#street kings
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Excessive Force : Tom Ludlow x Fem Nurse Reader (COLLAB W/ THE INCREDIBLE @johnwickb1tsch) - Chapter One Two Three Four Five Six Seven Eight
TW: NSFW, dubcon if you squint
You are laying in bed, not sleeping, feeling sorry for yourself when your phone rings on your bedside table. You don’t recognize the number, so you answer with a cautious, “Hello?”
“Hi, pretty girl.”
You pause a long beat, and not because you don’t recognize the voice on the other end. “How the ever-loving fuck did you get this number?”
It’s Officer Tom Ludlow, of course. Just what you need, on this night from Hell.
“I’m a detective, remember?” You can just hear the self-satisfied smirk, and he’s lucky he’s not standing in front of you, because tonight you just might have slapped him.
You use your moderately adequate brain for some deductive reasoning of your own, and realize, “You took my number from Julian’s phone. After you assaulted him.”
On the other end he lets out a long whistle. “Baby, that’s such a strong word.”
“Do not call me baby.”
“Alright. Sweetheart.”
“God, you are such a fucking caveman.”
“Thank you.”
You sigh, too fucking tired for this shit. Your heart feels like a chewed up piece of gum, and your lady parts are pulsing angrily at you for ruining their evening earlier.
They like the sound of Tom’s deep voice in your ear, and that is so not good.
“You okay?”
The question actually takes you aback, because the smarmy shit-eating tone is gone, and he sounds…serious?
“I guess. Why?”
“That doesn’t sound okay.”
“Why do you think it’s any of your goddamned business?”
“I told you. If Dr. Bitch hurts you, it is my business.”
“He didn’t hurt me,” you grumble. In fact, he didn’t really do much of anything to you. Now that more time has passed, the more annoyed you are about that.
Fuck if Detective Ludlow doesn’t seem to hear that in your voice too. “Ohhhh. Sounds like the Good Doctor didn’t hit anything?”
“Oh my god. I hate you. Do you know that?”
He gives a low chuckle that absolutely goes straight to your deprived pussy, and you squirm a little in bed, so grateful he can’t see you.
“You wish you hated me.”
“I’m hanging up now.”
“Don’t hang up, pretty girl. Tell me what you’re wearing.” His voice dips low, and smooth as velvet.
Every hair on your body lifts in response to this, your nipples pebbling into painful points. Bastard.
“A parka.”
“Pshh. You sleep in a parka? Come on, baby.” How effective that soft, coaxing tone is at dissolving your inhibitions is alarming. You can almost see yourself, as though standing at the edge of a great abyss. If you jump…there will be no going back.
“Fine. I’ll use my own imagination. I think you’re wearing…a cute little lacy negligee that just floats on your luscious curves…”
Well, you guess you’re getting a picture of what he likes.
“Jesus Christ. I’m wearing a tank top, you pervert,” you grouse, trying to shatter his fantasy. Nevermind the fact that you are now soaking wet, again.
“Nice. No panties?”
“I am wearing panties.”
“You aren’t going to need ‘em. Do you know what I’d do to you, after dinner, my beautiful nurse?”
“Gee, I bet you’re going to fucking tell me.”
“Oh come on. We’re having fun.”
“You are having fun.”
“But you’re still listening.”
Well, he has you there, the smug sonofabitch.
“Maybe.”
He chuckles at the other end of the line, a low sound that makes you clench with need.
“You’ve got to answer a question for me first.”
“What?”
“You’ve got to dip into that sweet little pussy for me, and tell me how wet you are on the scale from one to ten.”
You should rip him a new one for this. Or just hang up. Why can’t you just hit the button and end this nonsense? But then…you’d be alone. Your real-time reaction is less dignified, but maybe more honest.
You laugh.
It starts as a giggle, then crescendos into an all out guffaw. “Tom…you are a nut.”
You can hear the smile in his voice as he answers, and goddamn if you don’t actually start to feel better. “Oh come on baby, don’t hold out on me. I’ve got a solid ten inches in my hand for you here.”
This makes you laugh even harder. “Ten inches?!”
“Ok. Maybe nine and a half.”
You giggle, and you can’t stop. “I don’t know if I can handle all that, Officer Ludlow.”
You don’t know how his voice lowers even more, as he says, “Oh, I know you can take it. Don’t worry, I’ll ease it in nice and slow.”
Suddenly the bubbles of laughter in your gut go flat, replaced with an aching heat that sears your insides, your clit throbbing in response to his dirty mouth. It’s possible a kittenish little sound squeaks from the back of your throat.
You really don’t know where you get the courage to ask softly, “Yeah? Then what?”
“Then I would kiss all over those pretty, soft titties. I want those perfect nips in my mouth.”
You know you make a sound then, and he surely hears it. “Will you check them for me? Lick your fingers and give them a pinch.”
“You are ridiculous.” It comes out small, and breathy, and it doesn’t really sound like an insult at all. So what, if you do as he tells you? And so fucking what, if imaging it’s his hands on you makes you feverish with desire, a spear of longing throbbing in your cunt.
He doesn’t answer you right away, which means he’s busy with something else. Maybe Tom is just as pent up as you are from all this edging the two of you have been putting each other through.
“Are you.. are you really?” You ask, hating how your voice exposes the fact that you’re not only pinching your nipples, but borderline feeling yourself up at the sound of his hiking breath.
“Yeah, honey, I am.”
“Oh,” you say, because it’s the only thing you can think of. Your cunt is screaming below about how she wants to talk to Tom Ludlow because you’re doing a shit job at it.
“Ah, fuck. Are you doing what I told you?”
“No.”
“Good. Lick your fingers again, circle those pretty nipples for me. Close your eyes and imagine it’s my tongue. Fuck, I wanna suck on your tits so bad.”
He doesn’t have to know that you’re following orders. That you’re grinding on the bunched blanket between your legs while you imagine his big, rude hands playing with your tits instead of your own.
“You listening to me, beautiful girl?”
“Yeah. Don’t get a big head about it.”
“Good job. And too late.”
“I do hate you, you know. I’m serious.” It has no real venom; in fact, it sounds more like a term of endearment at this point.
He laughs. “C’mon, tell me how soaked she is.”
She’s flooded, is the answer. She’s dampening the pressed comforter, she’s throbbing and screaming and crying and pulsing to the tempo of his black coffee voice.
You’re not much for vocals when you get off. You have neighbors that already have to hear about your dreams, and the act itself seems like more business than pleasure sometimes. When you were younger, you shared a room with your two sisters, so you learned to be quiet and discreet about rubbing your pussy. That all flies out the window when you sink two fingers into your sopping cunt at Tom’s direction.
“10,” you hiss, straining to hit your gspot. Maybe you really do need to invest in one of those toys Sheila is always elbowing you about.
“Oh, poor baby.” Your walls flutter violently at his mocking tone.
“I thought you were going to tell me what you would do to me after dinner?” Maybe you’re desperate, or just stupid. It doesn’t really matter when all you want is to orgasm on Tom’s voice.
“Thought I was? Didn’t I tell you about how I’m gonna dip into that sweet wet pussy, and play with your little clit with my thumb while I fuck you with this big cock? How do you like it, honey? Slow and deep? Fast and hard?”
You make a strangled little sound–because your fingers are just not enough, and it hurts. It hurts that he’s not here with you, filling you up, holding you down with those calloused hands and that filthy, insatiable, mouth.
“What was that?”
His voice is strained, and you think you’re not the only one in pain here.
“Slow,” you answer. “At first.” Why exactly are you handing him this ammunition? How stupid, how dangerous, to offer up the keys to your undoing? You know he will only use this information against you.
“Mmm.” His breathing is labored, and the thought of him with his cock out, stroking himself to this dirty talk is almost too much to stand. Julian had you trussed and at his mercy right in front of him, but couldn’t keep it up. All Tom Ludlow needs is the sound of your voice. After the night you’ve had, that alone is nearly enough to make you cum.
“But then I like it deep,” you pant. “You think you got what it takes?”
“Baby, I’ve got everything you need.”
You are trying to be as quiet as you can, while you abuse your clit with your two middle fingers, practically holding your breath, getting high on the oxygen deprivation. You’re too quiet, you suppose.
“Don’t be shy, beautiful. Gotta let me hear it when you cum for me.”
“Or what?” you grouse. “Maybe I’m just…mixing pancake batter.”
His laughter is strained, and you just know he’s close. “Or you’ll regret it, sweet girl. When I finally get these hands on you? Mmm I’ll make you pay. I’ll make you cum without mercy.”
Again, you can’t help but compare the versions of punishment to the men in your life. Julian wants to hurt you. Tom just wants to make you cum.
“Fuck.”
“Yeah? You there, baby?”
You try to just breathe through your nose, to not give him the satisfaction–but you fail spectacularly.
“Y/n?” He calls, singing your name and making it sound so pretty and good and special.
“Y-yeah?”
“You coming with me? I’m waiting for you.”
You’re right there, dangling over that sweet, slippery precipice that you can usually ease yourself over carefully. Tom gives you a little shove, and you’re plummeting.
“That’s my girl.” He doesn’t sound much better off than you while you sob from the unexpected, haywire orgasm.
It takes a long minute for you to come back to earth, come back to breathless Tom who isn’t saying anything for once in his life.
That pleasant, floaty post coital bliss gets stained with shame when the clarity of who you just mutually masturbated with hits you.
He talks first, what a surprise. “Do you feel better?”
“No.” But then, “a little bit.”
“At least one of us does.” You hear him shuffling around on the other end, maybe opening a fridge. It makes you smile to think of him jerking off at his kitchen table.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Why in God’s name are you still entertaining this conversation? You both got what you wanted, and if you stay here too long listening to his voice you’re going to be right back where you started—ready for round two.
“I won’t feel better until you’re mine.” He sounds humorless, which worries you in itself even without the possessive words added. “C’mon, sweet nurse, aren’t you supposed to help me feel better?”
“I don’t belong to anyone, Tom. I never will.”
“Oh? Bullshit.”
“I’m hanging up.”
Almost as if he knows you’re full of it, or maybe he just doesn’t care about talking into an empty phone line, he continues. “You’re telling me you’ve never wanted a man to take care of you? Protect you, defend you, fuck anyone up who even thinks to raise a hand or word against you?”
Honestly? That’s all you’ve ever wanted, although you’ll take that admittance to your grave. After a lifetime of taking care of other people, having someone to do that for you in return sounds like a castle in the sky. But, the thing about castles in skies? They’re imaginary. You pinch the bridge of your nose. “Let me guess, you’d do all that and more?” Maybe the venomous sarcasm is a little too mean.
He sighs as if you’re the one assaulting his date, stealing his number, and then calling to harass and annoy him. “Okay, tough girl. Get some sleep. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“No you won’t.”
“Mm. Night, beautiful.”
You wait for him to hang up. He doesn’t. You don’t, either. You feel his grin blossoming through the white noise of the line, listen to him rustle about, hear bottles clinking, water running, fabric swishing. Your eyes get heavy to the sounds of his nightly routine, lashes threatening to touch cheek.
His voice is void of its usual gruff when it permeates the pleasant, strange, foggy land between awake and unconscious. “Baby?”
“Mm, yeah?” You try to make your mouth move properly, but the words come jumbled and slurred, weighted with exhaustion.
“Sweet dreams.”
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CHRIS EVANS as DETECTIVE PAUL DISKANT
Street Kings (2008) | dir. David Ayer
#street kings#paul diskant#chris evans#arthurpendragonns#cevansedit#chris evans edit#cinemapix#cinematv#dailytvfilmgifs#dilfgifs#dilfsource#filmedit#filmgifs#filmtv#flawlessgentlemen#fyeahmovies#mancandykings#marvel cast#mcu cast#mensource#movieedit#moviegifs#tuserliliana#unearthlydust#userbecks#mine
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Kinktober 2023, Day 3
Take A Look
Summary: You didn’t know why your ex had came by the library after closing. Couldn’t explain why he just wanted to have some coffee with you and talk. That is until you started to tell him everything that you had been feeling. And just how your birthmark just couldn’t be explained away. He was it. He was everything. He was your soulmate
Pairings: Paul Diskant X Reader
Rating: explicit
Warnings: explicit language, explicit sexual content, soulmates, breakup, unprotected sex, PIV sex, sex in public, creampie, 18+ ONLY
Word Count: 2.4K
Previous
Series Masterlist
I need to talk to you.
How ominous was that? And of all people a guy that you went on a few dates with. Was intimate with one time. And then he ghosted you. Pulled back immediately. Obviously it wasn’t that great. It only felt that great.
Months had passed, and you moved on. You had to. What were you supposed to do; sit and wait for him to realize that it was the best sex you had ever had? Some people still believed in that old wives tale of soulmates marks. Maybe he was one of them.
I need to talk to you.
You rummage through your cart, replacing books back on the shelves while you ponder what he could possibly need to talk about? You are glad you have to work because there was nothing more to talk about. You have already decided that should he want another try, you weren’t going to give into him. Why should you? He ghosted you.
I need to talk to you.
What does that even mean? You ask yourself, as you climb up a ladder. You hated putting the books up too high. Always afraid you were going to fall. And you weren’t even bothered this time. You are too much in your own head. Because of him. This was completely ridiculous. One text message this morning had set you off kilter for the rest of the day.
“I need to talk to you.”
You say out loud with a mocking tone. You had agreed to see him if he would bring you your coffee order, and he obliged. Didn’t even ask for your order. It was going to be all wrong because how could it be right. It was months ago, and you figured that he lost your number. So you thought.
I need to talk to you.
It was annoying. You sit down in one of the reading chairs. Puffing out an exasperated breath. Who did he think he was? Got you all kinds of bumfuzzled. You couldn’t even think about anything but those six words. Sixteen letters. So small and they could mean so much. So what did this mean?
I need to talk to you.
Paul looks up at the stairs. Just a few steps, but it looked like a mile to get into the library. This couldn’t wait though. He had put it off long enough. He didn’t mean to ghost you, it’s just what he saw had taken him by surprise. He wasn’t prepared for it. How could he have been? Most people didn’t even believe in a soulmate mark. He was one of them.
Taking in a long bit of breath, he lets his lungs fill fully before exhaling just as slow. Gathering up the nerve to take the steps one at a time. The library was closed, but your car was still here. You wouldn’t leave. You clearly were curious as to what Paul had to say, or you wouldn’t have answered. Well, that wasn’t entirely true.
He knew you could feel the pull to him, just as much as he could, too. It had killed him to stay away from you. But he had to try. He never believed in those marks, but how could he deny something that was right in his face? He saw your mark, a perfect match to his. And he felt every bit of pain of you not being by his side.
He ached not hearing your voice. His temperature rose. Paul was always in a state of discomfort and misery. All because he wasn’t with you. And the thought that you would even feel half of what he was feeling burned inside of him. All he thought about was holding you, comforting you in case you felt as bad as him.
Stepping through the library door, you look up to see the most beautiful face you’ve ever seen, and it hurts to not touch him. It’s nonsensical to think like that because you didn’t know Paul well, but still you feel like you’ve known him your whole life.
“Lock the door,” you tell him, returning to look back at your computer, but it’s just a blurry screen. You just wanted to look at him. He was so close that you could hear him. And the coffee smelled immaculate. “I just don’t want any stragglers while we talk.”
Finishing up work is pointless when you can’t see anything. Your body is begging for you to look at him. You tell yourself you’re not dealing with this again. He slides over the coffee cup, and you look at it for far too long before taking a drink. Asshole. It was the perfect coffee. “It’s good. Thanks.”
“What cha doing?” Paul asks, leaning down, placing his forearms on the desk.
“I don’t even know anymore,” moving the mouse around, you turn off the computer. Knowing that you can just finish in the morning. Turning to look at him, you regret it. “What do you want?”
“I’ve been thinking about you everyday.”
You snort, moving to stand up. This was a long lost cause. “I have,” Paul tells you with so much certainty you almost believe him. “Starlight.”
“No!” You shout, spinning around to look at him, “You don’t get to call me that anymore. You — I thought we were good, and then you just, poof. I have spent all this time trying to get over you, and I just can’t. And here you are, and…”
“It’s because,” your chest heaves in anger as you glare at him. Your body craves him more than you could have ever realized. “We’re soulmates.”
“Get out.”
“We are.”
“Get out,” lifting up your hand you point towards the door, “Get out!”
“That birthmark that’s right on your…”
“My pussy mark? The star? What of it?” You cross your arms over your chest. Anything to stop you from reaching out to him, and slamming your lips on his.
“A pussy mark? That’s cute,” you roll your eyes, but he can’t stop smiling. It should be slightly vulgar, but it was adorable. A cute pussy mark, “Anyways, did you not notice?”
“Notice what?” That this man was fucking ridiculous.
“Mine,” no you didn't see anything on him. You just saw him. “It’s on my dick.”
“When would I have noticed it? When you were thrusting in and out of me? Or when you were slapping my clit with the tip?” A moan rises off you, and you stop talking. It is humiliating that your body is reacting to him just being there.
A flood of slick pools deep within your core. Your mind wanders off to the many ways that Paul could destroy you. It pisses you off. Pay attention.
“Okay, that’s fair. But it’s there. Wanna see?” Sighing, you shake your head no. “That wasn’t an attempt to get you to look at my dick. But it is there. Matches perfectly. We’re destined. Did you ever notice how things just happened so naturally? Everything always felt right immediately. Because we’re…you’ve heard of soulmate marks.”
“Of course I have. I work in a library. Do you know how many filthy books are written about your soulmate, bearing the same mark as you, and your body can’t even…” people wrote what they knew. They couldn’t be describing something real though, not with this.
“Did you feel like you had a cold? You were always sleepy, and couldn’t sleep? You fought to not call me? You couldn’t even focus on anything else? You had vivid dreams of me? Ached not seeing me?” How could he know this? “If you say yes, I’d hate myself for making you feel that way. It’d be my fault.”
“Then you better hate yourself.”
His eyes never leave your face. Paul’s mouth opens and closes, while you want to hurl everything at him. All your pain that you felt, “I hurt, and I was confused. We had something so good, and pure, and…I hate…”
“Don’t. Please, don’t say what I think you’re going to say. I’m sorry, and I was working through my feelings, and things just hit me so hard, and I fought it, and…”
“I hate that I don’t hate you,” you interrupt him. He blinks away tears, and you can’t look at him. Walking out from behind the desk, you flee. Stopping in the middle of book shelves. “I hate that I — cared so much. I hate that you took all this time away from us only to tell me that we’re soulmates. And…I hate that I love you.”
Spinning on your heels, you see he’s right there. He kept up. Stayed right with you. The pinging in your gut had finally stopped. All you could see was him. “I love you,” his voice is smooth on your skin. Warming you up from the inside out. Bubbling through you. “I love you. I know it’s too soon, but I do.”
It takes only a few steps for him to get to you, and his arms pull you close on his chest. “Don’t ever do that again.”
“I wasn’t planning on it,” he grins. His thumbs draw shapes on your back while he smirks at you. “But I am planning on kissing you.”
“And I’m planning on fucking you.”
“Here?” Biting at your lip, you nod your head. Reaching to the hemline of your shirt, you pull it off. Pulling on his belt loop.
“Something quick, right? What if someone comes in?”
“We’re closed. No one is coming here. But it can be quick, and then you spend the rest of the night making up for lost time,” he lets out an animalistic moan when you cup his bulge. Smoothing your hand over him, “Fuck me.”
His hands move rapidly, pulling and tugging each article of clothing until the two of you are falling onto the floor in a mess of arms and legs. Not knowing where one started, and the other began. “Wait,” you breathlessly beg, as he starts to push through your entrance.
“What do you mean wait?”
“I wanna see it. I don’t believe you,” you sit up from the floor, and get to your knees. Keeping your eyes on him before they drift down his lean body. Hard lines of muscle and sinew, and then you look at his aching shaft. “Is your hand not as good as me?”
“Nothing is better than you.”
“Show me,” you taunt, and he removes his hand off his cock. Letting it stand at attention when you lean forward. Beads of his precum seep out of his slit, and ther is that pretty little crude star. A perfect match to yours. A bit lumpy and not a perfect star, but it was yours. Puckering your lips, you kiss on that mark, just below his mushroom head. He sighs, watching you look up at him through your lashes. Tracing the mark with your tongue. He was yours.
“I’ll bite this off if you ever do something os stupid again.”
“I’ll let you bite it off. Now,” he lifts you up before laying you back on the floor, and your legs spread wide. Ready to take him in all his glory. “I want to make up for the lost time, okay?” Giving him a nod, he situates himself. Perfectly lined up with your weeping cunt. Crying for him. It was never the same. Nothing could ever compare to him.
“Oh my god!” You scream out when his hips thrust him forward. Sliding balls deep, and star shaped marks blur your vision. He pulls out of you slowly. Grabbing at the base of his cock, and coos down at you.
“You sure are pretty when you make those pitiful sounds in need of,” whimpering up at him, he barrels himself back into you. Filling you up completely, and bringing tears to your eyes. “In need of me.”
“Don’t tease me. Paul!” Two pounding thrusts into you, and you grip at his back. Perfectly rolling inside of you. Joining each other just like you were always supposed to be. In and out, over and over again, and it’s the most beautiful and eye opening thing you have ever felt. Memories that have happened, and will yet to happen passes through your mind, but the only thing you’re truly focused on is Paul.
His little grunts of pleasure. The way he fit perfectly in you, but still gave that slight stretch, and fulfillment. The way his face is so relaxed, but he bites his lip. The beads of sweat that gather around his hairline. Right down to his flexing muscles with every drive into you. It was glorious the way he balanced his weight on his forearms, using his fingers to pet around your face. It was wrong, and oh so right. It was too new, and wasn’t old enough. It was yours, and he was yours.
Your fingers cling to his back, feeling the ripple of his body as he buries himself into your wet heat. This was what life was about being with him. Always with him. Stupid man thinking he could run from a soulmate. You two were bound together in your souls. Every part of you and him connected, and fused together to make the two of you, one.
He changes his angle, and you grip tighter. Letting him hear the sounds you have held inside all this time. Screeching out his name as pleasure overtakes your body. Your walls clench down around him. Judging by the pitch up in his moans, he was close. Already changing his stance a bit, “Don’t pull out.”
“Fucking hell,” he grits down as the best feeling you have ever felt fills up your belly. He kisses over your forehead, panting out your name, “You can’t say shit like that while I’m about to come.”
“Why?”
“I wasn’t able to pull out.”
“I didn’t want you to,” he stares down at you for a moment, and sighs. “We won’t get in the habit, but this…we needed it. You ran away from what we were. ANd I just wanted to feel all that you.
“Yeah, yeah. Now I want you to wear me inside of you, while I take us to eat, okay?” He pulls himself out slowly, and you already hate the feeling. Whining as he leaves you.
“Just don’t run away again.”
“I could never.”
Next
Masterlist
Taglist: @tis-thedamn-season @marveloustaylortot @pono-pura-vida @sstan-hoe @missusbarnes-rogers @peaches1958 @seitmai @smile1318 @andydrysdalerogers @cjand10 @midnightramyeoncravings @kmc1989 @floral-recs @buckybarnesisdaddy @magnificentsaladllama
#take a look#one shot#paul diskant#paul diskant x reader#paul diskant x fem!reader#paul diskant x y/n#paul diskant x you#paul diskant smut#paul diskant fanfiction#paul diskant fanfic#paul diskant fic#paul diskant fics#street kings#chris evans#chris evans character#kinktober#kinktober 2023
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Street Kings is on Hulu if anyone was interested.
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Street Kings leaving Tubi soon
@georgiapeach30513 The top one wins for being dressed as a cop 🤭
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ooops my hand slipped...
Chapter 6
excessive force by @treedaddymcpuffpuff & @johnwickb1tsch
~a gratuitous tom ludlow x reader x dr. julian mercer fic~
all chapters
#tom ludlow x reader#julian mercer x reader#keanuverse#tom ludlow x you#tom ludlow x y/n#julian mercer#tom ludlow#street kings#no really i made this collage on accident 🤣#keanu reeves#keanu reeves x reader
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Day 9: Paul Diskant - Street Kings
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Excessive Force : Tom Ludlow x Fem Nurse Reader (COLLAB W/ THE INCREDIBLE @johnwickb1tsch) - Chapter One Two Three Four Five Six Seven
TW: NSFW, bondage, uncomfy situations
The next time you see Dr. Julian, (which isn’t at the jail, because you fucking tried to go bail him out and they just looked at you like you were crazy when you kept insisting Dr. Julian Mercer had to be in there) he has a red mark around his neck, a black eye, and a bump on his temple that’s almost the size of a chicken egg.
“Jesus fucking Christ!” you hiss, rushing over to him. He takes your elbow and ducks the two of you into a supply closet. You think he just wants to have a private conversation, until he backs you into the shelves with a tonsil-inspecting, toe-curling kiss, his big hands digging into your waist. You grab fistfuls of his lab coat, you are so surprised it doesn’t even occur to you to fight him. When he finally pulls back you are breathless—and in shock.
He seems to find this adorable, reaching up to caress your face. “Now all that was worth it,” he says cheekily.
You blink up at him, stupid as a lamb. “Did he hurt you?” you demand, trying to inspect the mark around his neck.
“We reached an understanding,” Julian assures you with a dark look, taking your hands in his own.
“But—“
“Don’t worry about it, y/n. Really.” It comes out like an order, and you don’t really like it when he talks to you that way, but you guess you understand that he doesn’t want to talk about Ludlow anymore.
“Ok.”
You are so going to worry about it. You also know there’s no way in hell that he’s going to want to see you anymore.
He looks down at you with that soft expression that warms your insides. “When’s your next day off?”
You blink again. “Friday?”
“Can I make you dinner?”
“You want…to cook for me?”
“At my place. Around seven. I’ll text you the address.”
You’re still not sure if that was a request or an order, but you’re so dumbfounded that it doesn’t even occur to you to offer an opinion.
“But what about…?”
“I’m not scared of him, y/n.” The marks on his face indicate that maybe he should be, but the set of this man’s jaw indicates that maybe Ludlow has met his match.
“I’m really sorry. About all of this.”
“I already told you, it’s not your fault.” There’s a flinty note in his voice, and you can tell he just wants you to drop it. Inwardly you flinch a little, but you nod.
***
You suppose because he’s banned from being treated by you at the hospital, pulling you over in the dead of night after your shift becomes his go-to game. Maybe you should have started taking a different route home, but the highway was the fastest (and usually safest) way to go, and the thought of changing your personal day-to-day just for this asshole makes you see red. You refuse, and so you keep getting pulled over, four more times for weaker and weaker excuses. Not signaling when changing lanes. Using your phone (you weren’t). An obstruction to vision hanging from your rearview. And the cherry on top—too dim fucking blinkers?
He even has the gall to check up on you, going so far as to inspect your wrists one evening, and turning your head from side to side with an authoritative finger hooked under your chin. “What do you think you’re doing?” you demand.
“Just making sure Dr. Bitch is behaving himself.”
“That is none of your business.”
“If he hurts you I’ll make it my business.” He just says it so casually. Water is wet, the sun is hot, and Tom Ludlow will fuck up Dr. Mercer’s day if he hurts you, even with consensual rough play. No one has ever stuck their neck out for you like that, and it is not helpful, what this misplaced concern does to your insides. This guy is 300% Pure Asshole. You should not be warming to him.
Truth be told, you are nervous about your date with Julian tomorrow night. Maybe he’s being sweet and cooking for you—but it will also be on his home turf, like meeting a wolf in his den. You don’t really think Julian would hurt you. In fact, the thought seems absurd. But then again…people never cease to surprise you. You see the result of mankind’s insatiable bloodthirst every day at work.
Despite your completely misplaced feelings for Officer Tom Ludlow, the fact stands that he is absolutely harassing you, and what he did to Julian outside the coffee shop was totally unacceptable. Maybe you don’t have any money to sue the LAPD like Julian does, but you’re not totally without a voice. The next morning you find yourself going downtown to the Police Headquarters to file a complaint.
The place is bustling, filled with uniforms and plainclothes and people from every walk of life. It reminds you of the hospital in a way, and a wisp of a thought occurs to you that it’s interesting that you and Officer Ludlow engage in the two professions that truly hold together the fabric of society. Politicians like to think what they do is important, but the two of you do the real dirty work to help people survive through their day to day. There could have been something to that between you—if he wasn’t such a fucking creeper in his off hours.
You follow the signs and the directions from various people behind desks to the Complaints Department. It’s a cordoned off area enclosed by glass. With your hand on the door handle you see who is sitting there behind a cheap mdf wood desk, looking unfairly handsome in his black beat uniform.
You freeze.
How the fuck is he everywhere at once? It dawns on you that if he’s working his shift here during the day—he’s fucking with you on his own time at night. It simultaneously creeps you out and thrills you to your toes, and you know you are one sick puppy.
You know you don’t have the guts to march in there and face him, so you decide to bounce. Of course, not before he turns his head at just the right moment. It’s like this man has a radar for your very presence, and your eyes meet through the glass.
He knows exactly why you’re here, of course, and he smirks at you as though to say, ‘Tell me all about it.’
Bastard.
You turn on your heel, and pray he doesn’t follow you.
***
Later that night, you find yourself seated at the island with a glass of white wine in Dr. Mercer’s Spanish Revival style home in Santa Monica, watching him cook for you. He’s utterly edible, in a pressed light blue button down and khakis that should look dorky but somehow he just makes them look GQ worthy. He’s even worn a tie for you. He’s also wearing an apron, and it’s not so corny as to say Kiss The Cook but you did anyway first thing upon walking through the door. You’d asked if you could help with the meal, and he’d declined with a gracious smile.
Now, you’re pretty sure he parked you here so you could get a view of his tight little rear end as he works at the stove.
You take another big sip of wine. It’s really not fair in the least.
He serves up chicken piccata with fresh vegetables out on the patio, complete with candlelight. The warm night breeze is like the breath of angels, and it’s possibly the most romantic dinner anyone has ever treated you to, and it makes you almost uncomfortable inside, how nice all this is. You know he’d said that he liked you, and he didn’t want a perfect girlfriend…but you can’t help but feel like an imposter here.
There were no candlelit dinners with homemade Italian food and fine wine back in Kansas. There were bonfires in someone’s daddy’s back farm field, copious amounts of beer, and you were lucky if you didn’t get knocked up on the bench seat of someone’s rusty old pickup truck before the night was out. Yee fuckin’ haw.
“You alright?” he asks, reaching across the table to touch your hand.
You realize that you have zoned out, while he was talking, again.
“Fine,” you answer quickly, bolstering yourself with another sip of wine. You’re on your second glass now—you should probably slow down, but it’s so good. “I was just thinking…about how nice, all this is. Thank you, Julian. You’re so sweet.”
He smiles at you from across the table, a winsome and heart-squeezing curl of lips, and he’s so handsome even with the now healing black eye.
“I’m maybe sensing some anxiety stemming from Imposter Syndrome,” he says gently.
“Is that your official diagnosis, Doctor?”
You can tell he likes it when you talk this way to him, even outside of the hospital. You can see it in the sparkle of his lovely mocha-brown eyes. “Something like that.” He leans in towards you, his elbows on the little bistro-style table, pinning you with that acute stare. “I don’t know what happened to you, where you came from, y/n. Maybe you’ll trust me enough to tell me later. But I do know that it’s in the past, and it doesn’t mean you don’t deserve something nice for yourself now. Does that make sense?”
It hits way too close to home, and with a sigh you lean back in your chair, unable to meet his eyes again.
“It sounds so easy, when you put it that way.”
He tilts his head as he examines you, and you’re afraid that attentive stare misses nothing. “I could make it easy, for you,” he offers quietly. Something about that soft but oh-so-sure tone lifts every little fine hair on your body, a wave of gooseflesh erupting across your skin. You feel like a rabbit flicking its ears at the sound of danger, not quite sure which direction it’s coming from.
“What do you mean?” you dare ask.
“It’s part of the appeal of submission for some people, to hand over complete control to someone you trust, to let them make you feel good. It can be an almost…therapeutic release. I think I could do that for you.”
Your heart chooses that moment to lodge itself in your throat, and it takes an embarrassingly long few seconds for you to find your voice again. As usual when you feel wildly uncomfortable, you opt for humor. “Wow, do you subscribe this to your patients often?”
He chuckles, and it is dark and rich as bitter chocolate. “No, though maybe I should.”
You can’t help but notice you haven’t even made it through the main course, before he is bringing this up again. It must be something he really wants from you—and a part of you still finds that so hard to believe. He’d said your defiance on that patient’s discharge triggered this need in him. You wonder if there are other things about you, that has made him zero you out. It’s happened to you before. Narcissists just seem to sniff you out like they’re fucking bloodhounds.
Is Julian like that, underneath all the good looks, the pleasantness, the charm?
Does he think you’d be easy to control? Or does he want a challenge because your dumb ass is stubborn as a mule?
Does he know that if things go badly, you have no one here to offer recourse?
Unless, of course, you count Officer Tom Ludlow, but dear lord that is not the backup plan you want to rely on.
“Well…I’m still thinking about all that,” you deflect, throwing your attention into coiling pasta around your fork, trying not to appear like a complete philistine.
He has the grace not to appear disappointed, though there is a certain sharpness in his look now, and you have a feeling Dr. Mercer is not used to not getting his way, eventually.
***
Julian does let you help with the dishes, and pours you yet another glass of wine. “Digestivo,” he says with a perfect accent and a little smile to himself. He explains it’s the word for the “after dinner drink” in Italy. Apparently it’s usually a liquor, but it seems he doesn’t want you that drunk.
At least, not yet.
He asks if you want to watch a movie or listen to some music? You agree, ask him to pick something out, and excuse yourself to go to the bathroom. When you return he is stretched out on the couch, looking utterly handsome, and you find yourself just staring while his head is turned towards the massive TV.
“I know you’re there,” he finally says with a little smile, turning to look at you knowingly. Cautiously you approach, glad for some reason that the tall back of the leather couch is between you. Perhaps the soft little woodland creature that will forever live inside you senses the wolf nearby, even if it’s wearing Brooks Brothers.
“Sorry,” you say apologetically, soft-pawing further into the room. You dare to lean on the back of the couch to look down at him, not quite ready to join him on his level. He seems to understand all too well, and is completely amused by it.
“That’s ok. I can’t keep my eyes off you either. You’re so beautiful.”
You let out a long breath through your nose, never comfortable with what to say to it. You’d been assured by so many people in your early life, that you were in fact an ugly little toad worth less than nothing. Later, those that told you that you were pretty, hurt you in different ways. You wish you could just…take it at face value, and say thanks, without overanalyzing it six hundred ways from Sunday.
“You don’t think so?” He asks, looking up at you with curious eyes. Since you walked through his door tonight, you’ve felt like he’s been studying you, and you sincerely hope it’s not to find your weaknesses and exploit them but rather understand them.
It would be so nice to be understood by a man like Julian, even if he is chaining you to a wall and whipping you while doing it. The thought makes you giggle, and this seems to perplex and amuse him.
“Well?” He asks, reaching up to boldly smooth your cheekbone. “You don’t think you’re beautiful?”
You try to blame your honesty on the wine when you answer truthfully: “not really.”
Most men don’t want to hear about insecurities and flaws; they want self actualized, confident women who carry themselves in a way you’ll never be able to. It's hard to have self esteem, especially when you’ve spent the majority of your life getting told you shouldn’t have any.
“Hmm.” His thumb rests lightly on your chin, and he parts your mouth a little like he means to kiss you, although he makes no actual move to do so. “That’s another thing I could help you with.”
You're a little lost in the white capped crash of your thoughts, of the pleasant heat in his long, skilled fingers, of the endless dark in his blown black eyes. It takes you a full thirty seconds to think about the conversation, and even then you have to stupidly ask: “what?”
“Feeling beautiful, because you are.” Maybe you don’t mind the bossy, matter of fact tone as much when it’s demanding that you’re worthy and pretty.
“Are you going to kiss me again?” You ask, because you can’t stop thinking about how good his mouth feels on your face.
“Ask me nicely.” That big thumb runs a torturous line over your parted bottom lip.
“You ask me,” you challenge, giggling at your own insolence.
Oh, he loves that, when you push back. The wicked, lazy grin says it all. “How about I make you?”
You press your tummy against the soft, worn leather of his couch to lift yourself up and over, cupping his cheeks and pecking a little kiss to his silky lips. “I’d like to see you try.”
Apparently this is the absolute wrong thing—or absolute right thing—to say to this man, to make him spring up and over the couch, lithe as a panther in his pursuit of you, a feral grin in place. You are not proud, but your first instinct is to bolt, a little scream escaping your lips.
Which is stupid, of course, because he has the body of a runner and legs that are a mile long. You have no idea where you are going, down a convenient hallway. You make it three steps before this man has you grabbed up in his long arms, and he is kissing you as though he means to inhale you. He presses you into the wall, his solid weight so delicious against you, and you know there is no escape unless he decides to let you go.
Somehow, you don’t forsee that happening any time soon.
You surge up on tiptoe to meet him with a moan, your hands sliding over the trim muscles of his chest. He easily grasps both your wrists in his one, obscenely big paw, pinning them above your head.
He pulls back to assess what you think about this, his dark eyes blown wide with desire. You can barely breathe past your heart thundering in your chest, your thighs pressed tightly in a sad attempt to relieve some of the ache between them. You lips are kiss-swollen and moist with his saliva, and you lick them, tasting him. His gaze fixes on your mouth hungrily, before lifting to your eyes again.
When you give the barest nod, he leans in to kiss you again, slower this time, but no less claiming. His lips are soft, and clever, and wreak havoc with your ability to think coherently. And when he slips his lean thigh between your legs so that you might get some relief, you think you might just expire from the pent up desire threatening to burst you at your seams.
It’s not good, you know, when you can’t help but think about Detective Tom Ludlow, and how part of this aching madness in your loins is built up from his brash brand of torture, and you can’t help but imagine what it might be like to feel his rough hands pinning you to the wall like a butterfly. Maybe it’s just the wine, but these distracted thoughts are not good at all.
Julian half carries you, half guides you in a halting walk further down the hallway, opening a door and ushering you inside. It’s a bedroom, though if its his room, you can’t really tell at a glance. It’s nicely decorated, fairly normal, no chains hanging from the ceilings or racks on the walls, and the bed is soft as he presses you back into it with another bone-melting kiss.
He props himself on his elbows so he can look down at you with a mischievous warm smile that lights up your insides. “You really are beautiful,” he tells you gently, tracing your hairline at your temple.
God. If he keeps telling you like this, maybe you will start believing him.
You tug on his tie to bring him back to you, craving another of his sweet kisses. He narrows his eyes at you playfully, and you watch with fascination as he reaches up to loosen the silk noose around his neck.
“Wait.” You halt him, hand on his chest, and he stops the little show.
“What? You okay?” It doesn’t occur to you that this man is just as needy as you are until you hear the heavy pant in his voice, the gravelly scratch of desire polluting his usual smooth pitch that reminds you way too much of someone else that you’re trying not to think about—and failing miserably at.
“I don’t know if I’m ready for all of that,” you say honestly, opening up raw in exchange for the concern on his pretty, angled face.
“Being tied up?” He asks, smoothing your hair off your temple.
“No, I’ve been tied up before.” Although that’s a story for a different day, it’s not like you’re the Virgin Mary, and you don’t want to be—you don’t want him to think that you are—a prude.
“Was it…a bad experience for you?” As he asks this he strokes your hair, petting you like soothing an animal with his light touch.
You hate to say, it’s working.
“Kind of.”
“Maybe…they didn’t stop something you didn’t like when you asked them to?”
That was the understatement of the century.
You close your eyes against the sinking feeling that overcomes you, when you even slightly crack the lockbox that is your stockpile of unpleasant memories from your youth.
“No,” you answer simply, but you know he can hear it all in the roughness of your voice in that one small word.
“What if we have a safeword? If I do anything you don’t like, you say the word, and I promise you I will stop.”
You freeze like a rabbit that's been spotted by a predator, as you mull this over. You know that’s how these things are supposed to go. But once a man has you tied up and at his mercy…he can do anything he wants with you. And men can be so awful, when they feel like they have all the power in their hands.
Is this man awful? It certainly doesn’t seem so. But dear god, you have been so wrong before.
“Maybe….” You roll your eyes up to the ceiling, searching for the right words, determined, for once, not to hide your own needs in favor of someone else’s. “Maybe if you help me understand why this is something you need so much?”
You know it’s possible you’re killing the vibe with such a demand—but maybe it wouldn’t be a bad thing to slow down and talk.
He blinks down at you, undoubtedly not used to being inquisitioned like this by anyone. “That’s…a big question.”
A surge of annoyance rises in you—as if dating isn’t dangerous enough for women as it is—he’s literally asking you to trust him with your life.
“Oh my god. Ok, get off.” You start to squirm beneath him, pushing at his chest. For a moment you panic, because he is big, and you know he’s not going anywhere, unless he wants to.
To his credit, and your great surprise–he actually does. He seems disappointed, and his breathing is heavy, his beautiful hair disheveled, but he’s not angry. At least, as far as you can tell. He shoves his hands in his pockets, maybe to keep them off of you.
It is hard not to stare at the sizeable bulge in his preppy khakis.
He blows a long breath out of his nostrils, closing his eyes. “I like to be in charge,” he tells you quietly, not opening his eyes, “Because when I was far too young, my stepmother groomed me to be her pretty plaything. I thought I was getting revenge on my father, because I was angry at him for divorcing my mother. But the joke was on me. I did…anything she asked, and she asked a lot. I didn’t even realize how fucked up it was, until I went away to college. When she sensed she was losing her hold on me, she actually tried to get me to drop out, then she tried to get me expelled. She was a fucking piece of work, and that’s why I am the way I am.”
When at last he works up the courage to look at you, he finds you sitting on the edge of the bed in your pretty dress like a rumpled flower, with tears in your eyes for him. “I’m so sorry, Julian…” You reach for him, even though you’re unsure he even wants to be held.
“And I like to bind my partners’ hands, because sometimes being touched during what should be the most wonderful act a man can enjoy reminds me of her, and I can’t stand it. Even…when I’m with someone who I want to touch me.” He gives you a pointed look then, and you understand, and you don’t think he’s trying to manipulate you. He’s just telling you an ugly truth.
Now, it seems you’re both agitated, and what had promised to be a lovely evening is now spiraling down into the abyss. You can’t help but feel responsible for that.
Julian shakes himself, and shakes his head. You feel him drawing away from you, even before he’s moved his feet. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. I promise, I don’t want to hurt you.”
Then he does start to retreat, but you reach out to him. “Julian, wait…”
He freezes in his tracks, looking up at you through the curtain of his silky hair.
“Pineapple.”
He lifts an eyebrow, genuinely confused. “Excuse me?”
“That’s my safe word.”
To be honest, you’re not entirely sure if you’re doing this because you want to, or because as usual, you sense someone needs a part of you for their own wellbeing, more than you think you do.
His mouth twists in a smile seemingly involuntarily. “I suppose that isn’t something one usually hears in the throes of passion.”
“Isn’t that the point?”
“Yes.” His look sharpens upon you then, and you feel a fresh gush of moisture between your legs, your bare toes curling. Suddenly, he seems taller, somehow, as though he’s taking up more space in the room than before. “Are you sure about this, y/n?”
Not really, but this won’t be the first time you jump in head first to something you don’t know if you can handle. “Yeah. I believe you, when you say you won’t hurt me.”
Maybe you’re not sure exactly where the whole punishment thing fits in he was talking about earlier, but you assume you’ll get to that later.
He nods, his nostrils flaring as he looks you over again. You watch as his chest rises and falls with deep breaths. And then he returns to loosening that shining blue silk tie from his neck, sliding the fine fabric between his long fingers. “I picked this color tonight because I thought it would look so pretty on you,” he admits.
“How…thoughtful?” You can’t help but tease him, even if your heart is suddenly hammering in your chest.
“Hmm. Someone always has something smart to say.” He strides across the room to you, boldly standing between your legs at the edge of the bed.
“I think you like it?” You can’t help the squeak in your voice, and it makes him smirk down at you. It’s unnervingly similar to someone else who likes to throw around an insouciant half smile, and your fingers curl in the bedspread by your thighs.
Do not think about Tom right now.
It’s too late, of course.
“Give me your hands.” There is that authoritative tone again, that makes everyone at the hospital and out in the real world stand at attention. Everyone, but Tom Ludlow, of course. Unbidden, the image of Tom’s fist making that irreverent gesture out the window enters your head—and like the idiot you are, you smile.
It causes Julian to look at you strangely, searching you out. “What’s so funny?”
You sigh, closing your eyes against that probing stare. “I don’t know,” you deflect, master of the witty riposte as always. Hoping to distract him, you offer up your wrists. “Like this?” you ask, and golly if your ploy doesn’t work.
“That’s my good girl.” A damning warmth spreads through you from his praise, and you watch with fascination as he loops your wrists with the blue silk, tying it off with a beautiful bow that does look pretty against your skin. “We’ll start with this,” he tells you. “If you really want, you can undo it with your teeth.”
Biting your lip, you nod up at him, appreciating the gesture.
“Tell me the safeword?” He asks, lifting your hands up above your head, looking absolutely feral, ready to eat you alive.
“Pineapple,” you tell him, flexing your hands above your head and pushing your tits out for him. God, it’s been forever since you’ve had anything inside you besides your own boring fingers, and you’re more than ready for him to take the straining bulge out of his pants and slip it into your perpetually aching cunt.
“Keep your hands above your head for me?” You can tell by his tone that it’s more of a demand than an ask, but at least he's trying to be sweet despite wrestling internally with some beast that wants to bind you immobile and shove a gag in your mouth.
Every hair stands on end at just the thrill of having his silky, non committed tie around your wrists, so you wonder how you’d fair in something stricter. Apparently, your vagina likes the theory of it, because she pulses insistently for some kind of attention—Jesus, any kind of attention that’s not just from you.
You and her may argue sometimes—much more now that Ludlow has kicked the imaginary door of your life down and stormed in for a raid—but you still share the same brain, and both of you agree that Julian is very fucking hot while he takes off his upper attire to reveal toned, tight, thin muscle and perfect golden skin.
“Is there, um, anything you want me to call you?” You ask, little toes curling and flexing on his comforter.
“You want to properly address me?” His teeth peek out of the wayward grin, hands slipping the belt out of his pants and filling you with Tom thoughts again.
“Yeah, I do.”
“How about Doctor? Something familiar?”
“Something tells me you’ve thought of this scenario before,” you muse, toying with the wrought iron post of his bed. You have to admit, Doctor isn’t your favorite term of endearment, but you suppose that if it makes him fuck you sooner it doesn’t really matter.
Sans pants, his cock tents and fills his briefs, and that tiny creature living inside you comes out of her burrow to remind you that she’s very, very hungry. He really is a gorgeous specimen of a man. You could probably find his mimic in a museum statue or erotic magazine with only one huge, girthy difference.
How the fuck is that monster not going to hurt you after years of only having your own little fingers for comparison?
“Jesus,” you breathe, unaware that you say it out loud at first.
He pumps his hand once or twice over the silk coated shaft, showing off that big, beautiful cock and rubbing a bead of pearly cum over the tip. “Hands above your head, y/n, and don’t make me say it a third time.”
You bite your lip hard to keep from groaning in protest and place those conniving, sneaky limbs up above you again. “Yes, Doctor.” It would sound strange to you if you had any common sense right now—if your brain wasn’t currently leaking out of your cunt.
A little piece of you—actually and worryingly it’s more than just a little piece—wants to challenge him to see exactly what he’ll do.
“Do you want me to tell you what I wanted to do to you when you disobeyed my orders?”
“Spank me?” You ask, words too bold for how you’re feeling—how your whole body is overflowing with burning, bashful blood and sinking into the cushion of his bed to hide.
He laughs, low and wicked, and shakes his head. At least you get a little needy grumble from him, although you’re not sure if that’s because he’s stroking his cock or not. “No, not spank you. I think you’d enjoy that too much.”
“Then what?” You raise your chin a little bit, and the look he pins you with reminds you of what wild horses must see in the person’s eyes that wants to ride and break and domesticate them. A little panic alarm lights up your brain, and it gets louder the more he talks.
“Instead of rubbing these tired, sore feet, I would have gotten a thin piece of finished wood and whipped them with it.”
Your toes instantly curl and tuck in defense, heels digging into the bed to shy away from his mean words. “I don’t know if I’d like that,” you admit.
“That’s the point of a punishment, little girl. You’re not supposed to like it.” Julian transforms into something scary for the first time, and you think this might be that dominant side of him coming to bat again. You don’t really like it when he’s all business no play, void of jokes and grins, snarling like a rabid jaguar.
“Julian, I don’t think I’m comfortable with that. It scares me.”
His ferocity goes limp right along with his dick, and the sight of that makes you want to scream and cry and pound your fists on the floor like a tantrum throwing child. Your vagina, who was just minutes ago getting along with you, once again wants you dead.
Dr. Jekyll sits beside you on the bed and puts a soothing, heating pad hand on your belly. “I’m sorry, are you alright? I shouldn’t have gone into that so fast. I got carried away. It’s been a while.”
Although his apology is warranted, and what he says is true about going too far, that caretaker in your blood wants nothing more than to soothe him while he has a mini existential crisis about making you feel uncomfortable. You sit up and rub his shoulders with bound hands.
“Julian, it’s okay. I get it. I’m sorry.”
“There’s nothing for you to be sorry for,” he replies, combing a hand through his soft hair. “We should have discussed details before jumping in. I just”—he cups your cheek and kisses your head—“I’ve wanted you for a long time.”
The thought of having to go through a detailed discussion before having sex with your partner every time has the opposite effect of Tom Ludlow’s—fuck, here he is again—spontaneity and makes your pussy dry up.
As though he senses you’re about to take your teeth to his very nice silk tie, he turns to unbind your hands with one deft pull. You feel fine, but you can’t stop yourself from rubbing your wrists. You sit there in the quiet together for what feels like a long time, your head resting lightly on his shoulder.
“Y/n?”
“Yeah?” He takes your hand, kissing your palm. “That thing I told you? It’s not something I offer up freely to anyone. Not even my playmates.”
You nod against him. “I understand.”
“I just…wanted you to know me.”
The human need to lay yourself bare in the hopes of acceptance is something you understand all too well—and something you never do anymore, because it just always ends badly. That he wanted you that much squeezes your heart in a merciless fist, because the healer in you wants to help him, but you’re not sure you can give this man what he really needs.
“Did you…want me before I talked back to you?” Suddenly the question is burning in your brain and you have to know.
Julian smirks at that. “You’ve always talked back to me, y/n.” With that he kisses your forehead, and starts to get dressed again.
What a goddamned shame.
It’s totally not helpful, but you can’t stop yourself from thinking that if Tom had you in this position tonight, you wouldn’t be able to walk right, and not because you’d said the wrong thing and got yourself punished with a sliver of wood or whatever the fuck Julian kept in his closet.
You wouldn’t be going home feeling even emptier than when you arrived.
Maybe, you wouldn’t be going home at all.
Julian asks you to stay with him a while longer to cuddle on the couch and watch a movie—some cheap new thriller that makes you both jump and gasp. It’s sort of funny, to watch the man that was just spouting off his desire to use ancient torture methods on you get scared at a guy with a shiny knife popping out of bushes.
At one point, while you’re laying on his bare chest and inhaling the citrusy sweat of his skin and becoming increasingly warm to the idea of giving his discarded silky tie another try, you start tracing your fingers down the hard line of his stomach, flicking over the elastic of his thin sweatpants.
He stalls your movement, and looks down at you apologetically. “Not tonight, honey.”
You know he was just fiending for your bound form with his dick in his hand, so you’re not sure why he’s stopping you, but your woe-is-me brain immediately, and as usual, jumps to the conclusion that he never wanted you in the first place.
You will not be the giving tree anymore. You will not be the obsessed, lovesick girl willing to do anything just to get that same love back. You won’t—you can’t—do it again.
“It’s late,” you sigh, sitting up. You’ve long sobered from dinner, and you’re tired, and you kind of want to be alone so you can go home and cry. “Thank you for dinner.” You’re not so sure about the rest, and in the rueful curl of Julian’s lips you can tell he’s well aware how disappointing all this was. For both of you, you suppose. He kisses you goodnight at the door, and you get in your car to drive home.
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CHRIS EVANS as DETECTIVE PAUL DISKANT
Street Kings (2008) | dir. David Ayer
#street kings#paul diskant#chris evans#arthurpendragonns#cevans#cevansedit#cevansgifs#cinemapix#cinematv#dailytvfilmgifs#dilfgifs#dilfsource#evansedit#filmtv#flawlessgentlemen#fyeahmovies#mancandykings#marvel cast#mensource#mcu cast#moviegifs#tuserliliana#unearthlydust#userbbelcher#userbecks#userfinn#weheartchrisevans#mine
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detective daddy
#chris evans#cevans#cevansedit#chrisevansedit#paul diskant#street kings#lila's gifs#lila's paul gifs#christopher how dare u#christopher i am sick of ur shit
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My mother decided to watch street kings with me and she's watching Chris give chase and her first words are "look at the muscles on him" 🤣🤣🤣 I'm like "I know!"
She still hasn't figured out its captain america but I'm waiting for it to click
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Rock ‘n’ Roll People, In A Disco World
Part 17: Disco Dancing With The Lights Down Low
1: No, You Can’t Take Your Goldfish
Summary: You and Paul take an ‘adults’ only trip to Mexico. Sun, sea…and all the other things beginning with S…
Warnings: Bad Language, NSFW (18+)
Disclaimer: This is a pure work of fiction. I do not own any characters contained within, bar the reader and any other OCS that may be mentioned. I do not give consent for my work to be reposted/translated to any other site. Reblogs are fine and are my jam, baby!
W/C: 4.6k
A/N: Okay, look… this is just one huge big smut fest and I’m not even sorry. Part 3 will be the Paul Diskant entrance for mine and @spectre-posts Kinktober. As always, thanks to her for being a wonderful beta.
Rock N Roll People Masterlist // Main Masterlist
Part 16
“For the last time, no, you can’t take your goldfish!” Paul groaned as Jack stared up at him, his face mutinous, little arms folded over his chest. “He’ll be fine; he has his vacation feeder, just like CJ’s.”
Jack pouted and opened his mouth but Disco was quick to shut him down. “No, end of discussion. Now come on! We got ten minutes before we need to drop you off.”
With a final groan, the near three year old moved towards the little tank and peered into it. His precious goldfish, which CJ had won for him at the fair, was swimming amongst the upturned, chaotic assemble of ornaments. “Be backs soon, Batman.” He sighed. “Don’ts died.”
“He won’t die.” Paul rolled his eyes, his hand falling to the back of Jack’s head, herding him out of the room.
They made their way downstairs, where CJ was sat in the lounge, Woody sprawled on the sofa next to him.
“How comes Woody goes, nots Batman?” Jack challenged immediately.
“Because he’s a dog and can’t live here alone, the fish can. Now, enough. Sit down so I can put your sneakers on.” Paul arched his brow as he looked at his youngest.
Jack did as he was told, looking up as you walked into the room, checking your purse.
“Passports, tickets…” you closed it with a deep breath, “okay…we’re good.”
You glanced at CJ who was watching Paul with Jack before his eyes turned back to the TV. He seemed a little quiet, and it was setting you on edge.
Since CJ had been born, your vacations in tropical locations, with a cocktail in your hand and a sun lounger or the sand beneath you had been swapped for family camping trips or visits to places which were packed with activities you could do with the boys. Even your day trips were centred around them, planned with near military precision. And, whilst you and Paul loved every second of it, Paul had decided that for one week this summer, you were taking an adults only trip to Mexico to be Paul and Y/N. As such, the boys were being watched by Paul’s parents for the week and yours for the weekend.
You were looking forward to it, of course you were, but you were nervous. You’d left the boys before for the odd date night, and a couple of overnight stays at the hotel you’d gotten married in, but this was the first time you’d stayed away for more than one at a time. And the fact that your two sons at times could fight like cat and dog worried you. A lot.
CJ had grown better at tolerating Jack, and you knew he loved his little brother. At times, the pair of them were inseparable. However, at others, when Jack misbehaved or persistently irritated CJ for one reason or another, all hell would break loose. This would result in tears, tantrums and time outs, normally for both of them, which CJ found highly unfair. You took great pains to explain to him that his behaviour when he pushed or hit Jack, or yelled horrible things at him was equally as unacceptable as the actions that has caused his reaction and he was starting to understand. But still, you knew he found it hard and in all honesty, sometimes you couldn’t really blame him.
Jack, however, was a lot less sensitive to any form of punishment than CJ was, or ever had been for that matter. You and Paul had both caught your youngest once in a time out, stripped down to his waist, doing some odd hip thrusting dance to music only he could hear. Both of you had tried so hard not to let him see you laughing, hastily closing the door behind you. However, later that evening, when you’d had time to think about it, it made the pair of you groan and ponder what exactly you had to do to make Jake realise his behaviour at times was not to be tolerated. And you were loathe to admit it, but you had to agree that the nickname Paul had given him, Kevin (after the well-known hell raiser from Home Alone) was well earned.
Both Dot and Jim found all of this highly amusing. Whilst you saw Paul in CJ, both looks and his sensitive yet often stubborn demeanour, they saw nothing but Paul in Jack. Apparently, your husband had also been a little shit, regularly wreaking havoc upon his parents and elder brother until eventually calming down around the age of eight. Which gave you hope, until you realised if that was true for your youngest, you had another five and a bit years of this to put up with.
You took to standing in front of your eldest and squatted down to his eye level. When your hands rested upon his knees, his daddy's eyes looked back at yours. "Hey, you wanna tell me why you look so disappointed?"
CJ looked at you, then he shrugged. “I’m just…I don’t wanna share a room with Jack.” He took care to lower his voice a little, his hands tangled in Woody’s fur. “I likes my own room.”
“Well, Grumpy and Nanny have two spare rooms.” You reasoned, “you can just ask to sleep in the other one. I’m sure they won’t mind. It doesn’t have a TV though.”
"That’s okay, I can take my book, or colors."
“Then there’s no problem then.” You smiled back at him.
“You and daddy wonts be mad?”
"No, baby, of course not." You sighed. "But remember, please don't get upset with Jack if he wants to nuggle. He's still having bad dreams sometimes, okay?"
CJ took a deep breath. “Okay.”
“Ceej?” Paul spoke and Connor turned to look at his dad. “You wanna grab your shoes, buddy? Then check you got everything you need?”
"I gotta go to my room. I forgot my colors and books." He scooted off his seat and scurried upstairs.
You winked at Paul as you stood.
“Right, cases are in the car, kids rucksacks are here…” Paul looked around, his hand running over his once again freshly shorn buzz cut. “Just gotta load them and Woody and we’re set, Sugar. Couple of hours and we’ll be on the plane.”
You sighed with contentment. "I'm ready, I wasn't as far as late last night, worrying about the boys and them getting along while we're gone, but, I'm so ready, Stud."
“They’ll be fine. As dad always likes to point out, they never put a foot wrong when they’re there.” Paul smiled, his hands falling to your hips.
You gently smiled, "I know." Your hands went to rest on his biceps. "Did you pack everything you need?"
“I did.” He grinned. “Two pairs of Speedo’s, sliders and a toothbrush. Oh. And the cuffs…” he winked as he leaned down to kiss you.
You kissed him gently. "Speedos? You own a pair? Two pairs?"
"And the cuffs." He purred into your neck.
Jack made a retching noise at your display of affection, something you knew he’d learnt from Barnes and Steve. Disco snapped his fingers and Jack rolled his eyes. About that same time, CJ brought his things down, his hands full.
"I'll help you," you slipped away from your husband and moved to take a couple of things out of Connor’s arms. Disco turned to Jack who hopped off the sofa grinning.
“Grumpy’s?”
“Yup, let's go, Kevin." Paul snorted as he went to direct the three year old towards the garage door from the entry. He whistled and Woody trotted right behind him.
Your departure and the drive to Dot and Jim’s went smoothly and to time. Once the boys stuff was unloaded, you had half an hour or so to make sure they were settled in before it was time for you to head to the airport. The time went too quickly, and soon you were saying goodbye with a little wobble in your voice.
"Be good, please," you picked up Jack and hugged him close.
“I good boy. Pwomise.”
"Okay, baby," you kissed his cheek and let him down, not sure you totally believed him.
He ran over to Paul who was holding CJ in a huge hug. He set his eldest down, who made his way to you as Paul scooped Jack up.
"I love you, Mommy," CJ hugged you tightly.
“I love you too, Ceej. Look after Jack, okay? My big boy.” You kissed your five-year-old son’s temple.
"Okay. I promise."
“Thank you. And remember, if he’s being naughty or upsetting you, you ask him firmly but nicely to stop. If he doesn’t…”
“Tell Grumpy or Nanny, don’t react.”
"Good, bub," you kissed his cheek. "I love you, baby.'
He smiled and hugged you again before you set him down, and turned to make a fuss of Woody.
"You ready, Sugar?" Paul stood beside you.
“Yeah…” you stood up after giving your faithful dog a final scratch and nodded. “Let’s go.”
"Have fun, relax," Dot grinned.
“I’ll try.” You laughed. “Please call us if there’s any problems. My dad will be here Friday midday to collect them.”
“And don’t take any of their crap.” Paul instructed.
"They're at Camp Grumpy, there won't be any crap!" Big Jim smirked.
You couldn’t help but laugh at the look your boys exchanged.
"We gotta go, baby," Paul encouraged.
“Okay, okay…” you nodded, casting one last look at your sons. “See you in a week, be good.”
"Bye-bye, Mommy," Jack called out with a wave.
You waved back as Paul ushered you out of the house and into the car.
“They’ll be fine.” He gently took your hand and pressed his lips to the inside of your wrist.
"I know." You nodded.
With a smile, he reversed the car from the drive and set off back up the road.
In less than twenty minutes, you were dropping your car off at the long-term parking lot and hitching your shuttle to the terminal.
Thanks to the express check in that Paul had paid for, your bags were taken and you were through and settling at the bar almost an hour to the minute you’d left his parents.
Paul insisted on first class and all-inclusive from the moment you'd begun planning this trip. It was special to him, to spoil you and show you how much of a queen you were to him. The sap promised he'd handle everything and you were hesitant at first, given how his work load had been of late, but he was relentless. You finally agreed, but made him promise you decided on a location together and that was fine by him. The rest, he could take on.
You sighed as the bartender gestured around the lounge and told you to help yourself to the various spirits, wines, beers and fizz that lay in fridges dotted around, or if you wanted something a little more special, he was happy to whip up a cocktail.
"What is it?" Paul didn't miss the extra huff of air.
“Honestly…I’m just trying to decide what to have.” You chuckled.
He grinned, "well, we're Mexico bound, so I'm going with a Cadillac on the rocks."
“Hmmmm okay, let’s make it two…”
Soon enough, with cocktails in hand, you and your husband sat in a comfy two seat couch. He leaned over and kissed you gently, before clinking his glass to yours. “To our first week away alone in years, Mrs. Diskant.”
"To us, Stud," you smiled brightly.
****
Thirteen hours later, including one quick layover in Houston and a two-hour private chauffeur drive, you had arrived at your all-inclusive resort in Tulum, Mexico. You couldn’t help but whistle at the gorgeous lobby as you waited whilst Paul checked you in.
Eventually, you saw him walking back towards you, key card in his hand and a grin on his face. “They’re gonna take our cases and then come back for us. Be about ten or fifteen minutes. Drink whilst we wait?”
"Yeah, let's."
He took your hand and you made your way over to the bar area just off the right of the lobby. You should be exhausted, given the journey time, but you’d managed a good sleep on the overnight flight, thanks to the reclining first class seats, and your adrenaline from the excitement had kicked in.
You both ordered a beer, before you sat at the shiny, mahogany bar and Paul turned to you.
“Even better than it looked on the photos.”
"It's stunning, really. Feels like another world," you observed and sipped your beer.
Paul smiled, "we deserve this, Y/N. No spared expense. We've saved for this. I can't wait to show you our room. It's phenomenal. Private, romantic as fuck."
“Like you, huh stud?” You grinned at him.
Paul simply winked and shrugged, "Anything for you, sweetheart."
You chuckled and then reached out to cup his cheek, the fingers of your left hand scratching through his short beard. “I know…and I love you for it.”
He shuddered under your touch. "A week of just us, fuck, Sugar, I'm so happy right now."
You chuckled and dropped your hand to his knee. “Anyone would think you couldn’t wait to escape our boys.”
"I love our kids, you know I do, but we just, well, you do so much for them, bringing them up...” Paul gave you a soft smile. “I know at times it’s a relentless task and yeah, one we totally signed up to as parents but, well, I felt we just needed this, you know?"
“Yeah, I get it.” You nodded, “I was just teasing. And we do so much for them. You bring them up too, you know. Ain’t just me.”
"Certainly hasn't felt like it lately." He sighed and finished off his bottle.
“Yeah but that’ll pass,” you soothed, “it’s been a busy time, lotta bad guys to catch. And you’ve been picking up those extra shifts for the beat as well, helping cover…” you shook your head, “just part and parcel of the job.”
"Yep."
“Hey…” you squeezed his hand, “have you missed a single one of Ceej’s soccer games?”
"No, I haven't," he said honestly.
“Exactly. Last week you came in at like 3am, had what, 4 or 5 hours sleep and got up to take him. You’ve also not missed a single beat with Jack when you’ve promised to take him places either. You work so hard to make sure they never go without, especially since I only work three shifts a week.”
“No, I know but…well, we’ve-“
“Don’t worry about me.” You shook your head. “I’m fine. We’re fine.”
Paul smiled and then he snorted. “Hey, did I tell you when we were out on our walk round the reserve the other day, Jack announced he wanted to do karate?”
"Not a bad idea. I'll look into it when we get back." You nodded. “Not sure what age they can start from, though.”
“Really?” Paul snorted, “you wanna reach him to hit people?”
“Might help him channel his energy.” You laughed. “But seriously, he’s no interest in soccer at all, so it would be good for him to have something.”
“Oh god what if he wants to play baseball.” Paul suddenly paled, “and they give him a bat…”
"He does love his Dodgers like his Daddy. So does Ceej, I always thought that would be his sport but…well, we got Barnes to thank for his soccer obsession.”
"Not a bad thing." Paul leaned forward and kissed you.
A concierge patiently cleared his throat as he stood before you, dressed in all white linen clothes. "Mr. Diskant, your villa is ready."
At that you blinked before you looked at Paul. “We’re in a villa?”
Paul simply winked and stood as you did, looking to the concierge. "Lead the way."
With a nod, the two of you followed him to an awaiting golf cart and sat on the seats. He drove a bit away from the main lobby towards the water's edge. And within minutes, stopped in front of a palapa roofed building.
"Here's your home for the week, enjoy," the man said in a thick Spanish accent. "Should you need anything, don't hesitate to call."
"Thank you," Paul tipped him and as he drove off, your husband took your hand, "right this way, Sugar."
With a click of the key, you set foot into the two-story open floor plan villa. You found yourself simply gaping as you took it all in. It was ridiculously opulent, every single inch you could see was gorgeous. Ahead of you was a beachfront terrace with private hammocks hanging from the upper deck's frame. The jewel blue Caribbean crashed into the white sand beach beyond that. Just behind you, among the entry just to its left was a patio, emersed in the jungle of Tulum and outdoor soaking pool.
“Holy shit,” was just about the only thing you could think of to say.
As you set foot up the open stairs, you found the master bedroom and you gasped. The most majestic room you'd ever seen was laid out in front of you. The seven meter elevated palapa roof, an unforgettable bathing tub, and a king-size bed that could roll onto your expansive private terrace would allow you to sleep under the stars.
“Paul…” you whispered as you headed over the terrace to check out the view, the early afternoon sun lit up the sea, like millions of tiny sapphires.
His big arms wrapped around you from behind and his beard rubbed against your cheek. "Surprise." He whispered.
You laid your hands over his forearms and leaned back into his chest. “This is unbelievable.”
"We've got all week to do nothing or everything."
“Yeah…” you closed your eyes and took a deep, content breath as Paul kissed your neck.
“So, whaddya say we freshen up, change into something a little more vacation chic and head for something to eat. Then grab a few drinks, lay on the beach…”
"I like this plan," you couldn’t help the smirk as you turned in his arms. "I shopped specifically for this trip."
“Yeah…so why don’t you give me a show, huh?”
"Hmmm," you kissed him, "Alright."
“And I suppose I should manage your expectations…I don’t really have any Speedos.” He sighed, dramatically. “Sorry, I know that’s gonna disappoint you but…”
"Do we even need suits?" You said with a rasp.
“Well, not whilst we’re here…I suppose. Might raise a few eyebrows on the beach though.”
You giggled and shook your head, opening the closet to find your case.
"Restaurant opens at six, so get that bikini on, mama," Paul noticed on the bedside flyer.
“Yes, sir, officer.” You winked.
Paul headed off and came back with two beers from the fully stocked complimentary mini bar and as you drank them, you spent a little time unpacking. Then you both took a shower, which turned into your first vacation fuck. Paul easily held you up against the tiled surface, your legs wrapped around his waist as he buried himself inside you. When you finally got round to actually showering you did so reasonably quickly and, shortly after, the pair of you dressed ready for the beach. Together, hand in hand you headed out and down the pathway to the white sand where you located a pair of loungers not far from the little beach hut bar.
Your black suit was hidden under your blue sarong dress as your tan straw hat was atop your head. You busied yourself getting your things laid out whilst Paul headed off to grab you both a drink. When he came back, he set the ice-cold beers down on the little table between the two loungers and made a show of peeking over the top of his glasses at you as you pulled off your sarong dress.
"Jesus," he hissed.
You arched a brow at him, “what?”
"Damn, Y/N," he glared, "you look...."
“Behave…” you felt your cheeks heat, as you glanced down at yourself, “ain’t like you’ve never seen me in a bikini before.”
"Yeah, but not one like... like that. Your boobs look great.”
“It’s not that different!” You laughed as you flopped down and sighed, grabbing your drink and sipping it. "This is insane. A week of this? I'm spoiled."
Paul grinned as he whipped off his t-shirt. “I promised you paradise, babe.”
"It's been hours and so far you've come through," you smirked.
You drank and snacked on ceviche until the sun started going down. You soaked in the rays and took in the crystal clear water until you fell asleep on the lounge.
A soft kiss roused you and you gave a gentle hum of contentment.
“Hey, Sugar…you wanna go get dinner?” Paul was hovering over you, his nose brushing yours.
"Yeah," you whispered. "Something light? Casual?"
“Sure. We don’t have to go to the restaurant, we can grab something from the snack bar to take back if you like?”
"Mmmm, I'm easy," you stretched.
“Well don’t tell everyone, they’ll all want a piece and I don’t share.” He hummed against your mouth and then nodded as you blinked a little sleepily. “Okay, I’m calling it. We’ll take something back, sit in our pool or on the terrace and get an early night. It’s been a long day or so.”
"I'm okay with this plan." You smiled at him. As he pulled back, you kicked your feet into the sand and grabbed your sarong, tying it around your waist this time and topping your head off with your hat.
Paul helped you gather your things and you headed up to the hut and ordered a selection of nachos, tacos and fries to take back with you. To your delight, they offered delivery to your villa and you were thankful you didn’t have to wait.
You both strolled home, your chat easy and full of laughter and soon you were back at your villa, sitting outside as you overlooked the ocean, more drinks in your hand. Your food arrived and you ate, and both of you found yourselves then absolutely whacked and ready to fall into the bed.
So you did just that, calling time on what had been a perfect introduction to your Mexican getaway.
****
After your arrival day, your trip moved with an easy nature and you felt lucky for that. Your first full day was spent with breakfast in bed followed by a morning of planning a few activities, which you booked through the excursions desk in the hotel lobby.
The first of which took place the next day, an excursion to Muyil, some fifteen kilometres from the resort. You arrived just after lunch and were treated to a ride through the ancient Mayan canals and calm and easy floats down its lazy rivers. Come sunset, you were provided a picnic overlooking the huge, ancient lagoon itself.
As you sat against the setting sun with your drinks in hand and the meal provided for you, you looked to your husband, "this is amazing.”
"Never seen anything like it, that's for sure." Paul agreed.
You smiled and sighed happily. “I really was tempted with the jungle trip but, well, I don’t wanna kayak or bike.” You chuckled.
“Totally, we get enough of that type of stuff with the kids.” Paul nodded.
“Although the Howler Monkeys sound cool.”
“Again, I refer to my previous point.”
You couldn’t help but laugh. "Speaking of which, they seemed happy when we talked to them. Don’t seem to be driving your parents nuts or fighting like they do.”
“It’s Grumpy, he has the magic touch. And speaking of which…what massage you gonna get during our spa morning?”
“Ooooh, I haven’t decided yet, I got a couple of days.” You winked. “What about you?”
“Probably the deep tissue one.”
“Well then, I’m looking forward to listening to you moan like a bitch afterwards about how much it hurt.”
“Why do you think I suggested the Mezcal for that afternoon? Numb the pain.” He winked, causing you to laugh before you placed your lips heavily against his.
“Thank you. For all of this. I’m…well, I’m just really enjoying the time with you. Unplugged, disconnected and just us!"
Paul beamed, “me too, Sugar.”
Your eyes peered into his, despite his shades covering those magical blues. "Tomorrow just the sun, sand," you leaned forward more so you could whisper, "a good fuck or two, maybe three, defiling our room."
“We’ve already defiled it pretty well, babe.” Paul grinned. “Or have you forgotten how I woke you up this morning?”
"Oh no, absolutely not. Why do you think I'm finally sleeping naked for the first time in years?" You flicked your brows.
Paul grinned, “yeah. No little cock blocks to run in, demanding breakfast at stupid AM.”
You chuckled. "You know you love it though."
“You’re right, I do. They’re a handful at times but it’s the best thing in the world.” He beamed. “My little disco balls.”
You smiled at the nickname he'd given your boys. It always warmed you to watch him parent or talk about your kids.
With the sun now down, it was time to head back. The open-air jeep ride to the hotel and your villa found you cuddled into Paul as the warm summer air swirled around you both. But upon your return, you and Paul skipped the bath and went for a soak in your private pool with a couple of drinks in hand.
One thing led to another and before you knew it you were in his lap, stuffed full once more and moaning his name as the pair of you defiled another spot in your villa.
The jungle was your backdrop and while you were in a private villa, you gave yourself the challenge of keeping quiet outside and it only made Disco growl in your ear and rail you at a feral pace.
“C’mon, Sugar…” he coaxed, his teeth nipping your collar bone, “I know you wanna scream…”
“Oh, ou, outside...." you whimpered.
“So?” He grunted as he gave a tilt up of his hips, grinding against you.
"Close..." it was all you could do to form the word.
“Let ‘em hear…” he reached up and gripped your neck at the back, pulling you down for a filthy kiss, “let ‘em hear how well I fuck my wife.”
You were gone, a pitched wail coming from you as you came.
“Oh, baby…” Paul groaned as his face pressed into your cleavage, “baby, baby, baby…”
Your whole being shook in his lap as you kept rolling your hips to ride out your orgasm.
“Fuck, Sugar…” his hands gripped your hip as he leaned back, thrusting up into you harder, “…so fuckin hot.” His feet planted on the floor of the pool, his hips continuing to rise and fall, a fast and frantic rhythm. You’d barely come down from your first orgasm when you could feel a second one already sparking deep in your core.
“Oh, yeah…” Paul coaxed. “Cum again, sweetheart, wanna feel you.” He watched your face, and soon he saw and heard that "oh" that put your lips in a perfect circle as you came and it wavered as your body now quaked.
“Fuck, Y/N…” Paul’s jaw clenched as his brow furrowed. “Imma…shit…oh…god…” His face screwed up in pleasure, his eyes closing momentarily, his mouth opening in supplication as he came, clinging to you.
Chests heaving, you both stilled for a moment, waves from your soaking pool sloshed around your bodies. Paul gave a little chuckle as he leaned up to kiss you softly, the tenderness a stark contrast to the desperation with which he’d been fucking you.
You hummed a little chuckle as a lazy, serotonin smirk spread your lips. "Wow...."
“Yeah…wow.” He licked his lips and allows himself to sag back against the edge of the pool, taking you with him.
"Fuck, that was good, Stud."
“Glad you thought so.” He grinned dopily.
***
Part 2
#rock n roll people in a disco world#paul diskant fan fiction#paul diskant x you#paul diskant x reader#paul Diskant#street kings#street kinks more like#chris evans characters
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Look what just showed up for free on TUBI 🥵
#street kings#april 25 2024#keanu reeves#tom ludlow#i could only find it on hulu or amazon b4#free with little ad breaks i guess i should say
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AHHH CUFFS. FUCKING CUFFS! HES DEF A BRAT TAMER >_< !! Him cuffing you and edging you because you're being a brat earlier :(( him spanking and face fucking you :((
LITERALLY GOT ME GIGGLING IN THE MIDDLE OF CLASS RN..
you whimper as he closes the cuffs tightly, the cool metal digging into you skin. your arms were now held behind you back as you knelt in front of tom.
“you like being a little, fucking, brat?” he gently slaps you face with each syllable, his other hand unbuckling his belt.
“let’s put that pretty mouth to better use.”
he loves the way you choke on his large cock when moves your head down lower. your nose pressed his pubes, as bubbles of spit and cum stain your lips. he pulls you off him, just long enough for you to gasp for air.
#love letters.#he loves putting u in ur place#aka on ur knees#street kings#tom ludlow x reader#tom ludlow imagine#*⠀tom ludlow.#mutuals. ୨୧
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