#wwdilfcember
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Warm With You | Day 9: First Snow of the Season
sdv!harvey x f!reader
Rated E | 3.4k
Tags: fluff, established relationship, first time together, soft!dom!harvey??, fingering, oral (m receiving), dirty talk, PiV
inspired by “nice boys don't kiss like that”/ “oh yes, they fucking do” from bridget jones’s diary
You didn’t know your boyfriend - the sweet Doctor that he is - could have such a dirty mouth.
You steal kisses under the thick quilt, pulled up over your heads to keep out the chill. Legs slotted together, hips pressed snug as your fingers wander - tracing across his white undershirt, to where his thick hair curls at the base of his neck.
Tonight wasn’t supposed to end up like this, but you think you might be grateful for the snow that has been falling down in thick, puffy flakes all afternoon.
Not seeing how it had picked up during dinner, too starry-eyed and tender-hearted to notice anything other than each other. The dishes neatly stacked and drying as you watched a movie together on your couch - your fingers laced with his.
Only seeing the way the snow piled against your door as he was getting ready to leave for the night - the icy chill of the air cutting through your cozy cabin of a home.
“You could stay.” You had offered, hopeful. “Will you? Stay?”
It would be a new step. The next big one - he hasn’t slept over before.
A lot of your dates have been in public, a lunch grabbed during a break at the clinic. Meeting at the Stardrop Saloon for dinner. Both of you busy - the farm in full bloom during the fall. His work picking up as he doled out flu shots as the season turned - taking care of sniffling colds.
“Yes. I’d like that.” Harvey had smiled, “Very much.”
With the public dates came another sort of slow dance - the ache of desire you had for him stamped down by the surrounding of your friends. The eyes that seemed to drift your way out of interest, excitement.
Stolen kisses, a moment where he had you backed against the door of your cabin as he breathlessly kissed you farewell. You had wanted him to come inside that night - it had been on the tip of your tongue - but he truly had an early morning the next day.
You weren’t sure if he’d even want to sleep in your bed, though you’d hoped he would.
Everything about him gentlemanly - from the way he asked you out, to the flowers he brought you. Polite and kind and taking his time with each step, making sure you were right there with him.
But right now - tonight - there’s a shift. You’re unsure whether it’s the fact that you’re alone, or the slow tease of denial over the past few weeks, or whether it’s the distinct lack of clothes - but there’s a tension, a need, that you can almost feel.
It’s there in the way your fingers tug at his hair, the way he pulls you just a little more flush against him. The soft hum when his tongue brushes against your lip, until you lets him in.
The needy little whine in your throat, when the slow, deep kisses are both not enough and too much, when you want more.
He makes his own sound at that - a deep groan, while you guide his hand beneath your shirt. The heat of his palm as he cups you, his other arm curling around you to tug you closer. The barest brush of a thumb across a taut nipple, your hips shifting against him in response, encouraging.
Feeling where he’s straining against his patterned boxers, your own fingers trailing over the cotton fabric as his sound turns sharp.
You pull back, lips kiss-swollen, fingers going still.
His eyes crack open as you apologize, “I’m sorry. Do you want to stop?”
A low laugh at that, barely a huff of breath. Eyes hazy and half-lidded, his nose brushing against yours, “Don’t stop, sweetheart. Please.”
His hips shifting into your hand, as your fingers unfurl so you can cup him - feel the heavy weight of his cock as you stroke him over the fabric.
A groan rattling in his throat at your hand, his own catching the tight bud of your nipple between thumb and forefinger, giving the lightest tug.
You own moan echos his, working at the front of the boxers - tugging them down to pull him free.
Harvey’s nose bumps into yours when your hand wraps around him fully, fingers lightly squeezing, his mouth open as he exhales. Half-lidded eyes needy under the fan of thick eyelashes, and your lips finds his again as your hand strokes over his swollen, flushed cock.
There’s the drag of skin on skin as you tug on him, one, twice, three times before you’re making a little sound - breaking the kiss to push yourself up.
Eyes bouncing back and forth between his as you ask, “Can I taste you? I want it to feel good, I-”
He makes a low sound, one you take to be his permission - a cold gust of air sneaking into the space as you sit up. Pulling your shirt off, leaving it tangled in the sheets as you move between the thighs that spread open for you.
Admiring him, for a moment. Because you can, because he’s yours. The trail of hair leading down from his bellybutton, neatly trimmed at the base of his cock. A drop shining at the tip, but not enough to prevent the chafe of your hand.
Your tongue peeks out to drag over his cock as it bobs against his stomach. His voice coming after, a rasp to it that you haven’t heard before, “Just get me wet, and come back up here. I want to touch you.”
His words are unexpected - making you clench, breath hot against his skin as you take him into your mouth. Sucking, slicking him up like he asked, tasting the salt of his skin, reveling in the way he makes your lips stretch around him.
Taking as much as you can into your throat, if only to hear his moan, the way his thighs flex under your hands. His hands, fingers gentle as they touch at your face, your eyes watching the way he pants when you hollow your cheeks, your fist following as your head bobs.
“Up here.” He repeats, the slightest edge that has you listening, smiling as you swallow the spit that pools in your mouth. Settling next to him on your side again, your fist still stroking as his lips crush against yours.
Fingers toying at the hem of your shorts, his mouth dropping to your chin, your neck, as you arch against him. Then, sliding beneath, reaching until his fingers part you, finding where you’re slick and aching for him.
“Fuck, sweetheart.” He grits out, his hips jerking into your fist as he pets at you again.
He’s ruining you already, the words spilling from his lips ones you wouldn’t have expected. You don’t think he’s even trying to do it, not intentionally. They seem to flow from him when he sees how his voice affects you. It makes you want to hear more - already thinking about how he’ll sound when he’s buried in you. When he’s close.
His palm cups you, the heel pressing against your clit, before his middle finger just nudges against your entrance. A low gasp as he sinks inside, as if your pleasure was his - a slow pump of his finger, and then another.
Your teeth catch on his lip, the softest scrape, the tightening of your fist. His nose nuzzling against yours, the suck of air through his clenched teeth.
“So warm and wet,” Harvey breathes - watching you, your head tilting back as a second finger slips in, pressing them deep before carefully crooking and stroking.
The gasp you make is sharp, a pleased hum as his mouth moves to your neck. Doing it again, finding a rhythm as his thumb moves to rub against the swollen bud.
“Harvey.” You croak, breathless - the slick pump of his fingers followed by the scratch of his mustache as he presses an open-mouth kiss against your throat.
You didn’t know it could be like this - everything winding tight, a building pressure that has you gasping, hips flexing as you ride his fingers. His name on your lips again, a plea this time.
“What do you need, baby?” He asks against your skin, moving down to where your fingers had teased at your chest. Blinking up at you, a lazy smile beneath the flush of his cheeks, when you find you can’t answer.
Not even stroking him anymore - too distracted, too close - to do anything more than hold him.
“You want to come?” He croons, rubbing the tip of his finger against a spongey spot that steals your breath.
You nod, managing a gasping, croaking “please”, before you see the peek of his tongue, the hot swipe of it against your breast.
The groan that bursts from you then - wanton and needy as he flicks his tongue over your again, his thumb circling your clit with each of your gasping breaths.
Your hips bucking into his hand as his lips close around and suck, the softest brush of his teeth. The muscles in your thighs strung tight, a short, harsh breath punctuating each of your words.
“Fuck, Harvey. Right there, oh, I’m so close-”
His answer, the low, coaxing smoothness of his voice, “That’s it honey. Come for me, let me feel you.”
Gasping then, as he hums against your skin, the bursting pulse of pleasure between your thighs as you clench around his fingers. They slow, pressing deep - his head tilting up so he can watch the blissed-out droop of your eyes, the way your lips part.
Blushing and pleased, his teeth flashing white as his chin presses into your sternum.
Leaving you limp on the bed, moving back up until his lips press into your jaw, your cheek. Fingers drifting over your shoulder, stroking as soothing as you come back down.
Until your head is tilting to meet him, soft kisses that turn hungry - as you shift a knee over his stomach. Carefully easing until you’re straddling him, thighs spread wide over his hips. Arched over him, fingers splayed and balancing yourself on his chest - pressing into his warm skin, the dust of hair.
Your hips shift, until you can feel the hard press of him against your center - his hands flexing where they rest against your bent knees.
One coming up to brush a curl of hair back from his forehead. His own hips canting upward, his cock trapped between your pussy and where it curves up towards his stomach.
The words, heavy on your tongue, “Yoba, I want you.”
And how he smiles at that, sweet and slow as his chin tips up, so he can see you better.
“You want to ride me, sweetheart? Like you rode my fingers?”
Your exhale is sharp as you nod, and he makes a slow, pleased sound. A thudding heartbeat between your thighs, your mind a hazy, needy swirl as your grind down. Each pass making his cock a little more slick, the flushed head bumping against your clit.
“I don’t want to make a mess in your bed.” He groans, though he’s moving with you, meeting the rut of your hips, “Do you have condoms?”
And oh, you want him to make a mess of you - but you understand what he’s asking. Appreciating his care even when he’s aching for you, and you’re nodding, gesturing towards the bedside table.
His arm stretched as he reaches for it, a finger hooking around the wooden knob, giving it a tug. Fishing around for the small cardboard box, dropping in on the bed next to him as grabs his glasses where they are resting next to the lamp.
Brows furrowing as he slides them on, the tip of a fingernail slipping under the edge of the box. Ripping the edge of the foil after, fishing it out before his other hand grips the base of his cock - carefully rolling the condom on.
Holding himself steady for you, afterwards - as you gaze down at him. A flutter of excitement in your chest as you lift up, a palm pressed against his chest for balance.
Lining yourself up, feeling the tip drag against you until he’s nudging against your entrance, and then you’re sinking down onto him for the first time.
A rough moan is pushed from your lungs as you take him, slow and steady, feeling him stretch and fill you. Something you’d imagined frequently - but never dreaming he’d feel as good as he does right now.
His own low curse, your name strung out as he’s buried in you - until your hips are snug against his, and you’re wrapped warm and tight around him.
Your head dipping, fingers curling against his chest as you take a long moment, peeking up to where he’s watching, lips parted. Hands that move to rest on your thighs, where his fingers bite into your own flesh.
Bracing yourself, as you lift up - feeling the drag of him within you as your eyes slide shut. Another, and then another, your heels pressing into his thighs as you find your rhythm.
The pant of your breath matching his, his hips jerking up to meet each bounce, nudging him just that much deeper with each thrust.
“Just look at you,” He’s groaning, broad hands sliding from your thighs to your hips. Grabbing on, arms flexing as he helps you ride him, “Yoba, you’re beautiful.”
It makes you whine, makes you want to kiss him. So you do, leaning down over him, your breasts pressing against his chest as his chin lifts. Meeting you, moaning into your mouth as the sharp slap of your hips turns into a grind.
Changing the way he feels in you, the thrusts shallower. A nudging against your clit that leaves you breathless, your nose bumping eagerly against his as you sigh against him.
Fingers cupping the back of his neck, the other hand bracing against his shoulder. Drawing back to look at him, where he’s watching you as you take what you need.
“Is this okay?” You ask, suddenly a little self-conscious under his gaze. Still disbelieving that he’s beneath you, inside you - feeling better than you’ve ever imagined.
His smile soft and stretching across his face, “So perfect, sweetheart. You’re doing so well for me, aren’t you?”
It makes you clench, where he can feel it. A hand leaving your hip, sliding between his lips and sucking, as your lips press into the stubble on his jaw. Slipping them between you, to rub the wet tips against the bud of your clit.
You jolt - leaning back to give him more room. Touching you like he did before, the slight furrow in his brow as he concentrates - his eyes lifting to yours again.
“Aren’t you?” He coaxes again, the slightest edge to his voice. Not a command, it’s far too soft - but it’s firm, drawing your attention.
“Yes.” You moan, ignoring the dull ache in your muscles in favor of the slick swirl of his fingers. Chasing something you can almost taste - a pressure building and building where he’s buried in you.
He watches you, shoulders curling against the generous pile of your pillows, eyes traveling from your face, down to the bounce of your breasts. Lingering, before dropping - focusing on his fingers. Where he can see you, the way you wrap around him, the flex of your muscles as you arch into his touch.
A low, rough hum when your fingers tighten where they rest on your thighs. Your gasping breath, the small, “Yoba, Harvey. Just like that.”
He stays steady, giving you just the tiniest bit more pressure. It’s bliss, and you can feel that pressure again, the tight swirl in your belly.
“Oh, you felt so good around my fingers, sweetheart.”
The praise makes you whine, his voice soft and coaxing, “Want to make you come again. On my cock this time, so I can stop imagining it at work, and start remembering, instead.”
Your eyes flicker to his, his own gaze-heavy lidded, wanting. His hip flexing up to meet you, a hand braced on your waist and helping keep the pace.
And he sees it, the question in your eyes, the flash of teeth beneath his mustache as he smiles, “I’ve wanted this for ages. Wanted you. Just didn’t want to rush.”
It’s his wanting that tips you over the edge. His voice, the press of his fingers, as your thighs flex, tighten. Pushing him deep into you as you come, the tight clench of your cunt around his cock - your hands brace on his chest as you arch over him.
His name, pretty on your lips and drawn out over long syllables that sounds like a hymn with the way you sing it.
The soft swoop of his hands over your hips, thighs - soothing and comforting. Until your heart slows from where it was pounding in your chest, making itself known.
Now that you’re no longer moving, the chill settles in, and you shiver. Harvey feels the tremble of your fingers against his chest, and he’s catching them, before pushing himself up on his elbows.
“Come here.” He pats the space next to him, gently coaxing you off him.
You miss him as soon as he leaves you, an emptiness and an ache in your thighs from the exertion. But the bed is warm where he’s been laying, and as soon as you’re settled, he’s swapping places, rolling on top. Fitting between your spread thighs.
He’s kissing you this time when he fits himself inside you. The hiss of his breath as he sinks in, a soft, drawn out “fuck” that you hope you never get used to hearing. Something just for you.
Your fingers grasping his shoulders when he pushes deep, a pleasurable force to his thrust that has you gasping.
The clumsy brush of his cheek to yours, his glasses against your face as you smile. Reaching to remove them for them - tuck them away safely.
A low, grateful sound in his throat as he find his rhythm. The flex of his hips as he rocks into you, his weight warm and welcome.
Your lips against his throat, memorizing the sounds of his gasps, a low moan when you clench around him. A thigh, hooking around his hip, keeping him pressed deep as his breaths grow shorter.
“Want to make you feel good, too.” You tell him, the tilt of his chin he watches from where he hold himself just above you.
The smile when you see how he cheeks flush, how his hips stutter at your words.
“Oh, you do.” He groans, eyes half-lidded as he sinks into your heat, “You feel so fucking good, honey.”
His mouth warm against your when he leans down, swallowing his sounds as you start to move with him. The snap of his hips against yours, the muffled slap of skin on skin.
Coaxing him to shift, until his arms are wrapping around you, embracing you. Your hands on his jaw, his neck as you kiss him again, drawing back to tell him just how much you want him. How you’ve thought about him, about this.
His thrusts have gone shallow, and then - he’s there.
You watch with glassy eyes as he comes, the pretty pinch between his eyebrows, his parted lips, his long, broken moan. The way he’s gazing at you as he thrusts deep one more time, holding himself there as the last pulsing flexes of his cock wane.
The bristly brush of his mustache as his lips press to your cheek, the low, content sigh in his chest. Easing carefully from you a few moments later, removing and tying off the condom.
His legs swing off the side of the bed, as he gets ready to throw it away in the bathroom - to clean up. Leaving you with a, “I’ll be right back. Okay?”
The gentle confirmation is sweet. You think he’d stay, even without the storm. It’s a nice thought, and you’re content to stay in your cozy bed beneath the blankets, basking in the afterglow.
It’s only better when he rejoins you, curling himself against your back, lips pressing against your neck. How easily the two of you seem to fit together, the tickle against your skin as he sighs, and finally - relaxes.
Your fingers find his, wrapping around them. Bringing them up to your lips, cradling them carefully as you kiss them. Actions laced with unspoken words of affection, as you revel in the moment. In just being with him, right now.
The warmth in your bed seeps into your heart, as his arms tighten around you. Secretly happy for the storm, even if it means you’ll have more work in the morning.
Because at the moment… there’s no place in the world that you’d rather be.
(tags: @andrewrussgarfield, @luxuryberzatto)
#just thinking about a soft and gently confident Harvey#wwdilfcember#sdv harvey x reader#stardew valley smut#stardew valley Harvey x reader#sdv Harvey x f!reader
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❄️ December Writing Challenge ❄️
Day 25. Tea Party
Pairing: Pero Tovar x F!Reader
Words: 981
Warnings: reader is the mother to Pero's daughter
December Writing Challenge masterlist
Pero’s daughter, Bell, was two when she started copying his every move, determined to be a mini version of her father. You had to remind him to be careful what he said and did in front of her, warning him that if she took up any of his bad habits it would be his responsibility to teach her otherwise.
It was small things at first. Bell learned early on to stuff her mouth with as much food as possible before chewing and swallowing. Pero was mortified when she nearly choked on a chunk of bread she’d sneakily grabbed from his plate one evening. It scared him so much he refused to eat in her presence for a week. Other things, such as pointing her finger when she talked, pacing with hands on hips, certain words in Spanish you didn’t know the translation of but by the look on Pero’s face were not appropriate words for a small child, were thanks to Pero’s influence.
When Bell was four she accompanied Pero to the tavern once a week, during the day time, to work on fixing up the building in whatever way the owners needed him to. He would teach her how to fix a candle holder to the wall, how to mend a broken table leg, what to clean the rugs with. She listened intently and worked enthusiastically (as much as her small hands could). And afterwards she would run ahead of her father to get home to tell you all about what she learned from her papa that day. It filled Pero with pride everyday that he had such a bright, happy, spirited child.
Sometimes the tavern owner would see them to a table at the end of their work, place a tankard of mead in front of Pero and a small bowl of pickles in front of Bell. She would pick at her favourites whilst watching Pero take a big gulp of his drink, tankard landing on the table with a loud thump, then belching into his fist. Her giggles would travel through the empty tavern, making Pero laugh with her. And then she’d copy. Taking up her bowl with both hands, having a drink of the pickled liquid, pulling a face at the sourness and slamming the bowl whilst fake burping in Pero’s direction. It was the funniest thing Pero had ever seen.
She did this at home too. Picking up her jug of water at the dinner table, drinking large gulps before producing a fake burp that had Pero’s ribs hurting from laughter.
You pulled him into the kitchen one evening, leaving your daughter to eat by the fire whilst you and Pero washed and dried the dishes.
“You’re going to tell me off?” Pero asked, already moving to distract you from chores by pressing you up against the counter.
“Would it make a difference if I did?” Your smile is sweet but your eyes are alight with adoration for your husband.
“Probably not,” he admitted, kissing your forehead, “I cannot say no to her, you know this.”
You kissed him slowly, pulling away only because you have more to say.
“Maybe don’t encourage her to drink mead. She is only four,” you reminded him, turning your head when he goes in for another kiss. Pero grumbled half-heartedly but conceded with a nod, if only so you’d keep kissing him.
-
It took a few days but Pero had an idea that he hoped would keep you from worrying. He set up the dinner table with a child-sized wooden saucer and small drinking cup, and a Pero sized saucer for his much bigger tankard, both filled with water. When Bell entered the room she looked at the set up, confusion and intrigue alive on her face.
“Come sit. Join me in drinking tea.”
Bell excitedly threw herself into her chair and peered curiously into her cup.
“What is teeeee?” She asked, dipping her finger into the liquid. Pero picked her finger out of the cup and placed it on the table pointedly.
“Tea. I have been to a place where they drink something that is both sour and floral. And they sit with the people they love and drink this tea and talk.”
Bell thinks this over, then shakes her head.
“But this is water, papa.”
Pero guffawed.
“Yes, Bell. This is water. But we can pretend.”
“Why?”
Pero picked up his tankard and took a small sip, mindful that Bell watched his every move. He did this slowly, until she copied with her own small cup, carefully placing her cup within the ridges of the saucer.
“To spend time together.”
“But we do!” Bell exclaimed, arms reaching wide as though it were obvious. “We work! Mend broken things and you take me fishing in the pond. Then we eat with mama. And you tell me stories until I fall asleep.”
Pero nods throughout. He hadn’t realised how much she took into her little heart, all the moments he spent with her meant the world to him but he hadn’t stopped to think that they meant everything to Bell too. He cleared his throat quietly.
“That is all true. But we do not have time to talk because we are always busy.”
Bell nods, then remembers.
“What about mama? We need everyone we love to drink tea.”
“Mama is usually busy in the day.” Pero looked around, never wanting to disappoint her. “We could invite your toys?” Bell was running into her room before Pero had finished his sentence, coming back with an armful of wooden animals of various sizes and her most important possession, a stuffed cat named Mr Muggles.
“They will join for tea,” she said, placing her toys around the edge of the table, giving them little pretend sips out of her cup.
Pero watched and smiled, a little teary eyed but with a full heart.
#wwdilfcember#december writing challenge#pero#tovar#pero tovar#pero tovar x reader#the great wall#pedro pascal#pero tovar x f!reader
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(Very late!) dilfcember day thirty one: With the twins at a friend's house for a sleepover, Obi-Wan and Padme rang in the new year curled on Padme's couch ✨
You can get a high-quality print of this piece on my Inprnt! ✨
#obidala#obi wan kenobi#padme amidala#obi wan x padme#obi Wan Kenobi x Padme Amidala#cute illustration#my art#artbytmb#wwdilfcember
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Summary: You and Dieter Bravo go out for a date.
Rating: T
A/N: This is my first dilfcember post and whew I'm not sure about it. But here it is. I'm not good at cute and fluffy stuff. Seriously. And I'm bad at short stuff and I didn't know how to end it. So...I don't even know.
Word Count: 1.2k
[Masterlist] || [Series Masterlist] || Part Two
-----
Snow fell languidly from the grey streaked sky. You hooked your arm through his in an effort to get warm as a slight breeze sent fat, fluffy flakes of white swirling around your feet. You didn’t know how he wasn’t cold. You were freezing as you walked the damp sidewalks of New York City. In fact, you were dressed in so many layers you felt like the Michelin man, plus you wore an ear hat and gloves just for extra precaution. Dieter had laughed at you as you tugged everything on before you left his spacious Brownstone. You laughed, too, even if you did feel just the tiniest niggle of annoyance at him laughing at you. You were cold. He seemed to not be affected by it, even if he did constantly grumble about it.
If he hated the winter, you loved it, despite the fact it made you freeze. You liked the way the city seemed to quiet when snow fell, the honking and sounds of cars muffled under the snow and the persuasive hush of the season. It felt wonderful, different. Calming, and you needed the calm. You tried not to think of the things you’d been saddled with at work. The website you currently slaved over had more glitches and bugs than you could count. You weren’t sure where you and Dieter stood as a couple. Everything felt off, but you could count on winter to calm you down.
You looked over at Dieter as you walked. Despite everything you wore, you could still feel the wind cutting through you. You wondered how he handled it wearing just a simple turtleneck and peacoat. The peacoat wasn’t even buttoned. You were sure the wind bothered him just as much as it bothered you, but as you walked arm in arm, you didn’t feel him shivering from the chill. He continued on as poised as ever, tugging you along to some unknown destination.
By the time the fourth city block came and went, you were far too cold to let curiosity bolster you. You nudged him in the side with your elbow as you passed another shop.
“Where are you taking me?”
“Someplace I think you’ll like.”
You huffed, feeling that annoyance bubble up inside your chest. You hated surprises.
“This isn’t a fun date so far.”
“Baby, I know you’ll enjoy it, but for now, we just need to face the cold.”
“We could’ve taken the bus or a cab.”
He laughed, nudging you back gently. “We could’ve, but where’s the fun in that?”
You rolled your eyes. “Staying warm. That’s what makes it fun.”
He shook his head, his deep brown eyes shining in the dim light as he looked at you. “I just think you’ve been spoiled, is all.”
“Hey!” You exclaim as you elbow him in the side. “That’s not very nice.”
“No, I know it isn’t.”
“But you couldn’t resist, could you?”
“Nope,” he popped the ‘p’ playfully, causing you to roll your eyes again.
But before you could say anything else, he tugged you into a six story townhouse full of old world charm and lined with books on every shelf imaginable. You gasped, not used to the splendor or the amount of books in the space. You were sure your eyes were cup saucers wide as you looked around and took everything in.
“Holy shit, this place is incredible.”
Dieter grinned at you, that dimple on his right cheek deepening. Butterflies flapped in your stomach as you watched him.
“This is the oldest bookshop in New York. Did you know it was founded in 1925?”
“I didn’t even know this place existed!” You murmured in awe.
“Now you do,” he said with a playful wink. “Come on,” he began, taking your hand and tugging you along, “let’s go looking around.”
You couldn’t believe your luck. You couldn’t believe your eyes. The place was amazing. The smell of ink and paper and leather assaulted your senses, but you’ve never been as relaxed as you were then. It felt foreign to be there, like you’d stepped back in time. You didn’t want to touch anything. You just wanted to breathe in the atmosphere and breathe in the warm, comforting smell, and you wanted to revel in the feel of his large hand enveloped around yours. You’d never quite felt anything like it. Sure, you’ve held your boyfriend’s hands before. You never deprived yourself of that, but his hand just felt different. It felt right. Everything about him felt right, despite the rocky start you both had.
The two of you rounded around a corner and he tugged you into a kiss, the first of many hidden among the bookshelves, despite the fact that people milled around you both. You didn’t care. You were finally happy, and you liked the way the emotion looked on him, all bright and shining from every pore of his body. It made your heart flutter and your body buzz with excitement. You were finally doing something right. You must be. Or he wouldn’t be so happy, would he?
You stole another kiss, spinning them around and pushing him gently up against a bookshelf. His free hand skimmed over your back. You could feel the grin on his supple lips as you drowned in them.
His teeth nipped gently at your lower lip. His silky voice murmured against you softly.
“You’re a little minx.”
“You should’ve known that,” you whispered back.
“I did.” He stole another kiss. “Do you want to see something cool?”
You lifted an eyebrow. “I thought you brought me here to buy books.”
He huffs. “Yes, I did. But this place has more than just books.”
He tugs you, squeezing your hand as he does. As you passed a window going up the stairs, you watched the snow spiral in the wind.
He showed you autographs the store has, antique maps, and leather bound first editions, peppering each title with stories and trivia you wonder how he knows. But you don’t ask. You don’t dare ask. If you ask, you know he’ll clam up and shut down. You don’t want that. This was a date, and that was more important than anything else right now.
You continued to pass by more and more rows of books when you finally decide to grab one, pulling it delicately from the shelf from the spine and flipping it open. You gasped when you saw the messy scrawl of an autograph.
“No way! No way, this is autographed!”
He chuckled. “Most everything on this floor is autographed.”
“This is so cool.”
“Do you want it?”
You tilted your head, brows furrowed as you peered at him. “It’s too expensive.”
“Not for me,” he crooned near your ear.
You gasp. “No, don’t. Don’t you dare.”
“If I want to buy something, I can. Can’t I?”
You sighed heavily. You guess he could. There wasn’t anything wrong with that. Not really. You two were boyfriend and girlfriend, weren’t you? You knew that this was all part of the experience. But you tried not to think of your last boyfriend. That relationship crashed and burned. In fact, it’d been the worst boyfriend you’d ever had. Memories of that manchild made your stomach roll sickly, but you pushed back the sickness with a sweeter than sugar smile.
“Yes, you can.”
He stole another kiss, the both of you unable to get enough. You couldn’t believe your luck. And you still couldn’t believe it as you headed back outside, the snow falling thick around you as you clutched a canvas sack in your hands, the autographed book in your possession.
#wwdilfcember#wwdilfcember 2022#sweet summer child#sam writes#pedro pascal#pedro pascal fanfiction#pedro pascal characters#pedro pascal character fanfiction#fanfiction#dieter bravo#dieter bravo fic#dieter bravo fanfiction#the bubble#alternate universe#dieter bravo x reader#dieter bravo x you
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Day 1 - Movie Night
A/N: This is the first day of @obiknights wwdilfcember!! This is not my first piece of writing, but it is my first piece of writing for my new tumblr. I hope you all enjoy. It's rather short but it was fun to write. Also, I tried to be as gender neutral as possible! I am not very good at it because I am used to writing f!Readers. Either way, I hope you get as much serotonin as I did while writing this!
Pairing: Triple Frontier Boys/ Reader (platonic relationships)
Word Count:
Warnings: a few curse words, friendly banter, and teeth rotting fluff
Trying to watch a movie with four grown men turned out to be a more difficult challenge than you ever thought it would be. You sat back and watched the four of them argue over what we were going to watch. Will wanted First Blood, Santi wanted The Expendables, Frankie wanted Lone Survivor, and Benny wanted Sand Castle. You knew in the end the final decision was up to you. When their heads all turn to you, you knew it was time to make a decision. Before any of them could ask you what you wanted to watch you blurt The Expendables. Santi lets out an excited holler and pushes Will’s shoulder.
“I told you they’d pick The Expendables!” His excitement is contagious and you let out a laugh shaking your head.
“It was not an easy choice Santi, they were all great choices.” You tell him, your smile growing wider.
He nods his head and dips down to grab your dvd from its respective place on the shelf and pops it into the player. All of them scramble around like ants trying to find the perfect place to sit. Benny ends up sprawled out over the lounge chair, his long legs hanging over the edge. Santi plops down next to you on the couch and steals your blanket. Will settles down on the other side of you with a bowl of popcorn in his hands. You stare at him for a moment, when did he go do that? Frankie sits on the floor at your feet and props his arm up on your knee. You knew he wouldn’t be comfortable down there for long, eventually you would go and grab him a chair.
The movie starts and the five of you zone in on what’s happening. You had seen the movie several times, but it was still good each time. It brought you a sense of joy that you only got from specific movies.
“Oh fuck me!” You all turn your heads to Benny who sits up in the chair.
He looked exasperated, his hands pushing into his hair in frustration.
“What?” Will asks, concerned for his brother.
“The guy I was supposed to fight just backed out. Now I don’t have a fight before Christmas to make some extra money.” His tone drops at the end.
“You can make money some other way Benny, it’ll all be okay. Don’t worry.” You tell him.
“Yeah man, maybe we can become strippers for the holidays or something.” Santi pipes in, you can hear the smile in his voice.
Benny’s eyes light up like he was suddenly considering it.
“Yeah no, I am not doing that shit.” Will says, making you cackle.
You see the edges of Will’s lips turn upward.
“Oh come on! The girls would love you Will!” Santi shouts.
You shake your head, you knew Santi was fighting a brick wall on that one. You look down at Frankie who sits quietly, unphased by Santi’s chaos.
“How about we bake stuff or something like that?” Frankie suggests, still immersed in the film.
“That’s actually a really good idea. And something we can all do without having to take our clothes off.” You tell them. They all let out laughs at that.
“Well, unless you wanted to, I guess. Maybe we will make more money.” You laugh once more.
Benny nods his head in agreement. After the movie ends the five of you begin planning your Christmas bake sale and stay up into the early hours of the morning. Laughing and being together and while enjoying each other's company.
Tags- @obiknights @cyroku @all-hallows-evie @iloveyouwhiskey
@ohpedromypedro @clints-lucky-arrow @inkandbloodbound @thighs-of-betrayal-blog @star-whores-a-new-hoe @sunrise-river @criminaly-supernatural
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Watch What Happens | Day 29: Candles
carlisle cullen x f!reader x charlie swan
Rated E | 5k
Tags: soft filth, est. open relationship, threesome, voyeurism, implied mutual attraction, brief mention of alcohol, sub/dom elements, fingering, oral, unprotected PiV
There’s moments Carlisle can’t share with you, as soft and human as you are. Luckily for you, he finds out he likes to watch. And even more fortuitously - you both find out that Charlie likes to give.
He’s hard to resist.
It could be what he is - so much about him calls to you, makes you starry-eyed. Inhibitions and the filter on your mouth disappearing - leaving your mind as foggy as a chilly winter’s morning.
But you think maybe it’s just him. The silk of his voice, the cool slide of his fingers raising goosebumps in their wake. Trailing down between your breasts, his chest pressed against your back as you knees open between his.
The little shiver when his lips press against your neck. A sharp inhale, the brush of his tongue against the spot where your pulse thuds - a balm against your burning skin.
Your breath comes out a shudder, how he’s so close. His sweet cologne has you sinking against him, his fingers pausing at your mound, sliding over soft skin.
“Carlisle.” You breath his name, and he can feel the gasp in your throat, a hum coming from low in his throat as he indulges you.
Fingers dipping lower as your thighs nudge wider. Feeling where you’re slick and hot and oh - he wants to bury himself in you. Feel that warmth wrapped around him, so soft and so yielding.
Instead, the tip of his finger drags up. Slipping against your clit, first a slow, small circle, and then another. Until your head is tipped back against his solid shoulder, your hips bucking into his touch.
“Please.” You whine, and Carlisle makes a comforting sound, his other hand splayed across your belly, thumb stroking the valley between your breasts.
“You know I can’t.” He admonishes, but it’s soft edge tempers the rejection - your teeth clicking together as they clench.
Lips parting as you pant, close enough to the edge that you’re not above begging, “But you’re - you can handle it. I know you can.”
A mess for him, and he’s still so composed. Not a hair out of place, the only signs are the wrinkles in the clothes where you’ve clung to him, and the hunger that burns in his eyes.
“I don’t think I could hold back.” He admits, though he says it without shame.
Just the truth - why he keeps you at arms length in some ways. Giving you his fingers and his mouth, but no more - even in spite of your sweet pleas.
You’re protesting again, something about how he manages just fine as a doctor - that if he can handle that then certainly this has to be easy - and his kiss is sweet against your temple.
The softest tsk as he chides you.
“It’s easy not to want what you’ve never had.”
And then an intake of breath, the sound sharp against your ear as he inhales you, your scent. Fingers sliding down until they’re slipping into you, unable to resist giving you just a tiny bit more.
But no more than that.
“And you must remember… I’ve tasted you, darling.”
———
An idea forms, just a small bud of a thing. Slowly growing, blooming - unfurling at each meeting.
It hadn’t been hard. Carlisle had seen the way he looked at you both, the lingering glances. A curiosity, your eyes flicking Charlie’s way when you think no one is looking. When he looks to Carlisle, and then you when he makes a some sort of jest or snarky comment, waiting for a soft smile.
A loop, ebbing and flowing.
Carlisle brings the idea to you when you’re in the car, after picking you up for the evening. Broaching the topic just as you pass the Police Station, the neat flick of his eyes towards the parking lot, automatically checking to see if he’s still there.
He’s not, and the car keeps going.
“What do you think about Charlie?” Carlisle asks you, as if he’s asking about your weekend plans, what you’d like to have for dinner.
You frown, “As a person?”
“Yes.” He hums, “More than that, but yes.”
It takes a second to form words, the thoughts tumbling around. Not sure where he’s going with his question, but you try to answer honestly - there were few secrets between you. Many things laid bare, expectations discussed.
Even if you poked at them, sometimes, in the heat of the moment.
“He’s been a good friend.” You settle on something vague, though a heat rises to your cheeks as you glance out the window, “I like him.”
A thumb taps against the steering wheel, once, twice. His gaze always has a weight that settles over you, a gravity that always pulls to back to him.
So you glance, where he’s smiling.
“I like him, too.”
You blink, “Yeah?”
“Mhmm.” He watching, gauging your reaction. If you understand, or if he’ll have to leave more breadcrumbs.
But he doesn’t need to worry. It’s something you’ve discussed - just whispers in the dark, cozy with the afterglow. Sometimes, you think it’s just a dream, the memory of some unconscious thought.
How he imagines, sometimes, you with someone else. Wanting to see just how much you could take in the hands of someone who didn’t have to be careful like he did.
How well you might listen to them, under his instruction. How you might look, pinned between them, each of his movements so measured and careful as he finds his own end.
How you’ve thought about that, too.
“Do…” You hesitate, before surging forward, “What makes you think he’d say yes?”
There’s the slightest curve of his lips, the hint of a dimple.
“He’ll say yes.” His voice is certain - the same tone he uses in the office. A hand reaching, cool to the touch as his fingers fit between yours.
“I wouldn’t bring it up if I wasn’t certain, love.”
———
It’s on a chilly December night when Carlisle asks him.
The subject broached after an evening of pizza and beer, a game on Charlie’s television half-watched in quiet companionship. Bellies filled with drink and food - sitting cozy on the couch, before Carlisle finds the perfect segue. His pitch clean and effortless, much like everything he does.
Charlie’s brow pinched and furrowed as he listens to the solicitation - not sure if he’s heard correctly.
A quick darting of eyes after, as he glances your way. Over the years in Forks he’s gotten used to not asking questions too many - taking opportunities at face value.
If anything he looks like he’s not sure why you’re asking him, and it makes you smile at his obliviousness. Fingers passing over and smoothing the edge of his mustache as he processes.
For a long moment, you wonder what he’s thinking about - if the two of you have gotten this all wrong. Not too worried about discretion, both of their jobs made keeping knowledge quiet second nature. But you didn’t want to mess up the friendship that had formed, over the past few years.
But Carlisle is right - as he always is.
“I don’t like… “ His hand waves in the air, discomfort evident, “Complications. So as long as it not-”
“No complications, I assure you.” Carlisle smiles warmly, “Just the occasional favor, if you’d prefer to think about it that way.”
“Hell of a favor.” Charlie huffs, his mustache twitching with a bemused smile - but he’s intrigued, leaning back against the worn couch.
A beat, before he nods slowly - a sense of finality to his answer.
“Fine with me.”
———
He’s warm beneath you.
You’ve forgotten what it’s like - too used to the feeling of carved marble in human form. Sculpted by the gods and shaped in their image.
But Charlie, he gives. Your hand flat against his chest, sliding up to his shoulders. Fingers digging into the thick muscle as his own grip at your waist.
Hot-blooded, with the way those hands squeeze, tug. Rocking your hips against his as you straddle him, his back bumping against the headboard.
The room dark with the wintry, evening light. Ending up at your place together - an almost tangible tension in the room after the conversation. A mutual agreement that there was no sense in waiting until another night, not with all possibilities so beautifully ripe and swirling in your mind.
Candles illuminate the cozy space - one on your dresser, another on your bedside table. Carlisle thought it would soften him, make him blend in.
He was right - about more than just that, tonight.
If you turned your head you could see him from his seat in the cozy, overstuffed armchair you liked to read in. Looking like he’s been bathed in gold, achingly beautiful. As close to human as you’ve seen him.
You can feel the weight of his gaze, where he watches - still as stone. But another shift of your hips brings you back, rocking you where Charlie is thick in his jeans. A low breath of a moan as you push the flannel from his shoulders, your lips dragging around a stubble-lined cheek as he tugs his arms from the sleeves.
The shirt and bra you’re wearing goes next, disappearing over the edge of the bed to join your pants - discarded before he had pulled you onto his lap moments before. Fingers roaming over newly-bared flesh, his touch greedy as he palms your breast, eyes dropping to see how they look in his hands.
“Christ, you’re beautiful.” He’s murmuring, as your fingers slip around the buckle of his belt, “You sure you want this?”
Charlie’s gaze flickers over your shoulder, just to the side. A careful confirmation, and you use this distraction to palm him, your hand curling and cupping.
“God, yes.” You breath, as he groans, a small thrust of his hips into your touch. Fingers pressing and teasing and stroking him over his jeans, as he finishes loosening his belt, popping open the buckle.
“Be good for Chief Swan, sweetheart.” A soft voice chides, capturing your attention. Your head turns, meeting his gaze as the edge of his lips tilt in a knowing smile, “Can you do that for us?”
It has you nodding, turning back to Charlie, so he can see too. Easing back off him, kneeling on the bed as you wait for him to work the zipper - lift his hips. Helping him tug the fabric down his thighs, before settling between them.
His t-shirt pushed up to his abdomen, the thick curve of his cock resting just below against a dusting of coarse hair. Legs spread across the top of your thick, soft comforter, one still bent at the knee, foot flat against the bed.
His leg straightens, muscles flexing, when you take him in your mouth. Nose brushing against his abdomen as your head dips, lips parting to wrap around the flushed tip, enveloping him.
You can be good. Make him moan with your mouth, your hands. More - if he still wants that, if he hasn’t changed his mind.
But you don’t think he has, not when his fingers are brushing over your shoulders - wide hands coming to cup your jaw as your head bobs.
Seeing the way he sinks into your pillow, the small, unconscious thrust of his hips as you meet his eyes, something you’re sure Carlisle catches.
Eyes closing as your tongue swirls, over velvet-soft skin, taking him as deep as you can into your throat. Pleased when you hear the broken moan in response, his breath harsh.
You like this. It’s different, how responsive he his. Soaking in the rising of his chest with each breath, the throb of his cock against your tongue. Words you don’t quite catch as your thighs press together, trying to relieve an ache of your own.
It’s not as subtle as you thought, not from where your lover sits, near the end of the bed. Fingers curled underneath his chin, his elbow resting on the padded arm as he watches beneath sharp, half-lidded eyes.
“Touch yourself, kitten.” Carlisle tells you, “I can see how wet you are. I want you messy when he fucks you.”
His words make you clench, the hand on Charlie’s thigh gripping on a little tighter as you moan. Your lazy pace slowing as your eyes glance up unconsciously, where he’s watching you, too.
“You let him call the shots like that?” Charlie asks - a thumb swiping over your cheek, as he rests heavy on your tongue.
His question is amusing to you, you’d smile if your mouth wasn’t so full - an answer coming as your fingers slide between your thighs, feeling just how soft and soaked you really are.
Fluttering shut as you suck on him, as your fingertips circle, pressing at your clit. Basking in relief as your own throbbing is answered and eased.
Shifting your weight for balance, leaning more onto his sturdy thighs. It’s hard to do this much at once, your brain fuzzy with desire, your own pleasure now at war with the need to make him come with your mouth.
Charlie’s voice breaks through your thoughts, the words rasped out, “You like being told what to do, baby?”
You nod automatically, in between the slow bobs of your head, the sharp exhale of breath through your nose as you concentrate.
There’s a rumbling groan in his throat, as he pieces more things together. What you like, what he likes, what all three of you do.
“Fuck. Can you make yourself come for me?” His voice lowers, gaining a hint of an edge, “I won’t fuck you until you do.”
There’s a low hum of amusement and approval from the corner, a curving smile as you melt with Charlie’s words. Leaning into his permission, as your attention shifts. The teasing touches becoming more focused, knowing that you don’t have to keep yourself on the edge anymore.
Almost making you forget keep moving, an apologetic look thrown Charlie’s way as you take him deep again. Not that he seems to mind, his gaze fixed fully on the movement of your wrist, eyes watchful and greedy.
“I know it’s hard, darling.” Carlisle’s soft voice chimes in, a balm and an accelerant to the building ache, “Just hold him in your mouth, okay? Keep him nice and warm.”
There’s a hiss of breath at his words, Charlie’s hips rocking into your mouth. They make you tremble too, a tightening in your belly as your fingers slide over soaked skin.
Closer, closer closer - getting lost as he fills your mouth. As you bring yourself to edge, and then plummeting over.
A muffled whimper buzzes in your throat before you’re releasing him, your face pressed against the curve of his hip as you ride out the pleasure with your fingers. Moaning senselessly as your thighs flex, as the pulsing relief grows and spreads throughout your body. Leaving you to catch your breath, panting through kiss and cock-swollen lips.
Limbs pliant as Charlie moves you with a gentle, “Turn around for me, baby.”
Propping yourself up on your knees, letting your back curve down so your head can rest on the bed - until the thudding in your chest wanes, a sigh of contentment leaving your lips.
Only then does he move, pushing himself up as well. Hands tugging the shirt from his shoulders, before palming the curve of your ass - the slightest tug as his movement bares you.
“God, just look at you.”
The words are no more than a rasp, fingers tracing slick skin, down to where your thighs are damp with your release. Tracing up to puffy lips, your thighs tensing when his thumb nudges your clit, where it’s still tender.
Fingers moving to press at your opening, until the tip of one sinks into the first knuckle, and then deeper. Pumping slowly, working you open before the second notches at your entrance.
“So fucking tight.” He growls out, “Need to get you ready for me.”
You had been expecting him to take you, to fill you. His tenderness is something that makes you warm, as you peek over your shoulder at him. Where he’s backlit by the candlelight, his features becoming softened and movements fluid.
A gentleman, though in a much more different and gruff kind of way than Carlisle. Not for the first time, but certainly the most realistic, you imagine both sets of hands on you - the contrast making you shiver.
Your fingers curl in the blanket, holding on as Charlie nudges at a spot that sends up sparks in your belly. A soft moan as he pauses for a second, before doing it again. Feeling how you clench, imaging himself how you’ll feel wrapped around other parts of him.
Scissoring you open, the briefest pause before there’s the sound of his body shifting, then a soft and warm exhale of breath against your thigh. Followed by the wet brush of his tongue as he tastes you around his fingers, making your sleepy eyes snap open.
“Fuck.” You groan the word through clenched teeth, an arch to your back as his tongue sweeps against your clit.
Fingers withdrawing to grasp your thighs, holding you steady and open against his mouth. Dipping inside to taste your release, the sound of skin against skin as a hand leaves your hip to wrap around his cock.
“Taste so good, honey.” He murmurs the words against your skin, pulling back to press a kiss against the sensitive skin of your thigh, “So fucking sweet.”
Your eyes lift, to where Carlisle sits - seeing how he’s watching, the hand propped under his chin now moving. Ghosting over the front of his trousers, gently palming where his cock strains against the woolen fabric.
It does something to you, his look hungry when your slow sweep meets his. Knowing what he wants to see, wanting to give that to him.
“I want you.” You beg, your eyes on him, a two-edged meaning to your words. His eyes drop to your lips as Charlie groans behind you, a hand pressing down against your back for leverage as he pushes himself up until he’s kneeling.
The kiss of his cock as it presses against you, the head just nudging against your slit. Holding himself there, one last confirmation, “Is this what you want?”
You shift against him, trying to press him into you - voice clipped with the effort, “Yes.”
“Oh darling, I know you can do better than that. Ask him nicely.” Carlisle’s soft tone cuts in - it’s almost annoying how easily he finds the words to fluster you.
The hand on your back curls, biting into your skin as there’s a sharp exhale of breath. Your eyes hold for a second longer before your head tilts, your ear pressed into the mattress.
If he wants to watch you beg, you will.
“Please fuck me, Charlie.” You whine, fingers curling into the blanket, rocking back towards him. Feeling the head of his cock just starting to press into you, as he makes no effort to hold himself back or move away.
Too far gone himself, to actually deny you of anything. It fuels the heat in your belly, making you want him even more, for him to take you, “Oh, I want your cock so bad.”
You’re the one watching as his jaw clenches, the way his eyes darken. The hand on his cock leaving to curl around your hip, tugging you back onto him. Splitting you open as your plead turns into a long, high moan - filling you with a single, sharp thrust.
“Christ, sweetheart.” He grits out, feeling the way you clench around him. Ages since he’s had someone like this - so soft and sweet and begging.
Hands still gripping on as he pulls back, no more than half-way, a grunt as he buries himself again.
“Is she warm, Charlie?”
When you finally move your head, you see how Carlisle has shifted. Thighs spread open, his elbow pressing into his knee as he leans closer. Almost on the edge of his seat, no more than a few feet from you now.
There’s a huff of breath, the slow slide of Charlie’s cock as he thrusts. Once, and then again, grinding himself deep until you’re moaning.
“Yes, your girl is gripping my cock. So fucking tight and warm.” His voice is close to a growl, coaxing your hips into a rhythm.
Watching the way your ass bounces against his hips, the peek of his wet cock when you rock forward. Disappearing into your cunt as you arch into him, using your grip on the bed for leverage.
You don’t know how to interpret the look Carlisle gives you. Almost wistful, his lips parted with the memory of a breath he no longer has, soaking in the bliss on your face.
“And how does he feel, love?” He asks you,
“God,” You gasp, “You feel so fucking good, Charlie.”
There’s a flush on his cheeks behind you, a groan in his chest as his hips slap against your thighs. The wet squelch each time you take him, slick from desire and your release and his hot, warm mouth.
His strokes nudging where his fingers had been, your mind going fuzzier with each stroke. Eyes focusing on where the fabric pulls tight against Carlisle’s crotch, a question you are just barely able to voice.
“You want me to take care of you?”
Carlisle has said he preferred to just watch. Something that had been discussed, something that Charlie agreed to, but had almost seemed almost surprised about. Like he had assumed otherwise, when he had agreed.
His eyes flicker above you, a glance at the other man. Lips curling with a knowing look that you’re not sure you understand, a flash of white teeth that only you can see.
“Next time.” He promises, “Okay, kitten?”
The nod comes quickly and eagerly, but he’s not done with you yet. His hand lifting, his first finger curling under your chin. Shifting you, the angle making you groan, as his thumb presses against your lower lip.
You open for him, lips wrapping around and sucking - his thumb cool when it presses down against your tongue. Giving you something else to keep your mouth busy, letting his own mind wander to stolen moments together.
Feeling each muffled moan as it buzzes in your throat, the warm suction of your mouth as you feel the pressure building again. Letting your teeth scrape over the pad of his thumb when a thrust pushes it deeper into your mouth, knowing you can’t hurt him.
Already close from Charlie’s fingers and his mouth - a throbbing bloom of pleasure that feels close to bursting. The sounds becoming more rhythmic, drunk on the feeling of being so full - content to let it build until it becomes overwhelming.
When your eyes start to go hazy is when he pulls back, smearing the string of spit over your lower lip, leaving it glossy. Surprising you as his mouth presses to yours, a low, pleased hum in his throat when your lips brush.
“What do you need?” Carlisle coos, stealing one more kiss before leaning back. Knowing that it won’t take much for you to shatter - content to watch from his seat so that he doesn’t miss anything.
The answer is easy, the answer is on the tip of your tongue when Charlie beats you to it.
“I know just what she needs.”
He had slowed to a grind when Carlisle teased you, but now he man-handles you. An arm curling around your waist, pinning you in place against him. His thrusts sharp and shallow, shifting until he hears you gasp, feeling you clench down hard around him.
“Christ, that’s it. Good girl.” Charlie croons, fingers reaching to pet the bud of your clit, touching you like he had watched you do before.
“I want you to come for me. Want you to cream on my cock, sweetheart. I know you can do it.”
His voice is soft and low, an edge like before - circling and pressing, his cock pounding into you - you’re so close that you can hardly breathe.
“Oh god,” You murmur, toes curling, muscles stringing tight in anticipation, “Oh my god, please-“
“That’s it, come on.” Charlie urges, the words sounding fuzzy in your ears - drowned out by the thud of your heartbeat.
A cool hand nudging at your chin, tilting your face from where it dips between your shoulders.
“Show me.” Carlisle murmurs, just for you.
And so, you do.
Letting him watch the way your brows pinch, the stiff arch of your back as you come. Eyes focused on his, the light of the candles dancing off dark pupils, until stars are exploding behind yours as they flutter shut.
Your release torn from you, leaving you gasping and moaning, half-formed words as his cock makes you gush. Soaking him like he wanted, each thrust slicker and louder in your small bedroom.
Another low whisper, just for you, “Good girl.”
It’s only his centuries of self-control that prevents you from seeing just how far gone Carlisle is. Watching you take and take - the bliss crossing your features as you came undone.
So much more carnal than the gentle lovemaking that he’s limited himself too - worried about getting too lost in the moment, unable to forgive himself if he ever injured you.
Never wanting to test the limits of his abilities as much as he did right now. If it were possible to feel pain, he thinks he’d be throbbing right now with need.
But the evening is not over - even as your wanton cries turn into contented moans. The sharp pulses turning into waves that leave you relaxed and euphoric.
Letting Charlie set his own pace, hands grasping at your hips, tugging you to meet each thrust. Not far behind, not after the way your pussy clenched around him, as he heard the way you sighed his name.
The grind of his hips turning shorter, faster. His voice matching his need, low and rasping, “I’m close, sweetheart. Where do you want me?”
“You can come in her, Charlie.” Carlisle answers for you, his eyes glittering in the dim of the room, “I assure you, it’s safe.”
Charlie’s groan is strangled, a stutter to his hips, “Fuck. You hear that baby? Is that what you want?”
You clench down around him, murmuring a dreamy, “mhmm” as he groans.
Only lasting a few more sharp thrusts before he’s there - chest pressing against your back as he bends over you. Shoving himself deep as his cock throbs, spilling into your heat.
You take him, every last drop, until he’s easing himself out - until his release threatens to drip from you. Waiting until he’s collapsing back on your pillows before you join him. Suddenly shy, in spite of everything.
The bed dips with added weight a moment later, as Carlisle finally moves from the armchair. Fitting himself on your other side, pushing you closer to Charlie. Hips bumping against yours as his hand slides up your thigh, to where your legs are still parted as you catch your breath.
Fingertips trail over the sensitive skin - down to where you’re puffy and slick. Watching you with golden eyes as the tips of two of them press into you - as you’re unable to stifle a gasp of surprise, and then a moan.
Nudging deep, where you’re wet and filled. The sound lewd as his fingers pump, and then curl.
Your head tilts fractionally, as your eyes slide to where Charlie is stretched out beside you. The arm he had thrown across his face has lowered, moving behind his head. His own gaze focused on the careful movements between your thighs.
“So warm.” Carlisle hums, his lips curving as he finds a spot that makes you to jolt, clench around him. The flash of pretty teeth as he smiles.
A hand drifts to rest on your hip, moving slowly. A very warm, very human hand - sliding over skin as it moves up to your waist.
Charlie’s bare chest pressing against your shoulder as he curls onto his side. His thumb brushing the underside of your breast, a soft back-and-forth. Flatting his palm when you arch into his touch, and you can feel the exhale of his breath against your ear.
Their touches, the attention, feels overwhelming. Your breath coming in short pants, a sharp “ah” with half-lidded eyes as a thumb slides across your clit.
As Carlisle dips down to steal a kiss, a swipe of his tongue against yours. A noise almost like a growl - the flickering light dancing across the arch of his sculpted cheekbones, almost making him glow.
The press of a hip against yours, as Charlie shifts against you. Trapping the taut peak of your nipple between his knuckles, the breath you’re holding dragged out in a moan.
“You got one more, honey?” He murmurs, his eyes dragging from where Carlisle leans over you, his gaze heavy and curious and wanting.
Your lips brush his next as you nod, and you wonder if he can taste Carlisle on your tongue. If he’s thinking about him, wondering - though the thought is quickly slipping from your mind.
Sliding through your fingers like smoke as his thumb presses just a little harder, as Charlie’s fingers pinch and tug and it’s all too much.
Your back bowing against the bed they bring you over the edge - fingers slowing, pressing deep. Keeping you full so the spend doesn’t leak from you, not yet.
Enjoying the tight clench of your cunt as you pulse around his fingers, listening to each gasping breath, the sound of your moans. Committing your pretty, human, reactions to memory - the thudding of your pulse, the way you gaze at him so reverently.
Until gently, his fingers slide from you. Slick and shining with you - with Charlie. The flash of his pink tongue appearing between parted lips as he sucks the tip of one clean, before taking both into his mouth.
Slowly sliding them out - licked clean - before his head is dipping to kissing you again. His tongue already seeking yours before your lips fully meet.
“Shit.” Charlie hisses next to you, carefully watching every moment.
Carlisle’s laugh as soft as his voice, when he pulls back. His thumb running over your lip, as his eyes find Charlie’s.
“Thank you.” He tells him, and you think only Carlisle could sound so composed after such an evening.
Charlie’s ears and cheeks flushed pink - a huff of an incredulous, pleased breath.
“Uh, sure.” He manages, a hand brushing through his hair, yet not making any attempt to move. Still uncertain that this wasn’t a dream, a fantasy.
“Anytime.”
(No pressure tags: @andrewrussgarfield, @luxuryberzatto, @jedicouncilmember)
#wwdilfcember#charlie swan x reader#charlie swan x you#carlisle cullen x you#carlisle cullen x reader
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Winter Wonderland Dilfcember Masterlist ❄️
excited to participate in a fun, filthy, and festive dilfcember, created and hosted by the incredible @obiknights! ✨
[series playlist] | [ao3]
— Day 1: Pillow Fort
jim hopper x f!reader | rated g | moodboard + drabble
— Day 3: Baking / Messy Kitchen
obi-wan x gn!reader | moodboard | 5 sentence fic
—Day 5: Lazy Sunday
charlie swan x f!reader | moodboard | 5 sentence fic
— Day 7: Scarf Returned
modern!din djarin x gn!reader | rated g | 1.5k
— Day 9: First Snowstorm of the Season
sdv!harvey x f!reader | rated e | 3.4k
— Day 11: Movie Night
alfred pennyworth x f!reader | rated e | 2.4k
— Day 13: Bonfire
joel miller x f!reader | rated m | 1.9k
— Day 15: Matching Pajamas
alfred pennyworth x reader | rated g | drabble
— Day 17: Cabin
arthur morgan x f!reader | 5 sentence fic
— Day 19: Reading
prof!otto octavius x f!reader | rated e | 1.4k
— Day 21: Wedding
wedding date!obi-wan x f!reader | rated e | 5.1k
— Day 23: Bookstore Date
alfred pennyworth x reader | 5 sentence fic
— Day 27: Date Night In
otto octavius x gn!reader | moodboard | 5 sentence fic
— Day 29: Candles
charlie swan x f!reader x carlisle cullen | rated e | 5k
— Day 31: New Year’s Eve/Midnight Kiss
alfred pennyworth x f!reader | rated t | 2k
Thank you for reading, and hope you enjoy! 💕
#thank you for hosting Theo the prompts were so fun and inspiring!!!!#wwdilfcember#masterlist#jim hopper x reader#alfred pennyworth x reader#otto octavius x reader#obi wan x reader#charlie swan x reader#din djarin x reader#joel miller x reader#sdv harvey x reader
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Day 5: Lazy Sunday
moodboard + 5 sentence fic
Charlie Swan x F!Reader
Tags: fluff, implied multiple orgasms & PiV
Is there anything better than a truly lazy Sunday?
The rain is what kept you both indoors, in bed - a call placed earlier in the morning to cancel a fishing trip with Harry, the rumbling peal of thunder a bad omen.
You’re sinking into the mattress, loose-limbed and glowing, half-dozing as Charlie’s chest presses against your back. Brought back from the brink of sleep with a wandering hand, slipping between your thighs - as his hips cant forward.
Nudging the hard, flushed length of his between your thighs, as his fingers brush over your slit - where he’s already filled you earlier, where you’re still sticky with him.
“Again?” You sigh happily, as his fingers brush over your clit, as you rock back against him.
“Again, sweetheart.” His lips press against your shoulder, “I’m planning on keeping you here, all day.”
[dilfcember masterlist]
(tags: @andrewrussgarfield, @jedicouncilmember)
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You Make Me Feel Like Dancing | Day 21: Wedding
modern!obi-wan kenobi (‘ben’) x f!reader
Rated E | 5.1k
Tags: semi-fake-dating, chronic semi-platonic wedding dates, mutual yearning and pining, implied use of the force, jealousy, brief misunderstanding, fingering, hickies, PiV, smut and lots of feelings
Heartfelt thank you to @obiknights for lending an ear! ❄️💕
On paper, it sounds perfect. You’ll be his date, as long as he’ll be yours. Never having to be alone, no awkward moments with a stranger.
It’s just too bad that you are hopelessly, head-over-heels in love with him.
Until a year or so ago, you found weddings near unbearable.
You’d go - of course you would. It meant so to support your friends and family, you’d never miss it. But there was something to be said about the traveling, the long line of introductions, the feeling of being so alone as you watched loved ones express their feelings - for always and forever.
That changed - when you made the agreement.
Ben was an acquaintance, friendly enough when you bumped into him. Never someone you’d invite out on your own - far too nervous to do so, too afraid of the rejection.
So when he had overheard you - sighing to your roommate about your coworkers wedding, how you’re always going to them by yourself - it had come as a surprise. The way he had leaned against the high top of the table, his easy smile.
“I’ll go with you.”
You had though he was joking. Looking at him with a scoff of a laugh, eyes flicking to your roommate’s.
But he had insisted. Saying he had always enjoyed weddings and why not? They were always better with a friend.
And so, small agreement had been made.
He’d be your date, and you’d be his. Shaking hands on it, so it would be official.
Now - you find you don’t mind weddings, all that much.
You think you might even like them.
———
So far, tonight had been one you’ll remember for a long time. An energy sparking throughout, beginning even before you even arrived.
No traffic on the drive down - one long enough that you had to book hotel rooms. Ending up with connecting ones, just enough time for you to slip into your dress, touch up your hair, before he was knocking on your door, sighing for you to hurry up.
Managing to slide in with the last of the guests, finding a seat together towards the back. The room almost too warm with the tight pack of people, but the ceremony that went on for a little too long was bearable with the way his legs spread in the pew, his thigh tucked against yours.
Letting your mind wander during the sermon - you’d pay attention for the actual vows - thinking about the dance videos he had texted you. Trying to remember the moves, because you were damned if you were going to let anyone else try them out with him.
You don’t tear up the dance floor or anything, but you have fun.
Everything seems to be, with him.
Not noticing you had been drumming out the internal beat against your knee, until he’s grasping your wrist - a sharp, warning exhale of breath from his nose as he side-eyes you.
Remembering how Ben said he liked this part, how he said he could feel the love in the room.
You thought he was full of it, as your own nose wrinkled in response to his silent disapproval. Until his fingers slid down to wrap around yours, holding them tight. Pulling them, entwined, until they rested against his thigh.
Yes, that had been nice.
Now, dinner is clearing up, the dishes whisked away from under your nose - as he charms the older couple that still sits across from you with his tales of being a middle school teacher.
“Yes, thirty-seven. And all angels of course, when they aren’t driving me mad.” Ben says with a mock sigh, leaning back in his chair, “But they aren’t the biggest source of my grief.”
“What could be more stressful than that?” The woman asks, and he smiles.
“Two godchildren learning how to drive. Twins. It’s enough to turn me old and grey.” Fingers stroke at the edge of his beard, tugging on a patch for emphasis.
It makes you smile, as there’s the squeal of a microphone, the best man inviting everyone back out to the dance floor.
You glance at Ben, where he’s dipping his head in goodbye - the mic too loud for them to hear his words from across the table. The legs of his chair scraping against the tile as he pushes back, uncrossing his legs to stand.
“Old and grey, huh?” You tease, as his hand extends. “Think you can keep up tonight?”
He tugs you out of your chair, his other hand on your elbow to steady you, “Funny.”
Out of everything, you still liked this part the best.
When everyone had eaten, tears and joy and laughter bouncing over the walls, soaking into your skin. When the lights die back down, and the music starts, again.
How he’ll pull you out to the dance floor, then.
Bright eyes, his hand warm and strong in yours. Sleeves rolled up, a button on his shirt popped for every hour that has gone by. His jacket slung neatly over his seat where it sat tucked next to yours.
You’ll hunt down his tie before you leave, finding it curled somewhere safe - in the sleeve of your coat, tucked into your purse.
Until then, you treasure this.
When it’s dark and the food and fun are fueling the floor, when the DJ reads the room and picks the perfect songs.
One moment facing him, all smiles as he spins you in his arms. The next, when his hands are on your hips as you move together. His front pressed against your back, the rough exhale of his breath in your ear just audible over the thud of the music.
It does something to you, an ache in your chest and then much lower.
Each evening together leaving you feeling like Cinderella, dancing with the Prince. Until the clock is striking midnight, and the magic and music has come to and end, and you’re just you again.
Alone, and pining.
Because this is just a fun, ongoing favor.
It won’t be anything more, even if you wish for it.
———
As the songs swirl around you, you realize how easy it is. How the two of you move, just how much you like dancing with Ben.
Nudging you, leading you effortlessly - not shying away from tugging you flush against him when you drift too far away, or get off-beat. Always watching, making sure you’re having a much fun as he is - the bright shine of his smile when he does a move that makes you laugh.
It’s slow - the way you have mapped out each others bodies in such a gradual, intimate way.
Hands that would hover in the beginning, the ghost of his hand against your shoulder, now grip on. With the comfort comes the familiarity - the thigh that slides between yours when it gets late and the songs turn dirty.
Your hands grasping at his waist, before raising above your head, encouraging his to wander. Spinning you around, a broad hand splaying under your breasts, pressing you back against his chest as the twist of your hips turns into a grind.
When everything seems to narrow down to just the two of you, that brief point of connection as his hips move with yours.
It’s a moment you crave, but for now - it’s still early.
Each song bleeding into the next. The last verse slowing as his fingers press against the curve of your hip - sliding down your thigh to hike it up against his as he dips you. Your hand splayed against the back of his neck, holding on.
Trusting him to pull you back up, his palm resting on the small of your back. Your heels sliding against the floor when he does, a squeak as you lose your balance - but you were never in any danger.
With a low laugh, his hand raising to the space between your shoulders as he tugs you flush against him.
Your fingers still scramble, clutching at the back of his neck, the other splaying across his chest.
His bare chest - your palm accidentally sliding where his shirt has become unbuttoned over the course of the evening, hanging loose and open down to his abdomen.
Steadied, you snatch your hand away, heat in your cheeks as you smile with embarrassment, as you apologize.
Even if you don’t mean it - for slipping, or for touching him.
His hand on your thigh moves, his fingers catching your own. Those pretty blue eyes under thick, lowered lashes watching as he draws it back, pressing your palm against him again.
Your fingers spreading out, against the coarse, auburn hair and hot, sticky skin - just above his thudding heart.
Lately, at the past few weddings, there had been a different kind of dance.
Ones that you didn’t know the steps to, carefully feelings the moves out on your own.
Like now - the lightest press of your palm against his neck, the way his head dips as if he can read your thoughts. The point of his nose brushing your cheek, followed by the lightest scratch of his beard.
The arm still curled around you shifting, raising higher, nudging you just a little bit closer as he sways.
If you just moved your mouth, you think your lips could brush. You feel your hand tremble against him, nerves and hope and longing as your fingers press into skin.
The music fades. The sultry tone shifting into something cheerful, a whoop from a group of men nearby as they recognize the line dance.
And just like that - the magic is broken.
You step back, blinking - your hand still warm as it smoothes down your dress, as his fingers trail after you.
Trying to think of something to say, so he doesn’t realize just how head-over-heels you are. Missing the way his lips stay parted, the way he’d drag you right back if you’d let him.
“Cake?” You manage, finally meeting his gaze, and he smiles.
A hand taking through his hair, pushing the long strands back from his forehead, “Yes, please. Vanilla, unless-”
“-unless they have strawberry.” You interrupt with a smile, “I know.”
Leaving him, the back of your hand pressed against a burning cheek as you make your way to the dessert table.
Waiting in line to grab your two pieces, making chit-chat with friends and faces you recognize. Smiling, when they have what he wants, wanting to watch the way his eyes light up when he sees.
But, he’s not at your table when you return. You frown as you set the plates down, glancing back to where you left him. Scanning the crowd, the messy lines of dancers copying each others moves, until you see it.
See him, his head thrown back as he laughs - a hand braced on his thigh as he tugs the arm of his partner, getting her back on beat. The flash of skin you can see from here as he moves - the peek of his chest that you had just had your hands on.
You feel frozen in place as you watch, a jolt of something sharp and scorching hot arcing through you. Burning up in a new kind of way when she clutches at his shoulders, as the rhythm of the dance turns in them in a new direction.
Facing you - where his eyes meet yours in the crowd. Where he can see how your lips press together, the blinking of your eyes as you process.
You know you’re holding him back.
He’s a good dancer. You can see the looks, the way people watch him. Sometimes they made you feel like you did now, but sometimes you felt… guilty.
Worried that he felt a noble obligation to indulge you, worried that your agreement meant he wasn’t bringing a real date like he’d prefer.
Sometimes you can smile and push those thoughts down. Ignoring them, as you’ve learned to do so well.
But tonight, it feels like too big of a burden to bear.
The grin slipping from his face as he watches you abandon the desserts on the nearest table - the forks clattering against the plastic plates as they drop.
As you turn on your heel, setting off for just about anywhere else.
Eyes focusing on the wide set of double-doors in the back, the hallway leading to the bathrooms.
He’s catching up with you - the touch of his fingers against your arm, sliding down until they wrap around your wrist. Its electric, in spite of everything, your stomach still flipping from the contact.
You turn, and Ben is looking at you curiously, and that feels like another betrayal. A confirmation that he doesn’t see you that way, and your throat is feeling tight as you shake your head, tugging away from his grasp.
“What’s going on?” He persists, a crease deepening between his brows, a tilt to his head.
You’re still in the middle of the room, lost in the islands of tables and skewed chairs. Not about to get into here, so instead you’re tugging him now - fingers catching the rolled edge of a sleeve as you steer him towards one of the carved out alcoves set along the walls.
“You can’t tell me it’s nothing, I’ve never seen you abandon a dessert like that.” He’s smiling, lacing his concern with jokes to ease you.
It almost works, the familiarity, the closeness, but then you’re looking at him and remembering - your eyes darting away.
“Nothing is wrong. I just wasn’t-,” You stumble, before taking a breath - finding your words, “You looked busy.”
They come out a little firmer, a little more pointed that you were expecting. He looks at you, eyebrows raised.
Your words, expression, too transparent because he gets it, and there’s a short bark of laughter as you turn to leave. As he’s stepping closer, and you find yourself tucked further into the nook.
“Sweetheart.” The nickname would normally make you melt, but you’re too busy trying to be brave, “Honestly, It was a line dance. I would’ve taught your grandmother how to do it.”
His exasperated look turns thoughtful, “You know, I think I actually did? Last summer, at your cousin’s-”
You shake your head, annoyed and enamored and hurt, your hands spreading wide, “It’s fine. It’s not a big deal. It could be nice, you know?”
Ben’s smile fades, as your back presses against the the wall, your eyes darting away as you clarify, “For you to dance with someone you actually want to be with.”
There’s a beat of silence. Stretching out, agonizing.
And then he laughs again, and it embarrasses you further - his fingers coming to catch your chin and tilt it upwards as he steps closer.
“Is that what you think, darling?” He breathes, as his words draw your eyes back. Meeting his heavy-lidded gaze, as his head dips level with yours.
“That I haven’t wanted this?”
He presses against you then, eyes still on yours as his hips roll. Guiding your hands up to lock around his neck as his forehead bumps against yours, a low sigh when you start to sway with him.
To dance, with him - again.
Tucked away in this little corner, just the two of you. And when your fingers wrap into his hair and tug - he groans. Unable to help himself as his head dips.
As his lips finally press against yours.
A hand cupping your jaw, warm and strong as his body follows, pulling you to him. Your own moan soft in your throat as it feels like weeks, months, years, of want is released, pushing yourself onto tip-toe in an attempt to get closer.
Your body seeming to move on instinct, rolling against his, until the soft fabric of your dress is crushing against his chest. A hand gripping your hip as your body shifts against his, until he’s gasping into your mouth.
The kiss deepening and you’re clinging to him as he traps you between his body and the wall. Soft against him and sweet on his tongue when he’s brushing against your lips and you’re opening for him.
Pulling away, letting your hands wander from his hair, to his strong shoulders, to his chest again. His own mouth hot as he kisses your jaw, feeling the moan in your throat as his lips move to just under your ear.
He always said he could feel the love in the room. You wonder if he can feel you - the sharp ache of desire and pent up longing.
You think maybe - he just might - from the way he groans against your neck, lips pressing against a spot where your pulse thuds.
A hand is resting against the small of your back, and now it pushes - angling your hips until they’re flush with him. Where you can feel the press of something hard, as his mouth hovers just next to your ear.
“That I haven’t wanted you?” He rasps, making you shiver, “That I haven’t been yours, only yours, this entire time?”
It making you moan, the ache between your thighs deepening, a clenching in your abdomen. The admission making you feel reckless, making you want even more.
“Can we get out of here?” You ask him, breathless - and you can hear his sharp exhale, the scrape of his beard against your cheek.
“Yes, darling.” He says against your mouth, pressing a quick kiss before he steps back from the wall - bringing you with him, “Your room or mine?”
Your eyes are shining as you move with him, smiling as you shake your head, “I don’t care. Anywhere. As long as it’s with you.”
His hand finding yours, bringing your knuckles up to us mouth, pressing his lips against the first two.
“I think I can manage that, darling.”
Feeling infinitely lighter, your own laugh bubbling up, as he tugs you toward the exit.
———
Your stomach is full of butterflies as he lays you down on the bed - his room, though it doesn’t really matter.
He follows, his weight pressing into you, mouth finding yours again as his fingers pluck at the layers of your dress, making room for himself between your thighs.
Soft, gasping breaths as you cling to him, a hand pressed against the back of his neck as you inhale a breath before tugging him back down again.
Those nerves twisting into something much more pleasurable as he finds the slit in your dress, fingers tracing along skin to hook a hand under your knee - draw your thigh around his hip.
Realizing with a start that it doesn’t feel that far from before, the same sort of fluttering when he dipped you. From excitement - the thrill of it. Knowing you could trust him, and he had shown you he could.
You could trust him here, too.
Let him lead, like you always did.
His hips drop, grinding himself against you - the thick length of his in his trousers pressing in the against your inner thigh as you groan into his mouth.
Tugging on the strands of hair again, parting your lips so his tongue can stroke yours, just as your own hips roll up to meet his.
It’s not long before your make-out turns sloppy, the scratch of his beard against your neck as his teeth just press against the hollow under your ear.
An ache that blooms into pleasure as his teeth pinch, lip suck. The swipe of his tongue afterwards, leaving a pretty mark for later.
All while you tear at those last two buttons that hold together his white, wrinkled dress shirt - greedily mapping the warm, freckled skin beneath with eager fingers.
“I’ve thought about this,” His breath is warm against your throat, a soft sigh as he searches blindly for the closure of your dress.“Endlessly. Hoping every time that we might end the night together.”
“Me too.” You echo the relief in his voice, helping him with the zipper, his body only lifting for the few moment it takes for you to rid the fabric from your body.
The ache of want thuds between your thighs, his leg sliding back into place as you tug him back down on top of you. Your sigh then - feeling the strong muscles press against you, as his nose brushes your cheek, his lips pressing against your jaw.
Fingers that trace from your shoulder, to a breast. A gentle squeeze, marveling in the way you feel in his hand. The brush of a thumb against against a taut nipple before it ghosts further down.
The welcome weight of him shifting as he lifts himself off you, just enough for his fingers to slide and press against your center. Feeling where the fabric dampens for him, his breath warm against your skin as his mouth opens in a groans.
“So wet, darling.” He says it like it’s a gift, something special just for him. And tonight - it is.
Your hips rock on their own, until he’s pressing, circling his fingers. Smearing your arousal against the soft silk, your own fingers biting into the muscles of his biceps.
“Only you.” The answer comes breathy, needy. Reaching with one hand to catch the waistband, pushing them down to your thighs.
“Mmm. Impatient, are we?” He coos, pleased, and you make a low sound in your throat - drawn out and sharp.
As if you haven’t waited ages. Days and weeks and months.
“Please.” You beg, and mercifully - he listens.
Lips pressing open-mouthed against your neck before they seal against the skin again. Fingers that cup you, feeling the heat, before one teases at your slit. Sliding easily over your slick folds, before the tip of a finger presses into you.
It’s bliss, after the wait. Your head tilts back with a groan, baring more of your neck for him to mark. His hips rolling against yours in time with the way he fucks you with his finger. A steady pump, a curl. His panting breath growing just as loud as yours in the quiet hotel room.
“Ben.” You groan, and he treasures the way it sounds on your lips, the way they part for him while he’s buried in you.
It’s affects him, his name on your lips - his fingers still moving as he shifts, easing himself down the bed. Until he’s level with your hips, nudging your thighs apart with a shoulder.
Touching you like he did on your first wedding date together. Fingers that began with the barest ghost, tease - now firm and sure. Finding what you like, what makes your hands curl into fists as his mouth lowers.
The peek of his tongue as it presses against you, warm and soft against your clit. You’re choking on your breath as he hums, the sound turning into a low, needy groan as he tastes you.
Eyes fluttering shut for a moment before they’re fixing on you, ensnaring. As he encourages you to move, pressing yourself against his tongue, his mouth. Watching you, like he does when you dance.
With eyes had only ever been on yours.
It’s too much - his attention, his touch - after all the waiting. Overwhelming you with the steady plunge of his fingers and the pointed flick of his tongue - it’s not long at all before you’re crying out, his hand pinning down one of your thighs as they threaten to close around him.
As he feels your release, how you gush for him. Tongue dipping down to taste you, fingers withdrawing to press and circle against your clit. Relishing in the sound of your moan, the sound drawn out in the darkened room, one he’s thought often about hearing.
It’s as lovely as he imagined, a tightness in his trousers that borders on uncomfortable, now.
You tremble against him, rocking into the press of his fingers and swipe of his tongue, as the last waves of pleasure wash over you, leaving you breathless, eyes half-lidded.
Loose-limbed now, fingers uncurling from where your nails bit into your palms, leaving little marks. Lazily pushing yourself up as you reach for him, your hand searching clumsily for his belt as his mouth meets yours.
It’s a heady feeling, tasting yourself on Ben as his tongue sweeps against your lip. Feeling him, your palm pressing against the front of his trousers, before you’re working open his belt.
Shoving the fabric down with you, and then off - leaving his cock to hang heavy between his thighs, swollen and thick. A smiling flash of teeth as he catches you looking, your own mental confirmation that every inch of him is pretty.
His skin velvet-soft when you reach out, fingertips sliding along his shaft. As he hovers over you, lowering you down to the mattress once more, as you open eagerly for him.
Kneeling between your thighs as his fingers press against your center, coming back slick. Wrapping his hand around his cock, a rough, low sigh as his fist jerks.
You’re imagining what it would be like to taste him, to hold him in your mouth, against your tongue. Seeing if the the sounds he’d make would be as beautiful as his voice, his laugh.
He brings you back with a touch, his palm cupping your face, drawing your gaze to his soft, blue eyes, “Do you still want this, darling?”
The this sliding hot and hard against your center, a low moan that comes from your chest as your thighs nudge wider, as your body arches into his. Close enough that your chin can lift, that your mouth can press against his in the seconds after your answer.
“God, yes.”
There’s a groan in his throat as his hips shift forward, as he finally sinks into you - where you’re soaked from his mouth and your release. The stretch pleasurable as he eases in with a slow thrust, burying himself in your heat.
“Oh, darling. I should have made you jealous ages ago,” He sighs, as you clutch as his shoulders, as he fills you, “You feel incredible.”
Your laugh turns into a sharp inhale of breath when he find himself pressed deep, your thighs clamping against his hips unconsciously.
“Fuck,” you breathe, eyes fluttering shut with your gasp, opening again just in time to see him smile.
Fingers cup the back of his neck, like before. His lips on yours, sharing the same breath as he eases out, before snapping back in. A gasp that begins in your throat and ends in his as he does it again, the ridges of his cock stroking inside you so perfectly.
Holding himself above you, so he can watch your face, before you’re both watching the way his cock disappears into you. You’re already feeling the coiling in your belly, the sated ache returning - fueled by receiving the thing you’ve been wanting for so long.
Him.
Because tonight, he is yours. All yours. You can see it now, how he looks at you with half-lidded eyes. The scrape of teeth against his lip before they’re parting, panting when he feels you clench around him.
As he lowers himself, the heavy thrust of his hips turning into a rough grind, his chest pressed to yours. Your face buried in his neck, arms wrapped tightly around another until you’re not sure where he ends, and you begin.
The tip of his cock nudging against a spot that steals your breath, until you’re clutching at him, your hips rolling in time with his.
“Will you give me another, love?” He coos in your ear, a kiss pressed to the skin just beneath, “Can you come for me again?”
You’re nodding, eyes closed tight as you focus on the narrowed point of pleasure, swiftly building, “Yes. Ben, please-”
“Show me then, darling. Let me feel you.”
Everything winding up tight, as he shift just a bit. Fitting a hand between you, fingers curling over your mound to press at your clit, as your mouth searches for his.
Moving together, like you have been, all this time. The circle of his fingers and grind of his cock have your head tilting back, his name on your lips, then, “Oh my god, I’m so close-”
His breath short and harsh as you tremble, then come undone for him. Your cunt pulsing around him, as you moan - your cheek pressed against the coarse stubble of his beard.
Ben’s moan echoing yours, as if he can feel the tight throb in your core, the way your vision goes soft and hazy. His own release on the cusp of yours, his thrusts going sloppy, rutting into your heat.
“Oh sweetheart, I’m going to come.” He rasps, voice tight with a sharp inhale of breath, “Will you take me?”
Still coming down from your own high, your heart pounding in your ears as you gasp out your agreement, “Yes, I want all of you.”
There’s a shudder of breath, a blinking, widening of his eyes. His fingers press into your flesh, hitching your thigh around his hip as groans, thrusts going quick and shallow. The sound from his throat drawing out long and low as his cock throbs, his release spilling inside you.
It’s prettier than you’ve imagined. His sounds, the pinch of his brow, his parted lips as he comes. Chest flexing with the effort, your fingers pressing flat against it again as he hovers over you, now spent.
The dance ends with his forehead brushing yours, before finding your mouth with his. Sighs and smiling and wandering fingers, leisurely mapping over skin.
Making up for all the lost time.
Later - his voice is a rumble beneath your ear, as your head rests on his chest. The sound soothing, as fingers brush the back of your head, down the column of your neck, then your bare shoulder.
“I received an invitation, last week. The RSVP isn’t due yet, but the wedding is in March.”
Your head tilts, chin scraping over the skin before you rest it on a bent arm, “Sounds good. I don’t have anything for March yet.”
His lips twitch, a soft smile, “Well, I wanted to ask if you’d go with me.”
A crease forms between your brow, an eye closing so you can see him better in the dim light, “You don’t have to ask, you know I’d come.”
The smile deepens, a dimple forming just below the little mark on his cheek that you long to press your lips against.
“I want to ask you, darling.” Ben tells you, the hand curling around, thumb brushing against your cheek, “Come with me. Not as part of our agreement.”
A pause, before he clarifies, “As my date.”
It makes your stomach flip, your teeth sinking into your lower lip, “Yeah?”
He nods, and then you’re bracing against him, pushing up. Your mouth pressing to his, stealing a kiss before you answer.
“Then, yes. Always, yes.”
[dilfcember masterlist]
(Tags: @andrewrussgarfield, @luxuryberzatto)
#wwdilfcember#obi wan x reader#obi wan kenobi x reader#obi wan x you#obi wan kenobi x f!reader#obi wan imagine
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Somewhere In Between | Day 19: Reading
professor!otto octavius x f!reader
Rated E | 1.4k
Tags: age gap, bossy!otto, fingering, edging, actuators as light restraints, praise kink, cockwarming, implied PiV
Poem referenced is Leves Amores
When you find yourself with writers block, you turn to your lover for help. However, you’re not expecting his approach to be quite so hands-on.
You stare at the blinking cursor, willing the words to manifest in your mind, to form the exact conclusion you need.
All you needed was to wrap things up, tie them in a neat little bow. The outline was there, but the wording never quite felt right. The sharp punch you were looking for just out of reach.
You suppose, it doesn’t help that you’re horribly distracted. That you came over to his apartment, laptop in hand, knowing that he’d keep you on track better than if you were at home, surrounded with possible diversions.
And yet, here you were, with the biggest distraction of all. Each edit had been met with a kiss, as you sat beside his modified, overstuffed armchair. Where he had been going over an upcoming lecture - glancing up from the text to give a murmur of encouragement, a smile.
The kisses turning needy, until you were easing onto his lap - your work quite forgotten. Fingers twisting in the thick wool of his turtleneck sweater, one of his actuators curling behind your back to keep you pressed close.
They always betrayed him. His arms, connected to his unconscious thoughts. Contrasting with his words, his “you should be working, my dear”, while they nudged you just a little closer, until you could feel where he thickened inside his trousers.
“I missed you.” You breathed, “I want you. God, I want you.”
There was the peek of his tongue against his bottom lip, his own gaze heavy-lidded. Thumbs brushing back and forth against the curves of your breast, where you could just feel them over your own clothes.
“What do you want?” He asked, watching beneath those thick brows, eyes that catch everything.
“I want you to take me,” You sighed with need, leaning forward to brush your lips against the coarse strands of his beard, where he had grown it out with the changing of seasons, “Want you to take care of me.”
You ached for him, the feeling of him beneath you winning out over the rest.
He laughed then, a low, rough sound. The skeleton of a smug smile from his past, softened by those dark eyes.
You’re lifted, the metal arm against your back curling around your waist. Flipping you until you’re facing the desk, a second arm nudging over your laptop.
“And I want you to work.” Otto told you firmly, a hand pressing against your belly, holding you snug against him, “That’s why you came here, isn’t it?”
He isn’t wrong. And so, you’re sitting, sullenly.
Editing for the second time, stalling as you pick for clues. Shifting impatiently against him, thinking with a corner of your mind about how you can feel the thick curve of him pressed against your ass.
The hand on your stomach twitches. With each stroke of your keys it inches downward - something that you’re acutely aware of. You wonder if it’s encouragement.
If he’ll touch you, if only you keep writing.
It works. It’s good enough for you.
His palm presses against you, the heel of his hand just shy of where you need him. It makes you gasp, your eyes leaving the screen, drifting down.
Rocking against him, trying to get him to adjust his touch. Feeling where the tips of his fingers brush against you, the middle sliding just down the seam of your leggings. The others tracing against your clothed lips, your inner thighs.
“You stopped.” He rasps, the sound low in your ear, “Keep going.”
With a shaky breath, you do.
Ironic that your essay explored the ideas of decadence and aestheticisms in Victorian poetry - because you certainly felt like you were indulging, giving into pleasure over sense.
It would almost be inspiring… if it wasn’t so distracting. But you try - blinking to keep the words in focus as his fingers drift, touch, press.
Winding you up, until you’re biting your tongue between teeth, rocking your hips into the cup of his hand. Eyes closing, testing just how far you can move, if it would be enough.
“You haven’t mentioned Symons.” His idle comment brings you back, as you frown.
Glancing at the paragraph you’re combing through - realizing he’s been reading along. It prickles you, defensiveness curling with the pleasure in your belly.
“We haven’t covered much from him. I thought my other examples were strong enough.” You explain, just as his hand drifts.
Edging past your waistband, beneath the fabric of your underwear. Enjoying your tone - the debate.
“If you were taking my class-” He begins, but you’re cutting him off, with a shake of your head.
“If I were taking your class, this paper would be on nuclear physics, not poetry.”
Otto laughs at that, the sound rumbling. Before you feel his lips ghost against the back of your neck. Fingers that touch down against bare skin, where you’re warm and wet for him.
“Art and science have always been lovers, darling.” His voice is low, amused. Lips pressing against the hollow under your ear - raising goosebumps in its wake, “A man can be well-versed in both.”
You have no retort, not when he’s touching you like this. A finger parting you, sliding back and forth over your clit. His other hand moving to cup your breast, as an actuator loops around your waist, pinning you against him.
Your kisses, and the way you curl,
Delicious and distracting girl,
Into one's arms, and round about,
Luxuriously in and out-
His breath warm in your ear as his fingers circle, as he quotes poetry to you. The smooth tone of his voice washing over you, your head tilting back against his broad shoulder.
Strong to embrace and long to kiss,
And strenuous for the sharper bliss,
A little tossing sea of sighs,
Till the slow calm seal up your eyes.
You moan, and he can feel just how soaked you are for him, for him alone. Those arms move, then.
Lifting you just off his lap, the careful tip of another tugging at your leggings. Pushing them down mid-thigh as he works open his belt.
Pulling himself out, where he’s heavy and flushed for you. Setting you down against his cock, trapping it between the pillow of your thighs, trapped snugly against your cunt.
He lets you rut against him, slicking him up with each pass. Eyes dropping to watch the flushed head slide against your skin, how you wished it was pressing inside, instead.
You fingers drift down to touch him, but one of the actuators curl around your wrist, gently bringing it back to your keyboard.
“Finish this up, darling, and I’ll give you what you want.” He promises, a chaste kiss against your neck - before he leans back, giving you space.
The thud of your pulse in your ears is still distracting, as is the warm length of him pressed against you.
But you try, thinking about what he said. Adding in a little more detail, encouraged by the subtle rocking of his hips. The slide of him against your clit, though whenever you make a sound he stops.
The slow edging winding you up.
You’d always done well under pressure, under a deadline. Two hover over you now - one tomorrow, another so much closer. The length of time you can last before it’s too much.
Another line flows from you, and then another. Piecing the puzzle of your words and thoughts together. Keying the final line of the conclusion with a little flourish, your head tilting to the side so you can see him.
Where he watches, already reading over your shoulder. A low growl to his voice as he moves again, like before.
“Just look at you. So goddamn clever.”
The praise lances though you, warm and coiling in your belly.
An actuator nudging your laptop to the side as he stands. Another arm bringing you with him, bending you over the heavy wooden desk.
His body, so thick and tall and sturdy behind you - his hand wrapped around his cock as he drags it over you, notching himself right at your entrance.
As he asks, “That’s why you’re my girl, aren’t you?”
“Yes.” You moan, and he’s making a rough, appreciative noise as he presses into you.
Filling you, finally. Nudging his way inch by inch as your fingers curl around the edge of the desk, as to try to rock back to meet him.
As you manage one last gasp before he’s fully sheathed. Before he gives you what you’ve earned.
“Yours.”
[dilfcember masterlist]
(Taglist: @andrewrussgarfield, @luxuryberzatto, @obiknights)
#ahh I am excited for this one I hope you like it 📖💕#wwdilfcember#otto octavius x reader#otto octavius x you#doc ock x reader#doc ock x you#Otto Octavius x f!reader
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Wolf Song | Day 13: Bonfire
joel miller x f!reader
Rated M - 1.8k
Tags: canon-typical violence (blood, injury, use of guns, mentions of knives, implied death of an antagonist by Joel), hurt & comfort, quiet and hopeful (mutual) pining
Three times Joel builds you a fire. (And three times you tell him ‘thank you’.)
He curls like the wind around you - unable to track his next move as he sets up camp for the night. The ache in your feet persiting even as you stand in place, eyes tracking him as he stows the bags, clears the ground.
His own darting up and into the darkness, time and time again, as he arranges a small pile of kindling on the packed earth.
Knocking you out of your worried thoughts with the sound of his voice, rough and low.
"Get a fire started, girl."
Joel pulls a cord from around his neck, tossing it your way. Sliding through your fingers as you just barely catch it, fumbling.
A chip of flint and a worn bar of steel sit at the end. You hold it helplessly, glancing down at the wood in the quickly-dimming light. Crouching, anyways - though your brain has gone blank, the pieces cold in your hands.
Looking back towards him, where he stands - hands bracing on his hips.
"I-", You start, shaking your head, and he frowns.
A look you've gotten quite a bit - a permanent crease between his brows since you started traveling with him yesterday. You hadn’t needed a fire last night - you had walked through until the sunrise, stopping in the morning to sleep.
Trying not to take offense, to read too into it.
He didn't have to be nice to you. He just had to get you where you were going. You had saved and bargained for the best, and he is what you got.
Joel makes a sound, a low sigh in the back of his throat, before crouching close next to you - the bag on his shoulder thudding against the ground. Wordlessly tugging the cord from your grasp, angling the steel near the edge of the kindling.
Curving over the pile, his bulk blocking the bit of breeze from between the trees. You watch closely, as he grips the bit of flint - striking it against the bar. Knowing that he's showing you, thinking that he's expecting you to understand. Trying to soak in the way he holds both pieces, commiting them to memory.
A tiny spark leaps from the steel, making you gasp. Another few strikes, and there it is again - the red-white gleam shining against the tinder.
"Cup ‘round it, with your hands." He tells you, and you're shifting next to him - hands curling around, sheltering the budding flame.
His head ducking, so he can blow on the spark, coaxing it to life. A leap in your chest when it catches, the small flicker as the bits of dried grass and twigs start to curl and burn, the smallest trail of smoke rising into the sky.
“Thank you.” You tell him, relieved and embarrassed and almost thankful when he doesn’t acknowledge it.
Joel hands you the cord instead, pressing it into your palm. Before he claps your shoulder, the slightest squeeze before he stands.
"Not bad, girl."
The paracord slips around you neck, hanging heavy. Hands come up, palms facing the small flame, reveling in the heat.
Where you're unable to help the small smile, the tiny bit of warmth that has nothing to do with the fire.
———
You bite back as gasp as he lowers you to the ground, an aching, thudding pain shooting up your thigh.
Easing your leg out straight as he moves to shut the door of the abandoned house, throwing the lock, peering out the shutters before he closes them with a sharp click.
Watching, as he checks the rest of the room methodically. You do your best to help, arranging your back, inching closer to the stone hearth.
“Don’t move.” He hisses, low and rough - and you’re jerking, still on edge from before.
It was - would be - hard to forget tonight.
You had thought you’d be safer, when you stumbled on the small group of people. Fellow travelers, and Joel had regarded them with heavy skepticism and unease when you realized you were traveling the same way.
But he had agreed to share the road, for a time.
Days passing easily, and you were starting to loosen up. Chatting a tiny bit at meals, feeling the security in numbers.
That feeling long gone.
Disappearing when you got the small town. Half-way through the overgrown downtown when a group of runners intercepted the group - leaving you all to scatter.
You and another traveler - a man that joined the party recently - sticking close to Joel as he barked orders. Gun drawn, urging you away from the alley, towards a safer space on the road.
A trio of runners catching the call, splitting from the pack to shamble down the narrow path towards you. The fear like acid in your throat, forgetting the knife at your belt, your feet tripping over the pavement as you turned.
The man that was just ahead of you, now behind as you headed back. The runners were fast, with their reaching arms, the rattles from their chest, the panting wails - but he was faster - barreling past you.
His own terror bleeding into his senses, turning him hard and cruel. Survival instincts taking over as he passed you - a leg kicking out with focused intention.
Striking you hard in the thigh, your own cry joining the infected as you fell, hands scraping against the pavement. Ensuring his escape, knowing they’d be distracted by you.
It was a big fucking mistake.
Because he had forgotten about Joel.
Forgotten that you were traveling together.
A shot had rung out, and the man was downed, clutching at his knee. A leg, for a leg.
Another three shots, and the runners joined him.
Fury etched Joel’s features as he descended - a fist that slammed into the man’s face, the sickening crunch of bone. You had turned away, trying to block out the sounds with hands clapped over your ears. The thud of the hits, the groan that petered out to just sounds. Dull noise.
Not wanting to see his wrath, not wanting to examine the complicated twist of emotions in your chest. You had concentrated on the pain in your leg instead, trying to stretch and bend it to check the damage.
A shadow loomed over you, as you reached for your belt. But it was just a hand - cautiously extended. The knuckles split and bloody, fingers rough and calloused when your palm fits into his.
“It’s okay, honey. You’re okay.” He told you, in a tone more gentle than you were used to. Helping you to your feet, an arm looped around you for balance.
Not looking at the man, as he led you away. You don’t know whether he’s dead or alive, and you think - maybe it’s better that way. To not know.
Now - at the old house he found, on the outskirts of the town - he watches as you shiver. The temperature dropping at night, the adrenaline finally leeching from your system - the combination has you shaken up.
Fingers reach for your neck and you let them, the cord plucked from around it - carefully lifted from over your head.
He builds a fire from shattered furniture, bits of found wood and cloth. Coaxing it into being with sure and strong movements, until the heat is warming you, a tingling in your fingers and toes.
“We need to take a look.” Joel tells you - as he crouches by your side. It’s something you’ve been dreading. Another thing you wish it was better just to not know.
A flush in your cheeks as you unbutton your jeans, pushing them down to your knees - but it treats it like it’s nothing. His gaze on the bruises forming a hands-width above your knee, fingers that gently touch and probe the wound.
“Lucky it weren’t your knee.” He comments, and you’re agreeing, fingers curled in his jacket - a sharp intake of breath through your teeth as a finger presses a little too hard.
An apology, the first you’ve ever heard, slides from his lips as you ease your pants back up. Nothing to fix when there’s just a bruise, though his eyes are snagging on the raw skin of your palms next.
Wordlessly rummaging through his supplies for his canteen of water, a bit of clean cloth. His hand swallowing yours as he wipes the scraped-raw flesh near your thumb - where you took the brunt of your fall.
Unable to help the comparison, as you watch. How his hand is in so much worse shape than yours - but here he is, his movements careful. Tender, almost.
Working in silence until he’s satisfied, until you can take over.
“Joel?” You ask, as he stands - readying to do another check of the room before you settle in for the night. “Thank you.”
A pause as he regards you. And then, a nod.
And you think - as you curl up, finally warm - maybe you even saw a tiny bit of a smile.
———
It’s late when you wake, shivering. The slice of sky through the dusty window showing it’s not quite morning - stars still lingering.
The last few morning had brought frost, clinging to your boots, your arms swinging as you walk to stay warm. But now - the cold seems to leech into your clothes, sinking into your bones.
You stir, the bit of blanket shifting and bringing in more chill as you lift onto an elbow. Glancing at the long-dead fire - the lump that you know is your traveling companion just to the side.
By now, you can rekindle it. The blanket clutched around you as you give it a shot, the flint striking steel. The chatter of your teeth as you try again. And then again.
A shifting, behind you - hand coming to cover yours.
You had tried to be quiet, but Joel could be pulled from sleep at the slightest of sounds.
“I got it.” He rumbles, his voice rough with sleep.
Bringing it back to life as you inch closer - rearranging your things. A soft sigh as the flames start to flicker, as you curl up again on the concrete.
There’s a shuffling as he moves - moving his things as well. Sliding them behind you, carefully easing himself into the space. A respectful few inches away, but still creating a wall that will shield you from the vast chill of the room.
Until you’re flipping, rolling onto your side to face him. Closing that tiny gap, until your knee is bumping his, and he’s parting his thighs to make room for your legs to entwine with his.
It’s a small, slow thing. Sharp eyes carefully watching as you ease into him - until the cold tip of your nose brushes his throat, and he’s making a low sound.
For a moment to you think he’s going to move you. But he doesn’t, an arm curling around you instead, palm pressing between your shoulder blades.
Close enough now to smell the leather and smoke that clings to his skin, a soft sigh as you finally begin to feel warm again.
“Thank you.” You murmur, sleep already tugging at you.
Missing the press of his cheek against your head, the softest sound of his inhale. The words, breathed out into the night to join the stars.
“You’re welcome, darlin’.”
[dilfcember masterlist]
(Tags - @andrewrussgarfield, @luxuryberzatto)
#please mind the tags!#wwdilfcember#joel miller x you#joel miller x f!reader#joel miller x reader#joel miller imagine
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Day 17: Cabin
moodboard + 5 sentence fics (x2)
arthur morgan x f!reader
tags: fluff, stern!arthur || piv, exhibitionism, possessiveness
Solace after a narrow escape || new realizations in the dark
“Would you stop?” Arthur stern voice interrupts the silent, worried narration in your head, as you peep out the window for the third time since arriving, “They ain’t followin’ us no more.”
You suppose he’s right - he’d lost the small gang of men a good hour ago, their silhouettes disappearing in the dust of his mare’s hooves, as the setting sun dipped below the mountains.
“Come here.” He coaxes, patting the spot next to him on the bed, and it’s the invitation that finally has you moving, lowering yourself down to where he lounges.
“Do you need to start a fire?” You ask distractedly, thinking of the late-night chill - as your back hits the bedroll he’s laid out, as he shifts until you’re beneath him and he’s fitting between spread thighs.
“Don’t need a fire to stay warm, darlin’”, He sighs, his lips pressing against your jaw, the bristles of his beard tickling your cheek. “Not when I’ve got you.”
“Quiet now, girl.” Arthur hushes you, as you muffle a whine with the palm of your hand - his words contrasting with the way he hoists your thigh a little higher, driving himself deeper, “You want the whole camp to hear you?”
The thought, the way he’s fucking you - his mouth against your ear, his chest pressed against your back - has you clenching around him, rocking back to meet his thrusts.
“Oh,” he sighs, knowingly - as he shoves an arm between you and the bedroll, to grasp at your wrist, the other sliding from your thigh to the soft space between them. “You liked that, didn’t you?”
His arm flexes, tugging your hand away just as you moan, the sound filling the small cabin - the walls thick and sturdy, but close-set enough to the others for there to be validity to his mock-concern.
“Go on then, darlin’,” He hums, the sound low and rough - a curl of amusement as his fingertips circle, bringing you higher, “Don’t mind if they listen, s’long as they know you’re mine.”
[dilfcember masterlist]
#2 for today because I couldn’t pick which one I liked more!#wwdilfcember#arthur morgan x f!reader#arthur morgan smut#arthur morgan x reader#arthur morgan x you
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Like The Movies | Day 11: Movie Night
alfred pennyworth x f!reader
Rated E | 2.4k
Also part of a belated request for @fluffyprettykitty, for the prompt “would you like to go somewhere a little private”
Tags: age gap, est. relationship, voyeurism, light sub/dom, PiV, masturbation, come marking, slight possessiveness
What begins as a cozy movie night turns into both of you watching something much more intimate.
The movie flashes across the screen in the living room. It’s an old, holiday-themed classic, with soft tones of black and white, a smooth jazz soundtrack. Something he picked out from a lifetime ago.
He indulges you, a half-eaten bowl of popcorn on the floor, popped on a cast-iron skillet in the kitchen, dusted with sea salt and melted butter. A thick blanket fending off the winter chill as you lounge against him - an arm around your waist, your head tucked against the crook of his shoulder.
If you’re honest, you lost the plot of the movie a bit ago, the slow, dreamy dialogue going fuzzy in your ears - too busy concentrating on the warm hand on your waist, the lazy brush of his thumb and knuckles on the strip of skin where your shirt has ridden up.
Your head turns, a soft kiss pressed against his shoulder, collarbone, then the bare skin of his neck. He hums low in his throat, still facing the large television, but when you glance up, you see his eyes are looking at you, watching.
The blanket pools around you as you shift, carefully twisting, drawing a knee over until they map his, until you’re straddling his thighs. His hands rest high on your hips as you lean in, continuing your path.
Throat, jaw, temple.
“Tired of old classics, dove?” He asks, voice low as your lips touch his cheek, causing you to pause your journey to his mouth.
“No. I love old classics,” You smile, “But you, sir, are distracting me.”
Fingers rest on strong shoulders as you lean in, finally reaching your destination, sighing softly when his mouth meets yours.
He’s warm beneath you, in a thick knitted sweater, warm woolen trousers. Alfred’s idea of loungewear - you had checked before, and the man did not own a single pair of sweatpants or jeans.
But that made it easier for you, to press yourself close, slowly rocking your hips against his. You shift, flush against him, his hands gripping you now as your tongue brushes his lip, and this time he’s groaning.
They part, letting you to deepen the kiss as grind yourself against the bulge that is quickly stiffening beneath you, his own fingers slipping under your shirt, trailing up warm skin. The soundtrack of the movie making you lose track of time, everything going soft and slow and hazy.
It’s only when his hand cups your breast, a soft pinch to your tight nipple, the loud, needy moan that follows - that he pauses, seeming to come back to himself. Your fingers have curled their way under his sweater, tugging at an undershirt - a dull, needy throb in the soft space between your thighs.
“Perhaps,” he breathes, eyes still closed as is he is loathe to say it, “Perhaps we should go somewhere a little more private?”
You’re already leaning back in, humming as you reach skin, as you press yourself against his palm, “No one is here.”
“Even so.” He pulls back now, still reluctant.
Lips brush against the scruff of his beard, your palm flattening against his chest as you roll against him, the heat low and hot in your belly.
He stifles a groan, his look stern, “Now who’s being distracting? Be good, dove. For me.”
You unwind from his lap - he’s right of course.
Ms. Dory would never step foot in this room again if she ever found out. The blanket lies pooled and movie still runs as you make your way to his room, as you lead the way, fingers tightly clasped.
———
There’s a few detours before you make it to your destination. Pauses in the hallway, a palm on your waist as you turn, minutes lost in the slow exploration of hands, mouths as you lean against the wall, a desk - and then finally at the edge of his bed.
Layers are peeled off, discarded, your shirt getting lost on the floor so he can map bare skin, lingering there as he follows you onto the bed.
It’s an unspoken thing, how you find yourselves as before - his back against the pillows lining the headboard, your hips straddling his, the press and drag of your bare cunt against his cock.
Watching how it presses against his belly, trapped between you. How he’s seemingly unhurried with your joining, content to let you grind against him, his mouth busy as he find places on your neck that make you squirm.
It’s you who breaks first - a hand splayed flat across a broad shoulder, the other wrapping around him. That catches his attention, the tight grip of your fist - angling him so you can lift up on your knees.
Watching him watch you as you lower yourself onto him. Missing the way his lips part with a groan because your own eyes are closing as you take him, air sucked in through teeth with the pressure as he stretches you out.
Sinking until you’re flush, knees pressing into the mattress as he grips the flesh on your hips. As you start to move, as you lift up, before rocking your hips back down.
Arms wrapping around his shoulders for balance, as an arm curls around your back, his hand splayed against your spine.
Your pace staying slow as the pleasure grows, his mouth on your neck, your breasts, as you lift, and then dip. A grind of your hips sending a spark that jolts through you, your moves still leisurely.
But somewhere along the journey that began with your lips on his shoulder to now, with the shallow rocking of your hips - his patience has grown thin.
Not expecting the tight grip of his hand on your waist, the other pressing between your shoulder blades to crush you against him. The shift as his knees raise, feet pressing flat as he uses his weight against yours. Keeping himself deeply seated in you as he pushes forward - until you’re gasping in surprise as your back hits the mattress.
Until he’s the one hovering above you, the smallest curve of a smirk as he adjusts you beneath him, pleased at the turn of events. Getting you back from before - interrupting you, this time.
Hands hooking under your knees, pushing your thighs back towards your chest, and then apart, until you’re spread open wide for him. Your breath caught in your chest as he shifts his weight back onto bent knees that press into the bed.
The drag of his cock as he pulls out, almost all the way. Your breath finally coming as a sharp gasp when his hips snap, seating him back inside. Eyes drifting over the expanse of his chest, the flex of his arms as he does it again. As he watches the way you wrap around him, the slick shine of his cock before it disappears into you.
It makes your toes point and then curl, how deep he feels at this angle. Your hands reaching up toward your head, twisting and grasping at the sheets. The soft brush of his thumb against the sensitive skin by your knee as he begins to thrust.
Spearing deep into your tight heat, barely withdrawing before he does it again. With the tilt of your hips he’s rocking against a spot that has you panting, aching.
“You couldn’t wait, could you?” He all but growls, a sharp exhale of breath as your eyes fix on him, “Just had to have my attention, even though the movie wasn’t even half over.”
The words transfix you, his low voice layering with his expression - a sternness is that only surface-deep. It has you arching into him as you bite back a smile, your eyes going half-lidded and wanting.
His own eyes bright, almost slipping because he knows just how much you like it when he gets a little bossy. How he enjoys it just as much when you beg, in your own way, like you had downstairs.
But it’s not hard for him to tap into it, not really. Letting his voice drop lower, quieter, “You have it now, love.”
Hands gripping just a little tighter, a rough thrust that makes you moan.
“All of me.”
And you do - have all of him. His focus and his cock and so, so much more than that. You can see it, in the heavy gaze of his eyes, hear it in his words, feel it in his touch.
So you reach for him, hands leaving the rumpled, wrinkled sheets where they had twisted beneath your fingers. Grasping on to the backs of his hands, curling around his wrists - just wanting that extra bit of connection.
“Alfred,” You moan his name, nails biting into his skin. “Please.”
You’re not even sure what you’re asking for - your brain a loose hazy of soft affection, as the pleasure in your lower belly climbs and climbs.
He can feel the tightness in your limbs, the way you clench him. The blink of your eyes above panting, parted lips.
A hand shifts, leaving the underside of your thigh, curving around your wrist - drawing it down to your center. They map your fingers, his index and middle pressing down, lining them up against your clit.
“Give me something to watch, now.” His words are soft, but spoken so low, carefully drawn out, “I want you to show me. Show me how you rub that pretty little clit of yours, and I’ll keep fucking you. Just the way you like it.”
You make a little sound - a whimper, a moan - as he continues, “Can you do that for me, darling?”
It has you moving without thinking - your fingers moving in a small circle, the movement practiced. He expects an answer and you give it, a sighed out “yes”, as you touch yourself.
His answering moan is reverent, eyes lingering on your face, a curve of lips and flash of teeth before his eyes drop.
Watching as he slows from the sharp snap, to something softer. A steady sawing of his hips, clever eyes catching what makes you gasp, the muscles flexing in your leg.
Bringing you higher and higher together, until he’s abandoning the grip of his other hand. Leaving your thigh to catch the fingers that still tighten around him.
Lacing them, bringing your clasped hands up to rest next to your head, as he braces himself over you. Close enough now to brush his nose, his lips, along your cheek. For you to hear the sharp exhale of his breath in your ear.
You arch into him, fingers stuttering. Losing focus for just a moment, horribly distracted by his closeness, the press of his mouth against the hollow just under your ear that muffles his groan.
A soft tsk falls from his lips, the scrape of his beard against your neck.
“Keep going, dove.” He croons, his fingers tightening in yours, “Love the way you clench around me. You feel so fucking good, darling.”
Your grip on his hand is equally tight, his weight pinning your hips to the bed. It doesn’t stop the unconscious rock as you try to meet his thrusts, your eyes fluttering shut as the fingers between your thighs press a little harder, circle a little faster.
The words slide through your teeth, a breathy stream of messy thoughts, “Oh god please, I’m so close-”
His answering hum is low, almost a growl. Angling his head so he can kiss you fiercely, until you’re moaning into his mouth as your thighs jerk, tightening around his waist.
Your pulse pounding in your ears as he grinds against the spot, as the circle of your fingers sends you hurtling over the edge. A blinding pleasure stealing your words and your breath - thudding between your thighs that swells until its racing up your spine as down your limbs.
His lips against your check, pressing as he murmurs against your skin, “Christ, good girl. Just like that.”
Slowing the thrust of his hips so he can feel the tight clench of your pussy around him, the way your knees press into his waist. Fingers circling until the waves ebb, until your limbs are relaxing onto the mattress.
But his words from before, echo. Giving you ideas, your own eyes flicking down to where his barrel chest presses into yours.
“Will you let me watch, too?” You sigh, tongue peeking between your teeth as you smile at him, letting him see how your gaze slowly drags back up to meet his.
He’s still now, resting heavy in you. A rough exhale of breath as he regards your request, his own look dark and hungry.
All it takes is another “please” before he’s easing from you, shifting until his knees bracket your thighs. A hand wrapped tightly around the thick, jutting shaft of his cock, your eyes fixed on the sharp jerk of his fist.
Where he’s slick with your arousal, your release. Aiding him, as his hips flex into his grip. A groan rattling in his chest as your hand reaches to cup him, thumb stroking over the skin as you gently squeeze his sack. The other stroking his inner thigh, nails dragging over the sensitive skin.
Your name on his lips, sounding broken. Almost worshipful, as he watches you watch him. The heave of his chest as his release approaches, the flushed head of his cock disappearing beneath thick fingers.
Until he’s groaning beautifully, the sound deep and rough and loud. You eyes pulling to watch his face, the way his lips form the dirty string of curses that fall before he’s there.
Angling himself over the curve of your stomach as he comes - his release arcing to reach the underside of a breast, pooling in the valley between. Until he’s spent himself completely, until he’s marked you so thoroughly.
A look in his eye, that tells you he’s enjoyed this as much as you have. Watching, seeing you then - and then now. One that says “mine” in a way that no words are needed. You both just know.
He cleans you carefully afterwards, wiping himself from you. Lips finding yours tenderly, the words sighed out against your mouth - helplessly susceptible to your charms.
“Oh, dove. The things you do to me.”
It’s not long later, that you find yourselves back downstairs. The television dark, the last slow scrolling of the credits inching up the screen.
Considerably cozier as you fit yourself next to him, unable to help a small jest.
“You know what?” You yawn, tugging the blanket back around you again, “That might have been the best movie I’ve ever seen.”
His own long-suffering sigh, affection lacing it as his hand finds yours. Smiling, as you grab the remote.
Starting the movie over, again.
[dilfcember masterlist]
(tags: @andrewrussgarfield, @luxuryberzatto, @obiknights, @stargirlfics, @squidlywiddly87, @maskhoper, @madamepoelzig, @hiddlebatchedloki)
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Bookstore Girl | Day 7: Scarf Returned
modern!din djarin x gn!reader
Rated G | 1.5k
Tags: yearning, found family and fluff
A/N: named after a song (for the playlist), but this fic is GN!
It’s funny how such a small thing can bring two strangers together.
You supposed - as the owner of a local, used bookstore - that it wasn't really fair to have favorites. You should be grateful, honored, excited, to have all your customers. And you are...
...but there's a certain one that's seemed to have written himself into the pages of your story.
It's not just because he's interesting - it's a progressive town, filled with unique and beatiful, stylish people. It’s not just the dark clothes and heavy jacket, or the handmade scarf he wears wrapped around his chin and neck.
The colors drawing you to it - greens and golds and soft, buttery tan - so similar to one that you own. Its almost as if so used to it, that he doesn't even realize he's still wearing it.
No. It's his visits - always unexpected, never a set day or time he stops by. Always quiet, a polite demeanor as he slips inside, a kind nod your way as you smile at him in greeting.
The way he lingers in the children's books, going over the section you have set aside for new releases. Taking his time to pick something out - always a short book with thick pages, filled with colorful illustrations.
Usually about frogs.
His actions becomes routine with his visits. The way he stops for a small coffee - black - from the little table that stands off to the side, facing one of the bay windows.
It set up on the honor system - coffee, some seasonal toppings, cold bottles of water. A buck or so for each, something to enjoy while shopping. You’ve noticed he never fails to slip a little extra into the worn, wooden box.
Bringing his books to you, setting them carefully on the counter. Always paying in cash, flipping open his wallet, where you can just see the photo of his child, tucked right in the front. The edges of the picture worn and curled, as if he pulled it out often to look at it.
It always makes your heart flip, a warmth in your chest as you total up his purchases. Sometimes sneaking a wrapped cookie into his bag, even if he protests.
There’s a running deal you have with a small, up-and-coming bakery - you sell their cookies here, you get a very small cut of the profit, plus a free cookie per day.
You always save yours, just in case he comes in.
The protests stop after the first couple ones. Now, his eyes flick to yours above the wrapping of the scarf - kind and warm and a dark brown that you could find yourself getting lost in. His voice, muffled but low as he always tells you, "thank you."
You've been at this store for a few years. Already experiencing customers who would buy a book - sell it back for store credit a couple weeks later. It never bothered you, it was just business.
But he never did. You like to imagine the little library his child had acquired, each book hand-picked and sitting on a shelf. Wondering how many until it's filled.
A little sad - wondering if he'll still come back, when it finally is.
Until then, you cherish these meetings. Even if you're certain you're just another stop in the busy life he's sure to have.
Even if you're certain he doesn't think of you at all.
———
The scarves are what brought you to say hello to him in the first place. Yours was different - fringe at the end, a different pattern, but you felt like they could be cousins.
Yours hung from a hook to the side of the register - draped over your woolen coat. Liking to keep it close in case you had to dash outside to fix the rickety book cart, or if someone forgot one of their purchases.
It’s happened before, more than once.
He had stopped by in the past, and you had noticed him. But it took you another few visits before you felt comfortable enough to give a compliment - not wanting to scare him off.
It happens when you’re waiting for the system to come back up - your computer freezing, forcing you to restart it. Your nose wrinkling in embarrassment, murmuring a ‘sorry’ as you watch the spinning wheel on your screen.
His own eyes crinkled at the edges, “Not in a rush, no worries.”
The book sitting between you, your eyes bouncing around the room before landing on him.
“I like your scarf.” You ventured, offering a small smile, “It’s sort of like mine.”
You showed him yours, lifting the edge from the hook - the corner pinched between thumb and forefinger.
He smiled at that, at you drag it down - as he ran his thumb over the row of stitches, "It's beautiful. Did you make it?"
The compliment made your face heat, a little laugh falling from your lips, "No, this was a gift, from a dear friend. I wish I knew how to make one, I just never seem to have time."
He hummed in agreement, and you couldn’t help the little smile that lingered, even as you'’d notices that the computer was waiting you to log in.
Everything got up and running - his sale going through, the ending peppered with you, "Thank you for coming in."
Another squint of his eyes - his answering smile in farewell.
You realized you didn't get the chance to ask him if he made his - but it's almost nice.
Because that meant that it's something you can ask him next time.
———
It feels like horribly bad luck when you lose it.
Rushing out the door, your favorite scarf disappearing somewhere between your car, the cafe next door where you had grabbed breakfast, and the bookshop.
You mourn the loss, incredibly disappointed in yourself. It had been special. Certain little memories tied to it - not to mention the fact that you friend had crafted it for you, stitch by loving stitch.
Going out on your short lunch break to look - coming up empty. Wishing and hoping that perhaps you left it at home, but you're certain you remember pulling it up over your nose this morning, as the wind stung your eyes.
You're almost late getting back - a man standing at the little sign you had on the door, a "be back soon" hastily scrawled across the paper, with a little drawing of a clock.
The apology is sliding from you, fingers cold and fumbling as you slide the key into the lock - the to-go bag tucked awkwardly under your arm. Stopping when he helps ease the door open for you - when you notice who it is.
The kind man with the brown eyes. You don't even know his name, he always pays in cash.
"Thank you. I hope you didn't have to wait." You apologize again, as he follows you in, "I lost my - well, nevermind. You don't need to hear all that."
He hesitates. Like he would listen to your story, and the bit of kindess makes your heart flip.
Instead of continuing, you smile - gesturing over to a recently-updated display, "We got a couple new books in. I set some to the side, I thought you might like them."
Showing him the three you tucked away - their pages filled with colorful pictures, friendly life lessons.
He takes them all.
---
You're getting ready to close when he coming back through the front door - a gust of wind swirling behind him.
Where you're blinking at him - he's never stopped by twice in a day before. Twice a week was even unsual.
Snow clings to his coat, the canvas soaking it in, leaving dark stains behind on his shoulders. He fishes around in his pocket, before pulling out a small, folded bundle.
"You were missing this." He tells you, holding it out - as if he knew you were.
It unfolds in your hands, and you know it - the stripes of sage green bleeding into muted gold. Your scarf. Warm and soft between your fingers.
"Yes. How did you know?"
He shrugs, the movement made from unease, embarasssment. A hand, raising to scratch at the light patch of his beard near his jaw, "It's like mine."
For a second, you don't have words. The gesture so thoughtful that you can't think of what to say.
He mistakes your pause.
"You said you lost something earlier. I found this next to the curb just up the street. I would have been here sooner, but it was soaked, and I wanted to let it dry." It's the most you've ever heard him talk, the words almost rushed, "Glad I made it back in time.
"Thank you." You manage, at last - your eyes soft and warm, “I'm really glad, too."
“Happy to help.” His knuckles rap the counter, before he turns to leave.
Pausing, as he adds, “See you next week.”
He says it like it’s a sure thing - and maybe, it means as much to him, as it does to you.
“Yeah,” You smile, “Next week. I’ll be here.”
The words make you cringe internally as the door closed behind him - because of course you’ll be there. Where else? But you’re unable to help the small smile, as you watch him head up the street, his own scarf pulled up high over his mouth as the snowflakes drift down.
Thinking that maybe - just maybe - your luck has changed.
[dilfcember masterlist]
(tags - @andrewrussgarfield)
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It Had To Be You | Day 31 - New Years Eve
alfred pennyworth x f!reader
Rated T - 2k words
Prompt: countdown/new year’s eve/midnight kiss + hot chocolate
Tags: age difference, soft domestic holiday fluff, mutual pining, a massage, a confession, and a new years kiss
Sure, there’s a few places you could spend New Years Eve. But there’s only one person you want to spend it with.
It seemed like a good idea - you're only really rethinking it as you press the buttons on the elevator. The ornate, brass doors closing behind you, the snow still clinging to the shoulders of your puffy winter jacket.
The soft, familiar jazz as it takes you up to the top floor - your legs still cold as the doors open, as you step out into the foyer.
It's half-lit - almost casual, despite the luxurious decor. Certainly cozy.
Hesitating for a second, but you’re already here. Too late to turn back now, you’re certain he’s already aware of your presence. You shrug out of your coat, hanging it on the iron coat rack in the entryway. You’re crouching, unlacing your slush-stained boots when you hear him.
"Bruce? I thought you'd be out until-" Alfred's words halt, as he appears from the left wing. Dressed warmly in a woolen fishermans sweater, a book tucked under his arm as he adjusts his glasses.
"Hi." You smile, "Is it okay that I stopped by?"
You were there often enough, once or twice a week. One of Bruce's college friends, though your time had only overlapped for a year, and you had been graduating. But then came grad school, and you kept running into each other, and a friendship had formed.
His brow furrows, though not unkindly, "You are always welcome. I’m afraid that Bruce is still out, though. I'm not sure when he will return home."
But he's already turning, beckoning you into the den, and you're following at his heels.
"I know."
Your arms wrap around your torso -the Tower always seemed to be a little chilly. The dress you wore for New Years, something short and glittery, did not help - the tile seeming to soak right into your stockinged feet.
There's a fire going, and you're sighing as you step close to the hearth, "I came to see you."
Your appearence had surprised him a little, but he had hid it well. This though, had his brows raising, his lips parting as he glances your way - though you don't catch it.
"On New Years?" He asks, clearing his throat - taking the briefest second to soak you in, before he's noticing how you shiver, "Don't you have plans? Something with your friends?"
Wondering if you're just stopping by, if you'd be leaving - now that you know.
"I saw them already." Your cheeks are warmed by the heat of the fire, a prickle in your toes as you wiggle them, "I saw Bruce, too. A couple times."
Turning to smile at him, where he stands stiffly next to the tufted couch, "He made sure to tell me each time how you were staying in, tonight. How lonely you looked when he left, up in this Tower. I couldn't have that."
His look turns flat, a flicker of annoyance across his features, "I am far from lonely, I assure you."
But you wonder if that's true. You wonder a lot of things, like the looks Bruce had given you earlier as he told you - as if he had peered into your mind.
Figuring out your wishes. Your little crush.
"I don't want you to feel like you have to entertain an old man."
His words make you want to laugh, you teeth sinking into you lip to hold it back. Oh, how much you'd like to do just that.
Instead, you move to the other end of the couch, flopping down onto it. Smiling up at him, "I wanted to stop by, anyways. Thought it sounded nice."
It feels too close to a confession, so you deflect with a yawn, "Besides, it's freezing out there. My feet are killing me from all the walking."
This gets him - the little nudge to his nuturing side, giving him something to do.
"You stay there, then. Get comfortable, and I'll be right back."
———
He returns with things that you enjoy, carefully tucked away in his mind from years of observation. A mug of cocoa, a large, navy sherpa blanket from the hall closet, one of his cardigans. A pair of thick woolen socks.
It's like a second Christmas, shrugging into the sweater that smells like him. A moan of approval and relief as you tug on the socks, pulling them up to your shins. The blanket gets tucked around you, your fingers wrapping around the warm mug - as he eases into his seat at the other end of the couch.
Passing you the remote to flip through channels - and you notice how his book he was carrying around remains discarded on the side table. Politeness perhaps, but he’s read in front of you before.
Part of you hoping that it’s a sign your presence really is welcome.
Skipping over half-finished movies, reality television. Finally picking one of the local stations covering the downtown celebrations - the camera zooming in on the stage set up where they’re playing live music, interviewing famous guests in town for the evening.
It’s comfortable, an easy silence as you watch, the occasional laugh. A bit of time passing as you sip on your cocoa, curled into the couch. The bright crackle of the fire, where you can both feel the curls of heat from the couch. Before he’s remembering - his hand catching your attention as he pats his thigh.
For a wild second you think he’s meaning for you to sit on his lap, the thought one that was very welcome - just unexpected.
“You said your feet were killing you.” He explains, and your eyes widen in surprise, “It’s the least I can do, seeing as you walked here to see me.”
“Oh, I couldn’t-” You’re protesting, though it’s half-hearted at best.
“Come here.” He’s interrupting firmly, catching the edge of your toes beneath the blanket, your leg stretching out willingly.
You groan when his fingers press into the arch, the sound wanton and unashamed. It’s feels incredible - your other leg reaches out, resting your socked foot on the thick muscle of his thigh.
Working the muscles loose with skillful touches, aching careful not to tickle you. It sends your heart flipping in your chest, unable to help your peeks in his direction - watching his profile, the light from the television reflecting off his glasses.
It feels… comfortable.
Like this is any other night, one that’s happened a hundred times before, and would happen a hundred time after. An easy sort of silence and companionship.
The realization is something you wish you had time to examine a little more closely, if your eyelids weren’t slowly getting heavier, the cardigan a warm cloud around you.
“If you fall asleep, shall I wake you at midnight?” He asks, a teasing edge to his voice that has your eyes cracking open.
“I’m not sleeping.” You retort, though the lazy yawn that cuts through your words indicates otherwise, “You just feel so good.”
His ears pinken, a flush to his cheeks as he smiles - though you don’t catch it in the cozy dim of the room.
Watching the coverage idly, the packed groups of people gathered close to the line of barriers for the entertainers. People-watching was pretty entertaining - plenty of costumes, the camera slowly panning back and forth across the crowd.
“Have you ever done that?” You ask - breaking the silence - your gaze lingering where the camera stopped on an embracing couple, kissing shamelessly.
“Stood downtown for hours on end in the cold?” He asks, with a reproving huff of breath, “Christ, no.”
“No.” That has you smiling, your gaze flicking towards him, “Kissing someone on New Years Eve. Right at midnight.”
“Ah.” He’s silent, a quick glance your way. A small smile, “Yes. Though it was ages ago, as you can imagine.”
“It always looked so nice.” You sigh, as the camera pans away, “I’ve never done it. It’s never worked out quite right. I was hoping to this year, but…”
The words trail off, a beat of silence as he glances down at his gold watch - thinking carefully about what he wants to say.
“There might still be time. You could go back out.” His words come slowly, “Is there… someone you have in mind?”
A tick in his jaw, as he waits - as he continues to face forward. Watching the television with unseeing eyes.
“I do.” You admit with a sigh, as his fingers halt their massaging for just a second.
Eyes that flick his way, to gauge his reaction, “I worry that he would say no, though. That he wouldn’t want me.”
His head turns at that, his hand curling around your ankle, where his fingers has just been.
“Anyone would be lucky to have you.” He tells you - a firmness in his voice that makes you want to believe him.
Giving you the perfect opening.
Tugging your feet from his lap, his fingers lingering for the briefest second, before you’re pushing yourself up.
“What if I was right where I wanted to be?” You ask him, and there’s the slightest crease between his eyebrows as he watches you.
As your leg curls up, as you ease a cushion closer to him, your voice soft and low as you ask, “Would you tell me no, Alfred?”
He inhales a sharp breath, the slightest widening of his eyes as they drop to your mouth. His own lips pressing together, the pink peek of his tongue as he wets them.
The answer coming as a low, honest rasp.
“Never.”
But then he’s blinking - catching himself, “But surely, wouldn’t you-”
You inch closer, emboldened - the time ticking down on the television, the new year so close at hand. Interrupting his self-sabotage as your fingers touch his wrist, the bare bit of skin where his sweater pulls up.
“I want it to be you, this year. That’s why I came. It’s been you for a long time.”
A confession at the eleventh hour.
He’s still silent, and your heart is crashing into your guts. God - this was embarrassing, throwing yourself at him, the pressure had to be enormous. Maybe his answer was only a friendly pep-talk, and you had it all wrong, and-
You’re starting to pull back with a self-conscious laugh, “I’m sorry. That wasn’t fair of me. You don’t have to-”
But he’s catching you then, hands that find your elbows. Tugging you until you’re straddling him, a little gasp in your throat as you find yourself as you had just daydreamed earlier that night - perched on his strong thighs.
Eyes locked on each others, low panting breaths at the countdown begins. His hands on your hips, fingers pressing into the hard, glittery sequins as your own curl into his soft sweater.
“10, 9, 8-”
Your eyes are dropping to his mouth, the curve of his lips, the salt-and-pepper of his neat beard.
“7-6-5-”
His eyes still on yours - a final check that you do want this - reading your tells in the way you cling to him, the eager heave of your chest.
“4-3-2-”
Your eyes close.
He leans.
“1.”
Alfred mouth is warm against yours, the press of his lips firm. You melt, your breath caught in your throat. A flip in your chest, and then a warmth blooming lower. Fingers curling in his sweater as your nose brushes against his, as you find yourself clinging to him.
A soft moan in your throat as his grip on you tightens, pulling you closer. Deepening the kiss with a brush of his tongue, your lips parting eagerly for him - the sounds of the celebrating fading out to nothing.
Your eyes half-lidded when you eventually pull back, tongue caught between your teeth as you grin.
Even better than you had thought - better than any of your daydreams.
“Happy New Years, Alfred.”
His lips are parted, murmuring his own, breathless, “Happy New Years, darling” back.
Before his hand is coming up to cup your jaw-
And he’s pulling you back in for another.
(no pressure tags - @andrewrussgarfield, @luxuryberzatto, @obiknights, @stargirlfics, @squidlywiddly87, @maskhoper, @madamepoelzig, @hiddlebatchedloki)
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Day 27: Date Night In
moodboard + 5(ish) sentence fic
otto octavius x gn!reader
tags: fluff, established relationship
A sweet attempt to soothe some cabin fever
It’s beautiful on the rooftop - a view of the wharf from one side, with the gentle ebb and flow of crashing waves - the other side facing the twinkling city.
Inky indigo bleeds into the pinks and purples of the sunset, dark enough now for you to light the candles, pulling your coat a little tighter as you arrange the little table, laden with takeout.
The minutes ticking by until he finds you, a search aided by the note you left for when he retired from his lab - his arrival noted by the whir of his actuators as they bring him to the roof. Brows raising as he asks, “What’s all this, darling?”
“I know you must miss going out,” You smile as you find his hand, leading him to the seat across from yours, “So I tried to bring out to you.”
“On the contrary, my dear.” An actuator loops around you, tugging until you’re settling on his lap - his voice a low murmur in your ear, “Everything I need is right here.”
[dilfcember masterlist]
#wwdilfcember#otto octavius x you#otto octavius x reader#doc ock x gn!reader#doc ock x you#doc ock x reader
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