I Wouldn't Mind Help Conditioning His Beard

𝖊𝖚𝖈𝖍𝖆𝖗𝖎𝖘𝖙 | priest!Steve Rogers x reader

summary: anybody can get a boy into bed, it’s not very hard if you have low standards (which you, historically, have), but it takes a special kind of woman to seduce a man of the cloth.  the question is, while you’re tempting him away from a life of holiness, can he convince you to change your ways as well?  

word count: 8.7k

warnings: smut!! (including rough sex, oral sex m & f receiving, fingering, and a bit of dubcon at some points), an overwhelming amount of religious references, sex in religious places, use of a confession booth as a glory hole (i’m so sorry), very slight breeding kink, a non-sexual slap, semi-public sex, implied age gap, dommy reader but steve has some dom moments too, and she calls him ‘Father’ because that’s his title so… just be prepared for that

Continuar a ler

A hungry baby

When they wake up, it takes them a while to realise that they have me. I’m in their heads by then, and my wings are unfurled, the talons sunk into the brain. Groaning when they realise I’m with them, they try to go back to sleep. More sleep might be enough to drive me away, they think.

It doesn’t work like that.

Sara’s her name. Her lover whispers it when they both wake up, only minutes apart. I whisper the name, too—don’t worry, she can’t hear it—and I try to get a feel for her. Not a very expressive face, she keeps it blank and featureless. The sort of girl who’d hide inside a boring old cardigan and pretend she’s too good for fashion.

She groans louder and swivels her feet off of the bed, down to the floor.

“Bad sleep?” the partner asks.

“Headache.”

“Bad?”

“Explosive.”

That makes me smile. A lot of people just leave it at ‘headache’, like I don’t deserve any qualifiers, like I don’t deserve to be acknowledged in my uniqueness. But no, I like Sara now. I revel in her description of me, I hold the letters out on a string of gold, and I want the word tattooed onto my metaphorical forehead.

Explosive.

“Damn. I don’t wanna be you right now,” the partner mutters.

Beaming, I pulse harder and harder, beating down on the walls of the brain, breaking brick and shaking the mortar. It’s one thing to be admired by your friends, it’s another entirely to hear your enemies’ complaints. If you give them nothing to complain about, what even is the point of your existence?

“Please don’t.” Sara is dragging her feet towards the bathroom now. Her limbs feel numb. I hold on to what I’ve got.

“We’re out of pills, the painkillers, I mean.”

Sara glares at her partner. Well, she tries to, but I don’t think she quite manages. It’s enough to get the partner out of the bed, though.

“I’ll get some more from the pharmacy. You can rest easy today. You should call work, let them know you won’t make it.”

Sara has her fingers on her forehead now, and she’s rubbing her temples, rubbing her forehead, rubbing whatever part of the skin outside of her skull that she thinks I might be hiding in. It’s a pitiful attempt, if you know anything about me, about headaches in general.

“Rest easy! That’s an order, private!” the partner announces, tries to be cute.

“Just get out already!” Sara yells, and then she whines loudly, gripping her head and stumbling back towards the bed.

The partner is a little taken aback. “Sorry,” she says, and slips out of the room.

I continue to work my magic. The last one I had my talons in was an old lady who didn’t really make it all the way to the end of my tenure.

“I know you can hear me,” Sara says, and I glance up to see if her partner has returned. “Yes, you. Headache. I know you’re there.”

Releasing my hold, I stare at the end of the bed. Sara takes her hands off of her head and wraps them around her knees. “I don’t have much to say to you. Just know that you won’t make it out of my body. You won’t survive.”

“Explosive,” I whisper to myself. Was it the truth?

@positiveseed

YOUTUBE

Jaskier did not shiw his ankles?! 😲😲 The audacity, the indecorum!!

Geralt trying to be respectful but there's only so much a man can take

People call Geralt old fashioned, as if just because he’s nearly a century old he doesn’t understand modern sensibilities. But that’s not it. He understands perfectly well that the world changes, but he still thinks there’s some value in a certain sense of decorum.

Jaskier, however, has no decorum whatsoever.

As if it wasn’t bad enough that he goes around with his doublet undone, showing off a lacy undershirt beneath – because that’s the fashion now, apparently, and young people these days have no problem with that sort of thing – there are even times when he removes his doublet entirely, leaving Geralt to deal with a lot of billowy shirtsleeves and uncomfortably transparent fabric.

It’s hard not to look, okay, when there’s all of… that on display. (Broad shoulders, the firm swell of his chest muscles, a tangling of dark hair that you want to dig you fingers into -)

It’s even worse when Jaskier choose to roll his sleeves up past his elbows (revealing the soft, pale skin of his forearms which aches to be kissed). Worse still when Jaskier continues to gesture wildly as he talks, hands flicking back and forth in Geralt’s field of view, constantly flitting distractions of skin and joints and blue veins barely visible.

Geralt steels himself. It’s just Jaskier being Jaskier. It doesn’t mean anything. He ought to be ashamed of his… blatant ogling. It’s unbecoming of a man his age.

“… Geralt? are you listening?” Jaskier snaps his fingers in front of Geralt’s face and his attention is caught by the delicate lines of his wrist, the scent of lavender emanating from his pulse point, the faint, faint sound of blood throbbing beneath the skin.

He schools his face into a carefully neutral frown. “Hmm,” he says, hoping that will induce Jaskier to drop it.

Jaskier narrows his eyes but says nothing, soon distracted by throwing himself onto the room’s single bed. “My feet are killing me,” he complains, one hand pressed to his forehead dramatically. “And it’s all your fault for making me walk everywhere.”

Geralt averts his eyes as Jaskier removes his boots and peels off his socks, damn him. Some things were not meant to be done in company.

Jaskier thrusts one foot toward Geralt and wiggles his toes. “Give me a foot rub?” he says, as if that was something you casually asked your friends to do.

Geralt makes the mistake of glancing over and is greeted by not only the elegant arch of his foot, but also a shapely, fine-boned ankle and the soft, inviting swell of a calf.

He feels light headed. His heart is pounding. This is beyond the pale, even for Jaskier. His ankle is right there. It’s indecent. It’s scandalous. It’s downright shameful.

Geralt commits the sight to memory for… later consideration.

“Come on,” Jaskier wheedles. “Help a fellow traveller out. I’ll call for a bath and we can share the tub while you massage my toes.”

The… the audacity. The impropriety. The blood is roaring in his ears. He thinks he might faint.

He sets his face into his most intimidating grimace and growls, “Fuck off, bard.”

Jaskier just laughs, high and light. “Oh, Geralt, you really are too much fun.”

Geralt pouts. He doesn’t see what’s so damn funny.

Bucky’s New Bike

Warning: smut, explicit sexual content, oral- female receiving, unprotected sex, explicit language (must be 18+) complete shit writing but this was for my own indulgence....

• your boyfriend Bucky just got a new bike

• the type the you had always heard people call crotch rockets

• you weren't really into bikes, but Bucky loved them

• you didn't mind, as long as he didn't get grease everywhere

• Bucky loved the stupid thing, maybe even more then you

• the amount of time he spent tinkering with the damn thing was kinda making you jealous

• ‘Buck, come on' you whined, bouncing your leg, arms crossed impatiently as you stood in the garage, waiting on your boyfriend

• he had promised to take you out tonight, but that was an hour ago

• 'I hate this stupid bike' you scowled, turning to leave the garage, when Bucky grabbed your wrist, pulling you back to him

• you crashed into his hard body as he planted a kiss to your lips

• 'is my baby jealous?' He smirked down at you, resting your foreheads together

• 'you don't pay attention to me anymore' you pouted out your bottom lip

• 'come here' he smirked, dragging you to his motorcycle, and spinning you around, pressing you down until you were sitting sideways on it

• Bucky kneeled down in front of you, reaching up your skirt and hooking his fingers into the waistband of your panties

• your breath quickened as he pulled your panties down your legs and off your body, stuffing them in the pocket of his leather coat

• Bucky bunched your skirt up to your waist and looked up at you as the pad of his thumb found your clit

• you bit your lip, stifling a whimper as you watched him hungrily work over your clit

• 'that feel good, baby?' He smirked, dipping his thumb into your cunt, spreading your slick back up over your folds, your mouth fell open in a silent cry of pleasure

• Bucky leaned in, planting an open mouth kiss to your clit and your body jolted, moaning as your hands went to his hair, tugging

• 'fuck, Bucky' you whimpered, rutting your hips into his mouth

• Bucky hummed, fingers digging into the flesh of your ass at the sides of your hips

• 'please, baby' you panted, leaning back to give him better access to your cunt, gripping the bike for stability

• Bucky licked a long strip up your folds before rocking back on his haunches and staring up at you

• you looked down at him with glossy eyes, thighs trembling to keep yourself upright

• Bucky stood, pulling you up as a whimper let your objections be known

• 'come here, baby' he chuckled

• Bucky ran his hand from your waist down your skirt over your bare leg until he landed on your lower thigh

• Bucky hooked the back of your knee with one hand, throwing your leg over the motorcycle

• 'no, Bucky' you started to protest, but he climbed on behind you, pressing his bulge into you, you felt it twitch as you rocked your ass back into him

• Bucky leaned over, starting the motorcycle and you felt in rumble between your legs

• 'Bucky, What are we doing? I don't want to drive it' you said, as he reached around bunching your skirt up your body

• you gasped as the cool metal of the bike was against your hot sex

• Bucky wrapped his hand around you gently massaged your folds upwards, you gasped again as the cool metal kissed your clit

• you head the unzipping of Bucky's pants as you rocked forward, enjoying the vibration between your legs

• you startled as you felt his cock spring free from his pants and rut into your ass cheek

• ‘you gonna be good for me, baby?’ Bucky groaned, fisting his cock

• ‘yes’ you panted, hands gripping the bike as a giggle escaped your lips, the combination of vibration and cold metal against your center was overpowering your senses

• 'fuck' you moaned as Bucky revved the engine, sending vibrations straight to your core

• Bucky pushed you forward and ran his seeping cock through your slick folds, sliding into you as you rubbed your wet pussy, grinding it into his bike

• 'that's it baby, make a mess on my bike' he groaned, burying himself to the hilt inside your clenching walls

• Bucky's large frame towered over you as he fucked you deep, leaning over his bike, grinding you into it

• you leaned forward, eyes rolling back from the sensation of Bucky's dick deep inside you as the bike continued to vibrate your clit towards a toe curling orgasm

• ‘let go for me, baby’ he groaned, pinning you to the bike as he rutted into you, vigorously

• your body began to tremble as you cried out his name, orgasm ripping though your body

• Bucky’s hips faltered as he snapped up into you meeting his own hot release as your pussy fluttered around him

• you were slumped over, clinging to the bike, completely fucked out and unable to move

• Bucky lifted you off the bike and cleaned you up before carrying you upstairs

• Bucky couldn’t help but admire the shiny slick spot of arousal left on his bike

• mumbling something about his bike never looking better

HOLD STILL

written for @punkshort's AU August Challenge

RATING: Explicit (18+) PAIRING: Bodyguard!Dave York x f!Reader WORD COUNT: 3.4k CW: Dave's filthy mouth, pwp, smut (cockwarming, unprotected piv, creampie, sorta soft-dom!dave but really he's just bossy, sorta praise kink, a couple pussy pronouns don’t look at me), and one nonsense tense switch just for the hell of it I guess.

SUMMARY: On your last night together, Dave agrees to compromise.

read on ao3 | almostfoxglove masterlist

You want him, but he won’t fuck you. Not once, not even quickly, not even with just his hands. Dave York—ever stoic, unflinching—insists on doing his job and his job alone. And you, as he so enjoys reiterating, are not his job. Protecting you is. 

For three weeks you’ve smothered the calendar hung on the kitchen wall with another red X each morning, whittling the days until you give your polished testimony and say goodbye to him for good. Now the court date looms heavy on the horizon—it’ll rise tomorrow with the sun. 

In the meantime—these last, dwindling hours—you roam the grand rooms of an apartment rented for your protection, your anonymity, at the very skirt of the city where you’d surely have lost your mind if not for him. Stationed diligently at your side, hand never more than a twitch from the grip of his gun. So many hours spent alone you've memorized his form: how he looks scanning the curtained windows for any whisper of danger. How he's never complained when you choose cheesy reality shows from the TV guide. Teaching you how to play Spades with a deck of cards soft and worn—from his home, maybe, though you never ask—and letting you win the first hand, lips quirked when you call him out on it, then unapologetically wiping the floor with you for the rest of your isolation. 

Yes, you know him, though only in image. Broad and sturdy, shirts each neatly ironed and squarely tucked. The hard line of his jaw and the fullness of his bottom lip. His hair always swept neatly from his face, even when you know he’s recently woken up. Never scruffy, never stubbled. Clean shaven and the smell of nice hotel shampoo.

It’s wrong, how you try to prod him to no avail. No matter your efforts, he says nothing of the way you adorn your body: lacy slips and satin sets at night, hugging silhouettes during the day, hair always done, lipstick never out of place even though you can’t leave the apartment or stand too near the windows. Dave is the only one who sees you, save for the days or hours when he leaves you his clumsy understudy to step down from his post.

He must know you do it for him.

It’s wrong, but you asked once, early on. Tonight? 

And Dave’s mouth pinched into a flat, polite line. Unreadable, his face drained of its emotion. His declination drawled deep and heady, a voice that curled your toes and more than once kept you panting alone in your bed that’s not yours at all, just two doors away from his, fingers needy and swirling. No, honey. Not tonight.

Repeated in your mind until it warped like an overplayed tape.

No, honey.

Honey.

Honey.

Not tonight.

Tonight.

Tonight, he is gone—your last together before the trial—leaving you in the hollow apartment with his proxy, stung. Same dark clothes, same holstered gun, same little piece nestled in his ear, but not half of what you want. You want Dave: a man as solid as he is driven, immutable as he is tempting. Assigned to protect you until you deliver the account that’ll send a monster away.

Perhaps you’ve liked the game—how he watches you, but never gives in—but now it’s lost its shimmer.

Lights dimmed for the evening, all black curtains drawn, the vaulted ceilings of the kitchen feel miles high as you perch on a barstool at the breakfast counter to stare at the calendar taunting you across the quiet room. Beyond the pristine halls you’ve lapped all day like an anxious dog, the city serenades you. Traffic squealing through streets, sirens singing in the distance, the occasional shout of someone walking by outside, eight floors below. 

You are not, at night, permitted to part the curtains, lest someone get a glimpse of your illuminated face, but you long to open one now, see if Dave is out there, returning to your little castle turret one final time. Because it’s possible he won’t come back at all—that his coworker will escort you between lobby and truck, between truck and courthouse, between courthouse and whatever comes next. Maybe home. That you’ll never see Dave again, let alone throw caution to the wind and ask once more, tonight?

And then, just then, as your stomach begins to sink with disappointment, you hear the sudden crack of the front door unlocking and the creak of its surrender. You’ve conjured him, somehow, past the stroke of midnight. Then low, rumbled whispers, the unmistakable tone of Dave’s voice mumbling to his understudy. Your heart speeds as the door closes again and his stand-in retreats into the hall. How dizzying, the sound of locks settling into their rightful places, turned by Dave’s unerring hands. 

When he appears in the dining room behind you, bomber jacket hanging from one arm, he tucks a tiny apology into the twitch of his lips—or maybe it’s meant to be a smile. “It’s late,” he says, as your eyes drink him in. Polished as ever, despite the hour, not a stitch out of place. “Should be in bed.”

You shrug, hoping you might appear indifferent. “Couldn’t sleep,” you say, aware of how the satin of your robe slopes off your shoulder with no intention of righting it.

Does something darken in his face then, or do you imagine it? You can’t be sure, not in this umbra, at this time of night. Jaw ticking, Dave strides cautiously toward the dining table, drapes his jacket over the back of one glossy chair, and sinks into the seat at the head of the sleek table, same as usual. A quiet kind of reign, his claiming this position, always, for every meal. He scratches his cheek, slips the gun from the holster at his belt to rest on the table, and as he leans back you indulge yourself—how can you not—in the slight buck of his hips as he shifts to stretch out his legs. 

“Need your rest,” Dave chides softly. No edge to his tone.

Sighing before you can stop yourself, disappointed all over again as his gaze draws off you to the windows and drapes. On duty, still. On duty, always. Not you. Not tonight. “S’the last night,” you reply, staring at the calendar again. One little red X to go. “You weren’t here.”

Behind you, his deep and measured breath. The shiver of that unflappable restraint, you hope, but you don’t yet dare to look back. He might spook.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

You don’t budge. Don’t move.

“You hear me?” Voice a little harder now, solidifying. When he speaks to you, you always look him in the eye—or you always have before.

Electric, your heart. Revving just a breath faster, just a hair harder, at the sound of him huffing in frustration. Your lips tick up in one corner, hidden, a secret meant only for you. When Dave says your name, your whole body purrs and you at last turn your head enough to let him glimpse your profile, still withholding your gaze.

“Pouting,” he scolds, this time meaning it. “That what this is?”

“Avoiding me,” you counter. “That where you were?”

Dave hmphs, darkness fading and softness returning to his tone. “Course not, honey.”

You look at him now, properly. Barstool spinning as you push off the counter to face him. Under the dusk of dimmed pendant lights over the dining table, Dave glows. In the time you’ve looked away, he’s unbuttoned his shirt one button lower than it’d been when he walked in.

One button lower than you’ve ever seen him wear before.

“Said I’m sorry,” he says again, head tilted. His foot comes out to nudge the leg of the chair beside his, angling it in your direction. “Come here.”

He means for you to sit, maybe play a hand of Spades, but as you slink off the barstool you have no intention of taking the seat. Warmth flushing in your chest, cool, conditioned air greeting your bare legs and collarbones, all the skin not covered by your sleekest sleep set. You swear he drinks the sight of you, for once, as you cross the kitchen toward him. Eyes dark not only from shadows, from the time. Or else you hope, as you come to a stop between Dave’s knees, that the way he’s not yet blinked means what you want it to.

Lips parting, a breath from speaking when you beat him to the punch and ask, “Tonight?” Your chin lowered and eyes searching his. It’s the last night. Might as well show your hand while you still can, before he slinks back into the underbelly of a city where you know he’s lived for years but you’ve never once glimpsed him, and not just because it’s busy.

Because invisible is what he’s paid to be, what he’s good at. Unseen until the fist of him is needed, the gun.

Pink striping his bottom lip, a swipe of his tongue, eyes boring into you. The slightest shake of his head, clean-shaven cheeks sharked in the shadow and golden light. “Honey.” Not a no, honey. Not a not tonight. Just honey, like you’ve imagined.

Emboldened, you caress of your fingertips across his shoulder, tracing the seam of his crisp, pale blue dress shirt. So handsome, always so handsome. A man who takes care of himself, who tidies and cleans without your needing to ask. Spotless, always. Reserved, always. Killing you, always, with every brush of his gaze. 

You draw your fingers towards his shirt collar.

“Can’t,” says Dave, softer still. Breathy, almost. You pet the knife-cut of his pressed collar, the button just below it, and his Adam’s apple bobs slowly in his throat. Again, he shakes his head so slightly it looks more like a twitch. A reflex to say no. Not a desire to. “Can’t fuck you, honey. Wouldn’t be right.”

You bite your lip, brows drawing together, not lifting your hand from the button placket of his shirt. “Just tonight,” you breathe, and bat your eyes a little.

At last Dave’s dark eyes drop from yours, scanning the length of you above him with searing precision. Consideration. You slant your head to one side as his gaze slides back up, hesitating on your silk-draped chest, and you suck a sharper breath before it returns to meet yours. He cuffs your wrist with his hand to halt your teasing as he shakes his head once more, licking his bottom lip again with greater meaning. A glint in his eyes, lust finally flaring. 

Pride swirls in your stomach, honeyed and wanting. Then he tugs you by the hips with such reflexes you hardly register the movement of his hands before you’re on him, straddling him in the chair, your thighs framing his hips. Held. Your robe fanning behind you, over his knees. Heart pounding dangerously close to a cardiac event.

Dave tsks softly, smirking when you whimper, trying to roll your hips over the heat of his crotch. Those careful, deadly hands lock them in a vice as he clicks his tongue. “Not gonna fuck you,” he murmurs, and you lean in to kiss him but he pulls his head away. “Not gonna kiss you either. Not right.”

You don’t care about right. Now you pout for real, forehead wrinkling, staring at his upturned lips. You feel the unmistakable twitch of him growing hard against you and your cunt throbs in reply, needy and slick. You try to wiggle again but Dave pinches your hips in warning. “Look at me,” he repeats, that edge to his voice that curls your toes, and your eyes snap to his.

“Good girl.”

You moan quietly, made liquid by the tender swipe of his thumb over the satin of your sleep shorts. Your eyes fluttering at such a tiny stroke, not even the meeting of skin. 

“You can’t move, okay? Only allowed to sit.” When you don’t answer, too lost to the throb of his cock against your begging core, Dave pinches you again, voice gravelly in a way you’ve not heard before. “You hear me?”

Nodding, you hum. Can’t quite get out the word. 

“Need to hear you, honey. Gonna hold still for me?”

“Mhm,” you whine, fighting your every instinct to grind down against him as you meet his lust-blown eyes. “Yes. Only allowed to sit.”

Dave puffs a hot breath out that sends a wake of goosebumps across your chest. “Good girl,” he coos, and your brows pinch at the praise. “Soaking me already, honey. Can’t sleep like this, can you? Just need to turn your brain off, hm?” The movement of his hips below yours is so slight you might imagine it, that tiny grind as his cock grows. You nod, whine softly, and both his thumbs stroke your hips gently before stilling again.

“Show me, honey.” So quiet. So little air between you, and yet too much.

You scan his face until he offers a small nod. Those brown eyes hooded by dark lashes, devouring you without need for the press of his mouth. It’d be soft, you’re certain. The caress of his lips. Maybe the rest of him is hard and deadly, but those would be tender, careful—they’d take you apart, breath by breath. With the same precision with which he darts between shadows and cleans his gun and beats you at cards and tucks your hair behind your ear when you’re falling asleep on the couch, he’d dissolve you kiss by kiss with a kind of grace.

It’s his lips on which you pin your gaze as you let one hand drift between your legs, dipping easily between silk and skin—your body made jelly so quickly and by so little contact, already wet. You pray you don’t imagine the sharpness of his breath when your knuckles accidentally graze against his slacks as you slip your fingers between dewy folds. Then: your hand rising in the dim light, shining, honeyed. Dave watching them, the corner of his mouth cracking just a little. Tensing into his cheek.

He grunts, good girl, and then he’s lifting you just enough to peel down the zip of his slacks, flick open the button, but when your eyes fall hopeful for a glimpse of him he tsks, hooks one finger beneath your chin to tilt your face up, whispers a soft eyes on me, honey as he pulls himself out where you can’t see.

As his knuckles brush against the wet gusset of your shorts, nudging them to the side. Finding no panties to move.

As the head of his cock—plush, warm, weeping—nudges against the ache of you, the thrum of your longing.

He grins, wicked.

Then pressure, a moan lost to the air you’re hardly conscious of and the stretch of him, the slow press in and the ache of your cunt swallowing his girth inch by inch. You whimper, eyelids shuddering like old film, catching only still frames of Dave’s expression as he lowers you gently, burying himself in your drooling heat until you come to rest at his base, flush and full.

So full. Light-headed, sparkling. Your hips must rock because he squeezes your waist. “Hold still, honey,” he coos. “Remember?”

The terms of his touch sounded alright just a breath ago, but now you can’t imagine how you ever agreed. How you’re supposed to stay still with him throbbing inside you like this, heavy and sweet, exactly what you need. A flicker in his eyes like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you, how he’s scrubbing out every thought in your head. Cocky, yes. But earning it.

“Dave,” you sigh, breathy and desperate. Your cunt clenching and squeezing and pushing out slick, probably ruining his slacks but he won’t let you look down, just tilts your head up gently every time it hangs slack. “Please.”

His breathing catches for a beat, then it’s steady again. “I know, I know,” he murmurs, keeping his finger under your chin to keep your eyes on him—but he hardly needs to. You’d swear the whole world drained away the second he slid into you. There’s nothing else past your bodies, past this one dining room chair. Everything else disappears like magic. The trial, the dread, the drone of city noise. The slow leak of your heart knowing this is goodbye—all of it. Gone.

You’d have sworn it impossible to come like this, with no movement at all, but you will. You do. And months from now—safe in the swaddle of your actual apartment that for weeks has stood hollow and dusty, plants withering sadly on their windowsills—you’ll lie in bed longing, missing, remembering. Trying to recreate the swipe of his thick thumb on your clit as you replay this moment in your head. How you whined, wanna take care of you when Dave still wouldn’t let you move, even when you were close, just swiped and swiped his thumb until you were something more than alive, transcending.

How his pupils had set ablaze with your whispered plea. How you’d realized that was the point, for him. The begging and the not giving in.

How he’d growled, “Taking care of you is taking care of me. You don’t think I’m gonna come the second this pussy strangles my cock? ‘Cause I am. S’all I need, honey, just give it to me—”

His voice the thunder to your body’s crackle and lightning.

“Let her take care of me, that’a girl, that’s it, just like that honey, she’s so tight—fuck—so fuckin’ tight around me, just squeezin’ me, gonna come when you do, pretty girl, let me have it.”

How it hit you like a white bolt of heat and light, every cell in you tense and flaming, then melting, boneless on his lap as he murmured sweetly, grunted, tried to lift you off him just in time and you’d finally, finally touched him—lucid in an instant, hands slammed down on the muscle of his shoulders. Mumbling amidst your aftershocks, inside, inside, inside. Eyelids stuttering again, back to picture frames as your cunt seized and begged in tandem.

The snarl of his upper lip.

His knotted jaw.

Tongue sucked against his front teeth, resolve crumbling.

The allowance granted to your hands to stay right there, fisting his shirt collar as his locked your waist in a bruising vice. His hips bucking only once, grinding the head of his cock deeper, deliciously, almost too good to take. 

“Fuck, fuckfuck—yeah, that what she needs, honey? Needs me to fill her up?”

You’ll remember your own reply as you near a second-rate heaven in the nest of your duvet at home, all frantic hands and thrusting digits and eyes slammed shut, repainting him in your head. Golden in that gloomy light, hair straying out of position across his misted forehead for the first time. Yes. Please. Dave. Yes. Inside. Please—and his grunt, dark and sweet as caramel, as burnt brown sugar. That tiny grin dragging at his soft lips, pleased. You’d pleased him, surprised him maybe. 

That can make you sparkle now, to remember.

“Okay, honey. Okay—shit—gonna give it to you, hm? Gonna give you all of it, baby—she’s squeezing me so goddamn tight, fuck, wanna stay here all night—”

Then the granting of a wish, the heat of him spilling into your cunt, the unmistakable slide of slick leaking between your thighs and onto his; you didn’t have to look to know. You could feel it, that wholeness overflowing. You can almost feel it now; three fingers might be a poor attempt at recreation, but you fall off the cliff all the same, his name on your tongue, a cry in the night, all the curtains dark and drawn as you come down breathless and drowsy, your whole body limp and spent as it’d been that night with him—when he’d tucked himself away and petted your hair back from your face, so gentle with you, cooing that you did so good, honey. Such a good girl. Gonna get you into bed now, hm? Need your sleep, honey. Come on. 

Carrying you into your not-real bedroom, tucking you in so tenderly, like he hadn’t just taken you apart at the molecules. And Dave’s lips were just as plush as you’d imagined when they grazed your forehead, his big hand petting your cheek once more, then turning out the lights. That deep timbre whispering from the doorway, goodnight. The door clicking shut. All of it perfect. How you’d known you mattered more than a job for just one moment in time.

dividers by @saradika-graphics - tag list & some mutuals <3

@ak-vintage @thethirstwivesclub @la-vie-est-une-fleur29 @hediondoamor-blog @harriedandharassed 

@burntheedges @la-eterna-enamorada29 @goodgirlwannabe @guiltyasdave @for-a-longlongtime

@littlemisspascal @luxurychristmaspudding @tonysopranosrobe @evolnoomym @sweetpascal 

@spacelatinos4life @sweetpascal @biggetywitch @wannab-urs @jolapeno 

@pedgito @pastelpinkflowerlife @jessthebaker @rav3n-pascal22 @sixhours 

@noisynightmarepoetry @clawdee

This is adorable, I love them!

Downshift

Pairing: Motocross!Ari Levinson x Female Reader Summary: Ari thinks you're too good for his neighbor and he's, sadly, proven right. Word Count: Over 2.2k Warnings: Pining, hurt/comfort, some angst, fluff and feels, cheating (not by Ari), swearing, motocross!Ari Levinson (he’s a warning, okay? A/N: Meet Beast and Sweetart! Set in the same AU as Starting Gate and Lapper. Should I start making Wednesdays a dedicated motocross day? Beta read by the beautiful @maladaptivexxdaydreaming, but any and all mistakes are my own. Banners by the talented @maysdigitalarts. Shoutout to my lovely for helping with the reader's nickname (I can't tag you. BOO!). Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications. Please reblog or comment as it means the world!

Ari Levinson is a beast. One of the largest and toughest riders in his class at 6'5", combined with his dark beard, shaggy hair and rough exterior, he received the nickname in passing and it stuck. If you asked any of his exes, he was a beast on and off the tracks. He didn’t mind. There were worse names out there. 

Most riders weren’t easy to intimidate, but not many wanted to go toe-to-toe with him. Others in town tended to stay out of his way, too, when he wasn’t smiling. Jensen teased that people probably expected him to growl. He could admittedly be an asshole when the occasion called for it, but he was a good guy. 

A beast with a heart.

One of the only people he could remember in a long time who never seemed put off by him was you.

Someone “taking his breath away” seemed like complete bullshit until you showed up. When you looked his way the first time, you flashed him a kind smile and wave. You looked sweet, making him want to devour you to see if you tasted the same. Arousal spread from his gut and you hadn’t touched him.

I could eat you for breakfast, lunch and dinner and it wouldn’t be enough.

Your eyes caught his attention next. The sincerity and warmth weren’t anything like the pit lizards who threw themselves at him. He stared and hoped his blue eyes reflected a resemblance of kindness. He didn’t want to scare you off. He wanted to ruin and keep you safe.

It didn’t matter what he did.

You were dating his asshole neighbor, Carter.

It didn’t make sense to fall for someone so quickly, but it hurt each time he saw you go into or leave Carter’s place. Especially when you smiled his way or stopped to chat for a few minutes. Your boyfriend was always quick to pull you away with a cocky smirk or a smart-ass comment, which prompted you to tell him to be nice and mouth “sorry” back in his direction.

Why are you with him?

From what he knew about the guy, he came from money and traveled a lot. Even his dressed down clothes were name brand. He gambled occasionally, but Ari never saw him at the track. Maybe it had something to do with keeping you away from the riders. He never liked the prick, but seeing a sweet girl like you with him put him on his permanent shit list, along with how he treated you. Like you were an object or a doll for him to play with.

There was a difference between being somewhat possessive and treating someone like a possession.

Doing his best not to take his frustration out on his bike, he still couldn’t figure out why you were with him in the first place. You didn’t seem like the materialistic type and you were kind to everyone. Were you settling? He wanted to grumble so many times that you were too good for him, but he would’ve sounded crazy since the two of you only spoke a few times in passing.

It wasn’t like Ari to sit back and watch something good pass by. He knew from racing what happened if you let opportunities slip away. Even if he was selfish in wanting you, was it really his place to ruin your happiness? It wasn't meant for him to interfere.

Looking back, maybe he should have.

The knock on his door pulled him from his slumber, groaning as he sat up and rubbed his eyes. After work and practice, all he wanted to do was get some fucking sleep. 

“Just a minute! Fuck!” he yelled at the second knock, throwing some shorts on before he made his way to the door.

His sweet girl You stood there with tears streaming down your face as the door flew open and he wanted to apologize for snapping when you shrank back. You were in your work clothes and you shivered despite the warm air. 

“I’m sorry. I, um, I didn’t mean to bother you. I’ll go.”

“Are you okay?” he asked when you began to turn away, skipping the pleasantries. It was the only thing keeping him from putting his first through the wall. 

Who knew the sight of your tears would bring out the animal in him?

“My boyfriend. Well, no. EX-boyfriend now,” you said quickly, swiping at your face to brush the tears away. “I just caught him in bed with…”

“Fuck,” Ari whispered, not fully hearing the rest of your words, his blood boiling as you cried harder. He knew the guy was a prick, but a cheating prick? How could anyone cheat on you?

I bet Barnes and Rogers would help me hide a body.

“Can I use your phone, please? I dropped it when I left and I can’t go back there.”

Ari nodded and let you inside, having to step back so you didn’t brush against him. He was happy that the place was clean. It likely wasn’t as nice as Carter’s place, but he did well enough and he took pride in it. 

He imagined you there many times, but not like this.

“Thank you. I’ll be out of your hair soon,” you sniffled as he directed you to the couch, wincing slightly. “I’m sorry, but could I also ask for some ice?”

“Stop apologizing, please,” he nearly begged before he went rigid. “Ice? Are you hurt?”

I’ll kill him if he touched you. I’ll fucking kill him.

“I punched him?” it came out as a question, holding up your hand to show him. “Never punched anyone before. I don’t think I did it right.”

Ari fell for you a bit more. “He had it coming,” he said before he could stop himself. “Sit tight. I’ll get my phone and some ice.”

“Thanks, Ari,” you said, rubbing the top of your hand.

His gaze lingered before he left the room to grab what you needed, wishing he could pull you in his arms to tell you it would be okay. Anything to put your smile back on your face. 

The only tears he wished you’d cry were tears of pleasure.

Maybe one day, I can do that. And maybe not while you’re healing from this.

“You know, I could teach you how to punch,” he said after he came back and sat down beside you, gently placing the wrapped ice on top of your hand. He took up a portion of the couch with his size, but you didn’t seem to mind how close he was. At least, he hoped you didn’t.

You inhaled sharply, but managed a small smile. “I bet you could. Doesn’t everyone call you ‘beast’?”

He was happy that you knew his nickname. “They do. What do people call you? Sweetart?”

“Don’t you mean ‘sweetheart’?” you asked as you took the phone with your other hand.

“Nah. You look sweet and you are sweet, but you apparently pack a tart punch. Like the candy.”

Fuck, I sound like Jensen. He rubbed off on me.

You began to laugh after a second, your eyes shining a bit brighter through the pain. “Sweetart. I like that.”

Clearing his throat, he stood up and looked down at you. Most women were smaller than him, no matter their height, but the urge to wrap you in his arms and keep you safe wouldn’t go away. “I’ll let you make your call.”

He made sure to grab some tissues and a glass of water as well as you called your friend, doing his best not to listen when he heard tears in your throat. You asked if you could crash at her place and explained that you weren't in the best headspace to drive over there. He should’ve offered you a ride. It was the least you could do.

You set his phone on the coffee table once you were finished. “My friend should be here shortly. One of the only numbers I have memorized.”

He sat back down beside you as he handed you a tissue, his knee touching yours. “I know it doesn’t help, but I’m sorry.”

You dabbed at your eyes, sniffling. “Probably better that I caught him now and not later. I just feel stupid, you know?” 

“You’re not stupid, he is. He’s a fucking prick, too.”

“He never liked you,” you said, smiling a little. 

“Well, the feeling’s mutual,” he said, sighing as he leaned back against the cushion. “Could never figure out why you were with him.”

Fuck, why did I say that?

“He’s a family friend. Charming. Sophisticated. The kind of guy my parents wanted me to be with. When he asked me out, I agreed. I knew he had his flaws, but I looked past them,” you explained as he turned his head to pay better attention. You swallowed a little before you continued. “Which is another reason I feel stupid. I cared despite the red flags. I set myself up to get hurt.”

“You ignored your instincts because you cared, but that doesn’t make you stupid. Stop calling yourself that.”

You nodded, reaching for the water. He caught the ice before it could slip from your hand, keeping it there as you took a sip. “Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.”

“The girl he was with was an old girlfriend. A stunningly beautiful socialite who just happened to be in town. They thought I’d still be at work,” your lip trembled. “She didn’t even look sorry that I caught them. It was like she knew she was better than me. And I know deep down he wanted me to be more like her.”

Fuck that.

“Anyone who jumps in bed with a guy and knows they’re with someone else isn’t better than you. They deserve each other. You deserve better.”

“You really believe that?” you asked, a tear falling.

Before you could wipe it away, he reached over and caught it with his fingertip. “I do. And I know it hurts like hell. He should’ve been faithful and worshiped the ground you walked on. You don’t deserve anything less than that.”

Ari thought he said the wrong thing when your expression went blank, setting the ice pack on the table. “Can I have a hug, please? You’ve always been so nice to me and I could really use one.”

Whatever you want.

The second he wrapped his arms around you and pulled you close, a fresh wave of tears came. Wetness gathered on his chest as you let it out. He wasn’t used to people turning to him as a source of comfort, but he instinctively rubbed your back and nuzzled the top of your head with his chin. He wanted to rip Carter limb from limb for reducing you to this. The demented part of him wanted to stay alive just so he could watch you thrive without him. 

No matter what happened, Ari would make sure you were happy.

Your tears slowed after a minute, but you stayed in his hold. “I’m sorry,” you mumbled against his chest. “You’re really warm. I think you are a beast.”

Ari chuckled, his large hand sliding up and down your back to soothe you. “You figured it out. Don’t tell anyone.”

“It’ll be our secret,” you said, lifting your head. Having you against him, you robbed him of his breath again. “Could I ask one more favor and I’d be forever in your debt? And you don’t have to.”

“Name it.”

“Would you be willing to help me get some of my stuff out of there later? I can pay you.”

“I don’t want your money. I can help,” he assured you. He would do it for free just to see the look on that prick’s face. “On one condition.”

“Name it,” you smiled, echoing his words.

“Come to my next race?” he casually suggested, hoping it didn’t sound like a date. He didn’t want you to think he was insensitive to your current feelings. “No pressure. No expectations. I know you just ended a relationship, but I think you could use a friend.”

“I’ll be there,” you promised, bringing a smile to his face. He hoped he didn’t look too excited, especially since you were still hurt. “I’ve been wanting to go for ages and now I have no reason not to.”

“I think you’ll like it. And don’t worry about your stuff. If you know where it needs to go, I’ll get some of the guys to help me out. In fact," he took your hand, the one you punched Carter with, and brought it to his lips. He swore he heard a slight whimper when they met your skin. "I'll even get your phone back before you head out."

"Thank you," you said breathlessly, clearing your throat as you looked away for a second. It felt good knowing he took your breath away, too. "I mean it. Thank you so much, Ari."

Ari knew your friend would show up any minute, so he cherished the feeling of holding you for a bit longer. He meant what he said about you needing a friend. The wound would take time to heal and he would help you see that you were perfect.

 A sweet and tart girl who made everyone around you smile.

He just hoped you wouldn’t hold it against him when he punched Carter in his smug face.

*****

We'll see more of Beast and Sweetart, along with some other riders, soon. Love and thanks for reading! ❤️

life’s too short to be embarrassed you read x reader fan fiction. live ur life and date as many imaginary boys as u want