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multific · 6 months

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Fate Takes It All

Bud Cooper x Reader

Modern!AU

Inspired by @brandyllyn work.

Warning: mention of insurance scams, death, smut and blackmail

Summary: After the death of your grandma you are to inherit as she stated in her will. However, when you get a stranger knocking on your door, it looks like your grandma had secrets of her own.

/YOU DO NOT HAVE PERMISSION TO TRANSLATE OR REUPLOAD ANY OF MY WORKS TO THIS OR OTHER PLATFORMS/

"Ma'am, my name is Bud Cooper, I come from Limitless Insurance regarding your grandmother's will." the man in front of your door looked too handsome to be true.

This looked like some of the porn you might watch when you want to get cheesy.

"Um, come on in." you allowed him into your small apartment, guiding him to your dining table. "Anything to drink? Coffee or tea?"

"I'll take some water please, if you have sparkling."

"Of course." you headed to the kitchen to get him a glass as you watched him from the corner of your eye. He got some papers out of his suitcase and sat down.

You sat across from him.

"First of all, Ma'am, I'm truly sorry for your loss."

"Thank you. Please excuse my boldness but, why are you here exactly?"

"You see, I went over your grandmother's will and insurance policy. She had a very basic plan, if you will. A cheap one. And yet, as it was determined, you are to receive 5 million due to her death."

"S-sorry. F-f-five... million?" you whispered the last part and he simply nodded. You nearly fell down from the chair.

"My job at Limitless Insurance is to look into these kind of contracts, I received it after the amount was determined and I found the amount strange. Your grandmother passed due to her age. She wasn't sick, she had no illnesses, from our data, she was very fit for her age. So, excuse me, but I found it strange. How can an amount as big as that, come after such a simple plan and contract? I had a look and your grandmother had a closure."

You looked at him, almost breathless as you waited for him to explain.

It made no sense.

She never mentioned anything about insurance.

"Her closure was in the event of death before her 80th birthday. The amount was determined because of that."

"It makes no sense. Why would my grandmother have something like that? Why would it be... good for your company?"

"Those were my exact questions. The man who prepared and got the contract approved, James McDrown, an insurance salesman who had been with the company for a long long time. He passed after a car accident just two months ago."

"What are you saying Mr Cooper?" you searched his eyes.

"I found out that your grandmother and Mr McDrown have been in a romantic relationship. I believe he prepared the contract for her with such a favourable amount because of that. I have proof of their messages." you frowned your eyebrows.

"What do you want Mr Cooper?"

"Half. And I won't release the information about the scam your grandmother and James pulled on the company. Now I'm sure you know how it would end if it got out. Big lawsuit." You looked at your hands on the table.

"But you see, Mr Cooper, the closure you mentioned had been signed by Limitless Insurance. Meaning, that even IF what Granny and James did is... not the right thing, it was approved and it is in full effect. So, tell me, Mr Cooper, why would I give anything to you exactly?" you smiled at him and watched as his eyes widened. "I assume your next step would be to prove my grandmother's death was not due to age. But let me remind you once more of the closure. More specifically, the last sentence." you pointed at the paper and looked into his eyes. "Even in the event of suicide."

A heavy silence fell in the room.

"So, I ask once more, Mr Cooper from Limitless Insurance, what do you want?" you watched as he swallowed.

"It seems I walked right into the claws of the dragon. How could I escape?" you loved his panic.

"I have been thinking of getting a life insurance myself. Would you perhaps be able to help me?"

"I-"

"But I have also been thinking, I could use some company, I believe you could be a good... cure for my loneliness."

"Ma'am... It seems like I have made a big mistake."

"Just as you said, Mr Cooper, you walked right into my claws."

"Is this what your late grandmother did to James?"

"Don't underestimate my Grandfather, Mr Cooper." Bud looked behind you at the cabinet and saw the photos. Photos of a young girl with the insurance salesman. "My grandmother once told me that a handsome insurance man would come knocking on my door. She said he would be mine and mine alone. Now I believe you are the insurance man I heard about since I was a child. So, we can start with a simple date. I can be quite sweet despite my... sassiness."

Who was he to lie and say he didn't like the idea?

Who was he to say he wasn't staring at you as you poured the water for him?

Who was he to say his cock didn't get hard just by the way you smiled at him?

A wicked smile, but it made his blood rush into one place only.

"I believe Ma'am, I have fallen into the traps of a spider, a black widow. And I rather not escape. So, we should go out for dinner? I can wait for you to get ready."

"Perfect! Give me about 30 minutes." he simply nodded.

Who was he to stand in the way of fate?

A/N: Anyone interested in Part 2, let me know! I have some ideas!

Taglist: @fleursirvart @greenarrowhead @thisismysecrethappyplace @sincerelyfan @theoneanna @aestheticsandmarvel @rororo06 @castellandiangelo @destynelseclipsa @spilledinkindumpster @capsiclesdoll @puknow @alwayshave-faith @alex12948 @lxdyred @imagines-by-a-typical-fangirl @anonymoussherlockandmarvelgeek @praline3577 @trshngyn @avengers-r-us @violet-19999 @top1bbgloak @manduse @jacalineiscomingforyou @mandoloriancookie @noname2246

In case you want to help out a dreamer: patreon.com/multific

~Masterlist~

ˇAO3ˇ

/YOU DO NOT HAVE PERMISSION TO TRANSLATE OR REUPLOAD ANY OF MY WORKS TO THIS OR OTHER PLATFORMS/

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manicpixieginger · 9 months

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okayyy SO. you said you were bored and to send asks. well, here's mine. who's your favorite matt damon character, and why?

ohhh anon you dk what you’ve lined yourself up for but buckle up bc you’re getting a guide with pictures

atm? Probably Groves from Oppenheimer! ik there’s a lot to unpack with that but hear me out.

so it was the first performance I properly paid attention to and noticed Matt Damon in, and rlly he checks off a lot of the traits of characters I’ve loved before but they’re all mingled into one!

his moustache reminded me of Aldo Raine and his attitude reminded me of Don from fury but I love how he’s built rlly solidly and I love the voice Damon does for him and I love how he’s characterised as a hardass with a bad temper and a slight sense of humour.

He looks so good in the hearing scene in his suit!

The one thing I rlly can’t fault abt Oppenheimer is the cast themselves bc they did a really great job but I felt rlly guilty at first for finding Groves attractive esp bc there were lots of Cillian Murphy girls getting a lot of flack for writing Oppenheimer x reader fanfiction but Oppenheimer takes a lot of creative liberties and when I thirst over Matt Damon as Groves in the movie it’s a completely different entity to the real world counterpart. Additionally, partly bc Oppenheimer and the Manhattan Project are becoming kinda hyperfixations for me, I’m reading up a lot on both to (idk how to phrase this) kind of hold the plotting and spin of events the film portrays accountable and make sure I know enough to separate the film as a fictional, dramatised take on real life events. I think you can’t really look at biopics and films based on true stories the same when you know the facts. (obvs with very attractive film stars cast as irl ppl so some attraction was inevitable I think and idk I don’t think they should’ve done the casting in the way they did lol.) everytime I see a pic of irl groves i wail in agony bc why did Chris Nolan yassify him?

(bonus fave pic of groves lol)

second is Mark Watney bc he’s just pookie. he’s poo fimbly. he’s baby. he is so wonderful. I love his optimistic ass. Blondebeard my beloved. Love his dancing and everything.

but anyway I think other joint seconds are probably Gardner Lodge from Suburbicon who I discuss with my beloved @littlegreenfag or Jean de Carrouges (haven’t watched Last Duel properly but medieval Matt is super hot ok).

And I think when I watch Dogma and The Monuments Men his characters in those I’ll rlly love!

aside from that a special place goes to the cameo he makes in Eurotrip where he sings Scotty Doesn’t Know bc that’s the type of guy I look to pick up when I go the goth club - he so suits the shaved head and piercings it’s super hot <3 he’s literally my banner picture and referred to in my blog title!

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aellynera · 2 years

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The Naughty List (Bud Cooper x gn!Reader)

THE NAUGHTY LIST

Okay, so... @iflostreturntobudcooper hosts fic exchanges but no one ever writes a holiday fic for her and we were having a daily dose of insanity and she was like Mall Santa Bud and I was like WHY NOT. So this is like a fic exchange bonus. Merry holidays, Clarke, ILY!! 💜🎄❄🎅

Word Count: ~3300

Summary: When your friends are home for the holidays, they drag you to the mall. And because they’re all jerks, they make you sit on Santa’s lap.

Warnings: GN reader (as always, almost 100% sure but please let me know if I missed anything), despite the name it’s not particularly naughty, but maybe a little spicy at the end, some language. Fluffy holiday fun.

The mall.

It’s hell on a normal day, with the people and the bright lights and the god-awful perfume that wafts out of every trendy apparel store, and the pushy kiosk vendors trying to get you to buy acne medication and phone covers and fake nails and spray tans.

You hate it.

And right now, it’s even worse, with the brighter lights and the tinsel and sparkling things every which way (which, of course, reflect and refract the brighter lights until you feel like you’re in a disco ball). The giant tree in the middle of the concourse is pretty, you’ll give it that. But you swear, if you hear another version of Jingle Bell Rock or Holly Jolly Christmas, standard or jazzy or elevator-style or at all, you’re going to lose your mind.

You take another sip of your adult hot chocolate and sigh.

And the extra people this time of year. It’s like the commercial version of Christmas at church, people just crawl out of the woodwork.

You wouldn’t be here at all, but one of your best friends from high school was in town for the holidays and begged you to come out with her. She managed to get a few more friends together, most of the old gang, so you hemmed and hawed as she begged and pleaded and in the end, you found yourself here.

The mall. How you spent so many hours here during your teenage years is a little astounding. You have a feeling the amount of chocolate and pizza and the contained freedom the mall afforded you had something to do with it. And at least now, there’s a “holiday beverage” stand and you have to admit, adding chocolate liquor to a hot chocolate is a pretty genius idea.

The crowd seems to get thicker as you head towards the center hub, and you sigh again. There’s so many people and what could they all possibly be doing here?

Your question is vaguely answered a few seconds later as your jolly old bff shouts to the group, “Let’s get pictures taken!”

Your head turns to where her finger is pointing, and if you didn’t want to run for the hills before, you definitely do now.

If there’s anything worse than the mall itself at Christmas, it’s the mall Santa.

Crowds of people gather around the gingerbread house set-up (never mind that Santa doesn’t even live in a gingerbread house). Waves of frustration come off the parents and wails come out of the children, broken only by requests to smile, Johnny! and don’t cry, sweetheart, it’s just Santa! and nothing has ever looked or felt more awkward and you start shaking your head no.

“Come on! It’ll be like old times! Like the ones we used to get back in high school!” your friend giggles, her voice somehow a little too loud now.

Okay, maybe some of you have had a little too much adult hot chocolate.

The rest of the group agrees and before you can get a protest out of your mouth, you find yourself being dragged toward a tired-looking elf in bright green tights. The elf hands a slip to a mom and son in front of your group and then eyes your group warily.

You’re about to apologize, about to tell them that your friends have had a little too much fun today and you’re sorry to bother them, but bff (bless her heart) gets in first.

“We would like pictures, please! Is Santa hot?”

If you could crawl under the giant tree and hide, you would.

“I…uh…” the elf’s face scrunches up in confusion. “I really don’t know? Maybe? He just…looks like Santa. Uh…which package do you want?”

Your friends make a decision (you have less than zero opinion) and the elf hands you a numbered slip, and you join the waiting crowd. It’s a madhouse around here, elves running around like festive headless chickens and kids getting antsy. You pass the time by planning creative yet holiday-appropriate ways to kill your former bff and hide the body.

Hypothetically, of course. You would never actually kill her. Maybe.

Finally, after what feels like hours, your number gets called. And who knows, it maybe was hours, you’ve completely zoned out and the next thing you know, you’re being pulled forward in a sea of giggles and pushed into Santa’s lap.

If you could see your own face and if it were possible, it feels like it could be even redder than Santa’s suit.

Your eyes go wide for a split second as a warm, bemused voice asks, “So, what do you want for Christmas?”

That was…not the voice you were expecting from the man underneath you. You expected deep, baritone, rich and jolly and ho ho ho. Instead you got something that sounded like Santa was doing his level best to not burst into tears of laughter.

You bury your face in your hands and desperately hope you won’t actually burst into flames. “I want to die from absolute mortification right now.”

Santa does give you a small chuckle. “I take it this wasn’t your idea.”

“Hell no. My asshole friends thought it would be cute and I was outnumbered.”

“Hmm. You know, talking like that could put you on the naughty list this year,” Mall Santa chuckles again, his shoulders shaking slightly. Before you can respond, he turns his attention to your friends, gamely asking them what they want for Christmas, and leaving you to wallow in embarrassment.

After the last flash goes off, and you get ready to wait again to get the packet of pictures - which you’re sure will be funny now, thanks adult beverages, but most of you will regret later - you’re more than ready to get off Santa’s thigh and make a break for your car. You can’t handle any more cheer or holiday shenanigans. You have reached your limit of holly and reindeers and sparkling lights and candy canes and surly elves and gingerbread men. You are done.

But Santa stops you, reaching out to grab your wrist for a split second, and you turn to look back at him.

“I’m here Monday and Wednesday nights, and all day Saturdays and Sundays, if you ever decide what you really want for Christmas.”

Your mouth drops open and you trip over your own feet. Your absolute lack of grace almost takes out three elves and cardboard Rudolph, and you make for the nearest exit, the cold December air hitting your lungs like icicles.

~*~*~*~*~

Okay, so it’s not like you don’t still hate the mall. Because you absolutely do.

But despite your best efforts and your repeated protests that you’re not…you’re kind of intrigued by Mall Santa.

You’ve always found mall santas a little creepy. Now you’re pretty sure the only thing creepier than mall santas is a mall santa hitting on you. Was he hitting on you? You’re not sure, maybe he was just trying to make you feel less awkward? Whatever it was, it didn’t work.

Only it did, because here you are, your butt parked on a bench near the giant cardboard cut-out gingerbread house, pretending you’re just crowd watching and not actually checking out the big man himself.

Mall Santa is great with the kids, even the kids who clearly don’t want to deal with this traditional Christmas nonsense. He gets all but the most stubborn ones to smile, and sometimes even giggle, and there are far less tears when the kids are jumping off his lap than when they climbed on.

The parents seem a lot more relaxed after the visits with him, too.

Not that you’re analyzing it too much.

You’re sitting close enough to have a very clear view of Mall Santa, but not so close that you’re, you know, actually on his lap this time. Not that you’d mind being on his lap this time. You blink that thought away and munch another french fry.

The elves are putting up a sign that says “Santa’s checking on his workshop, he’ll be back in 15 minutes”. You’re about to leave, it’s ridiculous that you’re sitting in the middle of the mall pondering the merits of a Mall Santa, but just as you’re about to get up, Santa also stands up from his chair and makes eye contact with you.

Shit.

He motions you with his head, nodding to the rear gingerbread house, and you bite your lip. You could just make another run for it, get back to your car and drive away, pretend this never happened. But then again, you don’t want to be rude.

So you find yourself standing next to the setup, and after a minute, Santa sticks his head out from behind the house.

He still has his hat and beard on, but his eyes are twinkling behind the obviously fake facial hair, dark and merry and bright. What you can see of his lips behind that white cotton monstrosity curls up into a grin.

“So, did you decide what you wanted for Christmas?”

Without your permission, your lips turn up too. “Mall Santa, are you hitting on me? Wouldn’t that put you on the naughty list?”

A bright guffaw erupts from his chest and the twinkle increases. “Well, it would certainly piss off Mrs. Claus, but she went to the islands for Christmas this year, so. No, I’m kidding. There’s no Mrs. Claus.”

“So you are hitting on me.”

He laughs and shakes his head. “I was just trying to make you feel better. I could tell you didn’t really want to be there, at that moment.”

“Hmm,” you hum thoughtfully.

“But in any case, I gotta run. But I’m here until an hour before the mall closes. Gives you time to decide which of Santa’s lists you’d like to be on.”

Your grin threatens to split your face. “You are hitting on me.”

“Ho ho ho,” he calls over his shoulder as he ducks back into the gingerbread house.

And that’s why you find yourself still sitting on the same bench, hours and a milkshake and a couple soft pretzels later. It’s still kind of creepy that Mall Santa is using, well, being a Mall Santa to maybe try to pick you up, but you’d seen something in his eyes earlier that made you feel like he was at least a little sincere.

The lights surrounding the gingerbread house finally start clicking off, and a few minutes later, Santa makes his way out from backstage.

Your breath sticks in your throat and you forget how to make it leave your lungs. The reason you know it’s him is because he still has the Santa hat on, but thankfully he’s ditched the suit and changed into a white button down and a dark blazer and pants, and a tie is looped casually around his shoulders but isn’t tied. His hair is dark, like his eyes but a bit darker.

And for some reason, even though he’s been wearing a fake beard as Mall Santa, he doesn’t have any facial hair at all, except for the neatly trimmed mustache on his top lip. For some reason, you weren’t expecting that.

Your brain whites out for a second.

“Hi. I’m Bud,” he says, sticking out a hand.

Thankfully, your brain has rebooted and you manage to take his hand and remember your own name. As you formally introduce yourself, he raises your hand to his lips and gently brushes his lips across your knuckles.

“Santa, you are hitting on me.” It’s debatable, at this moment, if your smile or your eyes are bigger.

“You’re on my nice list,” he declares, that twinkle back in his eyes.

~*~*~*~*~*~

And that’s why you keep finding yourself sitting on this same bench, Mondays and Wednesdays and both days of the weekend. In your defense, it’s not like you’re just sitting on the bench, staring at Mall Santa and drooling on your various Christmas sweaters. Much. You do bring a book to keep yourself occupied, and you’ve become quite the connoisseur of the adult holiday hot beverage stand.

You just bide time until the break sign goes up. And in doing so, you’ve learned a fair bit about Bud Cooper over the past few weeks.

He’s an insurance fraud investigator during the day, and he took the mall santa side gig on a dare from his brother-in-law after a night of too much brandy. But he realized he could use the extra money and put it in a college fund for his niece, so he kept doing it. And while he admitted it was kind of cheesy and the beard was a little itchy and uncomfortable, he actually enjoyed it. He liked seeing the smiles on the kids’ faces.

Well if that didn’t melt your heart.

He learns things about you in turn. You tell him about your job, how you’ve always wanted to be a writer and not have to work in anything so corporate. How you’re both a dog and a cat person and you’re still mad at your friends for making you sit on a mall santa’s lap but maybe you can find it in yourself to forgive them. You know, the holiday spirit and all.

His smiles grow a little wider, a little sweeter, every time you reveal something about yourself.

You pass him covert adult beverages through the back window of the gingerbread house, black coffee with a double shot of spiced rum. After his shift was over and the mall was getting ready to close, he’d come out in his everyday clothes, offer his arm, and take you for a coffee at the little cafe down the street.

And maybe, one day when you bring him his coffee, he pulls you into the little room inside the gingerbread house and asks if he can kiss you, and you forget how words and breathing work again, but your head nods yes.

And maybe it happens more than once after that.

Every time you bring him a coffee, every time he brings your coffee order to you at the little cafe, every time he walks you to your car afterwards and says goodnight.

There might even be times where it gets a little heated, when he’s pressing you up against your car and whispering how beautiful you are and other not so innocent things in your ear.

Maybe that happens more than once, too.

You’re sitting on the bench on the last night of Mall Santa season. Well, the last afternoon, they at least didn’t stick around all day on Christmas Eve. Your nose is buried in your book, sneaking occasional glances at Bud. You’re at a particularly immersive chapter, your eyes not leaving your book at you sip at your (not-spiked, this time) hot apple cider, when a movement in the corner of your eye makes you look up.

It’s the elf from the first night, when your friends caused that little bit of a scene. You’ve spoken a few times, and you’ve apologized profusely, so you’re at least on friendly terms now. Despite that, he still give you a half eye roll as he hands you a slip of paper.

“From Santa,” he shrugs before turning away and heading back to the battlefield.

You unfold the paper. It’s an address, and a time.

Your head snaps up. Of course it’s at the exact moment that a little girl with blonde pigtails is hopping off Santa’s lap, and Bud looks up and just gives you a wink.

Stuffing the paper into your pocket, you give him a quick wave and make a hasty dash for the exit.

You thought about not going. You thought about incinerating that paper over a candle flame and pretending that you never got it. And it was Christmas Eve, you wouldn’t see Mall Santa anymore after tonight anyway. His gig was up. Back to normal life. Going to Bud’s house just seemed so…monumental, compared to your sweet but fairly innocent interactions so far.

But you realized, as you drove home, that you were being silly. Of course you wanted to see Bud again. You liked him. And clearly he liked you, if he sent and elf to give you his address. And the kissing. The kissing probably had something to do with it too.

He’d mentioned his family, his sister and her kids, were out of town this year. And you mentioned that you were spending the night with a glass of wine and a good book, preferring not to deal with the particular brand of crazy your family afforded on a good day, much less a holiday.

Clearly, Bud had remembered.

So, at seven p.m. on Christmas Eve, you’re standing on the little front porch of a neatly kept ranch-style house, nervously knocking on the door. Your hands are shaking so badly that one of your knocks flips the wreath off his door. You catch it before it hits the ground and hang it back up.

Relax, your brain screams at you. Everything is fine.

“It’s open!” a familiar voice calls from inside.

Your shaking hand turns the knob and pushes the door open. As you step inside, your sarcastic humor defense mechanism kicks in. “Doesn’t it make you a bad insurance person if you go around leaving your door-” The rest of your sentence dies on you lips as your turn into the living room.

Bud is sitting in a chair in front of the tree.

And he’s wearing the Santa hat, which you’ve always found to be incredibly cute. He’s also wearing his real glasses (also cute) over that stupid fake beard and Santa wig, and the boots from his costume.ly

But that’s not why you froze.

His Santa outfit is completed by a pair of red boxers with fuzzy white trim, and nothing else. Miles of skin are on display, his chest, his arms, his legs, and the slight outline of his…

If your eyes could go any wider, they’d fall out of your head.

“What are you…what are you wearing?” you manage to choke out.

Bud simply beckons you, motions to his lap, and you slowly walk over and carefully perch on his knee. Words are failing you again.

“So,” he asks seriously, “have you decided what you want Santa to give you for Christmas?”

Your mouth cracks into an amused grimace and you whack him on the shoulder. “You’re an idiot.”

“I’m sorry, is this too much? It’s probably too much, I can go get dressed and we can have dinner and drinks like normal people and celebrate the holiday,” he chuckles, but you can see he’s serious.

You reach a hand out to cup his cheek, as well as you can since it’s hidden behind white cotton, adn shake your head. “Don’t. This is…oddly endearing. And weirdly hot. For a mall santa, you’re pretty attractive, Bud Cooper.”

Bud laughs, definitely more merry this time. His arms wrap around your waist and pull you a little closer in his lap. You hum and lean closer to his ear. “I decided what I wanted, you know.”

“Oh, ho ho, and what might that be?” Bud grins.

You’re not sure where the surge of boldness comes from, but suddenly you’re determined to make the best of this weird situation and have some Christmas cheer. “I’ve been on the nice list for a long and, but now I wanna know what it’s like to be on Santa’s naughty list. Think you can help me with that?”

It’s Bud’s turn for comically wide eyes, but he recovers after a split second and his mouth is pressing to yours in a heated kiss.

His face falls when you lean back, sputtering and rubbing under your nose, until you tug on the fake beard. “Hey Cooper? Ditch the beard. But keep the hat.”

He pulls off the beard, yanks off the wig, and throws them somewhere in a corner. The hat stays on. Bud Cooper is not a man who needs to be told twice

But he does take “making a list and checking it twice” very seriously.

~the end~

Taglist: @acedameron @anetteaneta @autumnleaves1991-blog @be-the-spark-flyboy @damerondjarin @iflostreturntobudcooper @itspdameronthings @jitterbugs927 @leto-duke @littlebopper96 @one-hell-of-a-disappointment @rosemarysbaby13 @shakespeareanwannabe @spider-starry @thedukeofcaladan @waatermelon-sugaar @wasicskosgirl @woakiees @writefightandflightclub @yourbucky084

#bud cooper #bud cooper x reader #bud cooper x you #oscar holiday fic exchange #suburbicon fanfiction #bud cooper fanfiction #my writing #oscar isaac characters

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contrivedcoincidences6 · 7 years

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Get to know me

💌 Rules: Tag nine people you want to get to know better - thanks for the tag, @therobbinsnest :)

💌 Relationship Status: Married  💌 Favorite Color: Blue! All shades but if I had to choose Royal Blue is my favorite of all time.  💌 Lipstick or Chapstick: Chapstick  💌 Last Song I Listened To: “O Come, O Come, Emmanuel” - House of Heroes  💌 Last Movie I Watched: Suburbicon 💌 Top 3 TV Shows: Person of Interest, Stranger Things, The X Files 💌 Top 3 Characters: Of all time- Dana Scully, Fox Mulder, The Doctor  💌 Top 3 bands: Wow that’s hard to say. Fleetwood Mac, House of Heroes, Relient K  💌 Books I’m Currently reading:Outlander and X Files fanfiction

I tag @ellivia @mulders-boyish-enthousiasm @i-dont-wanna-wrestle @baronessblixen @xf-fan1993 @haywarde37 @datanullyx @whatfallsaway @scully-loves-ruthie

#thanks dear

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freelancearsonist · 3 years

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Tease

Bud Cooper x fem!Reader

Rated MA for explicit sexual content, bondage, bad words, cheating technically (but all involved parties are aware), and a lot of cheeky Bud teasing

3,395 words

A/N: This is another nearly year-old wip that I finally got around to finishing 😂 thank you to @aellynera for sprinting through it with me!

All you hear is the sound of the front door slamming and the muffled sound of footsteps entering the house.

You automatically assume that your husband’s home, even though he only just left hours ago.

But the figure that enters the living room is not your husband’s—this man is all dark eyes and hair and a pristinely pressed suit.

Said dark eyes roam over your body hungrily as you’re curled up on the couch, and you set down the book that you’ve been reading.

“Take off your dress, honey.” Bud’s voice is low and raspy as he instructs you to undress for him. It goes straight to your core because he’s never approached you without exchanging niceties first.

You’ve been desperate for this—desperate for Bud. Ever since you met—he was inspecting the claim for the little shed in the backyard that got struck by lightning—you’ve belonged entirely to him. And while the sneaking around is sexy and thrilling… you wish you had a little more freedom to be with him.

Your relationship with your husband is very strategic. He’s attracted to men in a society where such things can get you hurt (or worse), and he’s been your best friend since grade school. It felt like the good thing to do—you could both see whoever you wanted while enjoying the privileges of a supposedly straight-laced marriage.

But when your husband met Bud, he instantly forbid you from making any sort of move.

“He’s trouble,” your husband warned. “He’ll break your heart.”

And maybe he’s right. But you have nothing to lose, and… you suppose you wouldn’t mind letting Bud break you a little.

“Why don’t you take it off me yourself?” You bite your lip—it’s exciting to challenge him when he’s in a mood like this. He’s normally so soft and sweet with you, but you love when he gets a little rougher and more desperate.

He growls at your insubordinance—it’s clear that he had a rough day as he frustratedly runs a hand over his neatly trimmed mustache, and he wants to take it out on you. You want him to take it out on you.

“I’m not in the mood to repeat myself, doll,” he mutters darkly. “Dress. Off. Now.”

You assess your options for a split second, and as much as you want to disobey and be punished, you know the rewards for being good are far better.

You make a meal of stripping out of your plain housedress as Bud quickly rids himself of his suit jacket, and he’s halfway through loosening his tie when he sees the effort you went to for him.

“Shit,” he breathes. “So gorgeous, baby doll. You got all dressed up for me?”

He’s referring to the new lingerie, silky and showy and his favorite shade of dark red. It compliments every piece of you and hugs all of your curves just right and Bud’s jaw is practically on the floor.

“For you,” you confirm with a nod. And then you bite your lip. “Actually, I picked it out for my husband. Do you think he’ll like it?”

Bud growls and practically launches himself at you; pulls you close a little rougher than you’re used to as his teeth nip at your neck.

“Oh, is that right? I doubt he can even appreciate how gorgeous you look like this.”

Bud’s well aware of the situation—he would never interfere in a marriage under normal circumstances. Despite his reputation for being a little ornery, your Bud is a good man.

“Mmmm... I think he does.”

Bud growls at the implication—roughly turns you and bends you over the back of the couch. He folds himself over you and presses every inch of himself against you and you can already feel how hard he’s growing.

If there’s one word that describes your Bud, it’s possessive. He’s possessive of you—he wants to be the only man in your life. He acquiesces to your marriage because he doesn’t really have another choice, but he still wants to be the only man that you think about.

And he is. You know that just as well as he does. But you also know that teasing yields better results.

“Naughty girl... are you tryin’ to tell me you sleep with him now?”

The answer is no—it always has been. Kissing at the wedding was more than enough for your husband. It’s nothing against you, of course; he’s just not straight, and it’s not like you can change that. You wouldn’t want to, even if such a thing were possible. He’s perfect and lovely to you and he’s your best friend. You do love him, even if it’s not in the way that most people think it is.

“Only you, Bud,” you gasp when he pushes himself against your backside. “You’re the only one I want.”

“That’s my girl,” he smirks proudly. “You know what... I want you to go lay down on the bed. I’ll be right in, sugar.”

You’re a little puzzled—he seemed pretty intent to bend you over and take you right in the living room. But you know he won’t be forgiving if you make him repeat himself, so you hurry into the bedroom as soon as he backs up enough to let you free.

You lay flat on your back, hair splayed over the pillows, and it feels like an eternity before he finally enters the bedroom.

He’s so handsome and flushed despite his best efforts to look put together—his soft brown-gray hair is ruffled and his clothes are a bit disheveled—his tie still dangles loosely around his neck—and really the only thing that looks neat about him is his ever-impeccable mustache.

“You look so pretty, spread out like this for me,” he grins. He makes a meal of rolling up the sleeves of his button-up shirt, and you can’t help the gulp that trails down your throat because there’s no way forearms should make you even wetter but his do.

“I hoped that you might like this set,” you tell him with a soft smile.

“I love it,” he hums—for a moment, his gaze grows so soft that it nearly makes you blush. He walks around the side of the bed and trails his fingers feather-light over your thigh, up your hip to the band of your panties. He bites his lip when he feels the soft fabric against his fingers tips; trails it lower and lower until his fingers brush over your clit and he can’t help grinning at the moan you emit at the muted stimulation.

“B-Bud...” you whine and rock towards his touch, and you want to scold him for being so cocky when you see the smirk he wears as you chase your pleasure.

“God, you’re so gorgeous,” he hums as he presses his fingers a little more firmly against your clit. “You need me to touch you, doll?”

“Yes, please, Bud...” you whine when his fingers leave your body entirely—you move to pull him back but suddenly he has your hands pinned above your head against the mattress and he’s kissing you completely breathless.

“God, I love when you get desperate like this, sugar,” he chuckles quietly. “So pretty when you’re so needy for me.”

“M’always needy for you, Bud...”

He hums appreciatively at your confession, but he keeps you pinned. And then one of his hands leaves yours to pull his tie over his head.

“Do you trust me, baby?”

You gulp, because you can see exactly what’s going through his mind. He wants to secure your wrists to the headboard with his favorite tie.

“Yes, Bud. Of course I do.”

“That’s my girl,” he smiles proudly. “Will you let me tie you up?”

You tug your bottom lip between your teeth, but there’s no other answer you would rather give than: “yes please.”

He’s gentle as he loops the fabric over your wrists, and he praises you for obediently keeping your arms up while he ties them.

“How did I get so fuckin’ lucky with you, huh?” He tightens your restraints sharply, and it pulls a moan from your lips before you can stop yourself.

“Shit... you like this, huh?” He says it with a proud smile as he watches you test the integrity of his knot; it holds, and it sends a fresh wave of wetness between your thighs. “Use your words, sweetheart.”

“Yes,” you gasp as his warm palms come down to spread your thighs. “I love it.”

“Filthy little girl... you’d let me do anything I want to you, wouldn’t you?”

There’s an air of arrogance to his tone while his hands rub unconscious, soothing circles on your thighs—you suppose he’s earned his ego because he owns you entirely and there’s no doubt of that fact.

“Anything you want,” you confirm with a gasp—at exactly the same time that he pulls your lacy panties aside and brushes his fingertips through your soaked folds. “Oh, fuck...”

“Language,” he chides with a teasing glint in his eye. “You kiss your lover with that mouth?”

“As if you don’t love it.” Your laughter melts into a moan, though, when his middle finger plunges into your soaked core.

He chuckles as he—torturously slow—starts thrusting his finger inside you.

“Sounds like someone’s a little cocky for a girl who’s tied to the headboard and begging to be touched.”

His words definitely shouldn’t turn you on as much as they do, and yet you can feel yourself soaking his finger even more as you clench around the digit.

He hums as he adds another finger and speeds up his pace. “But then again, you love being put in your place, don’t you?”

“Y-yes sir...”

It’s impossible to sit still all of a sudden because now he’s curling his fingers perfectly against the spot that he knows drives you crazy and when his thumb starts circling your clit you know that you’re way too close to the edge already considering that he’s barely touched you for more than a minute.

“Baby...” he chuckles darkly, and your eyes practically roll back when you see the way that his pupils have expanded hungrily as he watches you fall apart. “Close already?”

You nod frantically, and Bud lets you get away with the nonverbal confirmation for once because he can tell that you’re already so close to your bliss.

He can tell, and so he pulls his fingers out and backs away.

Your disgruntled whine dies in your throat when you look up at him and see him sucking his fingers deep into his mouth, dark brown eyes fluttering shut because you taste so good that he just can’t help himself.

“God, I love your taste. Always so sweet for me,” he moans, and you know that your juices are gone from his fingers by now but he leaves them in his mouth for a few moments longer than necessary anyway because he knows it turns you on to see him so desperate for your taste.

“Fucking tease,” you pant, and you’re about to squeeze your legs shut to relieve the pressure but Bud’s quicker and his hands shoot out to keep your legs in place.

“Huh uh, baby,” he scolds as you writhe. “I need you to stay spread open for me. Don’t be naughty.”

“I need you inside me,” you pant, beg, plead. “Please, Bud. Been needin’ you all day long.”

He smirks at that—you shudder when he reaches down to undo his belt. “My needy girl. I love how desperate you get for me, baby. Wish I could come home to this everyday.”

You wish he could, too. To put it bluntly, it fucking sucks that you can’t have more with him. That you can’t hold hands in public and go on dates and do all the things that couples do. You want to be his, and you want everyone to know it. Yet no one ever will.

“Please,” you whine softly. “Fuck me, Bud.”

He’s completely nonchalant about it as he slides his pants and boxers down just enough to release his hard, aching cock.

You’ve always loved this moment, when he finally springs from from his confines and you can see the effect you have on him. He’s long and thick and flushed red, a little drop of precum leaking from his tip, and all you want to do in the moment is lean down and suck him into your mouth.

You even move to do so, and you’re reminded of the binding around your wrists.

“Hang tight, sweetheart,” he chuckles when he sees you straining. “Rubber?”

You groan—you know that he can’t be inside you without protection, but you always hope that he’ll through that rule away. He loves you too much to take the risk, though.

“Drawer.”

Bud eagerly fishes around in the nightstand until he finds a foil packet, and you note with a smile that this is the first time he’s actually fucked you in your bed.

You wonder if he’ll risk staying the night since your husband is gone for the weekend.

He lets out the most gorgeous moan as he rolls the rubber onto his cock, and you can’t help squirming a little because of the anticipation.

“You ready for me?”

“I’ve been ready for you since I woke up,” you tease, but your soft laugh turns into a moan because he doesn’t waste any time lining up with your soaked core and pushing himself as deep as he can get.

“Oh, fuck,” he gasps, and you lift your chest to meet his when he hunches over you and buries his face in the side of your neck. His mustache tickles, and you’re addicted to the feeling. “God, honey, you feel so fucking good.”

There’s always a stretch when he enters you—he’s big, there’s no denying it—and he knows it. He waits respectfully while you moan and get accustomed to the feeling of him inside you, and then you gasp for him to move and he starts rocking his hips as slow as he can.

“Faster than that,” you whine, straining against the tie around your wrists. “Bud, please. Please don’t tease me anymore. I need to come.”

“Me too, sweetie,” he groans as he starts picking up the pace. “Fuck, it’s not gonna take long at this rate.”

You would laugh at that, at the fact that he’s already so wrecked when he’s been inside you for less than a minute, except for the fact that you’re about to come apart on his cock in less time.

And suddenly he hitched your left leg up higher around his waist and shifts his stance, and holy shit you don’t think he’s ever hit that spot before and it feels so fucking good.

You squeal his name when he starts drilling into that spot, and you want to strangle him for the self-satisfied chuckle that he lets out.

“Oh, does that feel good, doll?” He murmurs—his voice is so deep and gravelly with lust that you almost don’t recognize it. “Is that where you need me to fuck you?”

“Yes!” You cry out—you want to grab him, pull him deeper into you, and it’s equal parts infuriating and arousing that your arms are held securely in place against the headboard. You’re so achingly close already, all you need is…

“M-my… Bud, touch me, please…”

And for a moment, it seems like he’s done teasing. For a moment, you think that he’ll rub the firm, fast circles that you love on your clit so you can come all over his cock as he pounds into you.

But of course, it’s never that easy with your Bud.

He sits back on his heels so he can get a good look at you and so he doesn’t have to hold himself up, and he somehow manages to maintain the relentless attack on your sweet spot despite the change of angle.

And then he skims his wide, perfect hands up and down your sides before settling them on your waist.

“Is this where you need me to touch you, sweetheart?”

Cheeky fucker. He knows it’s not, and yet he makes no move to put his perfect fingers where you actually need them.

Because you haven’t told him where you want him, and Bud’s biggest rule is that good girls ask for what they want.

“My clit,” You gasp, back arching because you’ve never been this close to the edge for so long without actually coming. “Please, Bud. touch my clit.”

It turns out that he can be obedient when he wants to be.

It takes literal seconds for you to come once he’s rubbing your clit. You’re not sure if you actually scream or if your mouth just hangs open because you’ve never come so powerfully in your life. It feels like you’re shattering into a thousand tiny shards as Bud continues fucking you through it, and you wonder if that’s what he’s doing. Breaking you apart and stitching you back together with threads of himself.

It certainly feels like he’s a part of you as he leans down and presses his lips firmly to yours.

You don’t even realize that he’s untied your bonds until he pulls your arms to wrap around him so he can adjust your position.

You immediately bury your fingers in his hair and pull him into a deep kiss, and you whine when he slows the pace of his thrusts to focus on your lips against his.

“I’ve got you, baby,” he hums as he lifts your torso to meet his so he can scoot his knees under you and hit even deeper.. “You need to come again, honey? I’ll take care of you.”

You’re scared to find out how much teasing a second orgasm will entail, but maybe you don’t mind so much. You know that Bud will never leave you unsatisfied—if he edges you, you know it’s because he’s going to make you come hard.

You cling to him hard as he starts rocking his hips again—it’s deep and it’s slow, but you don’t mind this pace so much when you’re so close to him.

“I love you,” you whisper. You’ve known for ages, but you suppose you’ve never been brave enough to tell him aloud. Maybe now isn’t the best time, but it’s not like you have very many other opportunities.

“I love you,” he grunts back. “I love you so much, doll.”

He manages to hold his release off long enough to pull you apart once more, and then he comes hard.

He ruts into you deep and hard, grabs your hips so hard you’re sure he’ll leave bruises—not that you mind—and all you can think about is that you wish you could feel him fill you. Feel his release spurt into you hot and thick and know that he’s yours just as much as you’re his.

“F-fuck,” he grunts when he pulls his softening length out of you to dispose of the soiled rubber. And then he bites his lip. “Did you mean that?”

You’re a little too blissed out to think straight, and he chuckles and kisses your forehead when he sees your confused expression.

“That you love me.”

You bite your lip when the words settle into your brain. You were never really supposed to fall in love. You were both just scratching an itch—and even if feelings were allowed to be involved, you’re married. You can’t be with Bud no matter how much you want to be.

And what if he didn’t mean it when he said it back? What if he was just caught in the moment, or he said it out of pity?

“I did.”

He smiles as he stands to throw out the rubber. “I did, too.”

Feeling a little bold, you sit up and prop your arms to push your breasts together. “So will you stay the night, Mr. Cooper?”

He chuckles at your question, and you can see the way his eyes darken as he stalks back across the room to you.

“If you think I’m done with you, honey, you’re sorely mistaken.”

THE END

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aellynera · 3 years

Text

Man of the House (Bud Cooper x F!Reader)

MAN OF THE HOUSE

a/n: this is an entirely ridiculous, self-indulgent fic, especially for @sergeantkane, with little plot, just some thots. 💜😘 comments, likes, and reblogs always appreciated!

Word Count: 1385(ish)

Summary: It’s been a very long day, and Bud has a surprise for you.

Warnings: Female reader (no y/n or descriptions.) A tiny bit of language. Questionable apparel choices. Strong sexual innuendo/very very light very very brief smut (not at all graphic but it’s there so please be 18+). The usual sketchy proofreading/editing.

You fumble with your key as you aim it toward your front door. It has been a very, very long day, and all you can picture in your mind right now is a long soak in a hot bubble bath and the soothing warmth of your soft bed.

You’d called your husband around 4 p.m., when you realized exactly how much work you had left, and with your boss breathing down your neck that it had to be done today. Bud had been very sweet and understanding, like he always was with you. He told you to try not to stress, to take your time and do what you had to do, and that he couldn’t wait until later tonight to kiss you senseless.

Your husband’s gentle words were the only thing that got you through the rest of the afternoon. Thinking about finally getting home and being wrapped up in his strong, warm arms was the only thing that got you past a screaming boss, endless phone calls, and immature, irresponsible coworkers. The glint he gets in his eyes whenever he looks at you stuck in your mind, you somehow managed to tune out most of the unending cacophony.

But even with the thoughts of your sweet husband, the day was exhausting.

And you know, since you were working late, Bud would also likely be working even later. He isn’t exactly addicted to his job, but he takes it very seriously. And if he knows you aren’t going to be home, he’ll probably put in a few more hours at his own office. He is prone to lose track of time, so you will likely have to call him later and see when he was coming home.

That’s fine. That’s what the bath and the bed are for.

You finally get the key into the doorknob and unlock it, sighing and letting yourself in. Every step, every motion, feels like you;re walking in wet cement. You’re glad you’d left a light on this morning because you aren’t sure you can navigate the dark house right now, and you certainly don’t have the energy to flip a light switch. Wait, you didn’t leave a light on when you left today, did you? Whatever. It doesn’t matter. Dropping your bag unceremoniously by the door, you think maybe you’ll skip the bath after all.

That’s when your addled brain registers the smell. Garlic and onion and something rich and meaty wafts through the house. Exhaustion aside, you’re certain you hadn’t left anything cooking when you went out that morning.

You shuffle your way to the kitchen, narrowly avoiding the couch on the way, until the edge of the kitchen table stops you dead in your tracks. Well, not so much the table itself. You’re so surprised to see Bud standing in the kitchen that you forget you’re in motion and the crash of your body hitting the wood makes him turn around.

“Sweetheart, you’re home, I didn’t hear you come in,” he says with a wide grin. “Let me give this a quick stir, hang on a sec.” He gestures vaguely with the wooden spoon clutched in his hand and turns back to the pot on the stove.

Truly, the sight would have been less shocking to you, if Bud was wearing anything more than just an apron, and you weren’t staring dumbfounded at his ass.

Not that you’d never seen his ass. You’d seen his ass plenty of times; he was your husband, after all. But you were pretty sure you’d never seen his ass peeking out from beneath the yellow ruffles that edged your favorite blue apron. The one you wear all the time when you’re baking or cooking. The one with the little cats-and-flowers pattern splashed across it. His reading glasses were hooked over the pocket in the center of his chest.

You’re not sure what comes out of your mouth, but it isn’t words.

Bud puts a lid on the pot, peeks into the oven, and then walks over to you with a sweet smile on his face.

He wraps his arms around your waist and leans in to press a soft kiss on your mouth, and you vaguely note that your mouth is still hanging open. “How was the rest of your day?”

“I...it was…” you finally get something other than a strangled yelp out of your face. “Bud...what are you…”

Bud shrugs. “Making you dinner.”

“In my...apron,” you squeak.

Another shrug as Bud turns back to the stove. “I didn’t want to get stains on my shirt.”

Your mouth opens and closes a few more times. Are you dreaming? You could be dreaming. But then Bud moves to wipe his hand on the apron, and the apron shifts so you get a glimpse of what else is under it, and suddenly you desperately need a drink.

Bud turns back to you and hands you a glass of wine, which you didn’t even notice he’d poured. You down half of it in one go, and he clinks his glass to yours before taking his own sip. “Everything should be ready in a few minutes.”

“Bud Cooper,” you start, biting your lip for a moment. “What is going on?”

He puts his glass down and inches towards you again, wrapping his arms back around your waist. The smell of his cologne mixes with the garlic and the scent that is simply him and you sigh into his chest. He kisses the top of your head. “You sounded like you were having a really bad day when you called, so I got out of work a little early. Got stuff to make your favorite pasta, cleaned up a little around the house, started cooking. Thought I’d surprise you.”

“I’m sorry, but how exactly did cooking naked come into play?”

“I’m not naked,” his face is completely straight. “I’m wearing an apron.”

“Bud.”

“So did my surprise work?”

And before you can say another word, you’re being hoisted up onto the kitchen table and Bud is standing between your legs. The skirt of the apron lays across your lap and you can feel him against your thigh.

“Bud, people eat on this table.”

He looks at you for a long moment. The gleam in his eyes is undeniable, familiar, and oh so slightly dangerous. It’s probably a second too late when you realize what you said, and what he’s now doing.

Bud gazes up at you from his knees, leaving hot wet kisses on your own, trailing his lips down your calves and back up to your knees again. “Hmm, you don’t say.”

You’re pretty sure you black out at some point, it’s kind of hard to tell. All you know is Bud’s mouth is hot and wet on your equally hot and wet center, and he’s wearing that ridiculous fucking apron and you’d contemplate why you even bought the thing in the first place, if his mouth wasn’t currently doing what it was doing.

Dinner is forgotten and you have a vague recollection of Bud telling you it’s fine, because pasta is always better the next day anyway.

The sheets are soft against your skin as you roll over in the faint morning light, reaching for the spot next to you. Bud rolls over to face you and pulls you closer. How you got to bed, you have no idea, but Bud seems to sense your question and answers sleepily, his eyes not opening.

“You were pretty out of it last night,” he mumbles, snuggling closer to you. “Carried you back. Cleaned up the mess.”

You hum in a mix of appreciation and contentment, curling up into his side and opening one eye to glance at him. “What did you do with the apron?”

“Burned it in the backyard.”

Bud laughs as you lightly slap his chest. “No, seriously. That’s like...my favorite apron.”

“Washed it and stuck it back in the drawer,” he tells you softly, and you can feel the sly grin more than you can see it. “So next time you put it on…”

The images of what happened in your kitchen last night flash through your mind in an instant and you can feel your body heating at the mere thought.

Definitely your favorite apron.

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freelancearsonist · 3 years

Text

Deadly Weapon

Bud Cooper x fem!Reader

Rated PG-13 for reader being pregnant, Bud having a breeding kink, and allusions to seggsy times

692 words

A/N: I’m finally participating in @autumnleaves1991-blog‘s Writer Wednesday! This is such a lovely idea and positive addition to the community each week and I’m sad I haven’t had the motivation to participate in the last few. This is just a short little pregnancy fluff piece because I’m yearning 🥺 I hope you all enjoy!

You’re tag teaming breakfast with Bud when you turn a little too fast and almost send your poor husband flying.

“Woah!” He chuckles, a smile spreading across his face as he gently sets a wide, warm palm on your stomach. “Careful with that little deadly weapon.”

“Little?” You scoff, smiling. “Your kid is gonna come out walking.”

He grins at that—gently rubs his hand over your bump and plants a soft kiss on your forehead. “That’s the good ol’ Cooper determination. There’s no doubt that I’m the one who knocked you up.”

He smirks at his own comment—he’s incredibly proud of the way he managed to plant his seed inside you.

“I’m offended that you would entertain the idea of me sleeping with anyone who isn’t you, Mr. Cooper.”

He chuckles at your mock-offended tone; presses another kiss to your temple. “I know you’d never betray me, Mrs. Cooper. I trust you. It’s just nice to have some physical evidence.”

Bud has gone on many rants about how important physical evidence is to him—but mostly it’s in regard to his career.

“I love you,” you whisper, leaning up on your toes to press your lips to his. He hums and smiles into the kiss, even as he has to bend at an awkward, uncomfortable position over your baby belly.

“I love you,” he murmurs in return.

Breakfast is a quiet affair, but not the uncomfortable kind of quiet that you’re familiar with. Such silence is never uncomfortable with him—he’s only warm and sweet and light, even when you’re simply sitting together and eating.

Weekends are always your time to do housework, but you’ve become a bit inhibited in your abilities over the last eight months. Bud has stepped up in a tremendous way—he washes all the dishes (sleeves rolled up to his elbows so as not to get them wet, something that you never knew you would find so incredibly attractive), painted the entire nursery (you insisted you could help, but he gently ushered you into the rocking chair to assemble some furniture since you shouldn’t be on your feet for long), and he completes any task that you ask of him. He’s always been a sweet and serving husband, but it’s incredible to what extent he’ll go to help you. Even when you’re grumpy and suffering from the hormones that come with pregnancy, he treats you with nothing but kindness and never loses his composure.

And today is no exception. But the task of the day isn’t dishes or painting or catering to your every beck and call despite your many reassurances that you can still do things for yourself. Today’s daunting task is laundry.

Bud seats you firmly on the bed, bribing you with kisses scattered all over your face until you promise to stay put. And then he brings in a basket full of fresh laundry from the dryer—it smells of lavender because it’s his favorite scent and you love wearing a scent that reminds you of your love.

He sets the basket on the floor next to the dresser, intent on folding, except that he gets distracted by your soft pout when he tells you that he can fold by himself, that you shouldn’t strain.

Naturally you argue that there’s no possible way you could strain yourself simply from sitting and folding clean clothes, and Bud’s smirk is constant as you become more and more frustrated with his over-protectiveness—as much as you do appreciate it.

Your frustration is too adorable for him to ignore—he crawls across the freshly made bed and gently brushes his lips against yours and the soft tickle of his neatly-trimmed mustache instantly melts your annoyance into a smile.

“Mmm... Bud...” you melt into a fit of moans when he kisses down your jaw and finds the sweet spot on your neck. “Laundry...”

He chuckles at the delighted little moan you emit when he playfully bites your neck. “The laundry can wait.”

And he knows you’re thinking the same thing, because your hands are already tugging his shirt over his head.

THE END

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freelancearsonist · 2 years

Note

139 w/ bud -either can be speaking this-

WHO ARE YOU AND HOW DO YOU KNOW MY KINKS SO WELL I SWEAR—

139. “i bought a few pieces of lingerie. want me to model for you?” from this prompt list

There’s a point in your marriage, and perhaps even before the “I do’s”, where you know your partner better than they know themself.

Your marriage with Bud is no exception.

Perhaps from the very day you met, Bud knew you like the lines of his favorite opera. Like the most notable quote of his favorite novel.

It’s something you love—and, at times, something you hate.

You can never get away with anything or keep any secrets.

But the resounding benefit is that he knows exactly what you want—what you need—after a particularly hard day like today.

All it took was a two-minute-long phone conversation, and he could tell you were stressed and needed some pep.

And, as your husband, he knows exactly what your prime method of stress release is.

He comes home a bit late—you’re not worried, he told you on the phone he was going to stop at the store. But he comes in with more bags than you would expect, from a variety of different stores, and it makes you raise an eyebrow.

“I’m gonna make your favorite dinner, just sit back and relax,” he tells you after pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. And you know he has more than dinner planned because he has bags to drop off in the bedroom, but the stress of the day has you too exhausted to ask any questions. You feel warm and safe with your husband home, especially when he secures your cute pink apron around his waist and shoots you a wink as he starts to work on your favorite meal.

You can feel every muscle in your body release and relax as the scents of your favorite comfort food become more and more prominent—you don’t even realize you’re starting to drift off until you feel Bud’s lips and mustache drift across your cheek with a gentle whisper of, “dinner’s ready, darling.”

You’re much more awake as he pulls out your chair and helps you get settled—a warm meal with the love of your life is exactly what you’ve needed today.

He doesn’t ask about your day—he knows you’d rather not talk about it, and that you’re not afraid to vent if you need to. Instead he tells you stories from his work, ridiculous details about cases that gave you laughing and rid of your stress in no time.

And when he pulls you into the bedroom after dinner—he insists he can clean up in the morning—you’ve nearly forgotten all about your wretched day.

But you know he has even more up his sleeve when he guides you to sit on the mattress and stands before you with the last shopping bag in hand.

“I bought a few pieces of lingerie,” he tells you with a smirk. “Want me to model for you?”

How he thinks your answer could be anything other than a breathless “hell yes”, you’ll never understand.

He makes a meal of stripping himself bare for you—knows how much you love a good strip tease. All that’s missing is the music, but then he’s naked and his gorgeous cock is on display and suddenly there’s not a thought in your mind other than how much you want him.

“Honey, you’re drooling,” he teases as he reaches into the bag. “I haven’t even put anything in yet.”

“Your cock looks good enough without lace.”

“I’m not even hard, baby.”

“Not yet. It’s the potential that makes my mouth water.”

He chuckles at that—bites his lip unconsciously as he pulls out something silky and red.

“How are you feelin’?”

You smile as he delicately steps into the material. “So much better. You always know how to make my day.”

Your words are greeted with another smirk as he bends over and makes a show of adjusting the fabric around his cock and ass. “Well, I know this would cure me of the blues if we were the other way around.”

You can’t help the wide smile that overcomes your face as he turns to face you and you can see his growing arousal. “I’ll have to keep that in mind.”

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