthinking it.

Of course Bob overthinks it.  Bob overthinks everything.

He doesn’t know yet that you overthink everything too.  That you are going through your own pangs of regret, that you think you’ve missed your chance too, that your friends circle around you too and give you tough-love pep talks to build up your courage to take the lead on this burgeoning thing with Bob.

And ultimately, Bob’s hunch that you’re a force to be reckoned with is correct.  In the end, you take charge.

-----

You end up inviting him over for dinner on a night when your schedules align, and Bob overthinks that too. 

What if it’s a date-date, and he turns up too casual, with nothing in his hands—no wine, no flowers?  Or the opposite—what if he dresses up a little, brings you a mixed bouquet, and it’s just a casual friends-type thing?

Bob has no idea how he can manage the systems on a sophisticated plane because his brain grinds to a painful halt the moment he starts to contemplate this dinner at your place.  It’s Nat—it’s always Nat, with her no-nonsense lens into the mystique of her fellow women—who smacks some sense into him.

“Wear a nice shirt, shower beforehand, and take a bottle of wine,” she tells him.

“But what if—”

“It’s always polite to take a gift, Bob.”  She rolls her eyes, heaves a sigh.  “And it’s always polite to, you know.  Shower.  Show up fresh-smelling and neat.  Jesus Christ.  Just go.”

So Bob turns up at your apartment, a mid-tier bottle of wine in his sweaty hand.  Freshly showered, a daub of cologne behind his ears, and a nice blue button-down that brings out his eyes. 

And it’s a good thing he took Nat’s advice too, because you open the door in the sweetest sundress, and there’s music softly playing and the most heavenly smells wafting from your kitchen.  Bob realizes all at once that it’s a date-date after all, and his heart does an alarming little stutter in his chest, enough to stun him until you take his hand and gently pull him inside.

-----

Part of Bob’s issue with women is his inability to pick up on subtle, sometimes invisible cues.  He has always fallen in with the sort of women who play mind games, who play coy and say one thing while meaning another.  He always feels back on his heels; it feels like women speak a language he’s only slightly fluent in, so he’s always playing catch-up to translate what they mean.

But it’s refreshing with you, in this moment, because as you both sit down to the feast you’ve prepared, you just talk with him.  The two of you chat about your lives, you catch each other up since the last time you’ve talked, and Bob almost forgets to be nervous.

Almost.  A pair of tapered candles flicker between you and cast your lovely face in a golden glow, and low, bluesy music sets the soundtrack as you eat.  You sip at the wine he brought, and he eats your home-cooking, and Bob imagines an entire life like this…and he almost misses the way you keep swiping your palms along your thighs, like you’re nervous.

Almost.  He leans into his WSO work, studies you closely like you’re a dashboard of lights and alarms and switches.  He watches you a little closer, and he sees the way your throat bobs when you swallow a mouthful of wine, like you’re swallowing past a lump or going all dry-mouthed on him.  He sees the deep breaths you take, the way you press the back of your hand to your neck, like you’re flushed and trying to calm yourself.

“You’re nervous,” he blurts out when he realizes it for sure, and you pause in where you’re lifting the wine glass to your mouth and stare at him.

“I am.”  It’s that simple.  No mind games, no coy pretending. 

“It’s just me,” Bob says.

You smile at him, and it trembles a little at the corners.  He can feel the nerves in you now, and he reaches out a hand across the table, palm up.  He makes a grabby motion with it until your smile firms up and you lay your hand in his, and he grasps you lightly.

“It’s just me,” he repeats.

“And I like just-you,” you tell him.  “Like-like, I mean.  I wanted to tell you so tonight.”

His heart does that wicked little stutter in his chest, but he squeezes your hand.  “Sounds like you just told me then.”

“Guess so.”  You watch him, and your smile seems tremulous again, so Bob replies, “I like you too.”

It’s that simple.  After you each put yourself through your own overthinking hell, each suffering through your own sleepless nights and needless worrying about dumb things like friend zones, it comes down to a moment so simple that it’s stupid:  just the two of you holding hands as you confess your mutual feelings matter-of-factly.

-----

It feels too easy.  After months (years) of struggling to even land the occasional first date, suddenly Bob’s dream girl turns up just like that.  It feels too easy, and so Bob slips into his overthinking almost immediately.

It goes fine after dinner, when the two of you trade nervous kisses on your couch until the nerves burn off enough that your mouth slotted over his feels natural, that you move in concert with each other—your head tilting one way, his tilting the other, no longer bumping noses or knocking his glasses askew. 

It goes fine as you climb into his lap, the solid weight of you a welcome sensation because Bob’s head feels like it’s filled with helium, drunk and fizzy from the feel of your lips against his, your tongue against his own.

It goes fine when you climb off of him, shaky-legged like a newborn foal.  When you hold out your hand and take his to lead him back to your bedroom.

The moment he finds himself stripped down to his boxers and lying on your bed is the moment it falls apart.

It’s like every mean comment, every brush-off and ghosting, every roll of the eyes and beleaguered sigh and overheard commentary about him crowds into the room and leaves no space for this moment with you.  Bob thinks of all the feedback he’s ever gotten on dates—the serial killer eye glasses, the lack of muscles, the lack of game.  He tries to take a deep breath and finds he can barely pull in a lungful, and his throat feels like it’s closing on him—

And he can’t get hard.  His near-erection from making out on the couch deflates, and even though you are perched over him—you’ve shed your sundress, and you’re in the sexiest, sweetest lingerie set, powder pink, like the underside of a cloud at sunrise—he cannot coax himself back to attention.

The panic that floods him—he recognizes the feeling.  He’s felt it a million times.  He feels the hot, splotchy redness as it breaks out across his chest and neck, and his face flushes furiously bright, and you notice it all in real time.  The sultry, heavy-lidded look on your face disappears and is replaced by pure concern.

“Bob?  Bobby?  Are you…okay?”  You reach a hand out and cup his face, and your palm had felt warm earlier but now it feels cool….which proves how hot he’s flushed, how feverish his panic makes him feel.

“I’m sorry.  Shit, honey.  I’m…I gotta go.”  He tries to sit up but your mattress is soft and he flails a moment, and if Bob were just a bit younger he’d burst into tears at how sideways this has all gone so suddenly.  You served him up the perfect evening, you’re kneeling right beside him in the hottest fucking lingerie, and he’s been reduced to a stuttering, red-face idiot who can’t even get hard—

“Hey.”  You lay your hand on his bare chest, steady him.  “Hey, hey, hey.  Take a second.  Just breathe, Bobby.”

“I gotta—”

“Just relax.”  You press against his chest, tap your forefinger against his skin.  “Breathe for me, okay?  Everything’s fine.”

“It’s not.  Fuck, it’s not!”  He raises his voice, winces at how shrill he sounds, and the dam in him breaks.  Something in him dislodges, and it all spills out:  every mean, rotten thing he’s ever thought about himself.  Every bit of unfair criticism, every insult and slight and how his own insecurity has twisted it all into a crippling imposter syndrome.  How he only ever feels competent at his job but how he struggles with everything else, and now how he’s fucked it all up with you because he’s overthinking, always trapped in the own tangled maze of his mind, always waiting for the other shoe to drop because he’s not good enough, he can’t even get hard even with you looking like a dream—

“Hey.  Whoa.”  You remove your hand from his chest, but you scoot over to sit beside him, turned to face him, your expression very similar to the night he met you—the same easy smile, the same studious eyes.

“Nothing’s ruined.  You haven’t fucked anything up.  Take a breath.  Is this because of that bad first date you had the night we met?”

He nods.  “A little bit.”

“There’s been other bad first dates, I guess?”

Another nod.

“And now you’re worried this is just another bad first date?”

“Yeah.”  It comes out a croak, a roughness in his throat. 

“Hmm.”  You lean forward, press a soft kiss to his forehead.  “You wanna hear about my worst first date ever?”

“No, honey, it’s okay—”

“His name was Justin.”  Another soft kiss, this one to his temple.  “Good job, good looking.”  Another kiss, to the other temple, right at his hairline.  “Picked me up and gave me flowers, took me out to San Diego’s most exclusive restaurant that has a reservation list a mile long.”

Bob chuckles weakly.  “Sounds awful,” he says, wry.

You hum again, kiss his flushed cheek.  “He was charming at dinner.”  A kiss on his other cheek.  “Said all the right things.  Asked about my life and listened to my answers.”  The lightest of kisses on the tip of his nose, and it makes him smile despite himself. 

“Halfway through dessert, a woman comes up to our table.”  Bob feels the gentle press of your lips at the corner of his mouth, and he turns his head to kiss you back, but you pull away. 

“It was Justin’s wife.”  A flurry of kisses now, to his chin, along his jawline, near his ear. 

“He was cheating,” Bob says.

“Nope.”  A kiss, this one lingering, under his jaw, on his neck.  “Turns out, this was a little game he and his wife play.  Some weird cheating, cuckolding fantasy.”  Your lips skate over his pulse point.  “He takes a girl out, his wife pretends to catch them, and then they go to a nearby hotel to fuck each other senseless.”

“Oh, shit.”

“Oh, shit is right.”  You lift your head to gaze at him.  “Asshole left me with the bill for dinner too.  So Bobby….you’re not my worst first date.  You’re not even close.”

“Honey—”

“You have no idea how hard you’re gonna have to work to really, honestly fuck this up.”  You grin at him, and then you straddle his lap again, and he lays his hands on your hips and stares up at you.

“Because you’re, like, exactly the sort of man I’ve always been looking for.  You’re that sneaky-handsome sort, and you’re smart and sweet, and you took care of me that first night when I was too drunk to make good choices.”  You cup his face in your hands, and you stare at him hard, that sweet forcefulness on full display, like you dare him to disagree with you.

“It’s already a sure thing, Bobby.”  You lean forward, kiss him gently.  “There’s no pressure to do anything tonight.  Don’t even think about needing to do anything.  How about you just let me love on you, and you just relax, and if you can keep your secret wife from busting in and turning this into a cuckolding fantasy, we’ll end the night just fine, okay?”

That makes him laugh, and it breaks the spell of his terrible ruminating.  Bob laughs, and he slides his hands from your hips up to your waist to feel your soft skin.

“I didn’t even think of getting a secret wife before I came here,” he confesses.

“See?  It’s a sure thing, then.”  You lean forward again, whisper in his ear, your warm breath making him break out in goosebumps as you tell him to just relax and let you love on him.

-----

The antidote to Bob’s awful overthinking, as it turns out, is your care and praise.

As far as first dates go, this is the one where Bob learns something new about his own sexuality.  He learns, thanks to you, that he has a praise kink, because your hands and mouth and body on his feels amazing, but it’s your words that make him hard.

Loving on him means you touch him everywhere.  You kiss him everywhere.  You stroke him, press your soft lips to him, lick against parts of him until he feels like he’s on fire in a way that is completely different than his panic attack.  You kiss every inch of his face and neck.  You trail your mouth over his shoulders and collarbones, across every bit of his chest and belly, and you praise him whenever your mouth isn’t otherwise occupied.

Look at you, Bobby.  Hiding this body away under that uniform.

You praise his arms, the muscles of his chest and abs.  You praise his shoulders and back, the smattering of chest hair, the trail of hair that leads down and disappears under the waistband of his boxers, and you glance up at him, the question in your eyes as you toy with the elastic.

“Can I?” you ask, and Bob nods, swallows hard, and you go lower, you push his boxers down and his cock is there, hard from your honied words.

“Holy shit,” you blurt out.  “Bob, are you for real with this?”

It probably seems like a cliché, like the pretty girl in a movie who somehow never realized she was pretty, but Bob has never really considered his size.  He’s been around plenty of other penises through the course of his career, but he’s never exactly eyed up other men and measured himself against them.  The handful of women he’s slept with never said anything so he assumed he was average, but you praise him here too—you tell him he has a beautiful cock, and Bob blushes at the compliment.  He’d never call it beautiful, but when you wrap your palm around his shaft and grip him gently, he’d agree to any adjective you might offer, so long as you never let him go.

This feels too easy too, but the panic never claws at Bob’s throat again.  You’ve chosen him, you’ve made it a sure thing for him, and you’ve cut through his awkward moment of near-flight to get him to this:  your body stretched alongside his, your breasts pressed against his arm, your hand working against his cock while you whisper praise in his ear. 

And every time doubt starts to creep in—he should be touching you too, he should be making you feel good too—you hush him, you still his mouth by kissing him, and you tell him that he has all the time in the world for touching you, but he should let you take care of him now.

His orgasm creeps up in fits and starts, and it seems to ratchet closer with each bit of praise you lavish on him, more so than each movement of your hand working against his cock.

“I want you to come for me, Bobby,” you whisper against his neck.  You kiss his pulse point, a plush, open-mouth kiss that makes him shiver as you grip him tighter, work a faster rhythm with your hand.  “Come for me like a good boy.”

He wants to be good for you; he wants to do as you say.  Some not-so-small part of him craves your approval, and maybe the two of you will play around with that sort of dynamic in the future, but for now, he just wants to obey you.  He wants to do his part to salvage the night he thinks he almost ruined, so he breathes in time to your strokes, focuses on every sensation—the softness of your breasts pressed against him, your wet, hot mouth kissing him, the light scent of your perfume.  The tension in his belly is a coil, and it tightens and tightens until it snaps, and his hips stutter against your grasping hand.  He gasps out your name, warns you, and then a beat later, he comes.  He spills over your hand, thick ropes of cum coating your fingers and wrist, spilling over onto his belly.

“Just like that, baby.”  You kiss his panting mouth, and he feels the curve of your lips as you give a pleased smile.  “It’s that simple.”

#bob floyd #bob floyd imagine #bob floyd x reader #bob floyd x you #top gun maverick #kinktober 2023 #tropes and tales

[tropes-and-tales-archives]

Sonny Carisi:  Whistle Down the Wind Masterlist

(Everything marked with an asterisk (*) should be considered 18+ only)

(Featuring Dominic "Sonny" Carisi and F!Reader)

° Chapter One

° Chapter Two

° Chapter Three

° Chapter Four

° Chapter Five 

° Chapter Six 

° Chapter Seven 

° Chapter Eight 

° Chapter Nine 

° Chapter Ten *

° Chapter Eleven *

° Chapter Twelve

° Chapter Thirteen (there originally was a Chapter Thirteen published but someone accused me of plagiarizing the overall conceit of it - even if you can't plagiarize a vague idea - so we will end it on Chapter Twelve instead to avoid pulling their gaze back onto me like Sauron sweeping Middle Earth with his fiery eye).

#sonny carisi #sonny carisi imagine #sonny carisi x reader #tropes and tales #law and order svu #law and order svu fanfiction

[untetheredsymphony]

Hey Whumpeteers! Cheerful reminder that the tattoo pain chart is applicable to most scratches, cuts or other open wounds! This chart doesn’t include bones damage or organ damage however, as it is for surface injuries.

My personal favourite is hip injuries, which various charts put in the red or orange zone 😉 Enjoy planning your whumpee’s pain with this!

#comet’s prompts #comet’s tales #whump #whump community #whump trope #whumpblr #whump tropes #whump writing #whump blog #whump prompt #whumpee #whump prompts

[arrgh-whatever]

#they're my found family trope #whether they like it or not #ghost of a tale #silas wagstaffe #tilo the minstrel #kerold redwhiskers #otto powderkeg

[laurasimonsdaughter]

I just noticed a recurring motif among these Sicilian fairy tales that is so incredibly well-suited for fanfic:

A princess sees a handsome young man (usually a prince in disguise) making eyes at her in the marketplace and begs her father the king to make him a royal servant, because he is so beautiful.

The king complies, because he's too fond of her to say no, and makes the hero a stable boy or gardener.

The princess now suddenly spends much more time out riding or requesting flowers, and then tells her father that the new servant is far too good for outside work and must become a servant in the castle.

The king complies, but soon enough the princess requests that the new manservant is made her personal page. By now the king is getting very nervous, but he still can't say no to his daughter.

The princess and the page manage to keep up the charade a little longer before the princess goes to the king and outright demands to let her marry her favourite.

The king gives the hero three "impossible tasks" that are meant to kill him, but naturally he accomplishes them all through trickery or supernatural intervention and the clandestine lovers get their way.

The pining, the flirting, the sneaking around, the devotion— do you see my vision?

#please make this a new AU #please #in the fairy tales this is usually a side plot to the main event #but a good ship could /make it the main event/ #laura tumbles #fairy tale AU #this is the happy version of this motif #there is also an not happy version but I like this one #fairy tales #fanfic #tropes #writing prompts

[fake-married-my-dead-fiance]

I started watching Kdramas this year and I do a lot of literature analysis in my normal life, so I found it really fun to find the tropes that were unique to this genre/culture that were different than what I find in Hollywood TV/movies and novels. I started with Alchemy of Souls and I was kind of amused looking back, because I never thought the SML had a chance with the FL but if I had known how strong the "they met as children and therefore DESTINY" trope is, I probably would have thought they would get together for sure!

Here are some of the unique tropes I've noticed:

-Leads meet as children and therefore DESTINY (What's Wrong with Secretary Kim, 100 Days My Prince, It's Okay to Not be Okay, Castaway Diva, The King's Affection, Sh**ting Stars, Destined with You, subverted in Alchemy of Souls)

-Reincarnation, which happens a ton but of course for the same reason Western media is littered with Chosen One/Saviour plots (played with in Alchemy of Souls and Extraordinary You, straight in Destined with You, Tale of the Nine Tailed, Moon in the Day, My Demon, The Story of Park's Marriage Contract... so many)

-Guy (usually) buys the girl shoes and then puts them on her. They also usually make a joke about her running away. (Tale of the Nine Tailed, 100 Days My Prince, Extraordinary You, Castaway Diva, King the Land, subverted in The King's Affection and The Forbidden Marriage)

-Guy (usually) gives/brings the girl an umbrella to protect her from the rain. I LOVE THIS TROPE, symbolism for protection and shelter gets me (straight in My Lovely Liar, King the Land, Tale of the Nine Tailed, Extraordinary Attorney Woo, subverted/played with in Alchemy of Souls, Business Proposal, Doom at Your Service, Castaway Diva)

-Not sure if this would count as a trope, but unique to the genre because we don't have formal speech in English and especially not in Canada where I live (we've basically started just going first name with everyone) I love it so much when the main characters use informal terms with each other for the first time. The subtitles don't always translate this well, but I know what the honorifics sound like and I'm all, "She didn't use "Mr." that time it's serious now!!!"

Anyway, are there more? I'm probably not catching them all!

Edit: Definitely some sort of trope around characters finding wild ginseng to solve a problem.

(I've only been watching Korean dramas by the way, I'm sure some of these tropes are shared by other dramas from China and Thailand. I just found the comparison with English language TV interesting.)

#kdramas #tropes #alchemy of souls #my demon #castaway diva #my lovely liar #king the land #tale of the nine tailed #doom at your service #what's wrong with secretary kim #100 days my prince #extraordinary attorney woo

[pokkeshii]

Jim as soon as he set foot in Camelot

#trollhunters #I died (metaphorically) watching TH #just like jim #wizards #jim lake jr #troll jim #give hero trope teenagers a break #toa #tales of arcadia

[moliathh]

the scorpion and the frog

#hellsing #alutegra #i need period drama hellsing #the clothes might be historically inaccurate because i just shove every reference up together #did not have the time to differentiate between victorian or ewardian or regency something something #alucard hellsing #integra hellsing #the scorpion and the frog is my favourite fable #there are so many ways to interpret it more than just a cautionary tale #personally i see it as a tragic romance #all of my otps follow the same damn trope everytime #someone who believed that it is in their nature that they are unlovable #and someone who trusted them regardless even fully aware of their destructive nature #but as fairytales mostly go isnt true love can break the spell #so i think there are several ways that the tale of the scorpion and the frog can be retold #the scorpion and the frog

[wanderlust-in-my-soul]

Most memorable, almost iconic, moments of bl (imo) (Part 2/?)

Not Me

A Tale Of Thousand Stars

History 3: Trapped

Dark Blue Kiss

Bad Buddy

Love Mechanics

History 2: Crossing The Line

La Pluie

Part of my favorite bl-tropes collection, as always in no particular order.

#multi bl #multibl.edit #bl tropes #not really a trope but I love those scenes #not me the series #a tale of thousand stars #history 3: trapped #dark blue kiss #bad buddy the series #love mechanics #history 2: crossing the line #la pluie #Iconicmyassloveit #thai bl #taiwanese bl #bl drama #bl series #asianlgbtqdrama #myedit

[winternaut]

I miss you filler episodes i miss you 20 episode seasons i miss you monster of the week format i miss you character development i miss you self contained episodes i miss you tv that isn't a long chopped up movie

#the upcoming season of doctor who is 8 EPISODES im LIVID #but like. almost every show fandom i can think of. the fan favorite episodes are almost never the season finales or whatever #am i saying i miss traditional cable tv? idk man maybe #they're the random episodes in the middle that really show you the characters or the essence of the show #this post has already been written but tales of ba sing se is exactly this #okay now for actual tags #doctor who #atla #spn #x files #merlin #tv tropes #fandom #wynn speaks

[smittenskitten]

(+) Riding my bike with beloved

Chains of Heart (2023) Moonlight Chicken (2023) I Will Knock You (2022) Vice Versa (2022) Not Me (2021) A Tale of Thousand Stars (2021) I Told Sunset About You (2020) Still 2gether (2020) Theory of Love (2019)

#thaidramaedit #asianlgbtqdrama #lgbtqia #chains of heart #moonlight chicken #i will knock you #vice verse the series #not me the series #a tale of thousand stars #i told sunset about you #still 2gether #theory of love #atots #offgun #earthmix #geminifourth #love language set #prangon gifs #tried to find a few kbl and jbl to put in this trope but couldn't find any #there was one in to my star but couldn't say their faces

[tropes-and-tales]

The Softest in the World

Day 15:  Fingering (Dave York x F!Reader)

(For the 2023 Kinktober event found here! Is it April? Yes. Am I that far behind in posting that it's April and I'm still working through Kinktober requests? Also yes.) 

CW:  Smut (Fingering; talk of masturbation; oblique talk of vague future sex acts); 18+ only.

Word Count:  4102

AN:  This is a sequel to this, and it was requested for Kinktober by an anon!

AN2: Never edited, never beta'ed. I live and die by my slopping typing.

The first Christmas without Carol goes far better for Dave than he ever thought it would.  Of course he misses his wife, nearly a year out from her sudden death.  Molly and Alice miss their mother too.  But the immediate grief—that sharp, cutting pain that left them breathless and stunned—has faded into a more mellow sorrow.  Ever-present, but it doesn’t take Dave out at the knees anymore.

He knows he owes much of his family’s collective healing to you, the nanny he hired months after Carol died.  You’re the one who stepped in and took charge of their lives.  You never tried to replace Carol, but you’ve managed their day-to-day moments and their larger healing.

This first Christmas was your idea too.  A month in Vermont, away from the family home where memories may have been too thick and pressing to allow for any joy.  It had proved out to be a great idea too:  long days sledding and snow-shoeing and building snow forts leave the girls exhausted by evening, too tired to ruminate about their missing mother.

And it allows Dave more time with you.

Usually you only live at the York home when he’s traveling.  You handle their lives at home—drive the girls to and from school, to and from activities.  You handle the maid who comes in twice a week to clean.  You keep the refrigerator full, get the girls bathed and put to bed with a story and a hug each night.  But Dave is never there to see it—when he returns home from his work trips, you leave for your own apartment.

This month in Vermont?  You sleep in the room just down the hallway from him.  You share a bathroom with him, leave behind the scent of your shampoo and soap after you shower.  He hears you each night when you, like clockwork, pad out into the kitchen for a glass of water that you gulp down until you’re breathless.

More than all of that, he has front row seats to how you care for his girls.  You’re tough but fair.  You cut them plenty of slack, grieving as they are, but you don’t allow them to run roughshod over you.  You play with them, you teach them, and you genuinely seem to love them…and they genuinely love you as well.

Him, though?  Dave can’t seem to get a bead on you when it comes to him.  Your ease with the girls disappears the moment the two of you are alone.  You can’t always meet his eye line.  You flinch away from him if he brushes against you.  Sometimes he wonders if you can sense his former double life—if you have some preternatural prey response to being so close to a predator.  But more than once, he’s caught you watching him on the sly.  He’s noticed your heavy-lidded eyes, the way you pull your lower lip between your teeth.

When he cornered you in the hallway a few days earlier, he definitely noticed how your breathing quickened.

Maybe you can sense his killer nature, but Dave would also guess that you are attracted to him.  And knowing what he does of your character, you probably feel conflicted about that.  Guilty.  Maybe even a cliché, the nanny falling for the widowed father of her charges.

If Dave has taken one lesson from Carol’s death, though, it’s this:  life is short, and life can end in a blink.  Why not live while you can?

-----

The day before Christmas is spent in a nearby town.  You plan it, of course, and you layer in fun stuff with all the errands you have to run and make it a family affair.  You take the girls ice skating at a nearby pond.  Dave stands along the rink’s edge and watches you take lazy circles on the ice, Molly’s and Alice’s mittened hands firmly in yours until they get comfortable on their own.  Then you skate over to him, and the two of you watch in silence.

Then there’s hot chocolate at a nearby café, last minute presents for the stockings, and the grocery store.  You return to the cabin laden with bags, and the evening flies by.  You and the girls make flat breads for dinner, and afterwards, you put on a Christmas movie while the girls put the finishing touches on the tree Dave bought earlier in the month.

Dave helps the girls with their evening baths.  He gets them tucked into bed, reads them a story.  He presses a kiss to each of their foreheads, and they are out like a light before he’s even quietly clicking their bedroom door shut behind him.

As he’s been tending to his daughters, you’ve tidied up in the kitchen and living room, and now you’re pulling the wrapped gifts from their hiding spot in the hallway closet to arrange them under the tree.

At the sound of his footfall, you glance up and offer him a smile.

“They out already?” you ask.

Dave chuckles.  “Before I even left the room.”

You smile, brush the back of your hand across your forehead, miming hard work.  “It’s exhausting work, trying to exhaust them.”

“And you manage to do it every time.”  He joins you near the tree, kneels down beside you.

“Sometimes I make them run laps at home,” you reply with a laugh, and maybe you don’t notice your casual use of the word home, but Dave notices.

Dave notices everything.

He noticed, for example, how you stood by him at the skating rink, perfect posture and a tension radiating off of you when Dave moved close enough for his coat to brush against yours.  He noticed the way you ducked your head at the café, how you pretended not to hear the women who sat nearby and remarked on the lovely little family that you, Dave, and the girls made.

He notices now how you lean away from him just a fraction, how you start when his fingers touch yours each time he hands you a wrapped gift to place.  He notices that you won’t look at him, that you keep your gaze carefully fixed on the presents or the tree.  He crowds you closer, plays dumb about it, and he notices when the pink tip of your tongue darts out and licks a wet line along your lower lip. 

Part of Dave—the dark part of him, the predator in him—wants to grip your face between his hand and force you to look at him.  He wants to hold your gaze until it’s too much for you; he wants to stare at you until you squirm and beg him to let you go.  And then he wants to not let you go, your begging futile—he wants to hold you tighter and lean in and draw his own tongue along that bitable lower lip of yours.

He keeps that part of him at bay.  He knows he has to go slow.  Slow movements.  You freeze around him, but if he comes on too strong or too fast, you’ll bolt.  He needs to quiet that prey instinct, make you feel safe.  Alleviate your guilt, if you have any, at being attracted to a widower.

So Dave decides to seduce you instead. 

When you reach for the next gift, he instead grasps your wrist lightly.  He can feel your pulse against his grip, and he hears the breath you draw in.  He holds you like that until you have the courage to look at him, and he smiles at you to put you at ease.

“I’ll finish up,” he tells you, his voice low.  “Why don’t you go get a bottle of wine and some glasses?  We can have a drink on the couch.”

You hesitate…then nod.  It shouldn’t be a turn-on, but Dave loves the hesitancy, then the obedient way you stand up and do exactly as he says.  It’s not hard for him to imagine other things he could order you to do, the same uncertainty before you obey him.

-----

The wine is Moscato-adjacent.  It’s one of those local vintages made with fruits other than grapes, and far too sweet for Dave’s taste, but you had picked it out at the grocery store, so he sips it carefully and hides his winces when the cloying sweetness burns against the back of his throat.

You?  You nearly gulp it down, and he realizes how nervous you are to be here:  alone on a couch beside him, the room dark except for the lit-up Christmas tree and the crackling fire in the fireplace.  It’s romantic, but you’re his employee, and he swears he can feel you flailing out of your depths to find yourself in this moment.

“Easy,” he says.  He stills your hand when you reach for the bottle.  You’ve bolted down the first glass so fast, and Dave doesn’t want you drunk.  He doesn’t even want you tipsy.  He wants just the barest bit of your nerves soothed, but he wants you fully in control of yourself. 

He wants you to be completely, stone sober when you beg him.

“Slow down,” he continues.  “You don’t want to overdo it.”

You laugh, a nervous giggle that spills out of your mouth, and you start to say, “I just…” but you trail off, don’t finish the sentence. 

What were you going to say, Dave wonders?

I just am nervous.

I just think this is too much.

I just think it’s wrong.  It’s too soon.  It’s too complicated.  It’s too unseemly.  What will people think, if anyone ever finds out?

“It’s okay.”  He says it soothingly.  He eases your empty glass out of your other hand, and he sets it down along with his own mostly-full glass, but he does it with one hand—his other, he keeps wrapped around your wrist, unwilling to break his hold on you.

“Mr. York…”  You start, and he hears the nerves in your voice.  He hears the wobble in your words, the faint tremor, but he also swears he can hear desire too—a huskiness to your voice, the slightest rough edge.  And you squirm in your seat, just a bit, but you don’t try to pull away from him.

“Mister York?  Since when did I become Mister?”  It shouldn’t be so hot, you calling him that, formal with the tremble in your words, but then you breathe out his first name—Dave—and you draw it out, and that’s even hotter.

His hand on your wrist, he pulls you to him, tugs your upper body towards him, and you let him.  You go willingly, but your eyes widen.  In shock?  Fear?  Lust?

“Tell me you want this,” he murmurs, his face inches from yours.  “If you don’t, say so now, and we’ll forget it ever happened.”

The tip of your tongue darts out, licks nervously against your lower lip.  “It’s just…”  You take a breath, try again.  “It’s just complicated.”

“That’s not a yes or a no, baby.”

You huff and offer him a tremulous smile at his use of a nickname, so he adds, “it’s a simple question.”

You hesitate, and Dave wonders if you’re really conflicted about it.  If you’re weighing how your life will change depending on how you answer…

…or if you just don’t want to seem eager, because you nod, then whisper “yes, I do want this,” and when he bridges the remaining distance between you, you’re right there, ready and eager to slot your mouth over his, to part your lips to his searching tongue, to cup his stubbled face with your free hand.

-----

Other men might take you then and there.  They might claim you right on the couch, in front of a dying fire and a Christmas tree sparkling with lights.  They might rush it, make it some sweaty, sad fumble, then parting to each slink to separate bedrooms.

Dave York has always enjoyed the long game.  If he were a game hunter, he would enjoy it better to sit in a tree stand for hours before dawn.  He would relish the cool planning, the stalking, the calculating and recalibrating as needed.

Dave York doesn’t fuck you just yet.  He wants to give you a taste, just a morsel, because he wants you slavering for it.  He wants you looking at him with those wide eyes, that lower lip caught between your teeth, as you beg him for more.

So this night, he only pushes you gently back against the couch as he kisses you.  He lowers himself onto you—lets you feel the weight and heft of his body against yours, lets you feel how he can press you into the couch with his weight.  He lets you feel the length of his growing erection where it presses against your hip, and each little whimper makes him harder.

He kisses you deeply—tastes the glass of Moscato you gulped down, tastes the sweetness of you beyond the tart, sweet wine.  He slides his tongue against yours, licks the inside of your mouth, and he smiles inwardly when you shyly try to do the same.  You are mostly led by him but there’s little movements—your tongue pressing back against his, say, or the upward press of your hips as you search for friction—where you try to lead too.

He braces himself with one hand, which allows the other to roam free.  He cups your flushed face, feels the heat of your blushing.  He draws his hand down, traces a path down your neck, circles his palm there, feels how much he can fit in the span of one palm.  Not because he likes choking—he’s never been into breathplay or anything so risky, but he does like the tame feel of his hand partially around your neck with the feel of your pulse and the ragged breaths you pull in.

Then lower.  He grasps the softness of your breast, and even through the sweater and bra, he can feel your pebbled nipple.  He brushes the pad of his thumb over it, back and forth, and it makes your hips lift up again…and then you groan when you find nothing to meet you, no friction and no touch.

“Be patient,” he whispers in your ear.  He nips at your lobe, darts his tongue against the whorl of your ear, and you whimper at the sensation of his hot breath fanning over you.

He moves his free hand lower still.  He finds the hem of your sweater, snakes his hand under it.  Then he finds the waistband of your leggings.  He sends up a silent prayer that he gets to live in a time and place where leggings are a thing—no tricky buttons or zippers, just an elastic waistband so easy to slip his hand under, and he cups your mound through the soft cotton of your panties.  Dave chuckles near your ear, then lifts his head to look at you because you’re already wet there, the damp cotton cleaving to you as he skates his fingers over you.

“Bad girl,” he whispers.  “Getting wet for your boss.”

He’s watching you as he says it, and he sees the flash of hurt that crosses your face before your pupils get wider and your lips part, as you breathe out a heavy breath.  You’re such a good girl; Dave obviously vetted you before ever letting you into his girls’ lives.  Straight A student, honors, full ride in college.  Not even a speeding ticket in your history.  He bets you’ve never been called bad, never been a bad girl, and it seems to hurt you for a beat before you embrace this tamest step outside of your erotic comfort zone.

Dave has so many more steps he wants to lead you on.  He wants to take your hand in his and lead you into darker, deeper waters.  He imagines spanking you, binding you, blindfolding you.  He imagines twisting your innate desire to please into something sensual; he imagines training you to greet him on your knees.  He imagines rewarding you, calling you a good girl instead, fucking you senseless until you are left overstimulated and weeping, ruined for any other cock but his.

“Is this just from right now?” he continues, and he strokes you through your soaked panties, feels how they are molded to your folds and cleft.  “Or have you been thinking about this?”

“I don’t—”

“Tell me.”  He pinches you lightly—not enough to hurt, but the sensation pulls a gasp from you, and your hand flies up to grasp his bicep where his bracing arm is near your head.  “Tell me why you’re so wet.”

“I’ve been thinking about this.”  It comes out a whisper, barely audible.  Tinged in shame, and that’s the first thing Dave will burn out of you.  Guilt.  Shame.  He’ll break you down and tear those useless emotions out of you.

“When?”  Another light pinch, another gasp.  Your hand grips his arm harder, and Dave will see dusty little bruises there in the morning.

“Since….ah, since a while.”  Another pinch, and you add, “over the summer.”

The summer.  When Dave was around more due to his busy period at word dying off.  When Dave ran each morning and returned home to find you cleaning up the breakfast mess, when he shed his sweaty shirt and walked through the house on his way to shower.  When he pretended not to notice the way your eyes followed him each step, and when he pretended like he needed a glass of cold water, shirtless, that he drank down in your eye line.

Bad girl indeed.

“You touch yourself to the thought of me?”  Here he moves his hand, shifts it to slip under the lacy band of your panties, and he’s delighted to feel a strip of damp curls there, happy that you haven’t shaved or waxed yourself bare.  He drags his fingers through them, then finds your clit, slick and swollen, and he touches you lightly there.  Strums you with his thumb and chuckles at the keening whine that tears out of your throat.

“Answer me.  You touch yourself, thinking about me?”

“….yes.”

“Like this?”

“S-sometimes.”

“Not every time?”

You fix him with a pleading look, but you’re barely able to hold his gaze for long.  When he brushes his lips over your cheekbone, he can feel how hot your face is.  This is a challenge to you, possibly humiliating, but also arousing because you continue to lift your hips, chasing the touch you’re desperate for.  Such a soft little thing, the softest in the world, and yet you’ve been touching yourself to the thought of him.

Dave stills his hand, and he chuckles again at the groan of disappointment you make.  “Tell me or I stop.”

You swallow, nod.  “Sometimes I…I have a vi…a vibrator.”

He can imagine it; a sad little tucked-away piece of silicone or plastic.  You probably pull it out in the darkness of your room, ashamed at pleasuring yourself.  You probably bury it under your socks and blush when your hand brushes against it when you’re putting laundry away.

He hums, considers the mental image that rises to his mind.  Your legs spread under the covers, running the toy over your clit, maybe pushing it inside you.  Imagining it was him instead.

Not that different from the times he’s gripped his own cock, stroked himself in the shower or in his room and pretended it was you instead of his hand.

Dave could demand to know your fantasies.  He could make you tell him what scenarios you’ve used to get off to him.  Him bending you over the kitchen counter?  Him fucking you in the shower?  Him sneaking into your bedroom at night, sliding under the covers and slipping his already-hard cock into your tight little pussy?  He could make you blush harder and demand to know these things, but he wants to take this slow, so he kisses you instead, murmurs his thanks, calls you a good girl for answering his questions, and when your face lights up at the praise, Dave pushes one thick finger into you and draws the sweetest, throatiest groan from you.

Other men might take you then and there, but Dave only finger-fucks you.  He goes so slow, eases it out, pushes it back in so you feel every goddamned bit of him entering you.  He keeps his thumb firm on your clit, and just the pressure makes you whimper each time he presses a little harder.

He adds a second finger and feels the delicious stretch as your pussy cedes to him.  You’re unbelievably warm, slick, and your pussy twitches and pulses around him each time he breeches the confines of your body.  It’s tight, but you’re nervous, and each bit of praise—good girl, such a good fucking girl for me, just relax and let me make you feel good, baby—makes you unclench a bit more.  You relax, and you find the rhythm that he fingers you, and you lift your hips to meet his fingers.

When he adds a third finger, you hiss at the thickness of it, the tight fit.  He stills, watches your face for any pain, and when he doesn’t see any, he continues.

Three fingers is a good start to preparing you for his cock, he thinks.  He imagines the feel of pushing into you, mounting you, and he imagines your fingers digging into his shoulders as he bottoms out in you.

In due time.  Now he fingers you, he scissors his fingers inside you and feels the answering throb in his erection each time you whine or whimper or groan, the sweetest symphony of sounds he’s able to pull from you.  When he starts circling your clit with his thumb, when he crooks his fingers inside you, pressing gently until he finds the spot that makes you gasp out his name, but you call him Mister York again, and it unlocks something inside him, the power you’re letting him have over you.  He dips his head and sinks his teeth into the side of your neck, right at the pulse point, and you gasp again.  Your other hand flies up and cradles the back of his head, and you twist your fingers through his hair, but you don’t pull him away—you hold him there, and he licks against the dimpled marks he’s left in your skin, he breathes against the wet line on your neck, and he’ll see a lurid bruise there in the morning too that will make him instantly hard.

“You’re going to come for me,” he growls against your neck.  “You’re going to be a good girl and come when I tell you.”

And his mind boggles at the possibilities with you because you do exactly as he says.  You nod at his order, and you press your hips in time to his searching fingers, and he feels when your orgasm approaches because you lose much of your embarrassment.  You swear in a hoarse whisper against his head—oh fuck, D-Dave, fuck fuck fuck, I’m close, I’m gonna, oh, don’t stop—and you spread your legs wider to make room for his hand, and the lurid sound of his hand working against your wetness doesn’t seem to even register to you.  The entire living room smells like sex and you don’t care, and when you gasp and buck your hips up into his hand, he feels your orgasm break around you:  the pulse of your cunt gripping his fingers, the hot slick of cum that coats his hand, the way your body shakes under his.

He fingers you through it.  He draws out your pleasure until you shove at him lightly, tell him it’s too much, and he stops.  He feels the tension of your orgasm—the arching body, the trembling—leave you, and you lay underneath him, sated and heavy with your release.

Dave draws his hand out from under your clothing, and he straightens the hem of your sweater where it rode up a bit.  Then he fixes you with an unblinking stare and lifts his hand to his mouth, and he smiles at your shocked expression as he licks his fingers clean.  Then, with the taste of you on his lips, he lowers his head and kisses you again—deep and slow, so you can taste yourself too.

“Good girl,” he tells you when he breaks the kiss.  “You’re going to be such a good girl for me.”

#dave york #dave york imagine #dave york x reader #dave york x you #kinktober 2023 #tropes and tales #the equalizer 2

[tropes-and-tales-archives]

Sonny Carisi: Second Chances, Part Four

WC: 6725

TW: Idiots in love; smut (PiV, protected); 18+ only.

AN: This is part of a mini-series. The rest can be found here.

You didn’t sleep with Sonny that night.  You definitely wanted to, but something made you slow down.  Maybe it was his admission that he didn’t feel like he deserved to be happy.  Maybe it was how he see-sawed between eagerness and hesitation.  He seemed to want to be with you, and he seemed to expect you to hurt him.  You wanted to make sure that when you finally slept together, he knew it was because you wanted him – not because he was some convenient rebound.

So instead of sleeping with him that night, you cuddled up against him on your couch and just talked.  And you got to the bottom of some of Sonny’s hesitation – he had a lengthy history of terrible first dates. 

Once he got started talking, it was hard to stop him.  There was a date in the eighth grade at an arcade where the girl he came with left with another boy.  There was a Yankee game in high school where the girl ghosted him after the fourth inning.  There was the date in college when Sonny, trying to act like a grown-up, took a girl to a jazz club.  The date was going well, he told you, until the woman let slip that she only was on a date with him to make her real boyfriend jealous.

“And then I screwed up our first date,” he said.  He sounded so sad that you couldn’t help but press a kiss to his mouth before you pulled away.

“You didn’t screw it up,” you admonished him.  “Besides, you ended up with a second date, so that doesn’t seem like a failure to me.”

He turned and gave you a look that reminded you of a dog in an animal shelter commercial, giant blue eyes and a pout.  “But will I get a third date?”

You laughed at him.  “Definitely.”

You sent him home shortly thereafter (with the leftover lasagna, after he tap-danced around asking for an extra piece to take home), and then you sat up for a while, thinking.  Sonny was so selfless and sweet, and he seemed to never have much nice done for him in return.  You decided to plan the third date that you promised him.

********

All you had told Sonny was to dress casually.  “Not date-casual,” you told him.  “I’m talking jeans, a t-shirt, sneakers.”  He started to protest, but you cut him off.  “If you aren’t dressed like a boy in middle school, I’m going to call your grandmother and tell her that you were seducing me with breakfast strudels instead of cannoli.”

On Friday night, Sonny found himself waiting in his apartment, dressed in the nicest jeans he had, the cleanest sneakers he had, and a plain t-shirt that he hoped made him look like an adult instead of like a boy.  He had to do his hair twice – his usual gel-and-style did not match his attire at all, so he rinsed out all the product and left it more natural.

There was a knock on his door promptly at seven, and he opened the door to you.  You were in jeans and canvas sneakers too, and a Backstreet Boys tour t-shirt.  Your face was bare of makeup (that he could see), and your hair was pulled up into a high ponytail.  You looked almost criminally young, especially when paired with the toothy grin you had plastered across your face.

“C’mon,” you said.  You grabbed his hand and tugged him into the hallway towards the stairs.  “Our ride is waiting.”

But instead of a taxi standing on the curb, there was a beat-to-hell minivan with a bemused looking older woman in the driver’s seat.  You climbed into the middle seat, though, so Sonny followed suit, even though he was completely baffled. 

You were silent for the ride, so Sonny held his tongue, and in short order you were dropped at a corner in the Lower East Side.  The driver leaned across the passenger’s seat to call out to you, “I’ll pick you up here at eleven,” before she drove off.

“Doll, I have no idea what’s going on,” Sonny said. 

You smiled and took his hand again.  You tugged him down the street towards some unknown destination.  “It’s a re-do,” you explained.  “Your first date with a girl in the eighth grade at the arcade.”

Sonny faltered in his steps, and you stopped beside him.  “What do you mean?” he asked.

You bit your lip and thought for a moment.  “Well, you brought me breakfast every day and let me believe it was Nick,” you explained.  “You were giving me happy memories.  I thought maybe I could do the same thing.  You had bad first dates, so I thought we could re-do them.  I wanted to give you a happy memory.”

Sonny felt an unexpected sting of tears in his eyes that he covered up by looking down the street.  He cleared his throat.  “So eighth grade…”

“Eighth grade,” you agreed.  You gestured down your front.  “Hence the Backstreet Boys.  And our driver was my neighbor.  She has a mini-van, and I paid her fifty bucks to drop us off and pick us up.”  You grinned at him.  “Because we are thirteen and don’t have driver’s licenses.”

The tears threatened again, and Sonny didn’t bother to hide them.  He thought back to his first date, and it felt both a million years ago and just yesterday.  He remembered being so excited to go out with a girl – Leah – and he remembered feeling so adult to plan out an evening together. 

He also remembered the humiliation when Leah left with another classmate, and the mortification when his mother picked him up later, alone. 

“Doll, this is too much,” he protested weakly, but you shook your head at him.

“It’s exactly what you deserve.”  You started walking, pulling on his hand, and he followed.  “Cheap pizza and video games,” you added with a laugh.

Dinner was cheap pizza at a little pizzeria.  You both used a ton of napkins to mop up the grease that pooled on the slices, and you skipped the special on a PBR pitcher and stuck with soft drinks (“because we’re underaged” you whispered to Sonny).  Getting into the spirit of it, Sonny ordered a Mountain Dew, remembering how he was fueled by it back in middle school.

After that, you walked him across the street to a retro arcade where you paid for two all-access passes that got you unlimited plays.  Sonny immediately made a beeline to Street Fighter II, and you watched him bemusedly until you found a console of Burger Time in the corner that you camped out at for a while.

Then the two of you played Gauntlet together, you shoving him lightly when he accidentally shot your with arrows.  The night flew by, and before he knew it, you were glancing at your watch and telling him that “your mom” would be on her way.  You both left the arcade and started walking towards the pickup point.

“Did you have fun?” you asked him, and Sonny could only throw an arm around your waist and try to tug you to him for a kiss.  Which you dodged  in mock-horror.

“Whoa,” you said, taking a dancing step away from him.  “Were you that forward when you were thirteen, Sonny?”

He laughed at this.  “Seriously?”

You batted your eyes at him.  “I have a crush on Keanu Reeves, and I’m probably going to marry him when I’m older, but if you ask nice, I’ll let you kiss me.”

“Please may I kiss you?” Sonny said immediately, and you pretended to think about it before nodding. 

He stepped up to you and put his hands on your shoulders, then dipped his head and captured your mouth with his.  He could feel your lips curving into a smile against his mouth, so he pulled away. 

“What?” he asked, but you shook your head sadly.

“Sonny, I was thirteen once, and I kissed a thirteen year old boy once.  It did not go like that at all.”

Sonny pulled you back to him, dipped his head again, and as soon as his lips touched yours, he plunged his tongue straight into your mouth with zero finesse and skill.  You pulled away, laughing so hard that Sonny couldn’t help but chuckle too.

“You taste like Mountain Dew,” you said between peals of laughter.  “But that felt about right.”

Your neighbor picked you both up a minute later, and when the mini-van stopped at Sonny’s place, you stayed in the vehicle. 

“I’d come up with you,” you said apologetically.  “But I have an algebra test tomorrow.”

He could only wave goodbye as the automatic door slid shut, but when he went into his building, he took the steps to the second floor two at a time with a lightness in his steps.

-----

You planned the next date too, and Sonny found himself at Yankee Stadium on a Saturday afternoon as they faced off against the Orioles.  You looked like the girl next door again, in short jean shorts and those canvas sneakers.  Your t-shirt looked like a Yankees shirt, but when he looked closer, it just said “Local Sports Team” on it, making him smile.

You took the B train to the stadium and settled into a pair of nosebleed seats.  You shrugged at Sonny and explained that you didn’t have a lot of money to spend from your baby-sitting job, but you had enough for a few hot dogs and sodas. 

Sonny placed an arm over the back of your seat, and you obviously felt that was high-school appropriate because you didn’t fight him on it.  It was hot and humid, but a nice breeze came through often enough to keep it from being miserable.  And Sonny thought he’d go through any weather to spend time with you.

No woman had ever been so thoughtful with him, and it made him feel pleasantly pleased at the attention.  It made him feel seen.

At the start of the fourth inning though, you stood up and left your seat, promising to come back, but you were gone the entire inning, and Sonny remembered the original date.  Another humiliation, another moment where he felt like he wasn’t enough.  He started to wallow, but you reappeared just then.  You had a giant soft pretzel, almost as big as your head.

“Sorry I was gone so long.  The line was insane,” you said.  “Want to split this?”

After the game, you took the subway and then walked back to your place, and Sonny tried to think about what he would have done in high school.  Raised Catholic, he probably wouldn’t have had sex even if the option had been there – he was still too guilty and felt like a disapproving god was watching him from above.  Hell, he couldn’t even masturbate back then (or now, really), without feeling a flush of shame wash over him.

The two of you ended up on your couch, doing what his childhood priest would sternly call “heavy petting.”  You were stretched out underneath him, one of your legs hanging off the edge of the couch, while you made out feverishly.  Sonny’s hands roamed over your form, but he had to keep it over your clothes because you smacked him every time he tried to sneak his fingers under a hem.  You kept your own hands on his biceps or shoulders, letting them drift between the two locations on his sweat-dampened t-shirt.

He felt like a teenager again, and he rolled his hips against you in a languid motion to relieve some of the tension below the belt.  You seemed to enjoy it too, judging from the soft moans that you let slip every so often.  Sonny chuckled against you.  You pulled back a bit.

“What’s so funny?” you asked, and he laughed again.

“I just never thought that I’d be dry humping a girl at my age,” he replied.

You made a face.  “I hate that term,” you informed him.  “It sounds like something a dog would do to a couch cushion.  Call it ‘outercourse,’ please.”

“I never thought I’d be outercoursing a girl at my age,” he amended, and then he leaned back down to kiss you more, sliding his tongue into your mouth.

You shifted underneath him just a bit, and when Sonny felt that nearly unbearable tension again and resumed rolling his hips against you, you moaned louder.  You were perfectly placed under him, and if you were both naked, he’d be inside you – the thought alone made him feel dizzy.  He knew that you were holding off sleeping with him for some reason or another.  He didn’t press the issue, and you didn’t elaborate your reason to him.  He worried that you were still hung up on Nick, but if that were the case, why were you going to such effort for him?

But he realized with a start that you were starting to press back against his gentle thrusts, and even with the layers of clothing between you, he might be able to make you come just from the pressure and friction alone.  The thought made him even harder, which he didn’t think was possible, so he rolled his hips harder and plunged his tongue into your mouth in time with his thrusts.

You turned your head to the side, breaking the kiss.  “Sonny,” you whined, and he wasn’t sure if you were telling him to stop or to keep going.

“Is this okay?” he asked against your neck.  He pressed a kiss to the side of your neck, darting his tongue out to taste the salt of your sweat. 

“Sonny,” you repeated.  One of your hands drifted from his shoulder across to his back, fisting his damp t-shirt in your fist.  “Would you have done this in high school?” you asked as you panted underneath him.

“With you?  Absolutely,” he replied.  He moved against you again, drawing another moan from you.  “Though I definitely wouldn’t have understood a girl having an orgasm when I was sixteen.”

You huffed out a breathless sort of laugh.  “We should stop then,” you said with a groan.  “Keep it authentic.”

Sonny kissed your neck again, sucking against your soft skin.  “We should keep going instead,” he murmured against you.  “Authentic would have been you dumping me at the game.”  He pulled back and looked down at you.  Your face was flushed from a day in the sun and from desire, and your lips were swollen from kissing.  You looked gorgeous, and Sonny felt that too-familiar twist of love in his chest.

You surged up and kissed him gently on his cheek, then laid a hand over the side of his face too.  “I didn’t have an orgasm until college, Sonny,” you said with a smile.  “I didn’t even know what ‘orgasm’ meant in high school.”

“I did,” he replied with a grin, and you laughed underneath him.

“And I thought you were the good Catholic boy,” you teased.  You put your hands on his shoulders and pushed him gently off of you until you were both sitting side by side, Sonny surreptitiously trying to hide his obvious erection.

“Well, I felt guilty about it, doll.  Nothing more Catholic than that.”

Sonny only stayed long enough to calm down, and then he ordered a car and left, but not before setting a date for your next get-together.

-----

Now that Sonny was onto the game you were playing with your dates, he just went ahead and told you the name of the jazz club that he went to in college in a vain attempt to impress his date.  He picked you up at your apartment, and you looked like a vision in a dark blue wrap dress and heels.  Your hair was down, but there was a silk flower tucked behind one ear.

The jazz club was pretty much the same, just a bit more dingy than he remembered.  You each ordered old-timey cocktails and sat beside each other in a dim corner.  Sonny laid his arm around your shoulders, and you cuddled up against him and placed a soft hand on his thigh. 

The jazz was awful, or at least, Sonny didn’t understand it as a musical genre.  There was no discernable melody that he could follow, and it sounded like when Bella was young and started piano lessons and would just bang the keys at random.  You felt the same way because two drinks in, you leaned against him and whispered in his ear.

“Want to get out of here?”

“You sure, doll?” he asked. 

You nodded and winced as the flautist hit a particularly piercing high note.  “This music could qualify as torture under the Geneva Convention, I think.”

You both ended up at his place, making out in a way that felt familiar now.  When Sonny tried to progress to another plane, however, you still smacked his hands away lightly.  And when he whined, needy, against you mouth, you grinned at him. 

“It’s college, Sonny.  I didn’t have sex until after college.”

Sonny was incredulous.  “Seriously?”

You nodded.  “I was terrified of sex, honestly.  I always wanted to, but I’d get cold feet at the last minute because I envisioned getting pregnant or some exotic STD.”  You shook your head.  “Our college’s health clinic usually assumed that whatever was ailing you was an STD.  I remember having strep throat once and getting a pamphlet about gonorrhea.”

Sonny wanted to ask about your first time:  when and where and, most importantly, which man convinced you that he was a safe bet when other men hadn’t been.  He was already jealous of this unknown guy, and he worried that it had been Nick.  It couldn’t have been, though.  Or could it?

You didn’t sense his roiling emotions though, and instead you just curled up against him and nodded off after a while.  You’d both had a few long weeks at SVU with mandatory overtime due to being understaffed, and Sonny felt his own eyes growing heavy.

“Doll, do you want to stay the night?” he asked softly, and you stirred against him.  “We don’t have to do anything other than sleep.”

You sat up.  Your face was creased from being pressed against his shirt, and Sonny couldn’t resist reaching out to run his finger down it.

“Would that be okay?” you asked.  “Or would it be too tempting?”

He pulled you against him and kissed your temple, breathing in the smell of your shampoo.  “You’re too tempting just walking around the bullpen in your work outfits,” he murmured.  “But I’ll behave.”

********

You were in the bullpen early a few morning after your jazz club date.  Fin and Rollins were off duty, and Liv was at 1PP for some bureaucratic meeting.  Sonny arrived about ten minutes after you, and he placed a coffee and pastry on your desk in front of you with a wink.

Dating Nick, if you could have even called it that, had felt like work a lot of the time.  The guys you dated before him were much the same:  tons of effort to read and manage their moods, constantly waiting and then rushing depending on what they needed.  Waiting around for them to need you, rushing to get there when they did.  You realized sadly that you probably had never had a healthy relationship before.

Nothing about dating Sonny felt like a chore, not even planning those dates.  And if they had felt like work, it would have been worth it to see his face light up.  You wondered if Sonny had ever been in a healthy relationship before. 

You hoped against hope that maybe you could be that for each other.

You sipped your coffee and tried not to wolf down the cherry strudel that was still so warm that the icing had been absorbed into the flaky pastry.  After you were done (and after you licked your fingers on the sly), you made your way over to Sonny’s desk and sat on the edge.

“Detective Carisi,” you said formally.  “Any plans this weekend?”

He leaned back in his chair and grinned at you, the corners of his blue eyes crinkling.  “Maybe,” he said.  “I’m kinda seeing this girl.”

“Ah.”  You nodded knowingly.  “Sonny mentioned that you were dating someone.  How’s it going?”

He played along, but his eyes were soft.  “It’s going really well,” he admitted, his voice a bit lower.  “How’s it going with Sonny?”

“Also really well.”

“Look at the two of us, doing really well.”

You smiled at him for a moment, enjoying the playful conversation.  “I was thinking.  If you’re free on Friday, would you like to re-do our first date?  Meet you at the same place, bring me another flower…”

Sonny knitted his eyebrows together.  “Seriously?”

You nodded.  “You’ve said at least twice that you screwed up that date, and even if I don’t agree with your definition of ‘screw up,’ I’m happy to do a do-over.  You wear the same outfit, I’ll wear the same dress.”  You turned and looked around the bullpen to make sure it was still empty except for the two of you.  “But maybe I’ll wear something different underneath,” you murmured and raised what you hoped was a suggestive eyebrow. 

Sonny groaned and scrubbed his hands over his face.  “Doll, I can’t handle anymore cold showers,” he said.  “You can’t say stuff like that to me at work.”

You stood up straight and shook a finger at him in pretend remonstration, but you loved how flushed he got at the merest hint of dirty talk.  “Pull yourself together, detective.  And meet me on Friday, same time and same place.”

-----

True to your word, you wore the same fit-and-flare dress, dressing it down with the same white Keds.  And underneath, a set of lingerie that walked the slender line between sweet and sexy, in rosy pink.  You’d never admit it to Sonny because it would only embarrass him, but it matched the color he turned when he blushed.

True to his word, he turned up in the same clothes, and you each ordered the same dishes and recreated to the best of your memories your conversation.  After you ate, Sonny led you outside, placing the same gentle hand on the middle of your back to lead you out.  And he asked if you wanted gelato.

Since you were fixing mistakes in Sonny’s dating past, you placed your gelato order and waited.  When he started to order pistachio, you placed a silencing hand on his arm and tried to stop him.

“Pistachio?” you asked in a teasing lilt.  “Who orders that flavor other than old people?”

“I like it,” he replied only a little defensive. 

“Sonny, I love you, but pistachio?” you asked again.  “Seriously?  There’s so many better options…”  You gestured at the menu board with its myriad of choices.

He made a strange face at you, and you worried that your teasing had hit a sore spot, but he turned after a beat and ordered mango instead.  The two of you went to the same park and sat on the swings while you ate in companionable silence, and instead of asking about Nick, Sonny just ate his gelato thoughtfully and didn’t say a word.

When you were both finished, he gave you the same line about walking him home, and you threaded your arm through his and walked the few blocks to his place.  When you saw the bakery, you simply said that their pastries were amazing and thanked him again for bringing them to you nearly every morning.

And instead of asking him to drive you home, you asked him to take you to his home.  And he did.

Once you were inside his apartment, he suddenly seemed nervous, fidgeting with his keys before he sat them down on a small table in his entryway.  Then he ran his hands through his hair, over and over in a motion that looked nearly obsessive.

You reached out and took his hands in yours, stilling them.  “Hey,” you said softly.  “We don’t have to do anything.”

He gazed at you with his bright blue eyes before responding.  “Did you mean it?”

“Mean what?”

He coughed a bit and his ears turned pink, and you smirked a bit to see it.  “What you said at the gelato shop,” he clarified.  “Did you mean it?”

You furrowed your eyebrows.  “Well, pistachio was my grandpa’s favorite flavor…”

He cut you off with an impatient grumble in his throat.  “No, the other thing you said.”

You thought back, trying to remember what you’d said.  Then it hit you.  “I said I love you.”  You looked at him, saw the hope and the dread written plainly across his face in equal measure.  “Oh, Sonny…”

“It’s okay if you don’t mean it,” he rushed in.  “I mean…”

You rocked up onto your sneakered toes and kissed him, cutting off his words.  When you pulled away, you smiled up at him.  “I think I’ll just have to be prepared to kiss you every time I think you’re about to say something you’ll regret.”  Then the smile slipped off your face and you turned serious. 

You reached up with both hands and placed them on either side of his face so that he couldn’t turn away from you.  “Sonny, I do love you.  You’re a very easy person to love, though.”  He scoffed at you, so you kissed him again, relishing the feel of his soft lips against yours.

You could have listed out all the reasons you loved him.  You could have added more, but Sonny kissed you back, more urgently.  It was one of the most difficult things you’d ever done – delaying intimacy with Sonny – but you wanted to make sure he was absolutely certain that he wasn’t a rebound.  You broke the kiss to tell him as much.

“I want you to know that I want you for you,” you said seriously.  Your hands, still on his face, shifted to the back of his head until they were tangled in his hair.  “You are not just a convenient hook-up.”

“I know, doll,” he whispered back, but you still saw a shadow of doubt in his blue eyes, and you sighed.

“You don’t believe me,” you said as a statement of fact, and Sonny shook his head but you knew you were right.  “I’ll have to show you then.”

You took his hand and led him to the back of his apartment until you found his bedroom.  You pulled him into the room and shut the door behind him.  You took his hand, still clasped in yours, and raised it to your mouth.  You pressed a chaste kiss to the back of his hand, and then told him, “I love your hands, Sonny.  I love the way they feel when they’re touching me.”

He narrowed his eyes at you like he was trying to figure out if you were teasing him, so you continued.  You helped him remove his blazer.  You reached up with slightly shaking fingers and unbuttoned his checked shirt, then pushed it off of his shoulders too.  Then you untucked the hem of his undershirt, glancing up in permission and noting his slight nod.  He helped you pull it over his head, and it tousled his hair even more.

“I love your heart, Sonny.”  You pressed your palm over where his heart was thudding, strong and steady.  “I love how much care and concern you have for the victims you work with, and I love how kind and thoughtful you are.”

You looked up and saw him blushing deeply, but he looked oddly pleased at the praise.  You always guessed he had a praise-kink, and it looked like you were right.

You drew you hand over his chest, brushing against his nipples.  He drew a hitching breath as you did.  “I’m only so-so on your nipples,” you joked.  “Average, at best.”

He let out a surprised peal of laughter, and you giggled with him.  You pushed him gently towards his bed until he sat down.  You pulled off his shoes and socks and examined his feet.  “Feet are nice,” you told him with a grin.  “I could love these.”

“They’re pretty good on the dance floor,” he replied, and you crawled on top of him until you were straddling him.  His hands hesitated, then came to rest lightly on your hips.

“You going to take me dancing, Sonny?”  He nodded eagerly, and you shook your head.  “Make sure it’s to music with a beat.  No free-form jazz.”

He laughed again.  You sat up on him, holding yourself up a bit so that you were lightly settled over the bulge growing underneath you.  You reached down with a hand and ghosted it over his face, drifting from feature to feature.

“I love your eyes – how blue they are and how I can read your emotions in them.”  He closed his eyes as you drifted a finger over his lids, gentle as a night breeze.

“I love your cheeks and ears, and how flushed you get when you’re embarrassed or happy.”  He opened his eyes again as you touched his sharp cheekbones and then tugged on the lobe of one of his ears.

“I do not,” he said, defensive. 

“No?”  You leaned forward a bit, bringing your face closer to his so that you could stare into his eyes.  “So if I told you that I want you to fuck me senseless, nothing would happen?”

Three things happened:  you felt Sonny harden even further against you, and you heard him groan as his face turned bright red.  You dipped your head and kissed him gently, working your lips against him and enjoying the groans you were drawing from him.

You broke away.  “I love your mouth, by the way.  I love how it gets you in trouble and how it gets you out of trouble.”

“Do you prefer any particular way it gets me out of trouble?” he said, and his accent was notably thicker.  You ran a finger over his pink lower lip.

“I’d love for you to surprise me, Dominick,” and you noted how his blue eyes darkened at your use of his first name. 

You ran your hands through his hair, mussing it even further.  “I love your hair, too.  But more than that, I love what’s underneath it.  I love how smart you are, how funny.”

You ground yourself on him lightly the whole while, and he bucked his hips involuntarily against you.  “Anything else?” he asked, his voice husky.

“Hmm,” you pretended to think.  You hoisted yourself off of him, and you unbuckled his belt and unbuttoned his jeans.  He looked down at you through hooded lids, and you noted the hitched quality of his breathing.  He raised his hips up enough for you to pull off his jeans, leaving him in only his tented boxer briefs.

“You need to catch up, doll,” he said in a strangled voice, so you kicked off your Keds and pulled your dress over your head, revealing the lingerie you’d bought for Sonny.

It had its intended effect.  Sonny sat up and reached for you, placing his hands on your hips before sliding them around to cup your ass.  He pulled you closer to him and buried his face against your bare stomach.  You could feel his pillowy lips pressed to you, his hot breath…you drew your hand through the hair on the back of his head and tugged him away until his blue eyes were gazing up at you.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured, and coming from his mouth, it was the first time you believed it.  You let him pull you into his lap, straddling him again, and he moved his mouth to the mounds of your breasts, pushed up to obscene heights by the pink lace and wire of your bra.

You scratched his scalp and pulled his hair lightly as he kissed your breasts:  pressing gentle kisses along the exposed skin at the top, then kissing harder through the lace until he was sucking against first one nipple, then the other.  The wet lace and the pressure from his mouth made them grow hard, and he bit them lightly, pressing the edges of his teeth against them until you moaned at the faint sting of pain.  Then he soothed them with his mouth again until you moaned louder.

“Sonny,” you said.  “I had a whole thing worked out, and you’re distracting me…”  You bit off the last sentence with a groan as he reached up with one hand to pull the cup of your bra down.  He moved his head lightning fast, and his warm mouth was on you again.  His tongue worked against your nipple, and your hips ground against him.

“I thought you liked my mouth,” he mumbled, and the vibration from his words sent another shard of desire straight to your core. 

“I love your mouth,” you replied.  “There’s just other parts of you I still haven’t met yet.”  You rolled your hips against him so that he was crystal-clear on your meaning, and he responded by swiveling you around on the bed.  You scooted up until your head rested on a pillow, and he stretched himself alongside you.

He kissed your urgently, and his lips worked against your mouth until your lips were parted.  He slid his tongue into you, licking against your mouth, and you pressed your own tongue against him.  His hands roamed your body without clear meaning, cupping your breasts and thumbing your nipples before they stuttered their way down to your panties.  He cupped your mound there and groaned when he felt how wet you were through the fabric.

He rubbed you through the lace, his finger slipping along your slit.  “What’s this, doll?” he whispered.

“It’s all for you, Dominick,” you panted against him.  Hearing his name spurred him on, and he toyed with the hem of your panties before slipping a finger underneath to resume his stroking.

You’d waited so long for him, and you were afraid you weren’t going to last very long.  You could already feel an orgasm approaching.

“Please, Sonny,” you begged him.  You should hate how whiny you sounded, but you were beyond care at this point.  All you could focus on was Sonny – his swollen pink lips, his mussed hair, his fingers dipping into you and teasing you.

He obliged by pulling his hand away altogether, and he sat up and removed his boxer briefs.  He reached into his bedside table and found a condom.  You unhooked your bra and slid out of your panties while he tore open the foil and rolled the condom on himself, and you felt your mouth go dry when he turned back to you.

His blue eyes were dark with desire, and he crawled over you and lowered his weight onto you, pressing you into his mattress.  He leaned down and kissed you again, full of passion, his tongue plunging into your mouth as he swallowed your moans.  His cock was a heavy weight pressed against your hip, and you opened your legs to him.  He broke the kiss at this and gazed down at you.

“You sure, doll?  You sure you want to do this?”

You reached up and stroked his flushed face.  “I’m sure I want you, Sonny.  I love you.”

He groaned at this and reached down to line himself up with your entrance.  “Say it again,” he pleaded, so you told him, over and over as he slid himself into you slowly.  Once he was buried to the hilt, he shuddered, but then he kissed you firmly and replied, “I love you too.”

He set a languid pace, unhurried as he pulled out partway and paused before sliding back into your slippery depths.  He kissed you as he fucked you gently, and you whimpered at the sensation of being filled by him in both your core and your mouth.  He only broke away to catch his breath and pause in his thrusts, and you knew he was trying to make it last for both of you.

You were less patient.  You’d been running in a state of perpetual horniness from all of your dates with him, and the pleasant tension in your belly was almost unbearable.  You drew one leg up and wrapped it around his waist, changing the angle just a bit.  Sonny didn’t get the hint – or ignored it – and continued his unhurried thrusts.

“Sonny…” you whined against his mouth.  “Please.”

He huffed against you.  “I don’t want this to end,” he breathed. 

You laughed, a bit breathless.  “Sonny, when it ends, we can always go again.”

He pretended to think about it.  “Sold,” he said.  He picked up the pace a bit then, thrusting into you with more force.  You could feel him dragging along your entrance, delivering a delicious bit of friction to your swollen nub. 

“Just like that,” you exhaled into his ear.  “You feel so good, Dominick.”

He groaned at the praise and went a bit faster and harder, and you spurred him on with your words and your moans, and before you knew it, the tension in your belly snapped in an explosion of white stars behind your eyelids, and you raised off the bed to arch against him. 

“Fuck, Sonny,” you wailed, and his thrusts grew irregular and hard as he chased his own orgasm and fucked you through yours.  Your legs trembled underneath him, and you felt your core clenching him as waves of pleasure crashed through you.  He shouted your name and came too, shuddering against you before he collapsed on top of you.  He buried his head against your neck, and you felt his panting breath start to steady after a time. 

He raised his head to kiss you gently, then he gazed into your eyes.  “I love you,” he said solemnly, so you repeated it back to him just as serious.

Sonny pulled out then, and he disappeared for a moment to clean up and dispose of the condom.  When he returned, you had already turned down the bed and was tucked into his cool sheets.  He slid in beside you, and you laid your head on his chest and listened to his solid heart beating underneath you.

“You ready to go again?” you asked playfully, and he chuckled underneath you.

“It might take me a minute.  I’m not as young as I used to be.”

You propped yourself up on an arm and peered down at him.  “You mean to tell me that the man who drank Mountain Dew and played Rampage on one of our dates is an old man?”

“I didn’t say I was old,” he scoffed.  “I just said I wasn’t young.”

“Middle aged then.”

“No….”

“Due for a midlife crisis,” you cut off.

“No, I…”

“Gonna buy a pony car, find a secretary to seduce…”

He responded with a growl, flipping you onto your back and kissing you to silence you.  He worked his mouth against you until you were breathless, and you felt him hardening against your hip.  He broke away and you smirked up at him.

“That didn’t take long,” you noted.

“You have that effect on me,” he replied, but he smiled down at you with a strange expression on his face, and he pushed an errant strand of hair out of your face.  “You do know I love you though, right?  I’m not just in this for the, uh, physical stuff.”

“The sex?”  You smiled to see him blush; he would probably always be an altar boy at heart.  “I know that, Sonny.”  You reached down and stroked him, savoring the feel of him stiffening in your hand.  “And I love you too.”

You pushed him onto his back and then crawled on top of him until you were straddling him.  “Let me show you how much I love you.”  And you did, that night – and every night after.  Not always physically, but you always made sure you told him – and showed him – how much you loved him.  And he did the same for you.

#sonny carisi #sonny carisi x reader #sonny carisi imagine #law and order svu #law and order svu fanfiction #tropes and tales

[untetheredsymphony]

I LOVE the one where whumpee sways from exhaustion and blood loss, and they’re all woozy and using the wall to help them along and all the while they leave a smear of blood across the wall wherever they’ve touched it

#This is so Ragnarr coded #comet’s tales #whump tropes #whump community #whump ideas #whumpee #whump prompt #whump #whump writing #whumpblr #comet’s prompts

[chaoticfvckingdisaster]

Characters that had their humanity ripped away from them forcefully I love <<33 you

#my fav trope fr #just something about it idk #jim lake jr #zane julien #danny phantom #jim lake #tales of arcadia #trollhunters #jim lake junior #troll jim #zane ninjago #ninjago zane #lego ninjago #ninjago #danny fenton #dp #<33 #chaotic is thinking again

[r26yz]

day 3 - dnd

#procreate #type : fanart #felix hugo fraldarius #dimitri alexandre blaiddyd #fire emblem 3 houses #fe3h #byleth eisner #dimilix #dmlx #dimilix week 2024 #i really tales from the stinky dragon puppet show #and that dmlx trope is hilarious #give me 100 more of that