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wint3r-h3art · 1 year

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His Sacrificial Offering | Namor

Summary: You were sent to be his, and his you shall be; both body and soul

Word count: 2.0K

Warnings: brain rotting smut ahead. Little plot, just thots. oral (female receiving), vaginal fingering, vaginal sex. Breeding kink, cum dumping, slight mention of possessive behavior. Romance undertone if you squint.

18+ ONLY | Minors DNI

A/N: Tenoch Huerta be pulling me out of my writing slump, and here is the result. I hope you liked it. Little plot, but somewhat coherent (I hope). No beta either, so if I do miss anything, I apologize. If you enjoyed this little blurb, comment and reblog is greatly appreciated 💛

Part 2

*** Do not copy, repost, or translate anywhere else.

Your eyes fluttered close as a long shaky breath drew out of you. Pleasure clouded your judgment–perhaps you were too drunk of this ecstasy that at this exact moment you have forgotten that you were no more than his offering.

His fingers dig into the soft flesh of your hips, imprinting his touch into your skin–burned to your very bone. Sweat trickled down your temples while your legs shook from the intensity of it all.

The desirous torture came to a close when Namor pushed his thick fingers inside your sopping pussy. Your body jolted, hips bucked forward as he pushed his digits all the way to his knuckle.

His name fell from your lips like an incantation–breathless and enamored by his touch. Your voice was desperate and eager, hoping it would be enough for him.

Namor’s breath wavered at the way you were squeezing his fingers–so tight, so eager, and oh so perfect for him. His little sacrificial offering.

His, he thought with a smirk etched on his lips, cracking his stern visage in that instant. His heart swelled with pride at the prospect, and suddenly his thought was replaced by his carnal instinct, and the thought of having you round, and heavy with his seeds excited him.

“Mine,” he muttered before his mouth latched onto your nipple. His velvety tongue flicked over the stiff bud. His cheeks hollowed as he was sucking on the soft mound. His eyes stared up at you again, and this time it felt more primal. It felt like you were burned alive while being doused by pure ecstasy all at once. You groaned as your body eagerly responded to his attention.

His lips moved to the valley between your breasts as he kissed his way southward. His tongue grazed on your skin, tasting the salt of your skin and marking you, leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake.

His mouth continued to move southward until he settled in between your thighs. His palms smoothed over the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. For a man his size, he was surprisingly gentle with you–perhaps, a bit too gentle.

Namor was trying to restrain himself not to be too rough with you. After all, mortals bruise and can get hurt easily. A part of him wanted to do more though, but his conscience said otherwise.

You sucked in your breath when you felt his mouth descend upon your throbbing core. All of your rationality flew right now as his warm, velvety tongue grazed over your swollen heat. It excited him how willing you were to be his.

His tongue swept over your swollen cleft again, this time he made sure to collect the slicked nectar on his tongue. A low moan reverberated from his chest, shooting right through your pussy. He glided his tongue over your opening, rimming it, pushing the tip into it that had you scrambled under his hold.

Namor kept you in place though by that strong, steely grip of his while he worked your swollen clit, reducing you to nothing more than a panting mess.

“My king…”

“Hmmm?” he asked as his mouth was still on your cunt, licking and fucking at your tight hole with shallow penetration.

“My king, please,” you gasped as your hips bucked forward to meet his mouth.

“Please what, my sweet?

You felt almost frustrated by the question, but you were in no position to be mad at him. You were his, and he was free to use you however he saw fit.

“Please let me come,” you pleaded almost pathetically as if he hadn’t let you do just that too many times over.

A gleam in his eyes made your heart shudder as he continued to lick at your fold and thrust his tongue into your tight hole that made you dig your heel into the soft bed. Your pussy was practically aching by the time you hit your first climax, but of course, the king wasn’t done with you yet.

Pulling back, Namor was now seated between your legs. His hand wiped off the gleaming remnant of your juice on his face. His hair was disheveled and messy. Some stuck to his forehead as perspiration dampened his skin. Raking his finger through his hair, he leaned forward and spoke.

“Bring your knees up to your chest. I won’t ask twice” he said in his deep timbre voice that sent a tremor straight through your glistening pussy. You were throbbing and aching to the point where you started clenching at the emptiness, wishing to have more of him. Even just a little bit of him was more than enough–it was more than you deserved.

Trembling, you complied. You felt so exposed and oh so vulnerable, holding your knees open for him. Uncertainty plagued your mind as many thoughts swam through your head, anticipating the treatment that awaited you.

Yet you trust him.

Every molecule in your body shivered with needs as you stared up to meet those beautiful, deep brown sapphire eyes–molten and warm like how he made you feel at the moment. You could have easily used you for his own pleasure–yet his touches had been nothing of that sort. You felt like you were meant to be his from the very beginning. It was expected that you would receive him and serve him as he sees fit, yet–

“Tell me who you belong to.”

It wasn’t a request. His voice was firm while his thick fingers traced your slippery folds. His eyes gleamed between your nether lips and your face. There was an underlying intensity behind his gaze, and it sent your nerves into a frenzy. Your body trembles again as he continues to stroke at your folds, coating them in your essence. You felt lewd in a way as you lay there, baring your most intimate part to him.

“You,” you mumbled as he crashed his lips into yours for the very first time, tasting yourself on his tongue. Your body strained beneath him as he worked you over with his fingers. You were so wet and so slick that he had no issue with adding his third digits. The man was dexterous and oh so talented with his hand that you felt another wave of an orgasm slowly slither its way up your spine.

Your legs shook as your wall fluttered around him as his pace quickened. He was fucking you so hard and so deep with his fingers that his chamber filled with nothing but the sound of your wet, squelching pussy being fucked relentlessly by the king himself.

A string of incoherent begging fell from your lips once more as you neared your release. In a fit of a throe of passion, you came with a shout.

His mouth covered you instantly, swallowing your sound. His tongue flicked over yours, licking and savoring your taste. His lips trailed down along your jawline, kissing whatever skin he found.

With a swift motion, he entered you with a low grunt. A soft gasp slipped past your lips as he began to move, slowly at first. Your fingers dig into his back, feeling the way his muscles strained and cored from the movement.

You clung to him as if he was the only anchor that was holding you down. Your chest ached. Your body throbbed with a need that you’d never thought you had. Your body burns from the feverish pleasure, shattering all of your resolves.

Namor was trying to be gentle at first. Yet the more plunge himself inside your velvety heat, the more he felt like he was being intoxicated, and with every minute he spent inside you, he felt like all of his control and common sense were slowly eroded into nothingness. Every cell in his body screamed for you, and in turn, his movement became erratic. He was fucking you, rutting into you with a ferocity that made your mind scramble.

No sounds came out of your mouth as if all the air had been fucked right out of you. You came with an uncontrollable rush. His name was the only thing you could utter because he didn’t stop. He was still fucking you relentlessly, driving himself into you.

His hands spread your legs wider, and his thick cock sank deeper. His grip on your wrist seemed to tighten, shoving you down into the plush bed. Drooled slipped out of your lips as he continued to pound into you.

Again and again, you came, sobbing with pleasure. You were practically begging him to finish you, to fill you up, and Namor did just that. It felt like hours later when he began to slow down as he rode out his release, pumping his lust into the depth of your body, emptying himself with a deep guttural groan that sounded like the sweetest sin.

You turned to look at him. Your lips parted, panting. Your hand fisted the sheet beneath you to the point where it was aching. Your legs shook as the remnant of his release sputtered out of you and onto the sheet below.

Namor was slowly coming back to his senses. Every part of him was attuned to you as he stared down at your fragile form–so delicate compared to his, yet you were the only thing that somehow made him lose his mind. The fact that you have easily accepted your role as his offering was enough to drive him to the edge once again.

You woke up sometimes later to find him looking at you.

You realized that it was the first time that you were looking at the king right in the eyes. Your face was warmed by the sudden rush of heat. Your eyes quickly averted, casting down to his broad chest.

You knew it was stupid and childish, but the memory of what he had done to you was replaying again, and the distinct ache between your legs was proof of that. The slippery feeling between your thighs was also proof of what he had given you. You wouldn’t be surprised if the seeds had already taken root inside your womb by how frequently he had bedded you.

You’re not complaining though. To be in his good Grace was everything you’ve ever wanted. He had been nothing by spoiling you, adorning you with jewelry from head to toe, dressing you up in whatever fine things he thought would suit you. You were his to play with, you accepted this without any objection.

“Are you afraid of me?”

The question puzzled you so that you found yourself frowning slightly. Namor fought the smile that threatened to form on his lips.

“No, my king,” you answered. You realized how weak and hoarse your voice was.

Namor’s gaze softened upon the realization that perhaps you were slowly coming back to your senses. His calloused fingers traced over your soft, delicate skin, leaving a trail of warmth in its wake. You shivered, and he felt it. Namor pulled you closer. His heat and scent filled your head, making you feel at ease for the moment.

“Then why are you not looking at me?”

The question was a tease really. He was curious as to how you would react to him. He knew you were well pleased by how many times you had shouted his name, but there was this pleasure of hearing it from your mouth that made him eager to hear.

You chewed on your lips. How do you explain to a god that you were thoroughly fucked and thoroughly satisfied? Indeed such admission was a taboo thing to utter out loud.

“You weren’t too shy that long ago,” he added. Your eyes briefly met with his, and you could feel the heat now completely enveloping your face.

“My king, I–”

“No matter,” he smirked as slowly spread your legs apart again and settled himself between them. “I just have to make you talk.”

He watched you swallow the way you watched his cock come to life. All of your rationality wavered once more between needs and common sense.

But you knew which one won on this one.

Namor took his time again to show you again that you were more than his sacrificial offering.

#namor x reader #namor x you #namor x y/n #namor #namor smut #tenoch huerta #namor fanfiction #namor imagine

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colormepurplex2 · 4 months

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Falling In Love At A Coffee Shop | MYG

▻ Falling In Love At A Coffee Shop ↳ ArtProfessor!Yoongi x Artist/CoffeeShopOwner!f.Reader ⤜ Strangers to Lovers, Cozy Romance ⤜ Coffee Shop/Art AU | fluff, smut ⤜ Rating: MA ⤜ WC: 8,028 ⤜ Summary: It’s like clockwork; you receive the same online order every weekday morning at eight o’clock: large decaf iced Americano, picked up promptly shortly after. His face has become familiar, as a part of your routine as the hiss of the espresso machine. Until, one day, that routine takes an unexpected turn, and you find yourself getting familiar with more than just his face. ⚠️ Very mild language, panic over student/teacher potential date (reader is a student, but she's the same age as Yoongi, just taking classes later in life than most), oral m receiving, fingering, kissing, mild dirty talk, cum swallowing, confessions of the heart

A/N: This is part of my 'Heartbeat Melodies' mini-series, where I write fics that are inspired by songs. If you'd like to hear the song that inspired this, you can find it here! A special thank you to @downbad4yoongi & @moonleeai for their amazing beta services!

Can also be found on: Ao3 | Wattpad

“Large decaf iced Americano,” you call out, barely glancing up from behind the counter.

A deep, familiar drawl pulls your attention, “That would be mine.” It’s only familiar for the fact you’ve heard that voice nearly every day for the last six months.

Your eyes snap up from the tablet, where the next online order has come through, to meet warm brown ones. “I should have known,” you reply before you can think better to bite your tongue. Heat suffuses your cheeks. You pull your lips between your teeth to stifle the groan of embarrassment that begs to be released.

The man chuckles, absently using a knuckle to push up the hornrimmed glasses sitting on the bridge of his nose. “I don’t know if I should be offended or honored by that comment. But, I guess I do come here a lot.”

Nearly every day for the last six months, at least. That’s how often he comes here—to your coffee shop. It’s tiny, barely big enough for a handful of small tables and chairs. But it’s yours, and you’re proud of it.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean for that to seem…” you trail off. Not sure how to finish that thought because you’re not entirely sure how you meant it or why you said it other than the fact you’re a bit frazzled this morning and apparently forgot your mouth filter at home. It was a late night last night for you. It's not an excuse, but still.

He waves a large hand in the air, dismissing your apology. “Please, it’s quite alright. I’ll take it as flattery; could use a little boost to my confidence anyhow.”

That almost makes you sputter in disbelief. There’s absolutely no way this man needs any flattery. Surely, he comes by it in droves. Because, well, he’s honestly so gorgeous it should be criminal.

His hair is fluffy, somewhere between charcoal grey and black, though the warm lighting of your cafe gives it a golden honey halo effect. The eyes behind his black-rimmed glasses are dark swirls of espresso that match his coffee order—a straight nose sitting above soft, pink lips that have a light glossy sheen to them.

As usual, he’s wearing a pressed slack and jacket combo, a cream-colored collared shirt underneath with a bold print tie. His choice of ties is what drew you to him in the first place, and made you pay a little closer attention to the mysterious man behind the large decaf iced Americano.

You clear your throat, daring to be bold, while it seems you’ve no filter to stop you. “Well, if you ever need further flattery, you know where to find me.” It’s clear that you give him an assessing once over, his eyes locked onto yours as you do so.

“Do you paint?”

The question throws you off, nearly making you drop the tablet in your hands. Your fingers flex against the case, your thumb brushing along the glass screen. Busying yourself with reviewing the next order on the screen, you turn, giving him your back as you decide how to answer his random question. You’ve never actually had a conversation with him; this man that you feel like you know yet is a complete stranger.

“Why do you ask?” you deflect as you go through the motions of scooping grinds and swapping out the portafilter for a freshly filled one. However, you know it’s not always polite to answer a question with a question; you’re just not sure how to decipher his curiosity or where it came from to begin with.

The bell above the door rings, and you wince as the espresso machine gurgles and hisses loudly as you mechanically pop a cup in the machine and hit the brew button. The noise fills the quiet space of the coffee shop. It’s not until the cup is filled, you’ve added two lumps of sugar, and you’re grabbing a lid that the man responds.

“There’s paint under your fingernails. Or, at least, what I would guess is paint.”

Glancing down at the cup in your hand, you take in the colorful myriad of flecks coating your skin. The colors fill the grooves of your knuckles and hug around the bed of your nails.

“Double espresso with two sugars,” you announce, ripping your gaze from your hand to the interior space of your cafe. A woman steps around the man, giving you a hurried smile as she holds out her hand to receive the cup. You hand it off. “Have a good day.”

Giving the cafe's inside a quick glance, you ensure all the customers within are taken care of. A college student is busy pounding away at their laptop keyboard in the corner, utilizing your free wifi. A half-empty cup of hot cocoa sits cold and abandoned beside them. A trio of friends sit at your only table big enough to seat more than two people, laughing softly and sipping hot lattes and teas. No one seems to need your attention; except the man still standing there, large decaf iced Americano in hand.

You lick your lips, a nervous habit you picked up after endless stressful nights pouring your heart, soul, blood, sweat, and tears into opening the small cafe. Most believed it would flop; others rallied to your side and helped your dream come true.

“Look, sorry if I’ve overstepped somehow,” he begins, but you shake your head, letting him know he’s not.

Gesturing at the wall behind the man, you finally answer, “In my spare time.”

He glances over his shoulder, eyes zigzagging across the giant unfinished mural covering the windowless back wall of the cafe.

“That?” he asks. “You’re painting that?”

It’s hard to decipher if that’s disbelief or awe coloring his voice.

“I am,” you answer a bit hesitantly.

“Wow!” he exclaims, a giant grin spreading across his face, crinkling his eyes at the corners. “I’ve been meaning to ask after the artist every time I come in and see something new added, I just uh,” he brings his free hand up and rubs it across the back of his neck, eyes dropping to the floor under his feet, “well, could never bring myself to.” It’s pretty, the way his cheeks take on a flush of color as his eyes cut to you from over the frame of his glasses. “It’s wonderful work.”

“Thank you.” You can’t help your own flush of shyness at his praise.

“So, uh,” he lifts his cup and gives it a swirl, the ice sloshing around inside, before taking a small sip through the straw, “I know you probably see it on the order, but for the sake of propriety, my name’s Yoongi.”

Min Yoongi, to be more precise, you know. It’s a name you’ve read so many times it’s ingrained in your mind. However, it’s still nice for him to offer it to you. Willingly establishing your connection one step further than his coffee order.

You feel so silly tapping the name tag on the front of your apron, but you do it before you can think better of it, mumbling your name as if he can’t read it for himself after you brought direct attention to it. “Sorry, I’m not normally so weird,” you give a shaky laugh, willing yourself to shut up before you chase him off from how awkward you’re being.

Something changes in his demeanor, his eyes taking on a light twinkle that sits somewhere between mischief and wonder. “I like weird,” he offers casually as if that doesn’t make your stomach swoop and your heart beat a little harder. “Maybe we can talk more about your art sometime. Maybe over dinner? Or lunch if dinner is too forward.”

If you were a cartoon, you’re confident your tongue would actually be tied into a jumbled knot right now with you frantically trying to talk around it, a comical scene for sure. Yet, there is no knot, just a thick feeling that you have to swallow past. “Um, yeah, sure. That would be great. Dinner…or uh, lunch. Both. Either one. Though, dinner might be better considering my hours.”

Yoongi glances at the vinyl hours printed on the front window by the door. They’re backward from his vantage point, but you assume he has no issue reading them, considering he turns back to you and asks, “How does seven work for you?”

“Tonight?” The beating of your heart lurches again, and you can barely hear him over the rushing in your ears.

“Yeah, if that’s not too soon. Perhaps next week, if that’s better? I don’t want to come on too strong. Or well, rather, what I mean to say is, don’t feel pressured.” You can tell he’s feeling hesitant now, trying to backtrack and offer you a way to politely decline his offer for dinner tonight. You didn’t mean to come off sounding so put out. You just weren’t expecting his request to be for tonight.

Mentally, you dig through your schedule. You’re not closing today. Marvin comes in at noon to help with the lunch rush, and then you leave at four to make it to your five o’clock class. It would be today of all days that your new art class starts. It’s the beginning of the fall semester at the local university, and you just so happened to decide to take a few art classes they were offering, the first of which starts tonight.

The class should only be around an hour long, with plenty of time to get home and change before the date. Is it a date? Or just strangers getting together to talk about art? Isn’t that what a date is anyway, though?

“Seven. Tonight. That would be great.”

“Okay, perfect. Can I pick you up? Or we can meet here if that works better.”

It’s endearing he’d offer, both picking you up and meeting in a familiar place. Considering you live above the coffee shop, though, it makes no difference. Though, he doesn’t necessarily know that.

“Here is fine.”

“Wonderful. Have you tried that steak house on the corner yet?”

“The new one that opened last week?” He nods. “I haven’t, no.”

“Perfect.” Yoongi smiles. “Here, at seven. Consider it a date.” His smile falters, and his brows pinch, forming a line between them. “Not that I…well, it’s not that…it doesn’t have to be…if you don’t want this to be a date, that’s—”

“It’s a date,” you confirm, giving him what you hope to be a warm smile to ease his mild panic. “I’ll see you then, Yoongi.”

“See you then,” he responds, tacking your name on at the end in his deep drawl. The way it sounds coming from his mouth should be added to one of those spicy erotica audiobooks you may or may not have downloaded on your phone.

Just as Yoongi is leaving, it’s like the world finally takes a breath, and the exhalation that follows brings with it a rush of early morning commuters seeking their morning fix. The everyday bustle and hubbub of the day filter back in, and you’re soon lost to the sway of the shop, coffee, tea, and cocoa. It all comes alive beneath your nimble fingers, much reminiscent of the way holding a brush makes you feel: a thrill of the soul with each pour.

☕☕☕

Yoongi

In all Yoongi’s years of teaching, he’s never been late to a class, especially on the first day of the semester. Yet, he’s nearly fifteen minutes late getting into his classroom this morning. Students are already filled in and scattered around the theatre-style seating. No one says anything. It’s far too early in the morning for smart mouths and snarky remarks about his tardiness. Not that he would expect that from any of the students anyway.

“Good morning, welcome to Art 320. I’m Professor Min.” He drops his bag and coffee off on his podium at the front of the classroom. Turning to the large chalkboard behind it, he scrawls his name to the side and then begins to write directions. “We will begin with Chapter 1, ‘Mediums and Forms’, in your textbook. Please read quietly, and I’ll be with you all in a moment.”

The day goes on, class after class, and the familiar monotony of it brings Yoongi a sense of peace. This is familiar territory; he’s in his element, not like this morning in the coffee shop. He felt totally out of control and swept up in the swirl of uncertainties and possibilities.

To say he’s relieved you agreed to go to dinner with him would be an understatement. From the moment he decided to change up his routine to check out the cafe Namjoon wouldn’t shut up about, he’s been hooked not only on the impeccable decaf iced Americano, nor the beautifully decorated and painted interior but on the smiling face behind the counter.

Yoongi feels a bit self-conscious thinking about how much he thinks about you. He’s always been too intimidated by the idea of speaking more than a few passing words to you. It’s like every time he gathered up the courage, it would abandon him at the last moment. Namjoon calls it a crush, Yoongi calls it frustrating.

The whole conversation this morning is a bit of a blur to him. Yoongi swears once he opened his mouth it was nearly impossible to stop the word vomit from gushing out…and the next thing he knew, you were agreeing to a date with him tonight.

The day's last class rolls around, and Yoongi feels much lighter as he steps out of his adjoining office and into the classroom to welcome the new students. A few offer him quiet hello’s, some he’s seen from other art classes he’s monitored across the entire department and fine arts program.

Turning his back as the last few students filter in, he makes the same spiel he has at the beginning of every class. “Good morning, welcome to Art 320. I’m Professor Min…”

And so it begins, the beautiful dance of teaching and introducing fresh minds to the concept of forms and mediums. Yoongi is sure he could recite the entirety of Chapter 1 from memory now, with as many times as he’s gone over it today.

“What if you decide you don’t like your form or medium halfway through the project?” a student from the front row asks after Yoongi explains the medium and forms requisite for the final project for this class.

“We’re going to spend plenty of time during the first part of the semester testing out different mediums to know which best suits each of your individual tastes and needs. Regarding the form, I recommend choosing something you most likely won’t tire of. Something that means something to you but also isn’t so complex that you frustrate yourself and burn out before you can complete the project. You’re welcome to, at any time, bring me an idea of the form you’re considering, and we can talk about the intricacies and any potential issues that might arise with using it.”

Another question comes from somewhere in the middle, “Can we choose people, too?”

“A form can be anything that inspires you. If that happens to be a person, then of course. However, note that portraiture isn’t covered until Art 322, but I’ll do my best to help if that’s what you choose.” Yoongi glances at the clock, noticing there are only a few minutes left of class. “Let’s take the last few minutes to wind down, pack your things. If you have any further questions concerning your final project forms and mediums, please don’t hesitate to email me. Also, my office hours are open Tuesdays and Thursdays from two to six.”

As Yoongi turns to begin putting his things away from his podium, his eyes slide across the faces of his last class students, trying to cram them into his mind for the sake of remembering. He always likes to be as personable and approachable to his students as possible; knowing names and faces is always a good place to start.

He has to do a double take as his eyes flick over the very top row. The shock is felt throughout his entire body. It’s not that he’s surprised to see a face he already knows. It’s just that he wasn’t expecting it…wasn’t expecting to see you. Mild panic makes him jerk around, hands gripping at the papers on his podium, shuffling them mechanically.

The first thought that crosses his mind is he can’t possibly be going on a date with one of his students. Surely you’re just here to…to what? He turns over one of the papers, quickly scanning his roster that he hadn’t bothered to check yet. It doesn’t take long for his eyes to snag on your name.

Unease settles across his shoulders. He hates to cancel the date, as he was really looking forward to it, but it’s just…not right, right? There’s a line he shouldn’t cross with his students, even one who he is sure is his age and not the typical college freshman. Yoongi knows this because maybe, perhaps, he might have spent his lunch hour googling you and the cafe. You’re in your early thirties, given the birth year that was viewable on one of your social media pages, and own the coffee shop, have for several years now…a full-ass grown adult—the perfect person to date.

Except now you’re his student. There’s some moral code there somewhere, something about the skewed power dynamic. The thought of going on this date should have red flags flashing in his mind. Yet…yet, no matter how much he tells himself to cancel, he honestly doesn’t want to. Surely, it wouldn’t hurt that much, right? A harmless date.

That’s what he’s still telling himself as he dismisses the class a few minutes later. He intentionally avoided looking in your direction, unsure if you’d be comfortable with him acknowledging you as one of his students or not.

Much to his surprise, as the bubble of sound dissipates, a soft voice reaches his ears from a few feet behind him, “Fancy meeting you here.”

Yoongi has been so consumed with his own feelings about going on a date with a student that he hasn’t even thought about how you might feel. Are you about to cancel on him? Does he try to convince you not to?

He slowly turns, the stack of papers clutched in his hands, glasses slipping down his nose, yet he doesn’t want to pry his fingers from the bundle to fix them. “Look, I understand if you’d rather not—”

“I’m fine as long as you are.”

He’s relieved for your interruption, for keeping him from saying those words out loud. “Are you sure? If I had known this morning that you’d be one of my students…” he trails off, because he’s not so sure that would have stopped him after all. Considering he’s wanted to ask you out for at least the last four months.

“I’m glad you asked me. Student or not. I promise not to make it weird if you don’t.” You give him a brilliant smile, coy and full of mirth but light enough to make his heart jerk inside his chest.

“No weirdness, got it,” he agrees, unable to help his own teasing smile.

“So, I’ll see you then?” you ask, hefting your canvas bag on your shoulder. His eyes flick to it, noting the splashes and swirls of fabric paint that cover the outside. Yoongi wonders if you painted it yourself.

He nods, letting his eyes drink you in one last time before you turn to go. You’re still wearing the same jeans and thin cable knit sweater from the coffee shop this morning. Even in such casual clothes, you are stunning. A work of art all your own. He doesn’t stop staring until the door to his classroom shuts behind you.

“Fuck,” he curses under his breath. It’s not out of irritation or anger, just an acknowledgement of how truly and utterly he’s got it down bad for you.

☕☕☕

Seven can’t come soon enough. It only took you thirty minutes to get ready, putting on a simple black dress and flats. It’s not too fancy, but it makes you feel far more put together than just jeans and a t-shirt.

At five til, you make your way down into the coffee shop from your upstairs apartment. All of the main overhead lights are off, leaving only the warm accent lights that line the menu board and the display case lights on. Even now, the space smells delightedly of coffee.

It’s kind of funny, the fact that you’re not a coffee drinker. Everyone finds it odd that someone who doesn’t drink coffee would aspire to open a coffee shop. What they fail to realize is you love the smell of coffee. The warm, roasted, mildly sweet notes are what you thrive on, better than any shot of espresso in your mind.

There is a street lamp right outside your shop, flooding the sidewalk with a pool of yellow light. Standing just within the glow is Yoongi, his back to the shop door. You watch as his head swivels, looking down both directions of the sidewalk, completely unaware that you’ll be coming from behind him instead.

The sound of the lock turning over startles him. He jerks around and laughs softly, taking a step back, hand to his chest, as you pull the door open. “Can’t say I expected you to come from inside the cafe.”

“I would have been down sooner had I known you would be a bit early,” you say, locking the door behind you. “I probably should have given you my number or something.”

Yoongi eyes you, his gaze sliding up and down your body like he’s drinking you in. You hope he likes what he sees. “I think I was so excited about the date that I forgot even to ask,” he admits, giving you a sheepish smile when his eyes finally land back on yours. “You look,” —he gives you another quick once over, shaking his head and sinking his teeth into his bottom lip— “gorgeous.”

“Thank you,” you preen under his praise. “You look quite handsome, yourself.”

You’re not just saying that to return the compliment, either. Yoongi is wearing the same thing he was this morning, except the tie is loosened, and the top button of his shirt is undone, giving you the slightest peek at his prominent jugular notch.

“Shall we?” he asks, offering you his arm.

You slip your hand into the bend of his elbow, falling into step beside him. The walk to the steak house is short, just enough for pleasant exchanges. He asks how your day at the coffee shop went, and you ask after his first day of classes. Neither of you bring up the fact that you were part of one of those classes.

“I’ve been meaning to check this place out. I’ve heard excellent things.”

Yoongi hums, nodding his head at your words. “I’ve also heard good things, though it might perhaps be biased considering all the praise I’ve heard has come from the owner himself.”

“You’ve spoken with the owner?”

“He’s one of my best friends, actually. This will be the first time I try it out. I kept telling him I’d stop by, but it always got away from me.”

You can’t help the laugh that bubbles up. “I can’t believe you know Seokjin.”

“Wait, you know Seokjin?” Yoongi asks, surprised.

“I’d say know is a relative term. We get deliveries from the same produce truck. He tried to take my apples one time. I had to set him straight.” That makes Yoongi laugh along with you. “We chat sometimes, mostly about the quality of produce and the best places to get ingredients. I had no idea he was your friend.”

“Small world,” Yoongi says. His smile is warm and inviting. You’re sure you could get lost in it if he’d let you. It makes you wonder what his lips taste like. They have a slight sheen to them like they did this morning. Cherry chapstick? Maybe mint? A nice subtle vanilla?

You’re not sure the last time you laughed so hard you had tears in your eyes. But Yoongi has your sides in stitches and your cheeks aching from smiling and laughing so much during dinner.

“Oh gosh,” you wheeze between fits of giggling, clutching your stomach. “Ow, ow. Don’t make me laugh again. I can’t take it.” It just makes you laugh even more, the huffs trailing off as Yoongi reaches across the table toward you.

You pry your hands from your abdomen and slide them into his. His fingers are warm against yours, his thumbs rubbing across the backs of your knuckles. It’s a gesture he’s done several times tonight, silently asking for your hands any chance he could.

“Sorry, you just have such a beautiful laugh,” he says. “I could listen to it all day.”

His flattery hasn’t stopped. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think the two glasses of wine he had with dinner were going to his head. But, he speaks so assuredly and looks in your eyes like you’re truly something special.

Feeling so intimately connected with someone you barely know might be absurd. Yet, you can’t help but feel drawn to him. If you’re being honest, the attraction started long ago, and tonight has just made it blossom into something so much more.

Yoongi has been the perfect gentleman. He’s not tried to railroad the conversation or make decisions for you like other guys you’ve gone on dates with. Whenever a server approached the table, he would defer to you and your needs before his.

“You’ve been so wonderful to me tonight. Please let me repay you with coffee and dessert. If you’re up for it.”

Yoongi squeezes both your hands before letting them go and sitting back in his chair. “There is no need to ‘repay’ me,” he says, emphasizing the word repay. “But, I wouldn’t say no to a date after this date, say in fifteen minutes, coffee and dessert?”

“Fifteen minutes? Coffee and dessert?” You give him a thoughtful look, tapping your fingers against your chin. “Hmm. I think I’m available.” You both break into more fits of soft laughter, contrasting so highly to the high energy from before; it’s intimate, if laughing can be such a thing.

It’s easy being with Yoongi; he’s attentive and curious. “What made you want to open a coffee shop?” he asks as you unlock the door to the cafe.

“I liked the idea of having a space that could cater to people from all walks of life. Businessmen in a hurry? Get it to go. Students needing a place to study? I have a quiet corner for that. College professor looking for his daily decaf Americao fix? Would you look at that? I got that covered, too.” You usher him inside, closing and locking the door behind you. “It also doubles as a great place to have a private coffee and dessert date after a lovely dinner date.”

You watch as Yoongi looks around the cozy space, his attention ending on the mural wall. “What’s your favorite kind of coffee?”

“Would it be weird if I said I don’t like coffee?” you ask.

He glances at you from over his shoulder. “Really?”

You shrug. “I love the way it smells, though.”

“Acrylic?” Yoongi asks, nodding toward the mural.

“Good eye,” you assess, stepping behind the counter to start making the coffee. You grab two pecan cinnamon twirls from the dry storage where you keep extra treats to take up to your apartment at the end of each shift and pop them into the small convection oven along the back wall. “You teach art, but it might be presumptuous of me to assume you also create. So, do you?”

“Not nearly as much as I’d like to. Pastels and charcoal are my favorites to work with. I like the mildly messy, chaotic feel of them. There are few things better than the feeling of taking something so uncontrolled and turning it into a thing of beauty.”

“Charcoal, huh?” Your mind instantly goes to the framed collection of pieces you have in your apartment upstairs. “I can appreciate that.”

“Maybe I can show you sometime.” Yoongi turns from his appreciation of your mural to watch you work behind the counter. He gestures to a few frames hung up on either side of the giant menu on the wall. “Arfé, right?”

You glance up, moving with automated motions to load the portafilter into the espresso machine. “Oh,” you laugh. “Yeah. An experiment. I wanted to try something new and needed some new decor. I thought it was appropriately on theme.”

The half-dozen pieces are all made with swirls of various shades in brown and tan and depict a mix of cups, mugs, bags of grinds, lumps of sugar, and piles of roasted coffee beans.

“Very appropriate. They’re lovely. You’re an exceptional artist.” You’ve lost count of the amount of compliments Yoongi has paid you tonight. You might have been the one flattering him this morning, but it seems he’s making up for that now.

“Thank you. Truly. That means a lot coming from you.” The hiss of the brew machine fills the air, and the soft gurgle of espresso trickling into the small mug follows. “One decaf Americano for one of my best customers,” you say, carefully carrying the steaming cup over to a table beside Yoongi. “Please, sit.”

Yoongi settles at the table, bringing the cup of coffee up to his nose and giving it an appreciative sniff. “Wonderful,” he murmurs before taking a tentative sip. “Thank you, that hits the spot.”

“If you think the Americano is good, wait until you try this,” you say, scooping the twirls out of the oven and onto a plate. They’re perfectly warm and gooey. “You’ve never tried any of our pastries, have you?”

You sit across from him. The table is small enough that you could reach out and cup his cheek if you wanted, and set the plate on the table before Yoongi. He whistles low, “Wow, these do look amazing. Maybe I’ll become a pecan twirl and coffee guy every morning instead.”

Your eyes track his movements, watching as his fingers pinch and slightly sink into the edges of one of the twirls. Some of the warm glaze and cinnamon sugar filling squishes from between the layers.

Yoongi’s lips part and the tip of his tongue peaks over his bottom teeth as he brings the pastry up to take a bite. The moan he lets out surprises you both. His eyes flutter before landing on you and going wide. He chews methodically, his gaze not leaving yours. His tongue darts out, swiping over his lips before he swallows.

“Well?” you ask, settling your elbows on the table and leaning into him, expectant.

The smile that tugs at his lips is coy. “Might be one of the best things I’ve ever put in my mouth.” There is a heat in his gaze as his eyes search yours. “What other surprises do you have up your proverbial sleeve for me?”

“Now, if I told you, they wouldn’t be surprises anymore, would they?”

That makes him laugh. “Fair point. You know,” he glances around the coffee shop, “I never knew just what it was about this coffee shop I loved so much, but I think I’ve figured it out.”

“Yeah?” you say, feeling positively giddy.

“Mhm. So,” he mirrors your pose across the table, his elbows nearly touching your own, fingers toying with yours where they’re folded in the air in front of your face, “is it too soon to ask you on a second date?”

“I thought this was our second date.” You raise a teasing eyebrow, a smile quirking on your lips.

“A third then,” he offers, eyes hopeful.

Of course, you want to say yes. And in the spirit of trying to be coy and playful, you lean in with the full intent of showing him instead of telling him how much you want to go on another date.

Yoongi’s eyes flicker to your lips, watching as you deliberately lick them as you lean in a bit closer. Acceptance lies within their dark depths, a flash of hunger at the impending response that’s only a breath away.

As you advance, your elbows slide on the table, accidentally knocking the coffee cup. Liquid goes everywhere; it floods over the table and pours off the side…right into Yoongi’s lap.

“Oh fuck!” you yell, jumping up from the table and rushing around to his side. “I’m so sorry! Are you okay? Do I need to call an ambulance? Does it burn?”

Yoongi pushes back from the table, holding his arms up off his lap as he assesses the mess. “No harm done. It was already cooled off. It's just a bit of a mess, that’s all. I’m fine,” he laughs. “Truly, I promise. Do you have any towels or anything?”

“Oh god, your shirt, it’s going to stain,” you lament, staring at the dark splotch soaking through above his trousers. “Towels? Yes. Yes. Okay. And some baking soda. Come on, let’s hurry. Again, I’m so sorry!”

“Should we clean this up first?” he asks, motioning at the coffee-covered floor.

“I can mop in the morning. Please,” you fret, guilt making you a bit frantic and flustered.

Yoongi lets you lead him up the stairs in the back that go to your apartment. “You live here?” he questions. “No wonder you were coming out of the coffee shop earlier. That’s very cool.”

You make a noncommittal sound. “It’s cool if you like the smell of coffee and don’t mind rising early every day to open shop.”

It’s so hard to think right now, your mind solely focused on cleaning up the mess you’ve made of Yoongi’s clothes. That’s what you get for trying to be sly and answer his date question with a kiss. You’ll be lucky if he still wants that date now, surely.

The bathroom is barely big enough for the two of you. You insist Yoongi sit on the lip of the tub while you dig under the sink for the baking soda that you use for cleaning and removing your own coffee stains.

“Hey,” Yoongi says softly, grabbing your attention. You glance at him over your shoulder, bottom lip clamped between your teeth in an effort not to fall apart entirely. “I promise it’s okay, alright? You don’t have to stress over it. It’s just an accident. It's a pretty funny one if you ask me. If I’d have known we were getting wet on the first—I mean, second date, I would have planned accordingly.”

His words hang between you, full of static and charged with intention. He’s trying to lighten the mood…and it’s working. It’s also making you feel a certain kind of way. Words shouldn’t have the power to do that. Yet, here you are, flustered for a whole different reason now.

“Date’s not over yet,” you respond, unsure where the bold attitude came from, but you’ll take it. His eyes flicker with something like surprise mixed with desire, though it’s gone before you can really be sure. “Do you mind?” You gesture to his shirt. “It’ll be easier if I can soak it in the sink.”

Slowly, Yoongi undoes the buttons on his shirt, starting at the top and working his way down. Somehow, you weren’t expecting him to be naked underneath, but every open button reveals another swath of flesh. He shrugs out of the shirt, revealing a toned chest and taut belly. His nipples are hard, dark chips, standing out in contrast to his smooth, creamy skin. Yoongi is absolutely breathtaking.

In fact, you have to remind yourself to breathe, taking in a large lungful of air that’s so much it makes your chest ache. He holds the shirt out to you in offering. Your fingers tremble lightly as you take it, quickly turning back to the sink and the distraction of scrubbing at the stain.

Reading over the garment tag quickly, you make sure what you’re about to do is okay. You can feel Yoongi’s eyes on your back, like heated dagger points pricking beneath your skin. You turn on the water, letting the tap run until it’s hot, before quickly swishing the area of the shirt covered in coffee under it. The hot water alone makes a world of difference, the dark liquid swirling away down the drain.

“Do you want my pants, too?” Yoongi asks, startling you.

Your eyes flick up to the mirror, looking at him through the reflection. He’s talking to you, but his attention is zeroed in on your backside. Suddenly, you’re intimately aware that your dress has ridden up dangerously high. You can feel the cool air of the bathroom kissing the crease between your thigh and asscheek.

Turning off the water, you slowly turn to face him. Your chest rises and falls as you try to take deep, even breaths, but with the way your heart is revving inside, it’s impossible to do so. “Let’s see the damage,” you say lightly, raising an eyebrow in question, giving him a chance to call you off.

When he doesn’t comment further, you close the distance to where he’s sitting and ease down onto your knees. You mentally tell yourself it’s so you can get a better look at the coffee that’s saturating the dark fabric, but you know better than that.

Being so close to him, you can feel the heat of his body. His chest rises and falls as rapidly as yours, and when you look up and meet his gaze, there is no mistaking the fire that you see blazing there. “Don’t think I forgot you still haven’t answered my question,” he murmurs, lips barely moving as he watches you.

You lift a hand, hooking your index finger under his chin and using it to angle his face toward yours. “I’d love that,” you respond, your lips brushing over his with every syllable.

He kisses you. Or maybe you kiss him. It’ll be something you tease each other over for many years to come. You open yourself to him, welcoming the glide of his tongue against yours. The kiss tastes mildly of coffee, yet for the first time in your life, you don’t mind the flavor.

“For me to take my pants off, or the date?” he teases, alternating between nipping and consuming kisses. Yoongi’s hands frame your face, holding you to him as he continues to ravage your mouth.

“Mm, both,” you manage to get out. “Definitely both.” Sliding your hands down his torso, you marvel at the softness of his skin and the already very prominent bulge that your fingers dance over as you try to get a grip on the button to his slacks.

Yoongi breaks away from the kiss long enough to help you with his pants, standing up from the edge of the tub and bringing you up with him. He toes off his shoes, leaving his pants puddled on top of them. “Good answer,” he chuckles.

You let out a tiny squeal as he wraps his hands around the backs of your thighs and hauls you up, your legs automatically winding around his waist. Thick erection pressed right against your panty-covered pussy, he slowly walks you out of the bathroom and into your adjoining room. You land on the bed with a soft oomph, Yoongi following you down. His weight is a comfort, settled over your body in a warm, hedonistic embrace.

“I’ll change classes,” you pant, flexing your hips against his. “As long as our next date is to an art gallery.”

“Is it weird for that to turn me on?” he responds, groaning as you roll your hips against him again. “The art part, not the dropping classes part. You don’t have to do that if it’s too much trouble. I know your schedule must be pretty set with the cafe.”

You press your hands against his chest, giving him a gentle push until he’s rolling over and you’re hovering over him. “I’ll make it work. I want to make it work. Everything tonight,” you pause and sit back on your heels, dragging your hands along his torso as you do, “I want more. You’re driving me crazy in the best of ways.”

“Says the woman who’s been running through my thoughts for the last several months now.” Yoongi’s lips part in a gasp, turning his last word into a breathly plea as you trace the tips of your fingers over his straining erection. The fabric of his grey boxer briefs is slightly sticky when you brush your thumb over the head.

“It reminds me of making art,” you casually say, curling your fingers over the waistband of his underwear and tugging until he lifts his hips and lets you drag them down. You toss them to the side, marveling at the glory now resting against his belly. Yoongi’s cock is a gentle upward curve, all smooth steel and thick veins. It throbs, bouncing against his stomach, leaving behind a thick smear of precum. “The way you make me feel.”

“Art?” he asks, breathless. His eyes flutter behind his glasses, his chest hollowing as he sucks in ragged breaths.

“Being with you gives me the same feeling as viewing a Duncanson or a Matisse, calm and full of joy. Though, you can also make me feel the chaos of a Kandinsky when you touch me.” To emphasize your words, you wrap your fingers around his girth, angling it up, watching the emotions on his face. The tip of his tongue works at the corner of his mouth, lips parted with every pant and soft moan. “Is this okay?” you ask, leaning down and gently blowing over the leaking tip before tentatively giving it a kitten lick.

“More than,” Yoongi moans. His eye slide closed as you wrap your lips around the head and suck. The flavor of him bursts across your tongue. You can’t help but moan yourself at the idea you’ve made him like this, hard and leaking.

Working as much of his cock into your mouth as you can, you delight in the shuddering convulses you can feel from his body as he loses himself in the sensations you’re bringing him. Yoongi always seems like such a collected individual. He still appeared so well-kept even when he stuttered over his words asking you on the date this morning. Now, though, he’s unraveling into a puddle of debauchery.

It’s a satisfying feeling, similar to when you get into a perfect rhythm when working on a project, bringing him to the edge. You work your mouth and hand in tandem, never leaving an inch of his cock free of your touch.

“Mmm,” you moan, the head of his cock resting in the back of your throat. Yoongi jerks under you, half raising onto his elbows, his eyes zeroing in on where you’re wrapped around him.

His fingers twist into the duvet, bottom lip puffy and flushed as he worries it with his teeth. “I’m going to cum,” he grunts, throwing his head back and moaning his pleasures, deep and throaty.

You quicken your pace, hollowing your cheeks as you suck in earnest. Yoongi cries out a second before liquid warmth floods your mouth. It’s greedy, the way you swallow and continue to lave your tongue over him, eliciting tiny tremors and more moans.

“Just like art,” you whisper, finally letting his cock slip from between your lips. You’re riding your own high, wet and throbbing between your thighs. You can feel the ache in your clit, begging to be touched. All it would take is a few seconds, a few well-placed swirls of your fingers, and you know you’d be floating in orgasmic bliss.

Before you can even think of bringing your hand between your thighs to find relief, Yoongi is sitting up and urging you backward. Your back hits the mattress, and he settles on his side beside you. Somewhere between there and here, he pulled off his glasses. Despite having just found his release, his eyes are still so full of hunger and desire.

“May I?” he asks, pressing a hand against your inner thigh. You nod, eyes locked with his as he slowly trails his hand upward until his fingers brush over the soaked fabric of your panties. “You are so beautiful,” he whispers, leaning in to capture your mouth in a languid kiss. Your lids flutter closed, consumed as you are by his touch.

Yoongi takes his time, toying with the edge of your panties before tugging them down past your knees. They pool around your ankles as he pushes your thighs apart, exposing your weeping pussy to the air of the bedroom.

“Yoongi.” His name is half moan, half curse as he brings his hand back up and cups your heat. The meat of his palm rests against your clit, right where you need to be touched, but the pressure isn’t enough to satisfy.

“An exquisite work of art.” His lips strum against yours, plucking and teasing just the way his fingers do through your wetness. The tips of his fingers briefly kiss your clit, dancing away before returning; a slow build of decadent pleasure.

It’s not above you to beg. “Please. Yoongi, please!”

“Open your eyes, look at me. Let me watch you fall apart so I can brand it into my memory.”

You snap open your eyes the exact moment he slides two slender fingers into your pussy, thumb finally giving the needed pressure to your clit. You’re so worked up that your body pulses around the intrusion, a tiny fluttering orgasm rippling through you.

“Fuck,” you whimper.

Yoongi gives you a wicked, knowing smile. “It’s not over yet, beautiful,” he assures you in a whispered promise.

His fingers are long, able to reach the perfect, special place inside you. As he strokes his fingertips, moving them in an undulating wave, his thumb swirls in a circle around your clit.

The next orgasm is less surprising, building to a heightened peak that has you crying out as you careen over the edge, entirely at Yoongi’s mercy. “Yoongi, fuck!” you babble, your whole body alive with sensations of pleasure.

“That’s it,” he coaxes. “So beautiful.”

Your body shudders around his hand, his fingers slowing down their rhythm until you finally recover. The slide of his fingers along your walls as he withdraws makes you wish he’d put them back in…or maybe something else. The bereft feeling lasts only a moment before Yoongi gathers you into his arms. He’s completely naked, and you’re still wearing your dress, but you feel just as exposed as he is…only, it’s your soul on display for him instead of your body.

You wait for the feeling of vulnerability to filter in, that broken feeling of uncertainty. But, it doesn’t come. The only thing you feel is complete and utter content. It’s not even the post-orgasmic bliss that’s clouding it, either. No, there’s plenty of that, but it feels different; he feels different.

“Yoongi,” you begin, resting your cheek on his chest. You want to confess to him, but the words get choked in your throat. Is it too soon? Are you completely crazy? What if he doesn’t feel the same way? Fuck. Here goes nothing. “This feels good, really good. Is it too soon to say…?”

“Too soon to say?” he prompts.

You absently trace haphazard swirls and lines across his chest, trying to think of how to word it. “I, well…”

“Too soon to say that I think possibly, maybe, I’m falling for you?” You look up at him, surprised by his words. Yoongi looks at you with so much warmth and affection in his eyes. “Because that’s exactly how I feel, too.”

◅ Back to Main Master List ©️ 2023-12-30 ColorMePurplex2

#min yoongi #yoongi x reader #yoongi smut #yoongi imagines #coffeeshop au #yoongi fanfic #yoongi fanfiction #bts yoongi #professor yoongi #bts fanfic #bts smut #bts angst #bts imagines #micdropnet #bangtanwhq

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covetyou · 7 months

Text

my bright future's behind me

joel miller x f!reader

part 1 ⋆ part 2 ⋆ part 3 ⋆ part 4 ⋆ part 5

ao3 ⋆ main masterlist ⋆ series masterlist

pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader rating: Explicit (18+ only!) chapter warnings: dub con (reader is paying a debt), anal sex, rimming, anal douching*, oil as lube, oral (f receiving), mild spanking, masturbation (f), praise kink, brief sex toys mention, derogatory names (slut), drug reference, unspecified age gap. word count: 5.8k chapter summary: The line between wanting to help your father and wanting to see Joel again blurs, and you find yourself at a familiar door asking for help. You know what's in store for you this time... don't you?

*NO DETAIL reader is given brief instruction on how to do it, and agrees to. no description of the actual event.

A/N: it's lengthier than I intened, but I really enjoyed writing about this in detail okay, let a girl have some fun. Like yeah, our reader is living in a hellish apocalyptic society and is an anal virgin going to a drug dealer to pay a debt with some serious dubcon vibes, but that man is going to be soft and gentle (ish?) af with her butthole and make her enjoy the hell out of it, okay? okay. let's go.

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song: anything but(t) by Hozier dividers: @saradika

Five weeks ago, heavy feet had carried you away from Joel's door in a daze.

You'd spent the first day waiting for your fathers pain medication to kick in. You spent the next getting him up and ready to go find work again. It was like watching a newborn deer finding its first footing; once he was up, a few stumbles and he was off, throwing himself back into work. He'd even picked up his medication himself at the end of the second week - you'd offered to go for him, but he declined. You deserved the rest, he'd said.

He'd come back, pills in hand, proclaiming how much of a "nice man" Joel Miller was. You didn't disagree.

You spent that night, fingers buried in yourself, whispering Joel's name into the dark as you clenched around fingers too small to feel satisfying.

Every night since then you remembered the look of Joel through the haze of the orgasm he'd slapped out of you. The weight of his cock, glistening head leaking precum as he rutted against you, the pressure of being filled over and over. His face, mouth agape, eyes glued to where you joined, mesmerized.

You came every time, whether it was to the thought of the first push of his cock into you, the firm, repetitive slap of his hand against your bare pussy, or his cum spattering across your naked body.

You didn't just grind pillows any more. Not all the time anyway. You bit into them, hard, stifling moans that you didn't dare let echo around the bare confines of your room. You made yourself writhe in sheets on a bed that felt too small, fingers stuffed to the knuckle, unable to reach the depths you craved. You'd even tried spanking yourself, desperate to chase that zinging feeling he'd given your pussy that day.

Weeks had gone by, and you'd spent every one using your own hands to chase the feeling of Joel Miller between your legs.

And now, an opportunity to grab those feelings presented to you all over again and, although your father was in pain, a part of you you'd kept hidden for weeks was glad for it. Five weeks to the day, and you were stood outside of Joel's apartment once again.

You knew what to expect now, you thought. You'd done this before, it was familiar. He was familiar. You knew how he moved, the sound of his voice, the look on his face when he came.

So, arm raised and feeling braver than you had any right to feel, you knock on Joel Miller's door for the second time.

A moment passes. Then another. You hear nothing beyond the door, and think about turning to leave, when there's a sudden click of the latch and the door flies open.

You'd psyched yourself up all day, but standing here you come to the stark realization that you're not ready to see him again at all. You shrink at the expanse of him.

His eyebrows raise as he leans toward the door frame. His dark eyes look you up and down and you stand there like an idiot, staring at him like you've never seen a man before.

"Can't say I expected to see you again so soon," he says, ticking his head to the side, inviting you in.

You walk past him, he doesn't move from the door way again, and you squeeze into his home.

The door snaps shut behind him, his feet thudding on the floor as he walks up behind you. You stay facing into his living room, staring at a deep scratch on the dining table he'd placed his whisky glass on five weeks ago.

"What can I do for you, sweetheart," he says, and you can hear the shit eating grin in his voice. He knew it was a stupid question. There was no other reason why you'd be here.

"My dad. He needs more. He's bad again and we can't..." you trail off, your poverty unspoken but understood.

Your eyes are locked on the table, you're trying not to clench your hands into fists. You weren't nervous this morning when you'd made up your mind, and now, trapped in this room with him your blood hummed with nerves, anticipation, fear, arousal. It was a cocktail you weren't familiar with and it was making you lightheaded.

Joel's footsteps thud again and you hear the nearby open and close of a cupboard door. He rounds back, appearing in front of you holding another familiar packet. He shakes it and you hear the rattle of pills.

"You ain't got any debt to pay off this time, sweetheart. You can take these right now and owe me... or you can pay me off right now."

You were waiting for this, but even so his offer makes your breath stop and your heart pound. You weren't just expecting it, you were wanting it, and you had a feeling he knew and his offer just proved that. He may as well have said do you want me or not. Your answer would be the same.

"What'll it be?" he says, extending the pill packet out with two thick fingers.

You take a deep breath. "I can... I can do right now. I-if that's okay?"

You can practically see the gotcha flash across his eyes.

"S'more than okay, sweetheart," he says, pocketing the pills with a smirk and crossing his arms over his broad chest.

"You know the drill - show me."

You begin to undress for him, stripping off your jacket and simple dress you'd worn to accommodate the dwindling summer heat. You'd worn your best underwear this time, the black cotton bra, faded to dark grey over the years, actually lifted you and showed off the valley between your tits. Equally faded black panties sat high over your hips.

He watches you like someone would have watched a boring TV show years ago - almost disinterested, but watching anyway. You remove your bra, freeing your breasts and dropping it to the floor. Hands come to your hips to shimmy your panties down your legs when he suddenly moves toward you. You stop immediately. He walks past you, around you, circling like a vulture, assessing your nearly bare body. He's so close you can feel the heat radiate off of him, but he doesn't lay a finger on you.

He completes another half circle, stopping when he's directly behind you. He can see the way the skant fabric of your panties parts the cleft of your ass.

"Take 'em off," his deep voice comes from behind you, closer than you'd expected.

You bend - perhaps more than you usually would - and pull your panties down your legs, pulling them past your knees and stepping out of them as you rise.

Warm hands smooth down the plush of your hips and to the swell of your ass, gripping and lifting your cheeks briefly before releasing. Both hands smack back onto your ass before he speaks again.

"It's a damn shame I never got to do this last time."

He kneads your ass some more, the feel of his massive hands foreign, all things considered. He'd touched you in ways no one ever had, in ways that had you reeling and dreaming of them still weeks later, and yet he had barely ever really touched you. He touched your thighs and your wet cunt, he'd tasted you and been inside you, but his hands had barely ventured further than that. You were unkissed, relatively untouched, and totally, utterly, fucked.

You steady yourself just as he withdraws, leaving your skin burning for him to touch you again.

"C'mon, bedroom. Got somethin' for you." You hear a smirk in his voice. You don't think the grin has left his face since you got here.

Once in his room, he pulls open a drawer on the large dresser. You peer inside. Colorful shapes fill it - you know these things, you've seen them before, but not in a long time. The last you'd seen being your own as you frantically stuffed underwear into a bag, ready to leave your home during the first evacuation at the end of the world.

The man is a god damned a sex toy collector.

"Why do you have all that?" Fuck. The words are out of your mouth before you can stop them. If there's anything you shouldn't do, it's question a strange man about his sex toy collection.

He leans toward you, whispering in mock conspiracy, "I use 'em on sweet girls who come to see me when they can't pay."

He pulls out an unfamiliar object. You had seen the other things in the drawer before, but you'd never seen this.

"You know what this is?"

It looks like a fucking mutant turkey baster.

You shake your head.

"It's an anal douche, sweetheart." He trails a finger down your arm, the skin pimpling in its wake.

"You never seen one before, let alone used one, huh?"

You shake your head again. Your body immediately set on fire with the mention of it. He'd ghosted a finger over your asshole last time and promised you that he'd have it next time. Now, here you were. Next time. You'd be lying if you said you didn't get off from those exact words, if you hadn't tried touching yourself in the same way, going further and breaching yourself with a spit slicked finger, stopping barely a fingernail in, embarrassed even by yourself in the dark.

"You're gonna fill that up. Put that nozzle right in your pretty little asshole. Squeeze," he says softly, squeezing your arm. "Hold it in there for a little bit, and then you go push it out. Okay?"

You stare at him in dumbfounded silence - you'd never heard of this before and felt naive. One hand comes up and clasps your jaw, snapping your mouth shut, as he forces your head into a nod. He hands you the douche, and you take it. It's soft, but the nozzle is hard and unyielding.

"Good. Now you're gonna do that till the water runs clear, you got that? Don't want no messes." He moves to your side, looking between your face and your ass. Your face heats as his calloused hand smooths over your ass, giving another light slap to one of your cheeks.

You don't know what makes you do it, but you start talking. Rambling. Maybe panic at the unfamiliar had taken over, the nerves too much to bare, but the words are out of your mouth before you can stop them.

"Or we could do the same as last time! I could even -" he cuts you off.

"You'll do this. Don't want anythin' else. Way I see it, I'm the one callin' the shots here. Of course, if you'd like me to do it for you..."

"What?!" you yelp in shock, your embarassement growing threefold. "No, no, please I-"

A dark laugh escapes his lips, he was fucking with you. "Didn't think so. Now, go on. You don't want to make a mess, do you?" You feel your cheeks heat with the preemptive embarrassment of that happening.

"I-I'll do it," you stutter, nodding your head once and looking down at your feet, willing the heat in your face to go away. You wanted what this led to, at least you thought you did. You'd thought about it enough, at least.

A kiss presses into your hair, the unfamiliar action melting your bones, sending you soaring. "Good girl."

A slap to your ass brings you back into the room.

"Get to it then, sweetheart. I'll be waiting outside. I want you clean, so no rushing."

The warmth of him moves away from you, back into the living room. You follow, watching, and he gestures to a partially open door next to his bedroom. You didn't pay attention to it last time, fear and tunnel vision blinding you to most of the details of his home.

You enter, close the door behind you, and take a shaky breath as you lean against the cool door.

You can do this. You just hope to fuck he doesn't hear a thing.

Joel is lounging on his couch reading a worn book when you exit the bathroom 15 minutes later.

"All good?" he says, not bothering to look up.

"Mhm," you nod. You didn't trust yourself with words and honestly, you had no real clue. You'd never done any of this before. You'd had thoughts, sure, but you were not familiar with any of it in practice.

He's up and moving toward you in an instant, the book thrown to his dining table as he passes it. You think you can see a growing hardness in his pants as he walks.

He looms over you, tracing gentle shapes over the bare skin of your upper arm, watching your nipples harden and a shudder run down your spine.

"Let's get you someplace more comfortable," he says with a softness to his voice that doesn't meet his eyes. His eyes are dark and molten.

He leads you back to his room and deposits you at the end of his bed once again. You stand awkwardly, hands and feet flexed in an attempt to push away your nerves. If Joel notices, he doesn't say anything.

"I've never-" you start.

"Oh, I know you've never had anything back here," he says, coming to stroke down your back and over the curve of your backside. "If you did you wouldn'ta jumped away from me last time."

Any humiliation that was bubbling beneath the surface floats away as he strokes gently over your hips and ass. The roughness of his hands against your soft skin makes your pussy thrum. If you were being honest, you'd turned up to his door wet and ready. By this point you were positively dripping.

"Have you ever..." you say breathlessly, closing your eyes. He laughs, it's raspy and deep, the sound of it sending another trickle from your pussy despite the anxious feeling in your belly.

"You ain't even the first I've ass fucked this week, sweetheart."

With that, he wordlessly moves you into place, turning you to face his bed, legs slightly parted. A hand comes between your shoulders to he push you down, making you hinge at the hips to bend over. Joel steps back, leaving you there nude, bent over his bed, and alone.

"Spread yourself for me."

You let out a shaky breath you didn't realised you'd been holding and reach behind you, gripping one plush ass cheek in each hand as you spread yourself for him. He approaches again, only to grip the meat of your ass with his massive hands to spread you wider, exposing both your holes completely to his gaze.

You slam your hands down on the bedsheets to steady yourself, the sound of blood rushing through your ears as you think of how much he's staring and where he's staring. Someone didn't tell your pussy this was meant to be embarrassing though, and you feel your heartbeat in your cunt.

Strong hands knead at you, pulling you apart and pressing you together over and over. You can hear Joel's breath get deeper behind you, enjoying the sight of your ass being manhandled.

Turning, you look around and up at him. His eyes are transfixed, and he's nodding gently, tilting his head from side to side as he drinks you in from every possible angle.

"Fuck yeah," he murmurs, looking up at you as he notices your stare. "Beautiful ass, sweetheart. You gonna let me play with it?"

You already want to moan. As if you fucking wouldn't let him play with it now.

You bite your lip and nod at him.

"Ain't I lucky," he grins, before crouching behind you. You feel a nip of his teeth on your ass cheek, then the same on the other. Your breath catches when you feel his tongue dip down into your folds, catching your clit and swiping upwards through the wetness of your pussy, pushing in briefly to taste you. He does it again, and again, and again. You're moaning softly with each swipe, his tongue moving closer to your ass with each lick. You're pouting, trying not to whine, when he pulls away just before he touches your tight ring.

"Someone's enjoying this," he mutters into your ass, soft lips placing another kiss to your cheek as he circles a finger around your dripping cunt.

Fuck yes I am.

You hear him laugh behind you, the puff of air from his nose fluttering across your spread holes. Your eyes go wide, realizing you'd been so lost in it all that you'd said it out loud.

He moves away from you completely, reaching to drag pillows down his bed. A tap to your ass prompts you to move.

"Get comfortable, sweetheart, might be a while."

Draping yourself over his pillows, you get to your knees and rest your forearms on the bed. He's moving around behind you when you duck your head lightly, trying to be discreet as you breathe in the rich scent of him from his pillow. The smell of him fills your lungs, leaving no space for nervousness now.

The bed shifts as Joel climbs on behind you, a hand stroking up your thigh. You can't help but sigh. You were really enjoying this - your dad and your 'reason' for coming here long forgotten.

Hands pull you apart once again, and he's back to kissing across both your cheeks. He returns to where he's spread you, and you feel the scruff on his chin scratch against your ass, another huff of his breath, and then a warm, wet tongue is finally licking over your asshole.

Your toes curl as he licks you in gentle circles, tasting you. You'd never felt anything like it, the sensation strange and not exactly as exhilarating as you were expecting. And then he moans and you finally get it.

"Oh."

He wiggles his tongue gently into your tight hole, not quite breaching you but adding a pressure that has you pushing back into him slightly, willing him on. A broad lick and a kiss to your hole later and he's pulling away again. He keeps pulling away but you're desperate for him to continue.

"Good girl. Stay nice and relaxed just like that for me, okay?"

"Okay," you whisper into his pillow.

"Just a little longer, sweetheart," he says, stroking a finger up and down over your asshole.

There's a small snick behind you, and the finger stroking you pulls your cheek to the side.

A dribble of something cold, thick, and wet trickles over your asshole, and drips down to your cunt. You flinch and wiggle at the feeling, but a hand clamps down around your calf, keeping you in place.

"What's that," you gasp.

Hand on your calf keeping you steady, you hear another snick behind you. A finger traces the trail the substance took, up from your pussy, spreading the slickness of it around as he gets to your tight hole.

"Cooking oil. Ain't no lube in the fuckin' apocalypse and I don't wanna go in dry. Tear my dick straight off, and I quite like you havin' two holes instead of just one."

The tip of his thick finger, slick with oil, pushes into your asshole. You take a deep breath and the pressure gives way, allowing his finger to breach you. The hand on your calf releases, and traces up to your ass, squeezing.

This is as much as you'd ever managed with yourself, but with Joel doing it, it feels so much more. The tip of one of his fingers so much thicker than yours, and the oil easing his way so much better than your spit slicked finger.

He wiggles and swirls the finger just inside your hole, and you whimper, toes clenching. This is nothing like his tongue. Something like this shouldn't feel so good, none of it should, but the embarassment is long gone and all you want is more.

The finger pulls from you before he can give you what you want, and you feel more oil being poured onto you.

You arch your back, hoping he'll go right back to what he was doing, and he does. Finger to your asshole, he circles gently once, before pushing in again, not stopping at one knuckle this time.

"Nnngh," you moan, as his finger settles deep into you.

"All the way in all in one, good fuckin' girl."

He pulls out half way before pushing back in, fingering your ass with his index finger and holding you open with the other hand so he can get a clear look at your ass taking his finger.

There's no stretch, just a fullness, and goosebumps prickling over you as he moves in and out. You settle into it after a few more pumps, skin calming as you do.

"How's that feel?" he says. He must have seen you relax back down into his pillows, or felt it as his finger moved inside you more easily.

"S'good," you mumble into his pillow.

"You like my finger in your ass?"

"Mm," you moan, as he picks up the pace, fucking you a little harder with his thick digit.

"Let's get another in you, huh? Sweet pussy would like that too, I can see her twitchin'."

He begins to curl his finger, swirling it around and stretching against your hole. Your skin prickles again and you let out a whine, the fullness and added stretch feeling so good.

The finger retreats again but it's quickly replaced with the feeling of two pushing into your ass, one slipping in just before the second starts to spread your hole further than ever.

You groan deep and low, the sound being pulled from your chest without warning. When he's down to the knuckles of his fist, he holds there, twisting and scissoring them deep in you.

You're breathing heavy, whimpering, as Joel plays with your asshole. At one point you hear the snick of the bottle again and feel his fingers withdraw half way before spreading, creating a valley between them and spreading your asshole open for him, when a drizzle of oil is poured onto them. His spread fingers funnel the oil into your ass, and he pushes them back deep into your needy hole.

Over and over, he pulls his fingers completely from you before punching them in quickly, giving you no time to recover as he watches your hole barely wink closed each time.

"Nice and oiled up now, sweetheart. Just a little more. Wanna see somethin'."

His voice is thick and heavy, loving watching the way your ass is taking his fingers, listening to the whimpers and moans you try to hold back.

He's not touched himself, but you can tell he's rock solid and desperate just from touching you. You lick your lips at the thought of his cock, remembering the faint taste of him he'd smeared on your mouth weeks ago, and you feel more slick drip from you.

It was funny, if you thought about it. The attention to your cunt last time such a stark contrast to the neglect it was receiving now. You didn't mind.

Slicked fingers speed up in your asshole, really fucking you now, your ass jiggling with each thrust of his hand. You let out a high pitched whine, and he fucks you through it, before burying his two digits deep in your ass. He keeps pushing against you, never ending pressure making him feel deeper and deeper than he is. As if reading your mind, his other hand comes down to swipe drips of oil across your clit, using the tips of his fingers to rub in soft circles.

He keeps the pressure in your ass, releasing and pushing rhythmically so it feels like he's fucking you impossibly deep. Another wave of goosebumps cascades over you, and you feel your neglected cunt tremble.

"Joel I - fuck - I'm gonna come. Please, I-" you gasp, holding onto the pillow tighter with one hand but scrambling frantically with the other, not knowing what to do. The pressure is so deep, so foreign, but so incredible. You've never felt like this.

"Fuuuck yeah," he grunts from behind you, pushing his fingers deep in you again. Instead of releasing them, he starts shaking his fist, fingers still buried in your tight asshole. His other hand swipes over your clit in tandem, and you feel it.

The crashing wave of it comes for you, and there's no running. You're consumed by him; nothing but the scent of him in your lungs, and his fingers deep inside you. Moans that only he has ever pulled from you. Nothing else exists. The world falling to shit, caring for your ailing father, the years of loneliness at the end of the world. Gone - chewed up and spit out and gone, all at the hands of Joel Miller.

Before you know it, your thighs and cunt are twitching as an orgasm batters into you, knocking the air out of you with a scream you can't give sound to.

"Comin' from bein' ass fucked, thatta girl. Filthy fuckin' girl," he pulls his fingers from your ass as you still twitch, riding through your orgasm totally empty. A slicked up hand slaps your buttcheek, sending another aftershock through you.

Joel rises to his knees and you hear the tell tale clatter of his buckle through the white noise in your head - you'd long forgotten you were nude and he was not.

You look around to see him stroking his thick cock with an oily hand. You whine, you could come again just from watching. Every nerve in your body is on absolute fire.

He slides his slick hard length up your ass, rutting himself against your crack.

"I'm fucking one of your holes today, sweetheart. Don't have to be this one though, but I'd like it to be."

"I want it," you moan without hesitation.

"That's a good girl," he says, sliding his cock between your cheeks a little quicker. "You give me what I want, and I give you what you want."

His solid cock pulls away from you, and he rests a hand on your lower back, pushing down on you gently to hold you still. You feel the tip of his cock drag down through the slick of your pussy before he swipes back upward toward your ass.

Knuckles drag across your ass as he pushes his hips forward, the tip of his cock in line with your hole. A firm press of his thumb to the tip of his cock, and your asshole gives way, letting him slip in.

"Would you look at that," he says, before pulling his thick tip out of your ass. You immediately feel more oil drizzle into your hole, still opened from his slicked head breaching you.

He pushes back in, even easier than before. The stretch of it sends the most ferocious wave of goosebumps over you yet, drawing a babbling moan out of you.

"Jus' look at that," he groans, eyes locked on his cock fucking into your asshole. He fucks his tip in and out of you for a moment, your moans dying down as you adjust to the feeling, before his hips push forward again.

"Fuck, I could just slip all the way in sweetheart," he says, pushing deeper into you. "All the way in." As he says it, he slips his cock further into you with ease, sliding down impossibly far in one smooth thrust.

He stills. You feel so full, so stretched, but you don't feel the weight of his balls against you, or the heat of his warm belly. There must be more to go, but this is already so much. You whimper, almost begging him to pull out, when a hand slips around between your legs and starts lightly caressing your pussy.

"If you want more you're gonna have to ask for it."

"P-please, Joel. I want more."

Finally, he pushes all the way in, his entire dick encased in your oiled heat. He throws his head back with a groan, drowning out your whimpers as he bottoms out, grabbing both of your hips to steady himself.

"Fuuuck."

There's so much of him in you, you try to wiggle forward to relieve the pressure, even with both his hands clamped on your hips.

"Hold still," he shushes you. "Hold still and take it."

You'd do anything he told you right now. You quieten and let him push into you more, his dick twitching in your ass sending a jolt through you. You can feel his balls on your cunt, slicked up from your pussy and the oil covering you.

"Hold that slutty little hole open for me," he growls.

There is no hesitation in you as you reach back with both hands to spread your cheeks for him. Your grip is hindered by the oil, but you hold firmly and pull, spreading yourself and allowing him even deeper into your ass. He was quickly making being spread for him your favorite thing in the world.

He pulls out, leaving just the tip in you once again, before fucking all the way back in in one motion, pushing the air out of you when his pelvis meets your thighs.

Somehow you still hold yourself open, moaning and rocking your hips, and he fucks into you, his large hands on you pulling you toward his cock with each thrust.

Joel's breathing is heavy as he fucks into your ass, grunting softly every so often. He shuffles his legs as they slip away, unable to get purchase on his sheets in the constraints of his jeans.

They slip again and he slams into you, hard, with a growl.

"Fuck," he grunts in frustration and you hear the frantic shuffle of fabric as he pulls his pants down his thighs, his dick still buried in your ass. His belt clatters again, and he quickly pulls out of you. The bed rocks as he moves to discard his jeans, before he climbs back behind you, placing his feet either side of your knees. You try to look around in confusion, but then he lifts your hips, lines himself up, and in one smooth move, he's pushing his entire cock down into you.

"Oh, fuck," you whine, high pitched and desperate.

You let out a keening high pitched scream as he pulls out and slams into you again, and then he's fucking you in earnest.

He's like an animal, grunting as he ruts into you, fucking his cock down deep into you so far you swear you can feel your organs shift.

"That's it, she's likin' it now, huh. She's fuckin' likin' it now," he snarls.

"Yes. Yes, yes, yes, yes," you chant with each gasping breath.

Your hands slap down onto the bed, white knuckle gripping the sheets as he pounds into your asshole from above.

"Ohhhh, yes - fuck - yeeaaahhhh," you groan. You can't tell if you're coming, it feels so good that you could be but it doesn't feel the same. You have definitely never felt this before.

"Takin' it so - fuck - fuckin' well, sweetheart," he gasps. "So. fuckin'. well."

He speeds up, pounding faster and faster, his balls smacking against the meat of your ass.

"Gonna come in this fuckin' asshole. Gonna get my cum all up in you."

"Please," you don't know what you're begging for, but his thrusts accelerate and that might just be it. You're screaming around him, his hips stutter, slamming into you. Joel's thighs quiver with the force of his orgasm, rattling the entire bed as he shakes and unloads deep into your ass.

You've deafened yourself. You've maybe came, you can't tell. All you know is your body is on fire and your mouth is dry. You could sob and you don't know anything, you just know it feels so good and so much.

Not knowing what to do with yourself, you lie there, face down, in a daze.

Joel lowers his shaking knees to the bed, still buried in your ass. His grip on your hips relaxes, fingers unconciously soothing you in gentle circles. His breath is heavy, and for a moment you feel him lean over your spent body to press a kiss to your back, before he retreats, pulling out of you and leaving your asshole still full of him.

You don't know how long you're there, ass still in the air, head floating through a million different universes, too fucked out to care you're still naked on Joel's bed.

"C'mon, sweetheart," says Joel, his voice gruff from heavy breathing. "Gotta get you home." You feel his oily hand softly pat you on the thigh, bringing you back to reality.

There's a thump as your clothes hit the bed, and you look around to see him for the first time since he put his dick in your ass. He's fully dressed again already, running a hand through his graying hair, sweat patches blooming on his t-shirt.

You nod at him and sit up - the floaty feeling has escaped your head and is buzzing all through your veins, creating a distance between you and your body. You mindlessly dress yourself, and he watches.

When you stand, your legs are somehow steadier than last time, and you don't even stumble as you pull your panties up the rest of the way.

Joel guides you out of his home, no offer of a hand or a touch to steady you. You slide your feet into abandoned shoes when he unlatches the door and pulls it open. Fishing around in his jean pocket, he pulls out the packet of pills, holding it out for you to take.

You thank him, taking the pills and walking from his apartment. You don't turn, intending to walk away from him before he can close the door on you again.

"I'll make you a deal," he calls out to you. You stop in your tracks. "You keep comin' to collect for your daddy and I'll give you those pills for free."

You frown and turn to look at him. He's standing in the doorway with his arms crossed like you'd just arrived. "That's not free. I won't whore myself for pills."

He lets out a wry laugh, "You already are, sweetheart."

Shaking his head, he closes the door on you once again, leaving you alone in the hallway.

And he still hasn't kissed you.

next part

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calypsocolada · 8 months

Text

BUILD UP | r. zoro

(part two of winner winner)

synopsis: somethings building between you and the stoic swordsman, roronoa zoro. author's note: hiiii, this is just a lil somethin somethin for fun :) cw: suggestive, not proofread forgive me wc: 3.3k

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Zoro sat at the wooden table alone, an ale in his hand as he watched you from across the table. His eyes never leaving any part of you. He watched you laugh, which was more often in the passing months. Watched you smile as Usopp embellished some stories about past adventures.

Zoro liked watching you, ever since you two kissed he found himself staring all the time. It was embarrassing really, how much one kiss changed the entirety of his actions towards you. But you… yeah you seemed as oblivious as ever. He was nervous all the time now, careful of what he said and did. You made him nervous and he found himself wanting to impress you. Zoro never really considered himself a romantic, in fact he knew he didn’t have much of a romantic bone in his body but he would try all that shit for you. He stayed near you during fights, offered you food that he couldn’t finish, cleaned your sword and always made sure there was a space next to him for you to sleep. You were always cold and Zoro used that as an excuse to sleep close to you most nights, he really really didn’t mind.

You reached for your glass and brought the rim to your lips, sipping as your eyes slid to Zoro’s, in the candle light you saw him blush when your eyes met his. You set your cup back down on the table and gave him a small smile before turning your attention back to Usopp. You were at some sort of town gathering, the crew and you had saved this village from some wannabe dictator and in your honor they threw a little celebration. There was drinks and food and dance and cheerfulness all around. Zoro wasn’t much for fun and dancing, he’d rather nurse his ale. But you on the other hand, you’d really grown out of your shell being with the strawhats and when a villager with kind eyes sidled up beside you you saw Zoro’s eyes sharpen. You turned as the man gave you a kind smile. Your hand flew to the knife on your hip but Sanji caught your hand, mouthing the word ‘relax’.

“Hi, I don’t want to trouble you but I was wondering if you’d like to dance?” He asked, the music near the middle of the village had started to pick up and swell towards the table you were sitting at. You eased up your hand. You didn’t know how to dance and dancing with someone you didn’t know seemed even worse.

“She would love to, right?” Sanji interjects, giving you a smile. You forced a smile back, nodding your head as he held out his hand. You took it and let him sweep you off towards the town square.

The village was full of life and love, all swinging in time with the music as they danced without a care in the world. It was infectious, a smile permanently plastered to your lips as the man swept you around and spun you dizzy. You giggled uncontrollably, fingers entwined with his, your hair dancing in the wind.

Zoro watched from afar, the drink in his hand held so tightly his knuckles were slowly turning white. He wasn’t much of a dancer but if you wanted to dance he’d do it. He’d do anything and everything for you. He felt sick with anger and jealousy as he watched some other man spin you around, the smile on your face as bright as the morning sun. Sanji noticed his sour mood and turned to look at where he was looking.

“You’re such an idiot.” Sanji mumbled into his glass as Zoro’s eyes cut to his. “Letting that girl dance with someone else.”

“Shut your damn mouth.” Zoro grumbled, taking a big gulp of his ale. Sanji laughed, pushing up from his chair.

“Think it’s my turn to cut in.” He says, walking over towards you. Zoro felt his stomach turn, his face beat red as he watched that sly cook sidle over to you. You’d gotten softer in the passing months and when he cut in you smiled kindly and waved to your last partner. Zoro watched for approximately thirty seconds. That was the last straw. He slammed his drink against the table startling some of the people around him and pushed out of his seat. He stomped over to you and when you spotted him you smiled huge. He melted, all the anger and jealousy he was feeling dissipated as he watched you say something to Sanji before slipping away from him and towards Zoro.

“Are you turning in for the night?” You asked as you two walked closer to each other. Zoro didn’t answer, just swept you into his arms and pulled you back into the throng of dancers. His right hand pressed gently into the small of your back, the other enveloped your hand in a warm grip. He grinned down at you as he twirled you around before dipping and snapping you back up, your faces mere inches from one anothers. “I thought you said you couldn't dance.” You smirked, slightly out of breath. Zoro’s hand around your back tightened as he pulled you closer to his warm body.

“I said I didn’t like to, not that I couldn’t.” Zoro corrects as the music swells before slowing. Couples form and press together as romance sweeps in. Zoro slowed and you followed his lead.

“Then why dance with me?” You ask as Zoro’s eyes slide down to yours.

“Is that a serious question, killer?” He asks and when you don’t object he snorts a soft laugh. “Because it’s you. That’s why.” Your breath hitches in your throat. Two months ago Zoro and you kissed by the fire. You thought about it every night since then but he hadn’t made a move on you since. You trained everyday together and things were tense but not in a bad way, in a way that made you want to grab him by the collar at every given moment. But you kept that all to yourself because these growing feelings in your chest burned a hole right through you. You knew nothing of romance, didn’t really even know what it meant to be with someone but god did you want to be with Zoro anyway you could have him. You tightened your hand in his, slowly dragging your eyes up to his.

“Were you jealous?” You asked. Zoro’s brow flicked up slightly as you followed his lead in the dance.

“Were you trying to make me jealous?” There was a sort of call and response thing happening with you two. Someone would notice you, maybe ask you to dance or ask you to dinner, moments later there’s Zoro, brash and brazen, staring away any possibilities. You didn’t mind it at all. He was the only one to catch your eyes.

“I don’t know,” You start with a cheeky smirk. “Did it work?” His cheeks pinken as he exhales a laugh, shaking his head.

“What am I going to do with you?” He sighs lovingly.

“Whatever you like.” You say and watch his ears burn. You weren’t aware of the undertones of that sentence. He leans into you, lips barely brushing your ear as he speaks.

“We could go back to the ship if you like?” He whispers, sending shivers down your spine.

“But I’m not tired yet.” You said, eliciting a warm laugh out of him.

“We wouldn’t be sleeping.”

“Are you really not enjoying the party?” You question, clearly missing something. “Because we can go back to the ship if you really want.” You offer as Zoro laughs even harder, shaking his head.

“Nevermind, killer.” He says as the band finishes off the song and the villagers applaud the performance. You watch Zoro clap, he was so hard to read sometimes, or maybe it was your fault. You just wanted to take him by the shoulders and shake a confession out of him.

“Roronoa-“ Drops of rain start to fall, slowly at first but then pick up. You look up into the sky, the drops hitting your warm skin as Zoro’s hand wraps around yours, pulling you towards shelter. He shoulders open a rickety old door leading into some kind of gazebo, rain beating against the tin roofing. It was soothing really. He kicked the door closed behind you two as you shivered from the cold walking deeper into the room. There were empty chairs in the corner and some tools and garden pots. It must’ve been a tool shed that you two ducked into. You grabbed a strange looking trinket, blowing the dust off of it to inspect it.

“Here,” Zoro’s voice said just behind you as he placed his jacket onto your shoulders, warmth soothing your shaking. You gave him a small smile, pulling your arms through the arm holes. “What's that?” He asks, walking closer to you, practically pressing himself against your back to peer over your shoulder. You turned the little charm over in your fingers, recognizing the woodwork. You laughed a little.

“It’s a figurine from an island near Orange Town. My father used to steal them from the shopkeeper.” You say, placing the figurine back down where you got it from. You didn’t talk about your father much, all the pirates knew of him and quite frankly you didn’t want to be associated with him. He wasn’t a good person. You feel Zoro behind you.

“Not gonna take it?” He asks and you shake your head. “You are very different from what I expected.” Zoro says. You turn to face him, your bodies practically pressed together, your space was his too apparently.

“What did you expect?” You had a feeling of what he meant but you wanted to hear it coming from him. Your father was a fearsome, murderous pirate and you barely escaped him with your life to join the straw hats. He was probably as well known as the king of pirates but for all the wrong reasons.

“To have to keep an eye on you at all times.” He says and you laugh slightly.

“You do that anyways.” You say and he smirks.

“But for very different reasons.”

“Oh? And what are those reasons, Roronoa?” You ask and watch his cheeks blush. He liked when you called him by his first name, it felt special coming from your lips.

“I’d rather keep that to myself.” He says. He’s so tall that you slightly crane your neck to look up at him. He has that look in his eye, the same look he had when he kissed you.

“Keep your secrets.” You whisper, watching his eyes dart to your lips then back to your eyes. Your stomach bottoms out as you try and keep still. He tilts his head slightly, a long finger coming up to brush your hair off your forehead. The rickety old door bangs open as Sanji bumbles in, wet and slipping against the ground. You back away from Zoro, embarrassment flooding your stomach. Sanji startles at the sight of you both before blowing out a sigh.

“There you are!” He says, walking forwards and yanking you into a tight hug, he reeked of alcohol. You patted his back, with a laugh, his wet hair dripping on your shoulder.

“Everything alright, Sanji?” You asked as Sanji pulled back, still gently holding both of your biceps as he spoke very passionately.

“I have to tell you something very important.” Sanji slurred, slightly losing his balance. You reach up and hold his arms to help steady him.

“What’s that?” You ask as Sanji laughs, veering right, almost knocking you both over. Zoro grabs you, letting Sanji crash into various pots and potting soil. You burst out laughing, Zoro still holding you. “Sanji, how much did you drink?” You ask through fits of laughter.

“Too much…” He grumbles from the floor below. You hold out a hand as Sanji grabs it and you help him up but once he has his foot he grabs you and spins you around the small shed. Zoro watches, a cloudy expression on his face, eyes like lightning. “I have to express what I feel!” Sanji declares in the small shed gaining another laugh from you.

“What is it that you feel, Sanji?” You ask, playing along. He slows, looking at with heat in his stare.

“You are so beautiful, too beautiful even. Much too beautiful to be fooling around with that bozo and-”

“Alright, casanova, enough.” Zoro interjects, yanking Sanji back by the collar of his shirt. “You’re making a fool out of yourself.”

“You’re the fool!” Sanji growls. You weren’t sure when things got so heated, you were just busting a rib moments ago. “You can’t keep her at arms length then get jealous when someone wises up to how much of a catch she is!” Sanji huffs dramatically.

“Shut up.” Zoro dismisses, crossing his arms over his chest. Sanji mimics him, crossing his arms and lowering his voice.

“Shut up.” He echoes, you snort a laugh but pretend you weren’t laughing when Zoro looks back at you. He looks back at Sanji, with murder in his eyes. You step forwards, running a hand up Zoro’s back calmingly.

“Sanji, don’t antagonize him.” You jest as the rain comes in slower and slower. Sanji huffs, blowing his blond fringe out of his eyes. He shoots one last look at Zoro as he walks to the door.

“You're running out of time. Someone’s going to wise up.” He says to Zoro before giving you a smile and slipping out of the door.

“He is so strange.” You say, shaking your head. It was quiet behind you so you turned, meeting Zoro’s eyes. There was something eating at him. “Sounds like the rain stopped,” you say, walking towards the door. Zoro’s fingers wrap carefully around your forearm, pausing your movement to the door. You turn. “Roronoa-“ he’s on you in seconds, like there was no room to wait any longer. His body pressed yours against the rickety old door, eager lips meeting yours. You gasp, his hands coming up to cup either side of your face. The desperation slowly melting into soft almost sickly sweet kisses.

“Please,” Zoro murmurs into your mouth. “Stay here with me.” Your heart stutters in your chest at the low rasp of his voice. Your entire body feels as though a fire has started beneath the floorboards and is slowly catching you ablaze. He was so rough around the edges, coarse hands and hard stares. But he held your face softly, so softly if felt as though he thought you might break beneath his touch. What did this all mean? What did your uneven heartbeat mean? Or the unsteadiness of your breath, or the burning want in the pit of your stomach. You’d never felt this way and chasing the sensation seemed like the only thing you ever actually wanted to do. Sure you loved to fight, you were raised as a fighter, but did the love of it come from the desire to please your absent father? In some ways Zoro was just like your father, strong and eager. But the glaring difference was Zoro was still around. After spending months by your side he hadn’t left, not even when he really should’ve. You trusted Zoro and all those mental obstacles in your head he seemed to vault with ease.

Your fingers slowly make their way up as you slide your arms around the back of his neck, fingertips tangling in his hair. His hands move from your cheeks to just below your butt as he picks you up with extreme ease and walks you to the opposite side of the room, setting you carefully atop a table. His kisses grow deeper as the space between practically turns to nothing. He grabs you by the hips and pulls you against him. His lips trailing from your lips to the side of your mouth then down to your neck.

“Zoro,“ you say with a strangled breath, he pulls back just slightly. Looking up at you with shining eyes and pink lips.

“Use my name.” He says husky and deep. You clear your throat.

“Roronoa-“ you could barely get the last letter out before he’s crashing his lips back against your own. Kissing you with such ferocity and vigor. A groan bubbles up out of his lips but you kiss it away. He seemed to be making up for those two months of nothing. Two months of building tension, of teaching you to use a sword, which you were really fluid with now. Two months of him eyeing you and getting angry when Sanji tried to make any moves. He was taking everything you could give him. You thought back to when you first asked him how you knew you liked someone and he told you to kiss them. It was very clear to you now, Sanji was right after all. It is just something you knew.

Zoro pulled back from the assault on your neck and with glazed eyes looked at you. He made a sound low in his throat, the air thick as can be between you. You weren’t even sure what you were going to say before. All you could think about was the space between you and how that should not exist. You took him by the collar.

“Don’t stop now.” You said cheekily, yanking him practically on top of you, the table groaning with his added weight. His body caged your own, his elbow propping itself beside your head as you hiked one leg up to wrap around his hips. He stuttered against you, something almost nervous in his movements. Your hands slid to his sides, pulling him closer to you, the contact had him almost whimpering into your open mouth. Zoro was so commanding out there, but even with him pressing you down on the table you felt like the one in control. With precise and trained movements you maneuvered yourself beneath him and in the blink of a second you slid on top with ease, hips rubbing against one another. A shocking white lightening pulsed inside you at the movement. Zoro sucked in a breath below you, hands digging into the meat of your hips. You moved against him, almost unconsciously as you leaned and pressed a kiss to the side of his mouth, following the lead he set for you earlier. Your lips trailed fire down to his throat as you kissed it gently, him twitching beneath you. You kissed his scars, grabbing and intertwining your fingers with his own. You're not sure how far to take this, it’s not something you’d ever done before and quite frankly not something you wanted to try for the first time in a rickety old dusty shed. But your body was hungry for him, a breathless whimper escaping your lips. As thought an ice cold bucket of water was tossed onto you, there was a banging at the door. You flew off Zoro, stumbling over some pots, almost crashing into the floor. Zoro snapped to his feet, grabbing your hand before you could meet the ground as Luffy and Usopp popped their heads inside.

“There you two are!” Luffy said, innocently pushing the door open.

“Sanji said you two would be in here.” Usopp said, eyes wandering the shed. “Rain’s over and it’s getting late, we should head off the island.” He says and you nod.

“Let’s go!” Luffy says excitedly, running out of the shed, Usopp following moments later. It was silent for a few too many seconds before you started to laugh, running a hand through your hair.

“What’s so funny?” Zoro asked, eyes devouring you.

“Nothing. We should head back.” You breathe out, biting your lip to slow the giggles. You walk towards the door but Zoro grabs you one last time, spinning your around and kissing you dizzy. When he pulls back he looks at you very earnestly.

“Lead the way, killer.”

#one peice x reader #one piece zoro #zoro roronoa #zoro roronoa x you #zoro roronoa x reader #roronoa zoro #zoro x reader #zoro smut #one piece sanji #sanji x reader #vinsmoke sanji #zoro x you

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trashmouth-richie · 7 months

Text

𝚕𝚎𝚝’𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚔𝚎𝚎𝚙 𝚜𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚎

older! college coach! steve x fem! reader

summary: your mysterious coach was always hot headed and pushed you harder than the other girls, after losing an important game, you both find ways to release your frustrations.

triggers: 18+ ; steve is thirty and reader is early twenties and plays basketball in college. smut, light use of pet names, no y/n, steve is a dick to reader and has a huge one, biting, hickies, p in v no condom. Very slight mention of blood, indication of simp behavior at the end.

“Hustle girls!”

“Box her out!”

“Are you fucking kidding me 22?”

His workout tank was ringed dark around the hem of the neck, glistening drops of sweat travel from the column of his neck down into the gray cotton blend fabric.

He was pissed. When wasn’t he?

A rogue strand of hair escapes from the style he had down to a science, red blotches flashed across his cheeks and neck, veins poked out from his vacation tanned skin.

Last night's game ended horribly. And today you were all paying the price for it.

With only 10 seconds left on the clock in the 4th quarter, the play he had drawn up on the marker board was the exact same one you had been practicing since your first year at college. Only this time you were getting the ball after Mel faked to Blair, with just enough time to shoot that beautiful three point shot you had been perfecting since high school.

The squeak from the black expo marker under his thick fingers wrote out his code: Hawkins for the play that was drilled into your brain by coach for the last year.

“Run it just how we’ve been practicing, I’m telling you it’ll work.”

Mel’s fake out didn’t work and you had gotten the ball late. Each dribble from the floorboards into your sweaty palm felt like a heartbeat. The girl guarding you swatted at the ball, missing just barely as she attempted to make a steal, trying to force you to foul her when she had the ball to waste more time and grant you your fourth foul, ending your playing time.

A quick move around her and a cross to your left hand had her stumbling over her ankles like Bambi, and you cut to the three point line, lined up your Nike’s to the hoop like your dad had taught you, and arched the ball into the air.

The buzzer was blaring when the orange ball left your finger tips, tongue poking out and your ponytail fluttering behind you. the gymnasium lights were hospital white, piercing your eyes and making you see dots as you landed on your feet, your competitor reaching for the ball at the last second.

Anticipation filled your lungs as the ball circled around and around the rim. The girls and coach all rose from the bench and waited with hands on their heads or holding hands watching the ball spin.

And with a sick twist, it fell out. Landing to the floor with a silent thud as the bleachers erupted into a nascar loud roar.

Bulldogs: 60 Pirates: 58

He was furious.

Clipboards snapped on his khaki thighs as you all sat on the wooden benches of the sweaty walled locker room. He didn’t yell, he didn’t speak to anyone other than glaring into the ceiling.

“Pack your shit, bus leaves in five.”

No times for showering or debriefing, you and your teammates were hustled to the bus as he snapped his fingers, let’s go let’s go let’s go!

Refusing to let the bus driver stop to get water or any sort of snacks on the way home. “They don’t deserve it.” He preened, looking at your sad faces with a disapproval that cut so deep it had some of the girls in tears.

His mossy green eyes stopped on yours and the disappointment brewed to hatred, his eyes burning emerald, he blew air through his nose and clenched his knuckles, “none of them.”

Mel had thrown up twice during Coach’s infamous Hellfire Sprints. Her and her boyfriend Trevor, who was practically your 5th suitemate, had stayed up until dawn doing pulls from a tequila bottle and hitting his dab pen.

You hadn’t slept either.

Laying on top of your comforter with wet hair and lotion slicked skin, racking your brain with how the shot felt a tiny bit off from your fingers, how coach’s eyes looked like a fucking demon’s when he glared at you on the bus.

How the Sunday morning practice, which was usually laid back and games of pig and watching game tape, was going to be hell on earth.

“22 if I have to tell you one more time to move your ass I’m cutting you from this team do you hear me?”

You rolled your eyes as you pushed yourself faster to touch the black line, beating out the other girls by a full few seconds.

After the sixth set of sprints he had you all go to the workout room and max out on squats. Your legs shook and nearly buckled under the heavy weights. And all he did was stand behind you and tell you how pathetic you looked, he shook his head and scoffed.

“We’re gonna stay here all day til you rack this up, don’t care if you fall on your ass— you’ll do it.”

His breath fanning your ear drove you mad. Spearmint gum and that rich boy cologne he always wore stung your nose as you grunted in defiance.

Through bared teeth and burning lungs you extend your legs to stand.

You wanted to kick him in the dick, make him shut the fuck up for once, but you bit your tongue. Driving the bar up and slamming it loud against the rack Looking back at him with a glare in your eyes, you wouldn’t let a single tear wet your eyes, never giving him the satisfaction.

He looked you up and down quickly, but his eyes felt like hot pokers dragging against your skin. Before he crossed over to another one of your teammates to add more weight to their bar, he dipped his head, and muttered just above a whisper, “Thatta girl.”

You didn’t know much about him but what you did know was that he kept to himself.

Coach Harrington was only a few years older than you, he had a small mustache that he more than likely grew to make himself look a little older than he was.

From what your suitemates had found out by spending hours scouring online archives from his hometown local newspaper to his social media footprint that didn’t exist— and even going as far to stalking his ex girlfriends Instagram— he had played college ball at Perdue for two years before blowing out his knee and ending a full ride scholarship and any rumored possibility of making it to the NBA.

From locker room gossip, you had learned that he drove a black Jeep Wagoneer, and lived in one of the newer apartments downtown.

The university had paid double what they had for the last coach's salary to get Harrington through the doors. The athletic director, Mr. Hopper, had picked him to coach because he was one of the best. But all he was to you was a fucking asshole.

The other girls had ooed and awed over him, the other teams coaches flirted with him before the games, trying to get his number and find out more about the brooding coiffed hair hottie. And maybe you would feel different about him if he wasn’t such a raging prick.

But he wouldn’t budge.

He didn’t get personal with anyone on the team, barely even talked to his assistant Dustin. Refusing to call anyone by anything other than their jersey number or their last name.

Practice lasted for three hours. And by the end of it his voice was hoarse and gruff. Having screamed practically during the entire time.

It wasn’t anything new. He was always high strung and losing his shit when it came to the girls, but mostly you bore the brunt of his anger.

He always used you as an example on what not to do.

“You’re doing it wrong 22,” he’d bellow, his voice echoing loud across the empty gym, his arms crossed tight across his chest, muscles popping under the strain of his tight gray shirt, “drive to the left then cut right, this isn’t fucking hard… do it again.”

You did as you were told, fighting through anger that seeped through your skin and riddled your face with shaking muscles of anger, a twitch to your eye.

You were pissed and had had enough. Not only were you the youngest captain your school had ever seen, you were averaging triple doubles nearly every game.

Showing up to practice early to shoot free throws and leaving late to make sure all the equipment was put away. Spending weekends in the gym running drills or pushing weights instead of at the nearest rager popping pills and snorting coke like everyone else your age.

You put in the work and it showed, but he couldn’t see it.

It was equally frustrating and heartbreaking.

When practice was finally through and all of the girls had either thrown up, left mid practice to go to the nurse or screamed that they were quitting, the locker room was an endless groan. Muscles were slicked over with the menthol burn of icy hot, and sore shoulders wrapped with bags of ice. Tape was torn from ankles and jammed fingers wadded up and tossed into a nearby waste bin. Sniffles were heard from some players and you stood in a sports bra and shorts when Coach Harrington entered the locker room.

“Don’t get too comfortable, we’ll be back here in 3 hours to run more Hellfire Sprints.”

The girls groaned and slammed lockers, bitching under the breath.

“Hey!” Coach Harrington shouted, a thin vein bulging in his forehead, matching the ones in his arms, as he stood with his hands on his hips, the retro fit of his athletic pants swishing under his thick hands. “You want someone to bitch to? You can thank your captain.”

The room falls silent as all eyes land on you. And your breath hitches in your throat, cheeks burning with embarrassment.

“Me?” You question, “what the hell did I do?”

“The question you should be asking yourself is what you didn’t do. How did you sleep last night knowing you blew that game for your teammates?”

A gasp escapes from your lips and you stare at your Air Forces to hide your pained expression.

“Now, the rest of you get recharged, be back here at 5 o’clock, I don’t want any excuses.” As the room starts to file out, through the heavy wood door, Coach Harrington still stands in the middle of the room, eyes burning holes into your skull, “22 meet me in my office in 10, we need to discuss your position on this team.” He turned on his heel and headed through the doors, pushing them open with a straight arm and his pants swishing down the hallway,

You wait til everyone has gone, Mel giving you a slap on the shoulder, her skin unusually pale on her olive complexion under her charcoal braids, “good luck.”

Lifting your chin you nod and wave, throwing an oversized crew neck over your head and pushing your arms through the holes. Gym bag strewn over your shoulder and you pull your socks up a bit before making the long trek down to Coach Harrington’s office.

Contemplating what you would do when you walked through his office and he kicked you off the team, your long basketball career over because your coach couldn’t fucking stand you.

Never in all your life had you had a coach like him. He pushed you to the limits and started to make you despise the sport altogether.

And since you were about to be booted off the team, you didn’t have anything to lose.

The gold plate reading: Coach S. Harrington- Women’s Basketball on the large mahogany door nestled between the cream cinder block walls almost made your stomach lurch. He never asked anyone to come to his office, not even when Zoey got pregnant last semester and had to quit.

Nerves shook your fist as you knocked on his door, your other hand fumbling your car keys around the silver ring.

“Yeah.” He barked curtly, anything but friendly.

Turning the enormous brass knob, you keep your eyes to the floor when you step into his office. For being down an abandoned hallway, it was almost cozy. The walls were painted fire engine red to match your school's colors. His college degree was framed and hanging on one wall, along with signed pictures of Michael Jordan that you knew cost more than your car.

The oak desk was neat with a MacBook and cup of pens and pencils. A markerboard hung the expanse of one wall covered in scribbled plays and code names.

It smelled like musky expensive leather and cologne and neatly stacked paper Pictures from his glory days were on the shelf behind him, and he cleared his throat when you stared at him flying through the air towards a hoop.

His hair was messy, tufts of brown sticking up, like his fingers had been raking through it so many times out of frustration that the flexible gel wasn’t holding anymore.

He peers at his screen without making eye contact with you, fingers tapping noisily on the keys.

“Do you hate basketball?”

His question has your head spinning. And when you don’t answer right away he asks again.

“N-no,” you stutter, voice shaky and on the verge of screaming at his stupid question.

“Sure about that?” He seethes, still not looking up from his laptop as he clicks away furiously on the keyboard, “The way you played last night could have fooled me.”

Moon shapes indent your palm as you try to keep it together without ripping his head off like a praying mantis “It was a mistake.”

“We don’t make elementary mistakes,” he says slamming his laptop closed and peering over his desk at you through his thick eyebrows, “a fucking third grader could have ran that play better than you did.”

Your throat is dry and chalky as you try to stick up for yourself, being accustomed to keeping rage boiled hot in your belly, “I-I’m..”

His torment continues, pointing around the room at the awards from the last few years, “We’re a nationally ranked team, and your performance last night was embarrassing, and pathetic!”

A single tear threatens to slip down your cheek, and he notices the watery look in your eye, and licks his lip, but he keeps going.

“I expected more out of you, 22– you let your team down last night, and most importantly, me.”

You burst before the dam does, annoyed and sick of his threats, sick of his constant nitpicking of every move yoj make, “That’s not anything new.”

“Excuse me?”

“You treat me like I’m a dog! It’s almost like you want me to quit, you don’t bitch at any of the other girls like you do to me, and I’m tired of it!”

“Watch your mouth.” He points, eyes squinted and nostrils flared.

“No! I work my ass off for you, come in early and stay late. My game has improved and I’m top of the charts for scoring and rebounds, yet you fucking hound me and are constantly cutting me down.”

He doesn’t say anything so you keep going.

“Last night could have ended with us winning and you wouldn’t give a flying fuck, you’d still make us run your dumbass drills, you’d still wake up and find something wrong with what I do— stop taking your failed career out on me!”

he slams his fist into his desk and stands up quickly, the picture frames wiggle as his chair hits the shelf. He crosses the small office in one long legged step coming to stand before you as your back hits against the heavy door, he points a thick finger into your face.

You struck the last fragile nerve he had like a guitar player busting a string playing a solo. Any reserve he had left was gone, his eyes clouded over into hue deeper than a dark forest.

His hot breath fans your cheek, spearmint intensely strong with each bite of his words.

“Don’t you ever talk to me about my personal life again, you got that? You,” he surges pointing into your shoulder, “are supposed to be a leader for this team, and right now you’re acting like a spoiled fucking brat not getting her way.”

The tear you were holding back spills over over your lashes and, his eyes break from yours to watch its southward path on from your cheek to your chin. A low grown rumbles in his throat.

“I’m not a brat!” you scream at him, wiping your cheek hastily, “you’re crazy, and we all hate you!”

His eyes stay moody and dark as he peers into your face down the slope of his nose, “really?” he says no louder than a whisper, “you hate me huh?”

A thick hand wraps around your ponytail, and his body crowds yours into the door, back flat as it would go despite your curves.

Your breathing is erratic, bubbled into your throat with anxiety like you might throw up. His face is so close to yours you can see the definition of each of his eyelashes, and tiny flecks of gold in his eyes.

He’s staring at you with pure hatred, like he’d kill you if ever given the chance, and you’re almost embarrassed by the way your pussy clenches.

“Say it again,” he murmurs, mouth barely moving and barely an inch from your own, his eyes only leave yours when your mouth opens to speak.

“I fucking hate you, Coach Harring—”

His mouth slams into yours with such force your teeth clack together and the taste of blood trickles on your tongue. Your back is pushed flush against the door, likely to bruise from the force alone.

His full weight is pressed against you, his taut body firm and rocked with muscles. He locks your hips in place with alarge hand, fingers gripping your skin beneath your sweater.

Firm and taking what he wants without a second thought, his lips are intoxicating. The roughness of his mustache tickles your lip in an itching way, more than likely leaving a burn behind in his feverish take on your mouth.

His hair is soft in your grip, and you nearly roll your eyes thinking about his hair care routine, but you find yourself rolling your eyes in a different way when you feel his cock bulging through his pants.

Thick and heavy against your thigh, if you had to take a guess it was probably as veiny as his forearms were. And you stifle a moan when it kicks up.

His teeth bite at your lip and you yelp in pain, a noise that only drives him further into you, his hand tightens around your ponytail and yanks your neck further back so your head hits the door.

His shirt is fisted into your hand and you pull him further into you, sliding your tongue against his—sharing the taste of your fresh blood and his spearmint spit.

You scratch at his scalp with your dull nails and he fights back a melty groan.

“Such a fucking brat.” He breathes, as his fingers work the hem of your crew neck up, his fingers feel like lightening strikes against your body, and you welcome the dulled pain with a moan, “Need’t be put in your place.”

You whine when your sweater hits the ground with a soft thud and the cool air of his office ices over your still sweat slicked skin. His lips suck deep bruises into your throat, and his fingers dip into the waistband of your shorts, shoving them down in a hurry.

Expert fingers find your clit and he smirks when you whine for more, “thought you hated me?”

You pout when his fingers come to a halt, eyes flicking open to see his confidence boasting on his stupid perfect face.

“But this pretty little pussy doesn’t, does she baby?”

“Coach,” you moan out for him, his title on your lips in a sloppy whine make him harder than he’s ever been.

His thick fingers dip into the silky warm folds of your pink pussy. The combined noises you make, echo loud in his office. “Fuck baby,” he groans, his fingers sucking up into your gummy walls, he pops them out licks the juicy wetness of your arousal from them. “So wet honey, all this for me?”

Your fingers pinch at his sweats and pull them down in a swift motion along with his boxer briefs. He’s hung more than you thought. Making any guy you had been with previous look like something in a funny museum.

His abs are sculpted and dip into a hard cut v, leading to a small patch of trimmed hair, housing the longest, thickest dick you’ve ever come across.

And you were right it was veiny.

The pretty mushroom pinked head was presenting a pearl of pre cum, so pretty it could make an angel cry. When you try to lower yourself to wrap your lips around him, he stops you.

“Not today,” he groans, fisting his hearty length, your eyes going dumb watching him, brain numb and drunk on him already, “not enough time.”

He wraps your legs around his waist and hoists you up against the wall, your bare back stings against the rough cement wall, he’s grabby, his lips pressing heat into your neck, his moan tingling your skin.

With a quick shift of his hips, your tight pussy sheaths his thick cock. And you scream out.

“Shit, fuck honey..” he’s fighting to keep composure as you are practically lifeless against the wall. His thrusts are filled with purpose and want as your ass is slammed harder and harder into the wall, clapping along like a round of applause, ankles crossed around his lower back at your Nike socks and the laces of your air forces bouncing in tandem.

He’s sweaty and grunting, with each pull from his cock brings more deep and pretty noises from you and he sucks into your shoulder again, knowing damn well his mark will last for weeks. One you’d have to explain to your friends and your teammates, and your boyfriend.

He didn’t know if you had a boyfriend and frankly he didn’t give a fuck, you were his for the time being and he would do as he pleased.

He was fucking you stupid and you were letting him, holding his neck in a lazy grip as he hammered into you, and when you tightened around him, he knew you were close, “look at me,” he begs of you, “you’re gonna come for me, yeah?”

“Yes,” you choke out, barely registering what he’s saying from the tight coiled pleasure of your orgasm ready to fire away.

His cock drags slow as your eyes connect, yours lazily spilling over with fresh tears, “who’s makin’ you feel this good, 22? Huh?”

“Y-you Coach!” you whine, nearly ready to crumble under his thick fingers when he rubs your sensitive clit.

“What was that baby girl?,” he croaked, holding back his release, “couldn’t hear you.”

“Oh fuck oh fuck mmm you, Coach Harrington! Fuck I’m coming!”

Your orgasm breaks and it’s like a dam has busted, his dick is soaked by your arousal and he’s losing any bit of cockiness he had left when your face smooths and your lips blur a pretty round ‘o’ as you hum and your body tingles.

He follows not far behind you, muttering sentences that make no sense, drunk on your pussy as he paints your walls with his release.

You’ve never seen him look hotter, his forehead rests on your chest as you both catch your breath. For a split second he shows you a sly smirk, like he actually was enjoying himself.

“you might just be my fav-”

before he can finish, before he can pull out and offer you a towel, a loud knock scared everything in him stiff. Besides his cock that went instantly soft.. his blood ran cold.

His face stares at the door, and you stare at him, your grip on his shoulders tighten.

“Steve?”

*let me know your thoughts on this, should there be a part 2? I love hearing your comments ♥️

#steve x female reader #steve x you #steve harrington fanfic #steve fanfic

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petrichorium · 4 months

Text

{contents: reader is afab/gn, spitting in jing yuan's mouth, lil bit of finger sucking, supposed to be cuddlefucking but i kinda got carried away lol}

“open your mouth.”

the words register slower for you than for the man you currently straddle. they spill from your lips breathless, tumbling out on sheer impulse, startling you as your own hoarse voice breaks the quiet of the room beyond. in the heady fever of the sheets you find yourself tangled within, your mind is so far gone you can’t quite follow your thoughts; still half-asleep, having been roused from a mid afternoon nap with your lover and drawn immediately into a late afternoon romp, it’s really all you can do to brace yourself as best you can against his sticky chest and roll your hips in a vain attempt to match his strong movements. still, somehow, you’ve spoken.

beneath you, jing yuan’s brows raise. his lips twitch in amusement. they part to speak, and you're reminded that they are what spawned this sudden urge; the sight of them, plush and pink and pretty, mouth slack with his panting as he stares up at you with a lidded golden gaze cloudy with want.

“open,” you demand again, voice hitching as you rock against him. sparks of hot pleasure rush through you from the combined sensation of both his cock buried deep within you and the fat, callused thumb pressed steadfast against your clit.

he obeys without further delay, opens his mouth for a pair of questing fingers that you’ve managed to trace up the column of his sweat-slick throat to press at the seam of his lips. teeth graze them, nipping in playful hunger, but you’re entirely unmoved as you press them down against the soft, wet plane of his tongue. he closes his mouth around them; you frown.

your other hand finds the back of his hair and yanks none too gently, jerking his head back and drawing a groan from him that has his eyes fluttering closed and his mouth going slack, tongue twitching against the pads of your digits as you use them to pry his jaw open wide. it’s then that you lean down, having gathered enough saliva, and spit.

the column of his throat bobs with a heavy swallow without hesitation and you resist the urge to sink your teeth into it. he shudders, lets out a downright obscene moan, bucks up against you so powerfully that you’re forced to remove your hand in a desperate bid not to be flung from your perch. it has you keening in turn, louder still when his hands tighten around your hips with white-knuckle strength to yank you down and knock the breath from your lungs.

jing yuan’s eyes open again; they’re blown dark, something borderline animal, nothing more than a rim of gold around two blackened circles that watch you with keen fervor. as soon as that heated gaze registers, a hand trails up your spine to your neck and tugs you down in a sudden burst of energy. he all but slams you into him, connecting lips to yours in a kiss full of teeth and tongue, panting like a dog into your mouth, tongue delving deep to coax yours back into his mouth. that hand presses you ever closer until it’s almost painful; as if he couldn’t possibly be close enough, as if he wished for nothing more than to meld with you entirely and feel such bliss forever.

his grip loosens, he lets you press hands to his chest and push away to catch your breath. it takes you a moment to open your eyes, still reeling from the savagery of his kiss, mind only drifting further and further with each slow, deep grind into you that he pairs with the solid grip he still has on your hips.

beneath you, he shifts. as he rises to sitting, keeping you both steady, your legs lose purchase atop the rolling spread of his thick thighs and you clutch instinctively at the broad shoulders before you, and his chest shakes with a low, satisfied chuckle as he pulls you in again. he’s softer now, nosing up at your cheek sweetly before burying his face into the crook of your shoulder in bliss, but the angle has shifted along with him—he now bullies the head of his cock against a spot within you that has your whole body trembling, falling limp against him, every thought dashed from your mind.

still, he kisses at the bare skin of your collarbone and neck. still, his hold on you tightens to keep you flush to him. still, when he pulls back to look at the mess he’s made of you, his eyes blaze; the final flash of a setting sun, the brilliant strike of lightning.

“again,” jing yuan demands, voice the rumbling thunder of an order. his mouth opens—it’s a desperate thing despite his tone, and you think it looks far more like a plea.

mindless and spent, knowing he intends to wring all he can from you, you oblige.

#mine.🌧#char.🌧 jing yuan #jing yuan x reader #hsr x reader #jing yuan smut #cw.spit #praying this will show in the tags.........

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bootyful-seventeen · 3 days

Text

Horny svt thots pt 2

*took forever but I finally scraped enough motivation to get more horny thots out so all members are complete! it's been brutal with how little drive i've had but i finally typed again and i feel like squidward from that one episode where he stayed up all night writing

Okay but thinking about Cheol and slipping away together when at a party, or on an outing with friends to get a bit more handsy has me on the floor. He’d be a little distracted with keeping a look out for anyone walking by/coming to look for you while you’re on your knees and licking at his balls while jerking him off. And just the visual alone of Seungcheol covering his mouth with a hand to stifle his moans while the other was guiding your head up and down his cock is just, oh my… He’s choking back his moans until you push yourself farther down on his cock until you’re practically gagging yourself, and he’s cumming with muffled whines of “baby feel so good” “swallow every drop f’r me yeah? That’s my good girl” “fuck baby I love you” and you're lapping at the cum dripping down his cock and balls with a sweet smile on your face and telling him you love him too

What about rimming Joshua! His upper half is melting into the mattress while you're tightily gripping onto his his to keep them up in the air for you to swirl your tongue over his twitching hole. His cheeks are burning and tears are brimming in his eyes from how good he's feeling when you squeeze his cute butt. You're occasionally switching from using your mouth to teasing his hole and balls with your hands, whispering into his skin about how pretty he sounds when he's getting eaten out. Or how flustered he'd get when you manhandle him a bit to lay on his back and order him to watch you while you suck him off. At the same time your fingers are slipping back to his spit slicked hole, pushing a finger in to the knuckle while your free hand started pumping his throbbing cock until whines and moans were falling freely from Joshua's lips. Or how he'd get shy enough to try and bury his face in the sheets to hide his burning cheeks in the cool fabris as you slipped another finger or two into his twitching hole until he's cumming all over himself. His heart pounding in his ears when you went back to sucking on his balls at the same time your hands were lazily pumping his cock and sensitive little hole

Or even going on a nice walk followed by a picnic with Jun at the park near sundown, and he's got you pulled onto his lap with your dress pulled under your tits and his cock rubbing against your slick folds. He's grunting in your ear about how you've teased him long enough with that pretty little sundress of yours. Especially when you had hiked up the skirt to flash him the wet patch on your lacy thong while he ate some strawberries and had nearly choked on one. Jun's eyes are focused on you and how your cunt grips his cock so tightly when he swipes his thumb over your clit, your eyes are darting around the park to see if anyone is still milling about and would potentally catch you getting railed if you weren't careful. But god does Jun enjoy how beautiful you look with the setting sun behind you making you look etherial as tears brimmed in your eyes and you whimpered while coming undone on his cock. He'd pull at the top of your dress until they sit under your breasts and he can't help but moan when he sees you weren't wearing a bra and his lips are instantly attaching themselves to your nipple. Sucking, bitting and licking at it before he's switching to play with the other as you rubbed at your clit. Begging him to make you cum while his hands are groping and pulling at your ass. Giving you a helping hand with riding him when you started to slow down a bit. Or how Jun would swat away your hand and play with your clit until you're pulsing around him when he gives your little clit a few pinches, his lust blown eyes watching you cover your mouth to cut off your moaning as you cum around him. Tits bouncing as your hips jerked from his hard thrusts chasing his own orgasm to the point that you were falling backwards as Jun's moving to hunch over your form until he's shooting ropes of thick cum in your pussy. Reaching for his phone to capture a couple pics of your cunt leaking with his cum before he's snapping a few full body shots of you with you holding your legs open and your spit slicked tits fully in view of his camera along with the fucked out look on your face, the last rays of the setting sun bathing you in it's light. Even managing to get a few shots of himself putting just the tip in before you're wiggling your hips and begging him to give you more and who is he to deny his perfect girl

Okay but the brainrot I've been having about fucking Soonyoung at a beach is unreal. Like he's taking you on a tropical vacation and found a nice and secluded beach to take you to for the day. In the beginning it was just about spending some time alone without worrying much about other people. But when you peeled off your swim suit and splashed around in the crystal blue waters while he set up the umbrella and picnic blackets, Soonyoung couldn't help but follow your lead and strip himself down to join you in the water. His eyes would be glued to your form as you bobbed along his cock before letting him go with a wet pop and climbing onto his lap. Soonyoung's mouth falls open when you sink down on his cock paired with your lips on his neck sucking some marks onto his skin. Or how he'd look so pretty with misty eyes begging to cum. His fingers tightly squeezing onto your hips to help you bounce faster on his cock until he's spilling his cum deep inside. A bashful little smile on his face when you slide off his cock and his seed floods from your cunt, and he's stuttering about how he wasn't expecting his load to be that big. His head would be spinning when you rub your cum filled pussy over his semi hard cock and demanding him to fill you up with his cum again and again until neither of you can take it anymore

okay but just think of how hot Wonwoo would be when you're sucking him off in his car after teasing him the whole time you were out with him. You just could not for the life of you keep your little mitts off of him and his breaking point was when you had sat down to eat dinner at this new restaurant you've been dying to go to, and you moved your self to sit beside him in the booth to paw at his crotch after tracing up and down his inner thigh for a while. He was doing really well until you quickly unzipped his pants to slip your hand into his underwear to fist his cock. Wonwoo would have an iron grip on your wrist as he lowly whispers that you're gonna get it if you keep this up, and hearing that only sends jolts of arousal to your clit. You can barely remember how you got outside and in his car but you remember that the second the doors shut, his hand was gripping the back of your neck and pulling you to his bulge. "See what you did to me baby, since you couldn't wait, your slutty little mouth is gonna be making it up to me" and you're lips are being pushed open as he pushes your head down onto himself. Wonwoo's hit the back of your throat and you gaged as his hand started a rough pace for you. Your eyes rolling into the back of your head as he used your mouth as a fleshlight. Degrading words slurring when you rubbed your tongue along the vein on his length, or when you'd try to slip your tongue out as far as it could go to flick at his balls. Your eyes had rolled into the back of your skull by the time he switched hands to free up the one closer to your ass to give it a squeeze and a few spanks. His fingers inching lower to rub over your slit, a dark chuckle of how you're this wet from just a facefucking before he's yanking you off his spit coated cock that's just throbbing to be back inside your warm, wet hole, and is ordering you to get in the backseat so he can cum inside your needy little cunt

Now Hansol has been rotting my brain with thoughts of titty fucking him in your backyard. It's been an incredibly hot day and it called for a nice dip in the pool. Hansol's got a faint sunburn on his cheeks and shoulders from the sun while he lounged at the edge of the pool, his eyes following your form swimming through the water until you swam up between his legs. His eyes would be falling back to your tits and openly admiring the way they looked in your new bikini before pulling him down for a kiss. I'm in heat thinking about how his cock would jump when you're sliding back into the refreshing water with your hands trailing down from his neck to pull his swim trunks enough to free his cock. Or how Hansol would let out these shy little giggles when you ask him if he's like to fuck your tits, while you're sliding his hot cock in the space between your tits with the string of your bikini keeping the base of his length close. I can see his cheeks glowing pink when you pull the fabric aside to let his eyes drink in the full glory of your tits. His fingers reaching out to thumb at your pebbled nipples as you lightly started to move your tits up and down his cock. Oh god I am knawing at the bars of my cage just thinking about how Hansol would occasionally stutter out praises like " you l-ook s-oh fuck-so pretty with my dick between your tits" or "ple-ease don't sto-op, feel s'good" or how he'd be so whiny when he wasn't talking. Hansol's eyes would almost go cross eyed when you tilt your chin down to kitten lick at his slit while holding your tits tight around him to try and keep him steady for you before he's gripping onto your hair and bucking the tip of his leaky cock between your lips until he's ready to cum. Shooting his load over the lower half of your face and tits while you played with your nipples and let out your own sweet little moans when you'd pinch the heard buds a little too hard just to send currents of pleasure to your clit before he's sliding into the water himself to pull you over to the set of stairs by the shallow end to give your throbbing cunt the same treatment

Oh god okay but imagine how hot Chan would look while he's thigh fucking you! His lips are brushing against your shoulder as he tightly holds onto your thighs. His cock is pistoning between your slick thighs while you're grabbing onto his pants and trying to keep your eyes focused enough to take in his dishelveled appearance from your bedroom mirror. Or how his cheeks are flushed dark when he catches you staring at him with hooded eyes and breathy little moans asking him to cum for you. Or how he's rut his hips even harder into the seam of your thighs as he's about to cum. The head of his cock bumping your throbbing clit each time sending delicious shivers through your body. And how he's groaning and letting out louder moans that make a wave of heat rush over your body from the sound of Chan's pleasure when he cums all over your thighs and mound. Then it's your turn for your cheeks to heat up when he's tapping for you to spread your legs for him, spurting some of his cum onto the crotch of your panties and Chan's grabbing your soiled panties that rested on your midthighs back up to fit snugly on your soaked pussy lips. Giving your cunt a few soft pats as he helps you fix your dress and lipstick. Then he'd pull you out the bedroom door while telling you that you're gonna be late for the party if you don't leave now and that maybe he could squeeze in a few quickies if you keep the cum soaked panties on all night

#seventeen smut #svt smut #seventeen scenario #seungcheol smut #s.coups smut #joshua smut #jun smut #soonyoung smut #hoshi smut #wonwoo smut #hansol smut #vernon smut #dino smut #seventeen imagine

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noforkingclue · 5 months

Note

I warned you it's brain rot. It's Tommy Shelby brain rot-

But Tommy Shelby has a nurse who knows not to ask too many questions, who lets injured Peaky blinders into her house and helps them quietly. He's been there himself, so has Arthur, John. Finn once, too, but for a scraped knee on the street.

And Thomas has always regarded her as one of his-his men, his assest, whatever. And he's been slowly learning about her-she talks when she works, to distract, put them at ease, and it lets him learn more about her-she likes horses, for instance. Where she grew up, the basics of how she ended up here-and he pays her well enough, and she doesn't seem fool enough to turn coat.

But there are moments...moments where he's injured, where it's her and him in the room, smelling of blood, of pain and that soft voice and comfort-and he knows in those moments she's not just his nurse. Not just a healer he wants to keep around because her stitches are clean and neat, and her mouth shut.

So when Grace the fucking barmaid squeals about her to the coppers-he's not exactly a happy man. And Tommy Shelby angry is a sight to behold.

Note: requests are currently closed

Of course anon! I hope I got all the details in the request as it was a long on!

Enjoy!

Title: Vengeance

Warnings: descriptions of violence against women

Peaky Blinders tag list: @stylesofloki, @ohshititsfenharel, @lenaskyler02, @elenavampire21, @swordofawriter, @zablife, @cillmequick, @polishcrazyone, @nataliewalker93

Thomas Shelby tag list: @alreadybroken-ts, @darlingdevil, @lyrxbz, @watercolorskyy, @notyour-valentine

Everything tag list: @greenrevolutionary, @byebyebreezywrites, @spngingerbread21, @layazul, @lov3vivian, @simonsbluee

“I’m going to fucking kill him,” Arthur growled, “once we find out who did this their going to wish they hadn’t been fucking born.”

“Arthur-“

“They fucking hurt y/n,” Arthur said, “Y/n? What has she ever done?”

“She fucking helped us,” said John, “how many times have you been to her?”

“Not as much as you fucking have.”

Tommy was looking into the main bar, smoking silently. He had remained quiet while his brothers discussed what happened and their plans for your attacker. Well, Arthur and John had. Finn remained quiet and very pale, clutching a glass of whiskey so tightly that Tommy thought he was going to break it. That would only add to their problems seeing as you wouldn’t be able to pull the glass out. Tommy had seen Finn wiping his eyes but subtlety was never Finn’s strong points.

“Boys.”

Polly stood in front of Tommy. He glanced over her shoulder and looked at you huddled in a booth. Polly pushed her was passed him and Tommy shut the door behind her.

“How is she?” asked John

“What a fucking stupid question,” snapped Polly before sighing and running a hand over her face, “how do you think? She needs time so, don’t-“

“You need to leave.” Said Tommy

“Excuse me?” said Polly, venom in her voice

“I’m going to speak to her.”

“She doesn’t need that at the moment, especially from you.”

Tommy looked over and locked eyes with Polly.

“I need to speak to her.”

“Tom-“ said Arthur

“Fuck off.” Tommy said as he left the room

Your head jerked up when you heard the door open but you seemed to relax slightly when you realised it was only Tommy. He sat down opposite you and was vaguely aware of his brothers and Polly leaving. Neither of you spoke for a while. You ran a thumb over the rim of your glass and Tommy lit a cigarette and offered it to you. You took it with shaking hands and his eyes dropping down to the cuts on your hands. Deep scratches along the palms of yours hands, knuckles had the skin scrapped away. When he looked up at your face he felt the familiar bubbling rage resurface.

Your left eye was an ugly purple colour and swollen shut. Your bottom lip has been cut open and starting to scab over. Your nose was now slightly crooked and he could see the traces of blood around your nostrils. From the way you drew deep shaking breath, wincing every so often, he guessed that your ribs had been broken.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “this shouldn’t have happened.”

You took a deep drag of your cigarette and said,

“I knew that this could happen when I started helping.”

“You didn’t deserve it.”

“I work for the Shelby’s.”

“Which is why we’re going to find out who did this and kill him.”

You blinked in surprise and smiled bitterly.

“Never knew you cared.”

“Why wouldn’t I? You’re one of us.”

And maybe it was because Tommy liked you a bit too much. You always helped him and his men, probably more often then you should’ve. You stayed up late, humouring an old (and secretly lonely) man. Telling him stories of your life before the Blinders, telling him about your day and in return getting some small snippets of his life in return. In the dark of the night, in a room that smelt of blood and alcohol, the two of you grew closer.

And it was this that had sealed your fate.

“Love, you need to tell me what you can remember.”

“I… can’t.”

“Anything.”

“They blindfolded me.”

Ah.

“But, he had an accent.”

“Hmm.”

“Irish, I think.”

“Irish,” Tommy let out a chuckle, “think I know who you mean. He’d hate for you to call him Irish though.”

“Huh?”

You jumped when there was a clink by the bar. Tommy looked over at it sharply and saw Grace by the bar. A tense silence fell over the room before Tommy said,

“And how long have you been there?”

#fanfiction #peaky blinders #reader insert #request #thomas shelby #tommy shelby #thomas shelby x reader #tommy shelby x reader

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lieutnt · 1 year

Text

discovery

König x Male Reader Summary: During your first time together, you learn some surprising things about König. Warnings: NSFW, 18+ Only. First time together, top!reader, submissive virgin!König, fingering, protected anal, aftercare.

A pleased hum rumbles through your chest when you deepen the kiss, König opening his mouth so your tongue can slide in as he allows himself to be pushed flatter against the couch. You stay like that for a few more minutes, bathing in the heat shared between your bodies, desire increasing in your veins at the quiet moans that he lets out as he sinks into you.

It all stops when you plant a hand on König's thigh, fingers trailing up and up closer to his crotch when he sucks in a nervous breath, stuttering out an embarrassed "W-wait."

You stop immediately, withdrawing your hand and sitting up. "Is everything ok?" you ask, the genuine concern in your voice making butterflies flutter in König's stomach.

He's thankful he still has the safety of his hood - he can hide the deep crimson blush creeping up on his cheeks as he readjusts the fabric so his face is covered again. He sighs, following you up to sit in an upright position and pauses, attempting to sort the jumbled thoughts in his head before speaking. “I… haven’t done this before.” He steels himself, prepared for the reaction, anxiety flooding in about how you’d judge him, leave him for someone with more experience, who can give you the pleasure you want.

“Oh.” Here it comes, the rejection, leaving him to wither in a puddle of self deprivation- “That’s ok, we don’t have to do anything you aren’t comfortable with.”

His eyes shoot to your face, searching for any sign of doubt but he finds none, just you looking at him with an easy, reassuring smile. König is silent for a moment, brain trying to process what you just said. “W- what?”

You take his hand, thumb rubbing assuredly across his knuckles. “If you don’t want to do anything, we won’t.” His stomach flips, how you accept it so easily, but deep down, he does want this, wants to experience it with you.

“No mein liebling, I want to.”

* * *

Soon enough you have him on his hands and knees in front of you, palm smoothing down the curve of his spine to try and help him relax. His cock twitches in interest as you gradually move lower and lower towards his hole. “Are you ready?” You ask, and when he nods you clarify. “Need to hear you say it König.”

He breathes heavily, his face burning with embarrassment. “I’- I’m ready.”

“Just tell me if you need me to stop and I will.” His body tenses when he hears the cap on the bottle of lube click open, but you’re quick to notice, hand continuing its trail up and down his spine after you’ve dolloped some lube on your other hand, spreading it around as much as you can one handed.

You continue until he’s relaxed again, limbs looser than before. “Good boy,” you praise, goosebumps gathering on his skin.

Bringing a finger to his hole he flinches when he first feels the contact, body jumping away from the digit. You keep your hand still, moving from his spine to his hip, rubbing circles into the skin as he breathes. He moves back, fighting to keep still as you finally press a finger against his hole, spreading the lube until he’s used to the feeling.

Doing this for a few moments, you’re surprised when he speaks up, a hint of desperation in his tone. “M-more please.” Teasing the tip of your finger against his rim you gently apply pressure, opening him up more and more until you can just barely slide in, pausing to let him adjust.

You can hear how heavy he breathes, and you lean down to trail kisses down his spine, hoping to offer some comfort. “That’s it, just breathe.” He sighs when you begin to move your hand again, teasing the finger in and out until you’re knuckle deep, massaging his gummy walls. He groans when you push all the way in, cock underneath twitching, pearls of white gathering at the tip.

Slowly you introduce a second finger in the same way you did the first until he’s rocking back against you, chasing the heat broiling in his belly. His breathing picks up and he lowers a hand to his cock, rapidly beginning to fuck into his hand as he cries and moans with pleasure, orgasm approaching unexpectedly fast.

Letting him use your fingers he soon arches with a harsh, final cry, cock erupting with strings of white as he paints his hand, splashing up to his chest as his cock rocks with his thrusts. Body twitching around your fingers he collapses forward onto his arms as your fingers slip from his hole, his chest heaving as he comes down from his orgasm.

He’s dazed, muttering something in German you don’t quite catch, seemingly in his own world until he feels you shift behind him, your palm feeling scalding hot against his skin as you bring him back. “You ok?”

He takes a moment before finally speaking. “Yes,” he nods, causing you to shuffle back as he flips himself onto his back, giving you little time to react before he takes a fistful of your shirt and pulls you down towards him, capturing your lips with his own. Pressing your body against his he whimpers against your lips when he feels the bulge in your pants rock against him, and all anxiety is gone when he breaks apart. “Please fuck me.”

Groaning you press your mouth to his, stealing the air from his lungs when you lift back, standing to strip yourself of your clothes, cock hard and weeping once it's released from its confines.

König gulps, your cock now looking a lot bigger without anything concealing it. Desire wins out over his anxiety, and his legs willingly part when you settle between them, rolling a condom down your cock and drizzling some lube along your shaft. Pressing your head against his entrance you test his reaction as he feels something bigger trying to penetrate him.

He arches against you as the first inch slides in, a pained hiss filling the air as he opens around you. Your hips stop when his hole clenches around you like a vice, König throwing his head back. Shifting back you let your cock slip from him completely before inching back in, following the rhythm again and again until pain gives way to pleasure, choked sobs finally showing that he’s beginning to enjoy it.

It’s a while before you’re completely bottomed out, and here you stop, letting König control when you move. He’s quiet apart from hushed pants, but a hand closes around your wrist, and he manages to stutter out “Y-you c-can move.”

Agonisingly slow you draw halfway out and push back in, König moaning at the feeling. He’s like a tight fist around you, but with each movement it becomes easier, until finally you can set a decent pace, your hips slapping against his ass with each thrust.

Unable to stay quiet he gasps and moans, strong legs wrapping around your waist to dig his heels into the bottom of your back, encouraging you to keep going. He wraps a hand around his cock, dripping and flushed at the tip and begins to jerk himself off, body unsure of whether he wants to fuck back against you or into his grip.

You pick up your thrusts, pulling a high pitched whine from König as you catch his prostate, focusing on hitting that spot again and again until he’s seeing stars, body ascending into pleasure as he comes with a hoarse cry, hole clenching and twitching around your cock as he releases his load onto his chest.

Close to your own high you continue with your thrusts, your rhythm becoming sloppy and desperate as the coil tightens in the pit of your stomach. Just one look at the pleasured expression on König’s face and one, two, three more thrusts you’re coming undone, pleasure seeping through your veins as you fill the condom, your hips jerking in small, shaky thrusts as König’s hole milks you dry.

Keeping yourself from collapsing on top of him you move a hand to cup his face, giving him a moment to recover before asking. “Are you alright? How was it?” He just nods, something you take as a good sign, brain too scrambled in his head to say anything.

He whines when you try to move, shaky arms clinging to you as you keep him anchored. You press a kiss to his temple, gently shushing him. “I’m just going to get something to clean you up, I’ll be back soon.” König relents, releasing you from his grasp and you go on wobbly legs, disappearing into the bathroom. He briefly hears the trickling of water over his heartbeat in his ears, and lies back down, trying to get his breathing under control.

When he hears your footsteps he cranes his head, watching as you return to bed with a damp cloth, the condom already discarded. His limbs feel like they’re weighed down, and he can’t do much as you gently wipe away the evidence of his release across his chest, his skin cooling as the cloth drags across his skin.

Once he’s as clean as you can get him you return the cloth to the bathroom and slide under the bed sheets, barely getting comfy before König uses the last of his strength to shuffle up beside you, leaning half his weight onto your side as he rests his head on your chest, his eyelids suddenly feeling heavy.

Your hand immediately combs through his hair, lulling him closer and closer to sleep as he melts onto you, almost purring like a content cat. “Was that what you wanted?” you question, a smile breaking out across your face as he relaxes on you.

He barely responds, a quiet “Mhm” and a barely-there nod as his breathing evens out, falling asleep against you. Trying to contain your laugh your chest barely shakes, König trying to burrow closer against your skin. You continue gently scratching his scalp until weariness calls, lying your head back as you try to sleep as well.

#könig #könig x male reader #top male reader #call of duty #elijahs oneshots #lieutnts writings #male reader #top reader

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rodolfoparras · 6 months

Text

Thinking about old man Price trying…rimming for the first time 18+

Pairing: John Price x Male reader

Content tags: rimming, internalized homophobia, age gap

Series/One Shot: Old man Price trying….for the first time i

During his 65 years of being alive he’s spent most of those years being closeted and while he’s had a handful of partners- all which were women, he hasn’t had the chance to try a whole lot of things.

All of his partners very rather simple with what they wanted in the bedroom and almost all of them wanted the same thing; for him to be in charge while he buried his face between their legs or had them down on all four as he fucked them into the mattress.

Price always found himself watching the faces they’d make while lost in throes of pleasure; the way they’d pinch their brows and bite their lips from just a few experimental licks or the way they’d arch their backs and how their bodies would quake as he pushed his tongue into them.

Although most of the time he’d watch them closely to make sure that he was doing a good job, other times he’d watch them closely and almost feel envious.

Price often found himself wondering what it would be like to be in their place, wondering what it would be like for someone, no a man, to bury his face between his legs and eat him out like he's been starved for days, to use rough calloused hands to hold Price in place, and to feel coarse beard hair scraping against his sensitive skin while his hot tongue drags across Price’s puckered rim.

He tends to get so lost in those thoughts that he often finds himself stroking his cock while having his face buried in a cunt. The women would always think he was just really into the act not realizing what he really was fantasizing about.

Price continues to secretly wonder for a couple of years until one day he no longer has to wonder about it.

He feels your strong hands holding him in place, calloused thumbs digging into the cleft of his ass and parting his cheeks easily.

He feels cold air licking at his searing hot flesh, and a familiar heat creeping up his neck ears and cheeks as your gaze burns into his puckered rim.

For a second he can’t help but worry about what you’re thinking of him. Price isn’t stupid. He knows that he isn’t young anymore. He’s got crow feet around his eyes, wrinkles and sunspots covering his skin, and miles and miles of gray hairs dusted all over his body.

In that very moment he realizes that this is how his previous partners must’ve felt when they lay splayed out in front of him.

Even though Price thought nothing but positive things about them he can’t help but worry as he feels your gaze trails over his body. He can taste bile rising up in his throat, white knuckling the pillows and squeezing his eye shut.

However all his worries immediately disappear when he hears you whispers “so pretty” against his skin.

Price finds himself preen at your praise, body arching up into your touch and you can’t help but chuckle at his reaction.

At last he feels coarse beard hair scraping against his sensitive skin, can feel your lips trailing kisses on his cheeks, and he feels his hole clenching in anticipation for what’s about to come.

This is so wrong, a little voice says in his head but it’s quickly drowned out as he feels your warm wet tongue lick a stripe along his puckered rim and within an instant he arches up into your touch as a soft gasp escapes his lips.

He shouldn’t be doing this, the very same voice says in his head but the thought has his cock leaking like a broken faucet and he feels himself push back when you give another experimental lick, in a desperate attempt to keep your tongue inside of him.

The third swipe of your tongue never comes and he feels his eyes snap open as he cranks his neck to meet your gaze and what you see is the sight of a man looking absolutely wrecked, cheeks flushed hair mused as his chest rises and falls at a rapid pace.

“Why -why did you stop?” He croaks out, words rushed and stumbling off of his tongue.

“What do you want sweetheart? Need you to use your words” you say with a soft smile on your face, palm ever so warm as you trace circles into his skin.

Price knows the look on your face, has had the very same look on his own face when he’s had a woman under him, knows that tone of voice, it’s the very same he used to coax out the words he wanted to hear.

Price feels his mouth dry up, heat creeping back up in his necks, cheeks and ears as a wave of shame and pleasure pools in the pit of his stomach as he goes to speak

“Please sir please need you- need you to touch me please”

#call of duty #john price #john price x reader #john price x male reader #captain john price #captain john price x male reader #captain john price x reader #dom male reader #sub male character #x male reader #male reader #character x male reader

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yeyinde · 1 year

Text

FINESHRINE | John Price x F!Reader

It surprised you when he’d taken your off-handed comment about wanting to fuck him senseless for a change as something sincere, obtainable, and simply looked at you, plain-faced, if a little bashful around the edges, and said, “alrigh’, love. Lemme see what you got.” Or—John Price finally gets pegged.

WARNINGS: 18+, SMUT—pegging, rimming, anal fingering; bottom John Price; soft dom!John; topping from the bottom WORD COUNT: 5,3k.

His skin tastes of brackish water—briny, salty; mossy—when you slip your tongue over the tight ring of muscles clenching like a vice around two fingers. The stranglehold of his flesh feels like it might cut off the circulation to your veins, digits bluing under the strain, the clutch.

It’s almost the same tension as wrapping several rubber bands around your appendages until the tips turn garishly purple, nails bright vermillion. It's tight.

You pull back, fingers easing out of him until only your first knuckle remains locked in his iron hold, pushing and throbbing around the intrusion. Your tongue slides over the raw rim, easing the ache, the sting, you know must be there.

The same soothing motion he’d used on you many, many times.

He must recognise the pattern. It makes him huff.

“Don’t stop, love,” he husks, voice the consistency of wet papier-mâché in your clenched palm. “C’mon—”

“Price—”

Your murmur is swallowed when he notches his hip, taking more of your fingers into himself, tightening around you like a vice when your palm is flush against his perineum.

“Fuck—,” his groan is airy. Light. “Ain’t gonna shatter me, kitten. Jus’ – jus’ keep fuckin’ me, yeah?”

It snatches the breath from your lungs in a way that leaves you dizzy.

Even then, even with his acceptance, his willingness, you hadn’t believed him. Hadn’t even given it another thought.

Not until he looked at you, brows raised when you spread your legs for him, baring your cunt to his smouldering gaze, and said:

“When is it my turn, love?”

And okay. Okay.

Price wanted you to fuck him. To split him apart with your plastic cock until he came, clenching like a vice around the mocking imitation of you, and—

Sure. Yeah.

Why not?

So, you do.

It takes three weeks to work up the nerve, and another two to find the toy you like, to research everything, to plan, prepare.

You sit him down and have discussions, much to his unfathomable bemusement.

It's when his hand curls over the nape of your neck, thumb pressing against the soft curve of bone behind your ear, and drags you close to him, noses pressed flush together, do you see the sincerity in ashlar blue. His rasp, then, of you weren't this hesitant, this careful, when I said I wanted to stick my cock in your arse. You were raring to go that night. So, why are you acting like I'm some blushing little virgin, hm? You think I can't take it? brings everything back into focus.

Right. This isn't about you.

Well. It is. But it's about—

"Us," cambium soft, the word slips from the seam of his teeth, festering like a sickness in the thick atmosphere between you. "This is an experience for us."

It’s only when you have a lovely cock strapped around your pelvis—dual pleasure, the package read (a must, Price insisted: he wanted you to cum when you were inside of him, the words leaving his mouth—you’re gonna cum when you fuck me, yeah? Cum while you’re inside of me, kitten—nearly sending you to an early grave, and a desire so deep, you soaked the gusset of your panties with your slick)—a bottle of lube, and a mountain of pegging knowledge nestled in the fibrils of your head do you even begin to feel ready. Eager.

You want this. It surprises you just how much you do.

Price is a bulwark. A curtain wall. He’s untouchable, unmoveable.

And you—

You get to see him break. Get to fracture him down into little pieces in the palm of your hand, the blunt press of your—cock—

—and then make him whole again. Patch him back together.

“Fuck—!”

The expletive is snapped out between clenched teeth when you add a third, final, finger. Your tongue follows along, slipping between the spread of them, chasing more of his taste.

“Bloody fuckin’ hell—,” he snarls the curse out, chest heaving when your fingers graze his puffy prostate, swollen and full from the nearly hour-long abuse by the tips butting into it over and over again. “Christ, pretty thing. Where the fuck did you learn this?”

You pull back, a strand of spit and lube following you from his soaked, spread hole. You wait for him to look at you, to glance between his massive thighs, and see—

Broken sapphire falls to your face, flushed cheeks darkening when he catches sight of your wet mouth, your hand buried between his legs, beneath his throbbing, leaking cock, and the groan he lets out makes your pussy ache.

His head falls back, eyes snapping shut. The muscles in his thick neck bunch, veins throbbing.

Price clenches around you fluttering in tandem with each jerk of his turgid cock.

The sight of him sends something blustering through your core, rippling down your spine. It stabs through the thick tissue around your heart until you're gasping from the ache of it all. The want.

It’s intoxicating. This power, this dominion over him.

The way you can pleasure him with gentle notches of just your fingertips, the flat seam of your tongue laving over his flexing, fluttering flesh—a place only you have ever claimed, taken. Touched, licked. Fingered. Fucked.

Something gnarls behind your ribs—an ugly, noxious, greedy thing—and the spores it releases seep into your bloodstream, into your marrow.

He's yours. All yours.

Just like you're his.

Implicit.

And John has already assured you of this—many, many times—but it's somehow infinitely different, more intimate, and possessive, than anything else you'd ever experienced.

It's bare, raw trust.

He wants this. Asked for it. Asked you for it. He wants to share this moment of vulnerability, the base reversal of traditional roles, with you. Only you.

Affection blooms in your chest, and the spillover makes you tremble. Makes you want. Yearn.

You want to make him feel heavenly. To feel the same potent Nirvana you do when he fucks the tight clutch of your cunt, pounding bliss into your synapses.

An experience shared by both of you.

He's been inside of you. And now—

"C'mon, love," he pants, drawing your attention.

In your periphery, you catch the sight of his hands fisting the sheets so tightly, his knuckle blanching under the strain.

When you lift your gaze from the mess you've made between his firm thighs, you find nothing but blistering desperation in the cut of blue.

He holds your stare for a moment—liquid sapphire pools brimming with desire, with want; with something so achingly tender, so vulnerable, you feel it bludgeon into your chest like a battering ram to your pericardium—and then, softly, softer than you'd ever heard him speak, he says your name. Just your name.

You echo it with his own, the utterance drenched in your devotion, an orison spilled over into the honey-thick air that pulses between you.

It drums through your veins, the steady plume of a hummingbird's wings, and everything that isn't this—you and him: bathed in a diaphanous fragility, an epoch in the making, and weaved together with the brassbound threads of devotion, trust—dissipates into ash.

He stares at you, drinking in the heat in your irises, the deep pools of want in your eclipsing pupils. There is a smoulder under your skin, the steady burn of a low-grade fever. The current of anticipation thrums in your veins.

Your eyes drop, gazing at the hardened length of him laying fat and heavy against his quivering stomach. Prespend leaks from the tip, puddles on his naval. Each minuscule movement of your fingers makes him twitch, and more of his milky release stains his flushed skin.

He burns inside. A molten heat that envelops you. The squeeze of him stops the tremors in your joints, the quake born from your own nerves, uncertainty.

You don't want to hurt him—ever. The thought churns in your guts, sour and acrid, and wells up like you'd drunk bleach concentrate from the nozzle. Noxious, polluting. The thought alone has your mouth knotting to the side.

"What're you thinkin' about?"

Your chin snaps up. Price gazes at you, cheeks flushed, forehead wrinkled, creased with his syphoned concern.

"I—," you swallow, tasting him on your tongue. "I don't want to hurt you."

John doesn't say anything. Not for a moment. A beat. He stares at you, plain. Open. His brow twitches, a flex. A throb.

When he exhales, you feel it against your joints.

"You're not gonna hurt me."

You swallow again, eyes dropping to his thighs. Quivering. Bunched tight. Muscles coiled.

"Love. Look at me."

It's a command.

Your eyes flicker to him. Dutiful soldier even when you're three fingers deep inside of your captain.

"Sir—," you bite your tongue over the word, the accidental slip. But the way he clenches around you, cock twitching, spitting a thick puddle of prespend over his belly, you don't think he minds.

"Fuck, love," his voice is a pulsing wound. "You're not going to hurt me, alright?"

You nod. It's pulled out of you. A magnetic acquiescence in the face of your superior, your lover. A man you're undoing with little flicks of your fingers, knuckles. Tongue.

"Lemme hear you, kitten," he rasps, words sticking together when you slide your middle finger over the soft bump inside of him. "Always, yeah? Wanna hear you say it."

"Yes," you breathe. "I won't hurt you."

"Good—," he shifts, clearing his throat. His Adam's apple buoys when he swallows, muscles flexing in his throat. A bead of sweat runs down his hairline and you have the sudden urge to chase it with your tongue. "Now—come on. Been at it long enough. Gonna make me cum if you don't stop it with those little fingers—that fucking tongue."

Your head lifts higher. Price catches your gaze again, eyes lidded and heavy. Cheeks dusted pink with desire.

"Hurry up, and fuck me."

It takes everything inside of you not to whimper. Fuck me. Fuck me. The words ring in your ears, reverberating around your head in a ceaseless crescendo.

Your fingers tremble when you give one last thrust, spreading them wide apart, and feeling the resistance around the rim. The stretch. You know the burn. The sting.

"Ah, Christ—"

And the pressure. The fullness. The feeling of being pried slowly, agonisingly apart. The tension coils. Builds. You can only imagine he's feeling it too when you scissor your fingers once more, leaning down to tease your tongue between the wedges of your digits.

It's a good stretch when it's like this. When the muscles loosen, going lax. Soft. Malleable.

You take a steadying breath, easing your thundering nerves, and letting everything else fade away until Price, his pleasure, sits on a carved strait.

You pull away, fingers slipping gingerly from him. A shudder wracks his chest, and you reach out with one hand, curling your fingers over the thick length of him. His cock throbs in your hold, skin wet, sticky from his spend.

"Are you—"

"Yes."

It's bitten out through his teeth. A snapped affirmation. Quick, decisive.

It draws a nod from you, lashes fluttering when you swallow.

"Okay. Tell me if it's too much."

The skin of his palm is searing, sandpaper rough, when it folds over your own still loosely gripping his cock. The contrast between his raw palm and the velveteen softness of his cock is familiar. Comforting. His thick thumb circles your webspace.

"You know I will," he says, thick. Sincerity bleeds into the vowels. Reassurance rings in the rounded consonants. "I remember the safe word and all."

"I know. But it can be a bit much, and—"

His hand tightens, eyes flash. "If I didn't want this, do you think I'd be here?"

Another swallow. It sticks at the bottom of your throat. "Okay."

"Come on, love," he urges, an ashy demand that plucks against the fibrils of your heart. "Been waitin' for it."

His words pulse in your head, in your cunt. You moan a little at the aching want in his voice, the rough desire.

Price gives one last squeeze of his hand before letting you slip away, thumb sliding over the weeping head, gathering his prespend on your flesh. It makes him suck in a sharp breath, eyes fluttering in pleasure.

He takes over, holding his cock firm at the base when you lean back on your haunches.

Your nerves spark when you reach for the bottle of lube. It's tacky. Sticky. You'd already used half just fucking him open. Steady, you think, struggling to find some sense of control amid the rapid thunder of your pulse. Your guts churn, featherlight, but it's the gossamer of want that simmers beneath it all that piques across your spine.

You're going to fuck him.

Spumes of desire lick up from the flames that billow inside you, and in the red-hot ache of your molten core makes you feel fervid. Feverish. It melts your nerves into liquid metal that hardens, ironclad, brassbound, into a near-perfect equilibrium of galvanised need.

You're going to fuck him.

You pour a generous amount into the palm of your hand, letting it puddle in the cup you make before carefully lowering it to place between your legs where the fake cock juts out from your pelvis.

The toy is a little cold when you touch it with your slick fingers. You grab it loosely in your fist, pumping your hand up and down, rubbing the excess over the mushroomed head, and then back to the base.

The heat of your skin bleeds into the polymer. The added friction makes it feel warmer than it had before. It still feels of plastic—fake, rubbery—and as it sits between your curled fingers, you know it isn't real, that it isn't pulsing flesh and tissue; but it feels—different.

A novice experience. A first for both of you.

Your eyes flicker to John, to his heavy, thick cock grasped in his hand. The tightness of his knuckles wrapped around his turgid flesh makes you suck in a deep breath, nearly choking on it when it tickles your trachea.

He looks good with his legs parted, thigh notched up and spread. Cock bobbing in the V of them, leaking over his closed fist.

"John…"

"Ready, love?"

There is something in his voice that gives you pause. It's deep. Gritty. Pulverised desire whispered in his rasping lilt.

You glance up at him, searching his gaze, his expression. John's brows are drawn tightly together, knotted in the centre. The divot between is not from unease, or distress. Anger. Irritation. Hesitance.

The thick cock in his hands twitches again, prespend pooling at the tip.

Oh.

You swallow, and taste humus in the back of your throat.

"I am," you breathe, belly bubbling, roiling, with want.

Pleasure sparks down your spine when you move, shuffling toward to settle between his spread thighs.

It brings heat to your cheeks, your chest, when you feel the movement of the toy inside of you. It does very little to pass as anything like Price with the smaller tapered end nestled within you, curved tip rubbing behind your pubic bone. But it's the idea of fucking him that makes your blood feel red-hot in your veins than the snug plastic grazing against your walls.

The other end juts forward, knocking against Price's knee. It leaves a smear of lube behind.

"Take a deep breath," you murmur, hand gripping the plastic base as the other settles behind his stretched thigh, holding him open. Lifting him higher. The thought has your pulse racing. Sputtering.

"Speaking from experience, eh?" he rasps, liqueur-rich. When you lift your gaze, you see humour cut in cerulean ashlar. "Or sage wisdom?"

"Both," you volley back. "My cock isn't nearly as big as yours, but taking deep, even breaths will help you relax."

"Your cock?" His eyes gleam in the jaundiced light spilling over from the lantern beside the bed. "Gonna fuck me with your cock, then?"

Your eyes flutter. A paroxysm blistering through you. Your tongue grazes the whetstone of your lower lips, shredding it into a blunt point.

"Yeah, I am." Your voice is pitched low, sultry. The decibels dropped, dripping with the glaze of bold, impish confidence. "Are you ready for me, John?"

His chest expands, lips curling up behind the wry hairs of his beard.

It's aided by the ease in which he sprawls out for you, letting you bend his legs, hitching them below your arms, and pulling you hungrily into the apex of his spread thighs, that fortifies your mettle.

"Always, love."

The facsimile of your cock nudges against his slick hole. It spreads around the head, rim widening, flexing, around plastic until it's swallowed by his reddened flesh. Disappeared into the clutch of him. The first inch. He huffs at the stretch, the feeling of you slipping inside.

You push, burrowing in deeper until his ass is flush against you. Cock swallowed whole.

You pull back, and his rim suctions against you, pulling taut around your cock. You trace the seam with your eyes, breath caught in your throat. Your hips cant, a soft roll, all the way until you're buried deep.

"I'm—"

"—fuck."

The throaty groan makes your head snap up, eyes fixed on Price, and the sight that greets you is nearly your undoing.

Cheeks flushed a deep vermillion, jaw clenched taut—he looks good. Looks like it feels good. His head is tossed back on the pillow, broad thighs spread apart to fit you between them as you sloppily pound into his ass.

And it's you. You making him feel this way, breaking him apart at the seams.

The slap of your thighs hitting his ass is the perfect parody of when he has you bent over, taking him deep, and you feel it in your head with each clap, each noise that spills from between the two of you. A microcosm, a place, where only you and he exist in tandem.

"Does it feel good?" You pant, hips rutting into him, sitting low to hit the grove of his prostate with each thrust.

It forces a rough bark of laughter from his lips, chest expanding with it. "Fuckin' cheeky little thing—"

His words are cut off when you grind into him, hips pressed flush against him.

"Oh, shit—"

Your hands fall from his shins, pressing flat to the mattress under his arms. He's too tall for you to bend over him the way he does when he's fucking you, or when you're on top, balanced on his lap, and you settle for coming to his chin when you lean over him.

His eyes are wildfires, smouldering embers. The lick of flames is a magnetic dance in endless pools of sapphire, brimstone. You seek him out, eager, rapacious. Greed gnarls inside of you; a basal bud, a dormant seedling, now fed, nurtured. It springs up, roots taking refuge in the fibrils of your beings, locking tight to your cells, molecules, and leaching sustenance from your appetency as you take him.

Take, take, take.

A moth drawn, haplessly, to the light that sways, hypnotic, in front of it, you have no choice but to go. Instinct, primal and starved, lead you to him.

His hand threads into your hair, cupping the back of your skull. Price pulls you close until his warm, wet mouth meets yours in the middle.

It's messy, breathless. You can't stop gasping at each noise he makes when your cock hits deep, the blunt, polymer head grinding against him. He groans into the kiss each time, breath heavy and thick. The hair on his chest grazes your nipples. The rough scrape of his beard chafes your skin until it's raw, irritated. Stinging like a sunburn.

Through it all, Price holds you steady. Letting you take. Explore. Rut into him however you like, knowing—trusting—that whatever it is you do, however you decide to shift your hips, it'll be good.

It's new. Different.

You venture through this unfamiliar arena on fawn-like feet, stumbling around under the lush peat beneath you. Scrambling for purchase, for some sense of stability. Clarity. Control.

A foothold, solid ground, is found when you strike his prostate with the eager tip of your plastic cock, and he huffs, startled, into the wet seam of your mouth, cool breath ghosting over your scorching tongue.

You're good at patterns. At geometry. Linearity. Lines and parallels.

You remember the place, the angle; head running through the minutiae of the movement, the sway of your hips, the placement of your knees, until it tangles inside the sulci of your hippocampus.

A steady rhythm grows amid the clumsy cants of your hips, shaping, forming, into a dance you can fall into easily.

His mouth slides over your chin, your jaw, a trail of spittle following it, cooling on your skin with each little stutter of his breath washing over you.

John isn't usually vocal in the bedroom. His noises are reserved. Pulled from the threads of his chest, wrenched through the barbed lining of his throat. They're deep, low. Rasping curls of grunts. Ashy growls. All soaked in petrol. The rumbling of an old car engine. Brassy. Baritone.

But as you quicken your pace, you punch little gasps from his lungs that he can't stifle under the harsh grind of his teeth.

It's—

Incredibly appealing. Addicting.

He tastes of nicotine when you bring your mouth back to his, devouring the hickory tang on his tongue. It slides down your esophagus where it puddles in your guts; a heady elixir that seeps through your tissue, into your bloodstream. Ichor thick.

"God," you gasp into the messy wetness of his lips. "It feels good—"

The toy rubs the walls of your cunt with each blunt press of your hips notching into his ass, and the pressure of it makes everything feel real. Potent.

Your slick fingers grip his massive thighs in your hands, leaving indents where your nails dig into his flesh, finding purchase. You fuck him in deep, full thrusts that make heat coil inside of you. Steady. A building tempo.

Each roll makes him grunt, groan. Short huffs leave his broad chest, punched out through gritted teeth when you sink to the base, cock kissing his prostate.

His belly quivers. One hand falls to your forearm, the other gripping your hip. He pulls you in deeper, fingers locked tight around your hip bone, and you let him lead, let him guide you how he likes.

"Fuck," he breathes, fingers leaving the stain of him on your skin as he rolls your hip, cock bludgeoned into his prostate, grinding over it. "Like that—oh, fuck—jus' like that—"

"Yeah?" You tease, teeth nipping the coarse hair trailing down his neck. The angle makes the head of his cock rub, slick and wet, against your sternum, his knuckles pressed into the valley between your ribs. "Feels good, John? Like it when I fuck you deep, huh?"

"Ahhh, you little bugger—you, uhh, fuck—you fuckin' menace—"

You pull back, settling between his thighs.

"Gonna like this even better, I reckon."

You punctuate the promise with a sharp snap of your hips, pausing only when you're seated deep, letting the blunt head cudgel against him.

Another thrust makes you whimper when the flat harness presses taut to your throbbing clit.

"You feel good, John—," your head tips back, hands spasming around his sticky skin as you rut into him. Your eyes are heavy, lidded with soporific bliss that bleeds into your synapses. "You feel so good, so so—"

You're babbling. Words leak out between your slack jaw, but you can't swallow them down with the static in your head, the bliss in the joints of your fingers, and palms, as you feel his broad thighs tensing under you.

Seated deep, hips gyrating against him, your hand falls to his throbbing cock, leaking rivulets of prespend over his taut abdomen. You stroke him in time with your shallow thrusts, eyes fixed on the way his brow folds, eyelids wrinkling when he squeezes them shut.

His lip curls up, teeth are bared, cusses spat between the grind of his molars.

"Shit—shit—"

It's snarled out of his heaving chest.

A blunt jab to your sternum knocks the air from your heaving lungs when his gyre blue eyes snap open, piercing into the white haze that clots behind your retinas.

The veering of his jaw, teeth gnashing together as he struggles to hold his composure, has liquid pleasure clogging the filament lacing down your spine, weaving through the gaps in your bones, leaking into the spongy marrow below.

Your head buzzes with an opiate gossamer of bliss spooling inside of you with each motion you make. Each noise you drag out of him.

Price groans—a low, needy sound rucked from his chest, punched out through the cant of your hips into him, cockhead burrowing into his prostate—and then he's cumming. Spasming around the toy as you ride him through it, fucking into him in deep, languid bucks of your hips.

"That's it, baby," you gasp, voice thin, airy, arching over the words as his cum lashes over his broad, sweat-slicked chest. His eyes snap shut again, fingers curled around your forearms as you thrust your cock into the spasming clutch of him. "Cum for me, cum for me, John—"

His voice is effervescent, aerated when he groans your name out in a pitched drawl. "Fuckin' Christ—that's it, that's it—feels so fucking good, fuck, fuck—"

"Fuck," your running tally of curses stacks up. This one is breathless; a sandpaper husk. The next one that leaves his lips is deep. Oceanic. "Fuck, love."

Price's hands are firebrands when they roam over your flesh, tugging you down to his sweat-slicked chest, and tucking you into the fold of his embrace.

He opens his mouth, lips rucking up in the same shape of another cuss, but you beat him to it, stealing the word from his tongue with your own. He rumbles into the kiss; the low growl deep enough to rattle the bones in your chest.

It's wet. Messy. The clumsy, sloppy melding of your lips, tongue lolling out, filling the chasm of his heat where he tastes of smooth cigars and bitter scotch.

Spittle dribbles down your chin as your tongue lashes over his teeth. It draws a mirthful puff of hair through his nose; a chuff.

"Makin' a mess of me tonight, ain't you?"

You make a show of rolling your tongue under his bottom lip, smile curling up at the corners with the tickle of his hair grazing your flesh.

Peppering kisses into the corner of his mouth, you murmur: "you just look good messy."

"Yeah?" He husks, lids dropping, lashes cresting over glacial blue. "So do you."

It drags a twee from the depths of your chest, prickling along the flutter of your heart. "We look good all messy, then."

"Fuckin' right we do."

He shifts, and the motion makes him groan a little under his breath. You catch the draw of his brow, a little valley of discomfort, and reach for him, hand settling on his chest.

"Sore?"

One lid lifts half-mass as he mulls it over. "Tender," he settles on, shifting once again. "Nothin' too bad."

"You'll get used to it."

He lists toward you, lips curling into a waggish grin. "That right?"

John lifts his arm, chin jerking in a soft beckon toward. You follow the wordless command, sidling into the open bracket of his side, careful not to jostle him too much. He's strong. Resilient. Having his ass split open on your cock (left hanging on the end-table in some parody of a war trophy, glistening with the sheen of lube in the flushed light of the lamp) isn't enough to barrel him down, but there is something about this tender moment that makes you want to care for him. To coddle him. To hold him tight to your chest, and never let go.

You won't ever tell him that, of course. Never. He's too proud, too practical, for your bare sentimentality in this tender moment, but you give it to him, anyway. Small motions. Giving little by little before he can't catch on to what you're doing.

You brush your fingers over his chest, soothing the quiver in his stomach, and perch your chin on his arm. There is no distress in the cut of his brow, the dip in his lids. Drenched in torpor, satiated, and still dusted pink with glow of his pleasure, his heated release, he looks good. Satisfied.

It makes you sink your teeth into your chapped bottom lip to stem the broad grin from stretching over your face.

"Takes some practice, but I think we broke you in quite nicely."

A sharp snort jostles you. "Yeah, you did."

John's hand rests on your hip, thumb rubbing circles into your skin. "How're you feeling?"

"Sore," you pout. "Tired. It's hard work. Next time you should be on top."

"Right," he huffs. "I'd snap you half, love."

"I can take it," you hum, fingers carting through the matted hair on his damp, slick chest. "Plus, think of the view I'd have."

His chest rumbles when he laughs. "Yeah, and think of the backache I'd have."

"I'll give you a backrub," you murmur, tilting your head down to press a soft kiss into his breastplate.

"Hm."

Price eases into the mattress, eyes lidded. Heavy. In the absence of your playful volley, a question weighs in the back of your head, needling through you. Something soft. Fragile. Achingly uncertain.

It feels silly to be so clumsy, so hesitant, when moments ago you were buried inside of him. And yet—

You lick your lips, tasting him on your tongue. Stalling. Hedging.

A thick mass wells in your throat. You feel your pulse throb in the thick of it.

"Did you… did you like it?"

Price sucks in a sharp breath at the ginger utterance, eyes rolling up to the stark white ceiling as he considers the weight behind your question.

You worry your bottom lip between your teeth, waiting.

When he turns back to you, chin dipping down, something cracks. The muskeg splinters, splits.

There is something almost liquid, open, about the way he looks. As if a wall had fallen. The deep moor around him eroded, washed into the chasm that surrounds him. The sediment settles at the bottom of the trench, making the untraversable waters shallower than they were before.

His voice is featherlight when he speaks, eyes are limned in the lantern, framed in gold. When he drags his fingers over your skin, the tips are leaden. Heavy.

"Yeah, love. I did."

You settle into his side, tension bleeding from your marrow.

He sometimes says that his hard edges are buffered by the softness inside of you; giving and tender. But you're not a smooth surface. You're porous and gritty. You scour the abrasiveness off of him, and he, in turn, makes you rougher.

That sentiment has never been more apparent now when he cups your jaw in his worn, rough palm, the cracked, cry pads of his fingers scraping over the plush give of your cheek.

Your emotions coalesce into a deluge, cascading through your being with a visceral intensity. When you try to reach out and grasp one, it slips through your fingers.

You settle, instead, for sleepily lying your head on his chest, crown buffeted by the plinth of his palm, and run figure-eights into the damp, coarse curls matters to his chest.

"Good," you murmur, and try to ignore the thunderclap in your chest. The too tight feeling clutching at you in the aftermath of an epoch, the shattering of a wall.

His chest wobbles under your hand. When you lift your graze, you find his eyes filling with the same uncatchable emotion that curls in the brackets of your ribs, gnarling its ironclad roots over the soft tissue of your chest.

Featherlight. Evanescent. Nothing but he and you, and the feeling of his skin, the taste of him on your tongue, exist in the cosm that lingers, honey-thick, between you.

It catches in your throat. Sticking in the empty spaces of your being when his lids flutter, lashes fanning over his roseate cheeks.

The weight of his stare is a brand on your flesh. You want to run from it, and bask in its glow. Hold it tight to your chest with your trembling hands, and never let it go.

It's the breaking of everything that settles low inside of you. Too much, too soon.

It's easy to cover up the whirlpool of your emotions with false bravado. With a jest.

And so, you do.

"'Cause, I'm ready for round two whenever you are."

"Cheeky little—"

(You tuck it away for later, content to just feel the steady rise of his chest beneath your palm when he laughs.)

#well #ticked this bad boy off my bucket list #Captain John Price #John Price #Captain Price #omgggggggggggg #cod john price #cod price #captain john price x reader #captain john price x you #john price x reader #john price x you #price x reader #captain price x reader #captain price x you #cod fanfic #cod price x reader #AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

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saintmurd0ck · 10 months

Text

all up in smoke

masterlist

pairing: frank castle x f!reader

summary: based on the prompt: 'sit on my lap and let's smoke a joint'

warnings: alcohol, weed (rolling a joint, smoking, shotgunning), frank being a cute little whore, heavy petting/teasing but no sex, high epiphanies (mostly fluff!)

a/n: happy late birthday to the ever lovely @chelseasdagger , this one is for you babeyyyyy 💗

Home is a solace on your lips as you step inside, your keys joining the others in the bowl by the front door. Despite the events of your day, still fresh in your mind, you feel the knotted tension in your body begin to dissipate, the pressure easing in your temples. The few lights that have been left on are dimmed, filling the house with the kind of ambient coziness you’ve been longing for all day.

You round the corner, and there he is on the couch: feet kicked up on the coffee table, immersed in a hardcover book you swore he’d never touch. A pang of emotion stirs in your stomach — a cross between yearning and consolation; something you just can’t place, but are grateful for nevertheless.

“Hi, Frankie,” you smile, drawing the curtains open, letting the cool night air filter into the living room.

He lifts an eyebrow, glancing up at you from behind the book. “Hey, sweetheart. Long day?”

You stretch your arms over your head, nevermind that his voice stirs something in you, and set your bag up on the kitchen counter. “Mmhm. Glad to be home.”

Frank leans forwards, fingers closing around the drink he’s left on the coffee table. His eyes flick to yours as he takes a sip, caring not to break contact, before jerking his chin at the bottle of scotch next to your bag. “You want some of that?”

He points at you, clicking his tongue as you move to pick the bottle up. “Don’t move. Stay right there.” Setting his book aside, the pages splayed face-down onto the table, he makes his way over, utterly impervious to your flurried attempts in getting him to remain where he is.

“D’ya really think I’d let you pour your own drink?” Frank says, looking affronted, but a furtive smile spreads along his face as you shake your head.

“C’mon, sweetheart. Let me take care of ‘ya,” he adds, delicately.

Carting you gently to the side, he digs around in the freezer, reaching for a couple of ice cubes that clink mellifluously in the glass. You watch intently as they bob in line with the whiskey streaming in, and then as he inspects the amber liquid closely, as if to examine its quality.

When he’s satisfied, he turns to you, and raises the rim of the glass to your mouth. “Here,” Frank murmurs, condensation collecting around his fingertips. “Drink up.”

You shudder as the whiskey cascades hotly through your veins — each note of pepper, caramel and nutmeg lingering on the surface of your tongue like molten honey. You swallow another mouthful before pushing the glass away, not taking your eyes off of him for a second as he sets it down.

Frank runs his tongue over his teeth, raking his eyes across your face. He focuses on a stray drop of whiskey at the corner of your mouth, using a knuckle to brush it away. Your heart thunders at his calloused touch; as he pauses to swipe his broad thumb over your bottom lip. There’s a faint throbbing within you — a wild drumbeat steering you towards nothing but desire — so you flick your tongue out, circling his fingertip, relishing in his taste of salt, earth and whiskey.

He lets out a soft groan, mumbling something that sounds like your name; maybe even a plea to slow down. You’re attentive, knowing he doesn’t want this night over yet, that he wants to wait before taking you to bed.

It’s a good thing then, that you have something planned.

You inch forwards, swallowing as Frank’s hand sweeps over the contours of your face, coming to rest at a spot near your ear. He tips your chin upwards, letting his ragged breathing fan over you. He stalls, allowing his dark eyes to bore into yours, and for a moment you forget where you are, the stressors of the day long gone.

All you know is him.

His beard prickles your skin as he captures your mouth with his own, but you lean into the kiss, savouring his ardent warmth. He moves with you, deepening the kiss as you slide a hand into his hair, curling your fingers at the nape. Your thighs squeeze together as he pivots you around, pushing you against the counter while his tongue melts against yours. Using his leg to knock your knees apart, you arch into his touch, gasping as the bulge in his jeans settles where you need him the most.

You won’t be able to stop if you don’t pull away now.

“Frank,” you whisper. “Frank.”

He looks at you, placing a small kiss to your jaw. “Mm?”

“Before… uh,” you start, lightheaded and fuzzy, unable to comprehend anything but the heady weight of the whiskey and the ache between your legs. “I've got something for us. A little surprise. And I think,” you indicate, wagging a finger from him to you, “we should save this for later.”

He arches his eyebrows, smiling inquisitively. “Yeah? And what’s that?”

You step aside to rummage through your bag, taking only a few seconds for you to find what it is you’re looking for. You hold up a clear plastic container, giving it a little shake in front of Frank’s face. His eyes widen in comprehension.

“God, I love you.”

“Hey,” you smirk, “not God. Just me.”

He chokes on his own laughter, draining the last of your whiskey. “You got it, sweet girl.”

You bite down on your growing smile. “Anyway, I was thinking the plan could go something like… get a little high, have some fun. You know what I mean, right?”

“S’that right?”

“We both deserve it.”

“You need some help with that?” he asks, pointing at the rolling papers you’ve set down on the counter.

“Nope. Walk away.”

You’re an image of rapt focus with your tongue between your teeth, cautiously grinding the weed before packing it into the rolling paper. You slip a filter on one end of the joint, and using your thumb and forefingers, you roll it into place. Bringing the free edge of rolling paper up to your mouth, you skirt your tongue along the narrow strip of glue, quickly moving to seal the joint.

You shoot Frank a resolute look of determination. “Not bad, huh?”

He folds his arms over his chest, leaning back into the couch. Almost hidden in the tangle of his beard, the corners of his mouth tick upwards. You can’t quite tell if he’s astonished, impressed, or a mixture of everything in between, but the expression on his face is a priceless ego boost. “Attagirl.”

“Mmhm,” you reply drily, admiring your handiwork from up close.

“Baby?” Frank calls, breaking your tethered focus. A glimmer of a smile in your periphery catches your eye.

“Yeah?”

There’s a sound of rustling fabric as Frank spreads his legs, motioning you over to him by patting his thigh. “C’mere.”

Your gaze softens at his request. “That sounds good, Frankie. Let me grab my lighter.”

“Got it right here,” Frank chuckles, holding it up and thumbing it open.

Twirling the joint in your fingers, you meander over to his spot on the couch, watching the tiny orange flame dance in his eyes as he holds down the lighter button.

He’s a solid comfort under you as you sit down on his lap, shuffling back until the side of your body is angled to his chest, using the armrest as additional support. His scent is a blissful, pacifying force – distilling in you where it matters.

Frank wrests the joint from your grip, assiduous in the way he places it between your lips, then as he lights it for you. The lit end glows as the papered edges begin to burn, flickering in its reflection in the window ahead. You take a drag, letting the smoke fill your mouth before inhaling it into your lungs. Maybe it’s in your head, but your body feels lighter already; even more so as you exhale.

The grey-tinged smoke remains opaque for only a second, vanishing into the air as soon as you pass the joint to Frank. You breathe out again, more deeply this time, allowing the grassy, herbal scent of the weed wash over you in waves of tranquil calm.

You cock your head to the side, studying the normally terse man before you leisurely smoking the joint, taking two drags instead of one. Gratitude forms a lump in your throat — nights like these are rare, and to see him so carefree, his mind unoccupied by the workings of the larger world, is a luxury you’ll never get tired of.

After tapping the gathering ashes into his empty whiskey glass, Frank hands the joint back to you, closing his eyes while he waits for your next pass. As the weed-induced euphoria starts to take effect, you wrench one of Frank’s hands from its spot on your thigh, interlacing your fingers together. You take your time in mapping his knuckles, tracing over every crease, scar and perfect imperfection.

You tap on Frank’s shoulder, wanting him as a credible witness for a successful smoke ring, but like all your past attempts, it morphs back into a cloud, hanging there in contempt.

He laughs softly, putting you right to shame with a series of flawless rings that fall forwards in an arc towards the coffee table.

You giggle, jabbing him in the chest with an expertly-placed elbow. “Don’t get too cocky now, Castle.”

His mouth quirks to the side. “Yeah? What are you gonna do, hm?”

“I’ll…” you search around the room for something to say. “I’ll withhold sex!”

He gasps, feigning an expression of outrageous offense. “That’s cruel, darlin’.”

Laughing, you reassure him you wouldn’t, really, but he takes the opportunity to soar through the cracks of your defense, hauling you backwards until his face is flush with the shell of your ear. “Really think you could resist it? Not havin' sex?”

The retorts crumble away as he tells you to ‘open up, sweetheart’, lifting the joint back to his lips. He breathes in deeply, turning his head to then exhale the smoke into your parted mouth. Your eyes roll back as he seals it with a kiss, and it catches you a little by surprise, but you run with it, inhaling as much as you can.

Not quite ready to let go of your earlier comments, Frank does it again, shotgunning into your mouth until you're left with nothing but a dreamy expression and no thoughts left in your mind.

You let out a contented sigh as the weed goes to your head, absentmindedly rubbing the spot where his beard scratched your lip.

Eyes drooping, Frank wraps his arms tightly around you, holding you as close as he can, trailing kisses along your shoulder blades, down your arm, whispering sweet nothings and notes of ‘I love you’ until you slacken in his grip. You touch your lips to his forehead, now resting in the crook of your neck, his steady breathing keeping you anchored to your reality.

The next hour passes by in a haze — you’re mildly aware that there was another joint rolled in that time, courtesy of Frank, probably, but your memory retains the best parts: the giddy, high epiphanies, the smoke-filled kisses, the long-drawn-out touches… the fact that his skin has never felt so soft.

Exceptionally and utterly stoned, you move, draping your legs over his lap, clinging onto his neck so you can bury your face in his shirt – so spaced out that you barely register him talking.

“...Who the fuck is “Drake” anyway?”

“What?!” you sputter, snickering as if it’s the funniest thing you’ve ever heard. “He’s a rapper, Frankie.”

“He’s off limits, so don’t even try” — you stumble over your words — “enacting your justice or… whatever.”

Frank frowns at you, pressing his lips into a thin line.

And then he bursts into laughter. Unequivocal, heaving sobs of hysterical laughter. And it might be the sweetest thing you’ve ever heard.

“Enacting my justice? That what you think it is?” he howls, bringing his fist down onto the couch. “You really think I’ve got nothin’ better to do than hunt down rappers?!”

“A little bit,” you sniffle, wiping away the tears of joy streaming down your face. “You know who’d love this conversation?”

He shakes his head as you continue. “Micro.”

“Micro,” he nods, affirming your point. “Bet he’d know more about “Drake” than me.”

You chortle at his aggressive hand gestures. “You don’t need air-quotations every time you say Drake, you know.”

He waves a hand in the air. “Ahh, I know.”

“Frank Castle,” you say, kissing his cheek once, then twice, “I think this is the wisest you’ve ever been.”

“Oh, c’mon. Really?”

You gesture at the stub of your second joint, floating in the bottom of his whiskey glass. “Yep. You might have to do this more.”

“You’re gonna be the death of me, sweetheart.”

“Better me than what’s out there. Right, Frank?” you croon, batting your eyes at him.

“S’right, darlin’. That’s right.”

tags {x} @darlingshane @castlesnchurches @reborn-rekall @marvelswh0re @itwasthereaminuteago @simple-lovebot @chvoswxtch @pedrito-friskito @chellestrash @theradioactivespidergwen @twilightbarnes @splendiferous-bitch @bl4ckpr1ncess @kaybeeboop @kdogreads @swearwolf13 @rqgnarok @qu1etwolf @honeyedheartss @runa-falls @whistle1whistle @awkwardalie

#frank castle x reader #frank castle #frank castle smut #frank castle fluff #frank castle fanfic #the punisher #the punisher x reader #the punisher fanfic #frank castle fanfiction #x reader #rhi writes 💻#tw weed #cw drugs

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chrollohearttags · 1 year

Text

stretch you out • jean kirschtein

the fact I’ve never written about jean over here..is insane! but I’m just imagining him with a size kink, trying to prep you to take his dick and I 😵‍💫

themes: black!fem reader (thick descriptors), established relationship, choking, fingering, spit play, lots of praise, him talking you through the nut (cause he’s a lover boy fr) 🥴, .2 seconds of aggression, daddy’s used a couple times, hair pulling, creampie, squirting

you knew he’d be a problem the day you met him…that there was something special about that fine ass boy with the dirty blonde hair always stealing glances of you from afar in the classroom. He had a certain charm; one that you rarely saw around your college campus from a lot of these dudes. kind, sweet, laid back but still popular all the same and a true gentlemen in every essence of the word.

jean kirschtein: played on the soccer team, pledged to a frat and even worked at the local coffee shop. Which is where your paths first came to cross. During a crunch for midterms and in the midst of pulling an all nighter, you decided to pay a little visit to this cafe, hoping for a little liquid boost of energy to get through this hellish study session. He was friendly, took your order and even brought it over so you didn’t have to interrupt your concentration. Such a sweetheart and it set the tone for how the rest of your relationship would develop..

“(y/n) was it? Now I can finally put a name to that pretty face. It’s nice to formally meet you.” The first true words he spoke to you outside of your order he had just taken. With only one sentence, he had you swooning..swayed by his words and his actions even more. Offering to walk you back to your dorm once he closed up for the evening as it had gotten late.

so naturally, it came as no surprise when only six months would pass before he’d end up making you his. Smooth talking his way into your heart and did it work. Bagging that beautiful, quiet girl that always wore the wired rim glasses, dressing so cutely like a quintessential school girl in those little skirts and crop tops that made your ass and tits sit up so amply and your thighs look godly. (those were his favorites). Or even on your casual days, with your hair wrapped up in a headscarf and a sundress on that perfect body; mocha brown skin just glistening in the sunlight. That plump backside bouncing with each step. It drove him crazy sometimes how fine his woman was. They could have their stick figure cheerleaders or sorority girls, everything he needed was right here. He loved a girl that had more to grab.

which explained why he was over in your dorm at damn near midnight, laid up in your bed..pressed skin to skin with a hand around your throat. His gold wristwatch grazing your jugular as he held you close. The stubble of his beard grazing the side of your face as he fed you kisses. The opposite hand? Sank two fingers deep into your soaking heat. Legs spread wide and one even draped across his left hip as he lie on his right one, moving those digits in and out..your perky tits sitting upright as he pulled them out of that tank top and sucked on the nipples..leaving you a pathetic, panting mess..

“Jeannn…I’m gonna come, baby..” (y/n) cried out but he’d only soothe your cries with gentle kisses to your cheek and temple. “Shhh..not yet, princess. You’re not ready. I’ll let you know when to let it out, okay?” cooing so sweetly; you couldn’t think of a time when he didn’t handle you gently. But tonight, he required a little more care, as it had been some time since the two of you last made love. An entire month and a half to be exact. With sports and clubs taking up all of his time and scholastic meetings stealing yours away, it was hard to get together. But he cleared his schedule just to have you and he wanted to make it unforgettable.

up and down, you’d glide on his perfectly manicured hands, taking them to the knuckled hilt as he pushed them back and forth. Your silky cream slathered all over it and his palm but he loved the mess. Especially the slight trail of drool spilling from between your plump, gloss stained lips that he’d swipe up to lube your already dripping sex. Eyes glazed over in a haze of ecstasy from being finger-fucked. He loved seeing you go completely dumb like this. It wasn’t meant to torture you..honestly. But he had to be certain you could handle his cock after all those weeks had passed. The last thing he wanted was to ever cause his baby any pain so he’d take all steps necessary. Even if it meant stimulating you to the point of tears..

“I know you want this dick, sweetheart. I know you want me to fuck you but this little pussy’s so tight..she’s closed up on me and I don’t want to hurt you. So can you wait for me, hmm? Can you let daddy stretch it out for just a little bit longer?” sweet talking with his thumb sliding over your clit. when he put it like that, he could get whatever the hell he wanted! So you’d just keep moaning, rolling your hips to meet his thrusting and even pulled him into a kiss to muffle the sounds.

he wasn’t exaggerating though..his shit was indeed big. Thick and curvy but long in length; pushing every bit of nine inches. You recalled the very first time you two had sex and he couldn’t fit it past the tip. Squirming and shaking, trying to take the dick but to him, training you for it was half the fun. Sometimes making you wear controller vibrators as you walked around campus, instructing you over FaceTime what to do with your dildo as he stroked himself in the camera..just so he could have you creaming on him later. Patience was a virtue with this man and he’d take all the time necessary to ensure that you were ready to live in his skin when he finished.

but with your smaller hand grasping for his sheathed member, shielded behind those grey sweats, he knew he better had hurried up. Placing a gentle peck to your temple once more, Jean just chuckled and sped up those movements. It was only a matter of time before you soaked your own bedsheets and he wanted to feel that for himself so he’d move those lips over to your ear, whispering so sweetly.. “pull it out for me, baby..”

urging you to stroke it in your palm once you did. It was already standing at attention with only being semi-hard..so once you began to massage it, that precum seeped out and it grew larger. Feeling you clamp down on his fingers, spasming for more to fill that needy hole, he’d tug the digits out, placing them between your lips to be sucked clean. With pitiful tears streaming down your face, Jean made certain you felt at ease before he went any further. “Good girl..so pretty sucking on these fingers.” Doting on his beautiful little slut as he tapped that tip against the opening of your slit. He’d readjust so that he was in position to fuck you from the side.

stirring up that sticky mess and smacking noises in the process. Even laying it flat across your tummy so you could get a visual of how deep he’d be. “God, it’s been too long, baby. I can’t wait to give you this dick…it’s gonna feel so fucking good.” Bringing that hand on your throat to the back of your neck, he’d make certain that you could see every bit of his movements; tilting your head downward “Now..I’m gonna start putting it in. You let me know if it’s too much, okay?” His message received loud and clear..and like that, he’d start easing it in, slowly puncturing that entrance with his cock head.

in all honesty, you weren’t much in the mood to be teased after waiting so long but the foreplay was just what you needed because he slid it in as if it were nothing. It was only when he reached the halfway mark, did (y/n)’s toes begin to curl and you’d clutch his tattooed forearm. “What’s wrong, mama? Are you alright?…can I keep moving?”

trembling, you’d nod your head, assuring that you were just fine..that he just felt so fucking good. “Mmhm, I’m fine..” With that, he’d proceed and keep pushing until seven and a half inches filled your throbbing cunt; splitting those plump pussy lips open to press through those walls.

“Fuuuck..right there.” The words leaving both of your mouths simultaneously, a sign of just how incredible it felt. Tight as you were warm and slippery, the initial sensation was reminiscent of the first time. Reminding of how you made him feel like a new man every time he was in it. And you, quivering and chewing that lower lip, longing for him to start moving. But first, you’d find your hand moved to the center of your belly; your coffin shaped acrylics and charm bracelet resting on your skin as a placeholder of sorts for him. “Hold that there for me, m’kay?” smirking before he marked your temple with another kiss. An indicator of what was to come. Seconds later, he’d begin moving..

in and out, he’d start with slow and gentle pace..just trying to get his feel and gain a rhythm. Soft popping sounds, followed by squishing rang out and you’d look over to see Jean’s eyes closed with his head tilted back. Whatever you were doing to him, it was like bliss. Being inside of you was every bit of heaven..and he never wanted to go this long without it. Meanwhile, he’d bring his cupped hand back around your throat and thrust up into you at a steady pace..

“Just like that, baby..oh, you feel so amazing.” crying out and declaring as he got deeper. Shoving that large, pale hued cock through those tight walls. It’s making him harder to watch that wetness glisten on his tip and shaft and those pretty pink folds grip him with each movement. Pretty soon, he’ll be touching the inner corner of your cervix and prompting you to squirt if he’s not careful! But that’s exactly what he’s hoping for when he grasps you by the top of your head and tugs it downward. He wants you to see just what he’s capable of..and trust, you’re feeling it when those deep strokes had reached full force. Making the bed and your legs shake in the process.

“Look down, baby..look how good you’re taking this fucking dick..got me putting it in your stomach and shit. Don’t ever keep it away from me this long, you hear me?!” The slightest hint of aggression beaming through as he clutched your wrapped up butterfly locs underneath the silk material of your bonnet. With your hand pressed to your lower abdomen, you could see and feel that hard on trying to come through your skin. Flesh colliding in a loud, thunderous clap. A sure fire sign that he was fucking the hell out of you.

but he needed his own vindication..from your own admission that it felt incredible. “Yes daddy, I promise! Just don’t stop..” single tears falling from each of your eyes in pure pleasure of what he was doing to you. With him bulging through your tummy and you clamping down so fiercely, there was only one inevitable ending: you making a mess and that was apparent by the tiny spurts and splashing against his base. He could tell that you were incredibly close, only mere minutes..if that, away from a climax. You needed to come and quite frankly, so did he.

both of you would burst at any minute so Jean would dial it back with gentler strokes and even softer kisses, preparing to get you to your peak. “Don’t worry, we’re gonna come together..just listen to me and I’ll make sure you get there..that alright with you?..” hanging on his every whim and word, waiting for the moment that you could finally release as one. His voice sounding like sex within itself. Turned you on every time..

but you’d give him a reassuring nod and like that, he’d start taking you through the last stride. Peppering your jawline and cheek with sloppy pecks, Jean began whispering sweet nothings into your ear. Telling you how good you had been and he was so proud of you for opening up so nicely. He was constantly doting and giving you encouragement to keep going. Because before long, you were going to let it out for him and vice versa. “M’baby ready to come? Ready to make a mess on this dick? How about take my nut..you want it?”

questioning rhetorically in the sweetest, high pitched tone and seconds later, you felt that thumb pressing to your clit and rolling around to create friction. Equally at his limit, his thrusts became sporadic and he could no longer stay in it consistently. “Oh yessss, that’s it..right there. Hold it and when I tell you, come for me, okay?”

and before you could take another deep, hard stroke, he’d grit his teeth and urge you on with that rapid rubbing before grimacing in your ear to let go. And you did disappoint! Flailing about, (y/n) cried to the top of your lungs, grasping the sheets, his arm and anything you could find as his coated cock was forcefully pushed out by a heavy stream of squirt; coaxed out by the light taps against your cunt. That was a sight that would never get old.. “good girl…squirting on my dick, making a mess. That’s what I need..”

but even after that little display of waterworks, your hole still spasming in response..Jean filled it to the brim once more once he was done aiding you, in hopes to release his own load. Placing his palm back on your stomach, he’d hold you in place, pinning you to the mattress so that he could stuff you with his cum. It was the last bit of energy he had left and you obviously couldn’t take anymore so with it, he’d pump profusely until you heard his breath catch..eyes widening and a loud gasp follow. Suddenly, your womb began to feel warm and full..

“OHHH! Take it, take this nut, baby. Take it all from meee.” That needy and vulnerable cry struggling from the back of his throat whilst he spilled every single drop of his seed into that beautiful body of yours. Neither of you were of coherent mind; just trapped in the glory that was afterglow and reveling in it. A cloud you didn’t want to come down from..

as you did though, he’d slowly pull out, dragging strings of semen along with him and pulling your frame even closer to his than it was. Meeting for a loving, passionate and lengthy kiss, your tongue collided and danced in harmony as magic had been made in that room tonight. Your hot, sweat slicker bodies finally feel the cool air and lying in one another’s arms for warmth. He’d flip you over to cradle yourself in his grasp and nuzzle your face into his neck.

“I love you, (y/n). Don’t forget that, no matter how much time has passed.” affirming with a peck to your forehead. And you’d do the same, leaving a trail of them on his neck, just enjoying the feeling of being embraced by your baby yet again..hoping it didn’t end anytime soon.

“I love you too, baby. Always..”

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

if you made it this far, thank you so much for reading! please check out some of my other stuff in the masterlist. Likes are appreciated but reblogs would mean the world and help me out a TON! Also, considering leaving a little something in the tip jar if you’re feeling extra generous! 🫶🏾

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chaseadrian · 11 months

Text

fragile concessions

you don't mind leaving Eddie to his devices in your bedroom as you shower, you don't mind even more when you catch him taking advantage of the opportunity. [masterlist]

pairing: eddie munson x f!reader tags: 18+ ONLY, explicit, voyeurism, pillow humping, invasion of privacy, friends to lovers, handjobs, blowjobs, facesitting, mutual masturbation, light backstory aka porn w some plot, fluffy ending word count: 4.2k+ a/n: yeah yeah i know i've been gone a long time. hope y'all like this <3

Rifling through your dresser, you’re startled by a knock at the window. You bring the sweater in your hands to your chest instinctively, and step backward as you look through the glass.

Black leather and ring clad hands wiggling a ‘hello’ from outside are more than enough to calm your nerves.

“Morning, Eddie. You’re way early.” You push the curtain out of the way, muscling the old pane open, “Why didn’t you use the front door?”

“I knocked!” He grunts as he climbs over the ledge, clamoring for your forearm when he loses balance.

Your nails sink into the leather sleeve of his jacket, and you cock your head, “You did?”

He looks up at you with a smile, brushing his wrinkled shirt, “No. Just wanted to see your bedroom. You never let me in here I—wow.” He reaches out for the chiffon fabric of your canopy bed, pointing at the cushion of pillows at the head, “Feel like I’m in a palace. Silk pillowcases? Classy.”

The sweater knots into your arms as you cross them, “Weirdo.”

Leaving him to wander, you pull a fresh towel from the hall closet, yelling back, “Well, get comfortable. I still have to shower.”

“Yeah, yeah. Don’t worry about me.”

You linger by the adjacent bathroom door, looking halfway over your shoulder to watch him explore.

Eddie runs his knuckles over your belongings like they’re the most delicate objects in the world. Grazing over the rim of dust on your dresser’s edge, he scrapes it off on his jacket with a touch closer to his typical gentility.

He threads the loose corner of your pillow through his fingers, and hops backward onto the comforter, settling into the mattress with a familiarity you aren’t sure he’d earned.

You yell again from the bathroom, door half cracked, “I just washed those.”

He adjusts his legs to hang off the bed, kicking his old sneakers onto the shag rug, “My apologies.” Grabbing a spare pillow to hold over his stomach, he’s half sat up against your headboard, tapping his fingers on the silk.

You can hear him humming from your room as you shower. The softness in his voice when he thinks you can’t hear him always makes you smile. His kindness had a bite to it; if you asked for the shirt off his back, he’d throw it at you.

Sometimes you like to watch him when he thinks he’s safe to shuck off his harsh, protective cloak and just be Eddie. The Eddie that leaves out a can of tuna by the trash for the trailer park cats, or carries the neighbor’s wandering toddler home on his shoulders. These little concessions towards fragility—like the soft hums with your silk pillow in his lap—remind you why he’s in your life.

The bathroom clouds with steam while you settle into the hot water, humming along to his voice, reaching blindly for the shampoo. You shake the bottle over your head and squeeze, only to be hit with a puff of air and a few pathetic pearls of lather. It isn’t even worth it to scrub the remnants in, and you pop out of the shower with a groan, tossing the empty bottle into the sink.

If Eddie were to try and sneak a peek right now, the thick, fluorescent steam would ruin his show. Still, you pull on the robe hanging behind the door. You’re sure you bought new shampoo, sure it must be under the sink, but you freeze before you can even take a look in the cabinet, half kneeling with your fingertips wedged against the wood.

It’s silent in your bedroom.

Eddie’s no longer humming, and when you turn on your toes to peek beyond the door you can just see his silhouette behind the thin canopy.

He’s on your bed as before, pillow over his lap, but now his hips rock up, knuckles white in the silk case.

The cabinet door slips from your fingers, clapping shut, stopping Eddie in his tracks.

He looks to the bathroom, and you dart behind the door.

“You okay?” He yells, obvious strain cut with even more obvious panic.

“Fine! Almost dropped the shampoo!” You shout back, sitting down on the edge of the tub, wringing the string of your robe between your fingers.

You don’t know if you want to look again.

Eddie was always over familiar. Always controlling the situation, the ringleader who branded his group with every rough touch. Fingers hard on your neck, a peanut flicked your way at the bar, judgment in his smile.

All this to keep you—and everyone else—at arm’s length. The clothes, the hair, the rings, they did enough to keep most people away. But the ones who looked past that, they got the neurosis and informality. You know him more than he thinks, more than he allows, and you aren’t against taking that initiative.

Of course you want to look.

This is far deeper than you ever thought you’d get.

Slipping off the edge of the tub, you crawl over to the door, inhaling a big breath of steam, robe damp and sticking to your body.

You feel safe enough sitting on your knees to watch him, enough layers of steam and fabric and poor vision between you and him to keep this mutual intrusion a secret. If you were to argue it, Eddie using your pillow to get off is probably a bigger invasion than you watching him do it, but the shame was the same.

One hand presses the pillow into his pelvis, the other pets along the grain of the smooth fabric, fingers touching down one after the other.

Sometimes Eddie taps you on the head with a ringed knuckle when you’re being smart. This feels like the gentle variant of that.

Though his lips are parted, you can’t hear anything outside the hammer of the shower. A playback of all his dramatic grunts and scoffs loops in your head instead, and you see the way his Adam's apple thrums in his throat with every note of pleasure.

It’s easy to piece together the way he could look behind that hazy chiffon, his chest rising and falling, slow to combat the noise he wants to make. The knee hanging off the bed just peeks out of the canopy, and he pushes up against your pillow using a firmly planted foot. You know the way his tendons move in his hand as he grabs tighter, presses harder.

You make up the sound of his zipper sleeves against the pillow, a soft kind of scratching that could catch at any moment. If you hadn’t seen him now, you would’ve blamed him for being so careless with your stuff later. His name would’ve been the first in your head when you noticed the imperfection.

But everything about right now is perfect.

You can’t say there’s an established attraction, exactly. A curiosity, sure, little question marks in your head every time he calls you pretty with that surface grin. Maybe a dream or two in the years you’ve known him, dreams where he pulled you in from arm’s length. Not romantic, never that, but close and real and earnest.

If this is the closest you get—a voyeur to your own invasion—then you’ll take it for all it’s worth. At least you know he really thinks you’re pretty.

You sit in stunned silence for a minute more before new movement startles you back behind the door, and when you peek again, Eddie has both feet on the bed, his knees pulled toward him, thrusting up harder against the pillow. It’s still slow, but he’s sunken into the deep plush of your comforter, hair blanketing his head. His features are distinct enough, the curve of his open mouth, the valley of his throat, you can carve expressions from familiar topography.

It’s from this position that a weak moan cuts through the pattering water, and—for what you think is the first time—you feel something more than curiosity.

Eddie pulls his bottom lip between his teeth, and he presses two harsh fingers between his eyebrows, smudging his fingertips across his forehead in what you’re sure is frustration.

You’ve gone past filling the gaps of what you know, the pulpit of your stomach swirling with thoughts of more moans, how it must feel under the rough hew of his jeans, what he’d do if it were you on his lap, and whether he’d accept you there at all.

For all his drama and fire, Eddie couldn’t sit in discomfort. He loved being the discomfort, but if it turned on him he was like a cornered dog.

As you continue to watch him, the swirling in your stomach slips down, and for now a hand between your legs is enough to calm this bud of interest.

The floor is slick under you, steam quick to fill the space of your parted thighs, heat on heat crushed under the just pruning skin of your fingerprint. You sigh, chest stuttering against relief. Slow, concentrated breaths quell any noise you’d want to make as you swirl your middle finger over your clit, Eddie’s moan looping in your brain.

You focus on the line of his figure, the indent he’ll leave in your bed when he gets up and tries to pretend he’d been peacefully laying there the whole time.

Without trying, your brain fills in gaps of space in your time with Eddie. Every time he left a party before you, a quick ‘I’ll wait for you in the van. No rush.’ and a tap on the shoulder. Trips to the 7/11, insistent that he must surprise you with snacks for the session, or each time you lost him in the bar, distracted by drifters who thought a beer or two would get you back home with them.

The memories are tinged now with the sight of his arching back, his parted lips, and that singular moan.

The thoughts carry you as far as they can, and the sight of him behind the curtain even more, but the rhythm of your fingers isn't what you want. It grows as stale as you hope that pillow must be for him, and with a sharp swallow you stand up to turn the shower off.

It takes a minute to gather yourself, roughing your hair with the towel to shake off what nerves you can. You face yourself in the mirror, dewy glass blurring your body into something amorphous. You can contend with this fuzzy figure, gazing over your shoulder to watch it slip past the bathroom door. In your mind’s eye, it’s not you taking this risk, but the reflection. It’s enough to get you into the bedroom.

Eddie has his ankles crossed and an arm behind his head, and he taps his fingers over his stomach as you approach, still roughing your hair as you enter.

“All cleaned up?” He asks, his eyes following you until he’s looking up through his lashes, a quick flick to the space next to him before he meets your eyes again.

You sit where he’d looked, tossing the towel into a laundry basket opposite the bed, “Mhm.”

There’s a long moment of your eyes on his, and he snaps out with a shake of his head, and that stupid grin, “Shit, sorry, you probably want to get dressed, huh?”

As he pushes to sit up, you close the space between you, your mouth just pressing against his. He pulls back with wide eyes that dart around your face, and he keeps a hand on your shoulder to hold you away.

His lips form and abandon several words, but before he can get a noise out, you cut the space, “I saw you.”

He jerks his head back, swallowing hard and looking past you now. More sentences starting and stopping without a thought fully formed.

You feel the hand on you loosen, see him shift in front of you, but there’s no easy way for Eddie to escape the situation.

“It’s okay.” You start reaching over for the hand on your shoulder, and he flinches.

“It’s okay.” You repeat, voice quieter and firmer, and he lets you take his hand, lets you guide it from your shoulder to the pit of your throat, over the drying beads of water between your breasts, and under the plush cotton collar of your robe.

His hand cups around you, rings warm and sticking to your skin, your fingers loosely wrap around his wrist for a moment before he accepts where you’ve left him.

You both let out a slow breath. Eddie’s starts with a hitch, but settles into something calm and certain. He doesn’t meet your eyes yet, they’re trained on the concealed hand, resting dead over your breast.

Placing two fingers under his chin, you coax him to look at you, your thumb brushing under his bottom lip, a few out of place dots of stubble pricking at your skin. You don’t think he could grow a beard if he tried, but random hair sprouts around his jaw from week to week, pimples following if he plucks them too late.

You bring your nose close to his, and he tilts up almost imperceptibly, tongue darting between his lips.

That first kiss was so brief you already can’t remember what he felt like, but the calm heat of his breath on you is steady, warm and inviting, and his eyes glisten as he looks at you.

His palm is heavy under your robe, thumb running back and forth ever so slightly, catching on the natural pull of your skin.

You let your eyelids slip closed, and finally he kisses you.

It isn’t harsh or fast and it doesn’t light your insides up the way your imagination did, but you’re sure you’ll remember it for the rest of your life. His bottom lip trembles for the first second, slick and soft, and you feel the scratch of those loose facial hairs against your chin. The hand beneath your robe squeezes shut, the warm metal of his rings sticking and unsticking with a little sting as he builds confidence in the moment.

The hand he’d kept on the bed comes up to curl over the slope of your neck, and as you lean into him he slides the collar of the robe down past your shoulder. It sits against your bicep, not revealing anything he’s not sure you’d want, but enough to let him kiss down your jaw, spattering over the bare landscape you’ve allowed him.

You slip a hand under the hem of his old t-shirt, pinching at the rolled skin of his abdomen, body curved uncomfortably as he’s half sat up on the bed.

He backs away from kissing when you push him down onto the comforter, both hands grabbing your arms to bring you with. You stay sat on the edge of the bed, torso twisted to follow him as he wants.

“Take off the jacket.” You whisper against his mouth, dragging your lips under his jaw and down his throat. You pull his shirt up and fix your hands on his hips, marking the skin down his chest with nips and long kisses. He struggles to tug the jacket off and can only manage the sleeves, leather crinkling under him as he wriggles under you.

You drag the tip of your tongue over his happy trail, and he watches with quiet interest, fingers gliding over your bare shoulder.

Eddie isn’t wearing anything under his jeans, you can feel the length of his erection stuffed uncomfortably beneath the denim.

“Ohh, please.” He whispers, more breath than anything else.

You hum with a smile, watching him as you unbutton and unzip and tug the bottoms down his thighs.

His hand hovers over the back of your head, nails just touching down along your hair, and he settles for resting it on your back.

He isn’t over or under-endowed, you can comfortably wrap a hand around his base and hold the rest of him in your mouth without strain, but you start with the hand. Dribbling a mouthful of spit over his tip, you slip your fisted hand down the shaft, thumb pressing into the rim of his head. He holds back expletives, syllables drawn out and dying behind his teeth. You’re slow, gliding your hand over his length and watching the wrinkles as he screws his eyes shut and pushes his hand over his forehead, bangs fraying out of place.

His cock thrums under your hand, and you squeeze his thigh as it jerks, quick spasms of enjoyment relieving tension.

You wait until there’s obvious pressure in his chest, until his Adam’s apple is taut against his throat, and he can barely eke out breaths.

Without knowing, he gives you what you want as you swirl your tongue around his tip for the first time. He can’t hold back the languid, whimpering moan that escapes his open mouth, all the air in his lungs expelled with it.

Watery, salty precum slides over your tongue, and you close your lips around him, hollowing your cheeks as you work down his shaft. Spit pools into your mouth and over your bottom lip, and as your chin brushes the hair at Eddie’s base, you feel sweat and spit drying on the skin.

Eddie’s hesitance falls away as he starts to lose himself, the hand on your back coming up to gently push down your head, not forceful, exactly, but wanting. He whimpers with increased impatience the harder you work him, the hum of your mouth around him an added jolt of pleasure.

You break for a moment to suck marks into the sharp angle of his hip bone, your hand a warm substitute that still pulls beautiful noises from him. He hisses against the kiss, the curve of his belly heaving with full breaths. He has faint marks of muscle definition when he flexes against your touch, but his abdomen rounds with every intake of air, and you press your lips along his pelvic line to feel the way he’s working through your touch.

Kissing the bush of hair around his shaft, you run your thumb over his head, your tongue flat against his base, dragging up to lick away the new dribbles of precum.

He lets your name fall from his lips, and a mewling, strained, “Please…keep going…” with his nails combing over the back of your head.

You take him entirely in your mouth once again, and he ruts up, hitting the back of your throat. You swallow the near-gag, and Eddie’s laughter—tied into an apology— hits your ear, the first instance of that rough-hewn boy you’re used to.

In response you curl your free hand around his balls and give them a light squeeze, clutching them against the base of his shaft to compress the tension he must be feeling. You imagine it’s a tight, coiled pain in his stomach, and it’s your greed more than anything that keeps him from relief.

Eddie wriggles underneath you, his body twitching outside his control, incomplete requests for release dying on his tongue.

What he finally chokes out is an ill timed warning, his orgasm already spilling into your mouth by the time he tells you he’s going to come. It’s warm and salty down your throat, and if it came from anyone else it would be an off-putting sensation that you’d be quick to spit out, but with Eddie paralyzed under you as he finishes, no taste could be sweeter or more satisfying.

You don’t even have time to swipe the sleeve of your robe over your lips before he’s tugging you up to his mouth.

This kiss is harsh and deep and the hand on your head presses you hard into him. His tongue twists over yours, warm and slimy, loud smacks between you with every kiss.

You’ve no choice now but to climb on him, straddling his stomach, his hand coming down to slide the robe entirely off. Your knees nick on the sharp parts of his jacket, but it’s a pale feeling compared to the heat of your bodies and his hands burning into your skin, branding your hip as you grind on him.

“Hey, hey.” He pulls you back with a hand on your cheek, thumb tugging at the bulb of your cheekbone. You’re both flustered and disheveled when your eyes meet, and you feel you could fall forever into the pit of that dark brown. “Sit on my face.” He breathes, kneading at the skin of your ass, gaze trained on your reaction.

“Yeah?” You ask, the throbbing between your thighs ever present as you’ve stilled on him.

He nods, his hand slipping from your cheek to coast down your body and rest on your other hip. They coil underneath your thighs to hold you as you re-situate yourself over him, hovering just above his mouth, a little hesitant to drop your weight on him. This felt somehow more intimate than a blowjob, smothering him with your body, the full potential of your spasms direct and right there on his tongue.

Eddie didn’t care, he forced you down with his arms, and you lurched forward against the headboard, one hand wrapping over the edge, the other a buffer between your forehead and the hardwood.

The pleasure was instant and overwhelming, Eddie’s tongue indistinct in its movement, lips and spit and the tickle of his nose worming their way through your body.

His grip was tight on you, arms wrapped around your thighs, and the soft curl of his hair rustled under your skin. He doesn’t move you over his tongue, but rather keeps you still, tries to stop you wriggling and doing the work yourself. You oblige best you can, holding the headboard tighter, biting down into the skin of your forearm, wanting even now to give him what he wants, to let him help you in whatever way he sees fit. He’s giving you more of himself than you ever imagined he could, and more than anything you just want to languish in this moment for as long as you can.

He hums underneath you, satisfied little hums that rise and fall with his focus.

It’s when you go silent—your breath caught in your chest, moans stuck in your throat—that Eddie starts rocking you over his mouth. The heat in your stomach is unbearable, and you gasp as he guides you back and forth over his tongue, everything below his nose a wet, slobbering mess, just as much from you as it is him. You slip against him with ease, grinding harder and faster, any worry you had about smothering him long gone with the ever-winding spiral of ecstasy that sits in your belly.

Tighter and tighter it curls, the rocking of your hips uneven and desperate now.

Eddie slides his hands as far as he can up your back, combing lines down your skin with his nails, and you wriggle closer to the headboard, so close to the end that every touch is torturous.

You haven’t spent half as long with his head between your thighs as he did with your lips around his cock, but any shame you could possibly feel will come later. You just want the relief, to unfurl and collapse and let him feel you shaking over the knack of his tongue.

You drop entirely onto him, his tongue swirling over the pulsing nub of your clit, and he grabs you as hard as he can, just as needy and wanting.

He groans underneath you, and your vision explodes behind your eyes.

Spasming and shaking, he holds you as you come undone, tilting his head up as the orgasm sends you backward to lay on his chest. He doesn’t stop running his tongue over your clit even as it becomes overwhelming, wanting to capture every last dredge of your climax. He laps up the arousal that wells from you, sucking kisses between your lips.

The euphoria layers in your body like waves of radar, one after the other until you’re begging him to let you go. You can’t quite catch your breath, wheezing as you try to pull air into your lungs, evening out as the radiation of pleasure cools to satisfaction.

You roll off him onto your stomach, resting your head in your arms to look back at with a smile.

He pushes his bangs up and shakes his head with a laugh, “Nuts.” He squeezes your calf.

You both sit in the moment, a comfortable silence between you with his hand resting on your leg.

Silence wasn’t golden in your experience with Eddie thus far. If there wasn’t conversation, there was music; if there wasn’t music, there was his humming. Any quiet with Eddie around was borne out of tension, but now you feel a deep tranquility even as the cool air of the still-open window hits your bare skin.

He runs his fingers gently back and forth, and the both of you let out a content sigh at the same time.

“J—”

“—inx! Ha!” Eddie is a hair faster, and he jiggles your calf in accomplishment before shifting to mirror you on your stomach. He hovers in front of your lips, muscling you over a bit with his shoulder, “Owe me a…kiss?”

You let your head fall into your arms, a kick of giddiness in your stomach, but you come back to meet his lips.

There’s a smile in this kiss, you think maybe there could be more. Kisses, smiles, whatever you can get.

Whatever Eddie can give.

#eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson smut #eddie munson x f!reader #my writing #mine

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