Yknow I Never Saw Myself As A Monsterfucker But Then I Remember That My First Ever Crush Was The Predator

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Te Lo Ruego

miguel o’hara x fem!reader

nsfw masterlist | main masterlist

word count: 0.8k

summary: miguel is desperate for just a taste

warnings: SMUT (18+), minors DNI, miguel being a munch and pussy drunk, that’s it, it’s just him being desperate to eat you out <3 also, spanish (translation at the end)

A/N: I read two words and was inspired to write this…took me about an hour and now this is all i’m thinking about, please enjoy // as always, feedback is greatly appreciated, reblog and lmk what you think! <333

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To all of you reblogging in these times of fandom tumbleweeds and low engagement… you are doing us content creators a solid and we appreciate you beyond words 😍😁😍😁

no bc that Andy + pussy eating hc... maybe I'm having thots!!! MAYBE I'M THINKING HE STARTS GRIDNING JNTO THE SHEETS EATING YOU OUT AND CUMS WHILE EATING YOU OUT?! AND HES SENSITIVE AS SHIT BUT AS LONG AS IT TAKES YOU TO CUM HES GONNA KEEP GRINDING ND EVEN MAYBE GETS HARD AGAIN? MOANING AND WHINING INTO YOUR PUSSY BC HES SEBSITIVE AND YOURE GETTING CLOSER?? I-

maybe just maybe andy's hooked his arms around you, making sure to keep you locked to his mouth; his beard burns against your slippery inner thighs, but it only adds to the heightened, sensitive pleasure you're experiencing in that moment

and maybe you're too wrapped up in the feeling of his mouth on you...that you fail to notice his slow grind into the bed

you fail to register him whining into your folds as a side effect of his leaking cock ruining the sheets beneath him

the desperation to have you flood his tongue again is manifesting in him rutting into the bed, keeping your pussy spread so that it's easy for him to spit on your aching heat before diving back in like a man starved

honestly, you're going to wish that you captured this moment: andy between your legs, eating you like it's his final wish as he makes a mess of himself and the bedspread

LANI PLS THIS WAS SO GOOD, IM AN ABSOLUTE PUDDLE RN

A Seasoned Fighter

Fandom: Star Wars

Pairing: Older!Poe Dameron x F!Reader

Summary: Just because the First Order dismantled, doesn’t mean the Resistance has stopped fighting for the freedom of the galaxy. You’re newly recruited and stationed at a base that’s run by the legend himself, General Poe Dameron. Based on this artwork + my shitty edits.

Warning: age gap, Poe's kinda a dick, smut - rough sex, p in v, choking, oral (m receiving), this Poe is suuuuuuper ooc.

A/N: I'M WRITING FOR POE AGAIN! YAY! Also, I might write more if people want. because i do have more ideas for this version of Poe...

Tagging: @darthdameron @abelslittlebunny

You've been with the Resistance for a short time. A little under five years. Despite the end of the First Order, that didn't mean that there weren't still people who wanted to take over the galaxy. The Resistance still remained in tact taking care of those who tried to take the First Order's place, as well as keeping the overall galaxy safe.

In the time you've been with the Resistance, you heard about the legends such as Rey Skywalker, General Finn, and General Poe Dameron. Rey and Finn were off on the other side of the galaxy, training new and upcoming Jedis. General Poe Dameron? Well, he stuck with the Resistance.

You grew up hearing stories about him. He had saved your parents, Resistance fighters as well, and if it wasn't for him, you wouldn't be here. You thought that when you'd meet him, he'd be just as witty and charming like your parents described.

Unfortunately, he was the opposite.

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Can you write a college roommate head cannon for miguel O’Hara ( 18+ f!reader)

ik you asked for HCs but I have no self control... my bad, anon!

College Roommate!Miguel O'Hara Headcanons

(AO3 Mirror), Main Masterlist

pairing: College Roommate!Miguel O'Hara x f!reader

summary: Miguel is your roommate. And he’s hot. That’s it, that’s the tweet.

warnings: 18+ as fuuuck. F-receiving oral, using toys, masturbation, voyeurism (-ish), grinding, praise, service dom (idk?) Miguel, recreational drug use (reader and Miggy smoke a blunt). Minors DNI

a/n: I am a firm believer that modern day Miguel listens to 90s rnb, back when men were men: unabashedly, unashamedly down so fucking bad for their partners. he just gives me those vibes!!

wc: 6k

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I'm thinking you become roommates but he's your last choice. 

Very last minute: you have a big falling out with your now ex-boyfriend, and the plans for flatsharing next semester goes right out the window. 

So all the good places are taken, and you're going apartment-hunting, but everywhere's either too expensive, too dirty, or there's a predatory clause hidden in the lease: shitty landlords and blaring red flags in 9pt Times New Roman. 

When you stumble upon Miguel O'Hara; a student in private accomodation who, lucky you, is in need of a roommate; it feels like a godsend.

Rent is affordable and he's nice enough; refusing to grunt more than a few words to you, but is clean, organised, and from what you can tell, is barely in the apartment. 

You sign onto the lease, desperately, hoping you've just been lucky and trying not to look a gift horse in the mouth. 

You give a thousand mile stare at the blank document in front of you. A bullshit paper due in exactly 12 hours. Yes, you left it until the final stretch, and yes, it's 10k words. Very doable. You're not fucked. Nope.

You blame it on the banging from next door. Paper thin walls; obscene noises. Cries of Yes Miguel and Just like that, daddy have been plaguing you for almost an hour. His stamina must be superhuman, the way the woman in his bed has been howling. Howling may seem extreme, but she sounds like a dying cat: cock drunk and babbling over Miguel O'Hara? 

Your new roommate had been nice enough. Quiet, unassuming, and seemed more than absorbed in his schoolwork. So you didn't expect him to unashamedly fuck the girl he's been tutoring for the past week. It all clicks. The "perfect roommate" turned out to have one teeny tiny little flaw: loud, obnoxious sex, well into the early hours of the morning. 

On autopilot, you're clicking through tabs on your bed. Perhaps you're a prude, but the sex noises are abrasive, excessive, to the point of parody. Persistent, Miguel's low voice reverberates in the walls of your bedroom; making heat pool at the base of your stomach. 

"You want it, hermosa? Tell me…. such a pretty girl… like that?" It's muffled, but his voice is unmistakable. Low, greedy, heavy with want. God, the last time someone's spoken to you like that was… 

You shake your head free of cobwebs. No. You're not rewarding him. You can't . Your roommate is shameless, and inconsiderate, and really fucking annoying . 

The smacking noises increase, coupled with banging on his side of the wall. Resolute, your face hardens. From where you perch on your bed, you slam the wall with the side of your fist. 

"O'Hara! Keep it the fuck down!" 

~~~

He's a biochem major, up to his ass in assignments and he still has time for societies, internships and tutoring. 

The only times he'd be in the apartment really was an impromptu session, and you didn't notice at first, but it became more obvious as the semester went on.

As a so-called tutor, he only seemed to pick the prettiest girls - they would twirl their hair on your kitchen counter and bat their pretty lashes at him when they didn't understand. Favours for a couple of friends, is his only response when you ask. 

It felt like you'd open the door to a new girl every week and you are baffled. Donned in makeup and short skirts, they'd waddle in asking for Miggy, or drop off half-finished assignments whilst craning their head through, trying to catch a glimpse of him. 

The absurdity would make you laugh if it wasn't affecting your sleep. 

Not that he's not absolutely gorgeous, but he's so quiet you would never have thought he had it in him: to have a revolving door of women lining up to lay underneath him. 

This time, her name is Sarah: pretty little thing in Miguel's Advanced Math class.  She perches on a stool, wearing a tight dress that is wholly not appropriate for a tutoring session. She's one of his regulars, if you can call it that, and has been failing for at least 2 semesters. You flash her a smile as you pad through the kitchen, searching the cupboards for a snack. God, she is gorgeous; dolled up for another long session with Miguel, no doubt.

"Where's he gone?" She asks politely. 

You shrug. "I couldn't tell you, sorry."

"It's okay… I'm just a bit stuck." You almost snort and catch yourself. For some reason, you didn't think they actually did any work, merely a pretense for the… cardio later on in the day. 

You glance at her sheet of paper, scribbles in purple pen with large swathes crossed out. Leaning over, you scan the page.

"Right here." You point and she follows with a manicured finger. "You fucked up with this integral and I think… yeah, I think that messes with the whole thing."

Her eyes light up as she follows you, explaining with a piece of cookie hanging out of your mouth. She's definitely smart, just a few little mistakes here and there that you're happy to point out. Thanking you fervently, she rushes to correct it. 

"Ah, it's no problem. I get mixed up with it too." You smile and notice Miguel by the doorway, watching with a strange look in his face. You roll your eyes as you walk past. What a fucking weirdo. 

"Thought I was the tutor?" He croons.

You raise an eyebrow, voice low as Sarah is engrossed in her work. "...I don't want to fuck her, Miggy , if that's what you're worried about."

A little cruelly you push past him, shoulders clashing against one another. Is he smiling ? For now, you blame your perpetual tiredness when you think you catch the hint of a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. 

~~~

You're a light sleeper, and it all makes for a tired, delirious combo. You sleepwalk through the day, scramble to finish assignments and whilst it's not all O'Hara's fault, you can't help but blame him for a lot of it. 

After you successfully get through one long week, you decide to celebrate. That means a couple hours of mindless hedonism: your favourite movie, greasy food…. and your trusty dildo. Not at the same time, of course. 

Miguel's not home, and he's not tearing down the walls with some other girl, for once, so you decide to treat yourself. 

You've been going through a dry patch, and you'd hate to admit it, but he does sound good through the thin drywall. 

It was a joke gift; given to you by a friend for your birthday. An obnoxiously purple dildo with a suction cup at its base. Aptly named Hugh, due to its - ahem - large stature. Standing tall at 7 or 8 inches, far bigger or thicker than any partner you've taken in the past. Sitting around a small diner booth with your friends and opening the bag to reveal him, had been quite the experience, for sure. 

It wasn't your fault you had gone through a dry spell in the past few months. With work, with school, with relationship issues, you hadn't had the time or energy to sleep around. Not that you were desperate for drunk, lackluster sex, followed by an awkward dance of ubers and shitty coffee in the morning. Like many, you preferred to do it yourself. 

Laptop open, you ease yourself onto the toy, already slick with lube. Prepping yourself with your fingers had been quite the task, tabs open to something on a lewd website. It's cheesy, but you didn't really like the bright lights and plastic of usual porn. The moans felt too fake, the sex devoid of any real passion. So you found a couple of independent creators; couples, mostly; carnal fucking with fervour only borne from real love . It's embarrassing to admit it, but your favourite parts are the little kisses and touches in between, or light laughter after a rough session. As if to say: it's okay and I'm still here. 

On your screen now is a longtime favourite video, a broad man bullying his fat cock into his partner. You can't help but think he looks like Miguel, not as pretty but tan with strapping shoulders, and large hands that wrap around the neck of the girl in the video. 

" F-Fuck," You breathe, sinking down onto your toy. You bet Miguel's palm on your throat would be deliciously rough, and you imagine how he'd fuck the brat out of you like the man on your screen. 

What hadn't occurred to you, however, was that the thin walls went both ways. Whilst you were quieter than many of the girls Miguel brought home, you were fairly shameless with the moans and curses that fell from your lips. Headphones on, you were blissfully unaware that Miguel had slipped into the apartment some time ago. The slap of your thighs to the floor, the desperate whine as you roll your hips over the toy - he can hear it all. 

Miguel has a conscience, so he does feel some amount of shame when he slips a hand down his trousers and presses an ear to your shared wall. He closes his eyes and bites down lusty groans, fisting his cock to your pretty noises. Noises he's been wanting to hear from you for months, now, imagining it was you underneath him instead of his usual partners. 

He times it just right, squeezing around his tip in time with the steady slap just beyond the wall. Are you fucking yourself? On your knees, hands flat on the floor, churning up your insides with a toy… or maybe ass up, dildo attached to something…? He almost cums with that mental image, wondering what you'd look like on your knees for him. Is the dildo as big as him? He knows you, knows you'd want it to hurt - for his cock to stretch out your pretty pussy when he cums deep inside you. 

All things he thinks about with a hand around his cock, and he's already close. But he wants to cum with you, listening intently for the signs. 

" Fuck," Your voice comes out muffled, but it makes him buck up into his fist all the same. " Need it… oh God, I-" 

He speeds up, wondering what it would be like to have your thighs shake underneath him, what it would take to have you babbling and begging for more. How would he break you? Maybe on his cock, where he'd watch you squirm as you take his length. Or on your knees, choking around him and licking up his cum. Or, God, thighs wrapped around his head, riding out your high with his mouth sealed on your clit, crying for him slow down, for him to-

" H-Harder, Miguel, please." 

He releases, sudden and intense, spilling white ropes into his boxers. 

" Fuck, Miguel…"

He fucks his fist through it, overstimulated from the way you say his name. It feels like the only way it should be said; spilling from your mouth, haphazard and desperate. Like honey, like treacle; sweet things he didn't know he had the capacity for. He lets that feeling wash over him, panting, bringing his forehead to rest on cool wall. 

~~~

He's hot. He's smart. He's a whore.

A total blindspot for you, and no matter how much you can't stand him; you still find yourself stealing glances whenever he's home. 

And he does seem to be home a lot more, often choosing to study on the dining table rather than his room. It's like he does it on purpose, using the warmer weather as an excuse to wear tiny tank tops and loose gray sweats - showing off the muscles of his broad back and arms perfectly.

Funnily enough, when he's not around those girls, he's bearable - seems to have grown a couple of brain cells in those short few days between sessions. 

You laugh and joke, sometimes, and he surprises you by suggesting a movie one quiet night. 

He offers you his sweater to snuggle into, you eat your weight in greasy takeout, and your roommate seems like an actually decent guy?? 

You had fallen into an easy routine: O'Hara leaves a flask of coffee for you to snatch up in the morning, hair damp from the shower and all, and you meet him with netflix and instant noodles in the evening. A push and pull that works in the little space - much smoother than your rocky beginnings.

After a truly shitty day, you come home to a quiet apartment. Almost sleeping through an exam, forgetting lunch, missing the bus home, and having to trek back through pouring rain in a thin coat. Everything that could go wrong, did, and you are left with the pieces. You trudge through the living room into the kitchen, the wet squelch of socks on laminate floor haunting every step. Shedding your limp outerwear, you lay the contents of your backpack onto the kitchen counter: clumps of loose paper, the damp leftovers of a textbook, bleeding ink. Your main concern, however, is your laptop slick with rain water. 

With baited breath, you put it on the slab, and press the power button. A click, a stuttering whir, and the screen flickers on. Then, just as strained, it putters off. Dead. Completely dead. Your legs almost give out, and you lean on the counter to steady yourself. Half of your life was there; including the final project that would make up a good chunk of your grade. It takes you everything not to collapse onto the floor right then and there. 

"How was it?" You hear the click of a door and Miguel calls out from the hallway. 

You wince."...F-Fine?" 

You hear footsteps, as he gets closer. "Are you asking or telling me?" 

You clear your throat, desperately trying to keep your voice steady. "Fine. It was fine. I'm just… it was fine."

Back still turned, you fumble around with the wet contents of your bag, hoping he doesn't notice. 

"Long day?" He says warmly, head poking into the kitchen. Haphazardly, you spare him a glance from behind your shoulder. He's dressed in a sweater that fits snug around his chest, rolled up to expose his forearms, and loose sweats. In his hands, he drinks from a cheesy mug - your mug, donning a stupid pun. He looks warm. Cosy. Domestic. For some, reason it makes your heart sink even further. 

Long day? "Something like that." You manage to squeeze out. There's a pregnant pause as he comes closer. Rummaging blindly through a cupboard, you try to hide behind its door. If he sees you like this, now, you don't know if you'll be able to hold it together. 

You close the door, and all of a sudden he's there, mug in hand. 

" Fuck, man- " It makes you jump, as he squints and takes a sip of his coffee. 

"You look… wet." 

"That's because it rained, Miguel." Snapping at him, your tone is biting. You're tired, stressed and in desperate need of a cry, but he is unrelenting in his gaze. 

"Are you ok?" He asks, unfazed. 

There's a lump in your throat and all you can do is nod with a tight expression.  His eyes flicker towards the counter and you shuffle, trying to cover up the mess. And then you watch it happen; initial confusion, a flash of realisation, and then worry; all in the space of a couple seconds. 

Gently, he pulls you aside to inspect the damage. "Mierda. This is pretty bad. You sure you're ok?" 

He's got a hand on your arm now,  The dam breaks and you crumple into tears in the kitchen floor. Of course, he comes with you, rubbing your back as you blubber through the details. 

" Nothing's going right for me… and I've got my final project on there… I'm barely keeping up as it is…" All he does is nod, face tight with something you can't quite name. It must seem pathetic to him, you think, shamelessly crying on the kitchen floor, complaining to your poor roommate. He can't leave you like this, because he's a decent person - but internally, he must think you're going crazy. 

It helps, having him there: a steady presence by your side. Slowly but surely, your tears subside. 

"You could've asked me to pick you up." He hands you some tissues off the counter, and watches as you mop up the tears. "I would've come, if you called."

"I didn't… I didn't think we were…" You search for the right word. 

"...friends?" He offers, with a small smile. "You think I let just anyone steal my sweaters?" 

"First of all," It makes you laugh, despite yourself. "You offered. And second, I've seen what you do with your friends, and I don't know if I have the energy for it."

"Ouch." Bashful, he rubs his chest like it aches. He sits a little close to you, knocking your shoulders with his own. "I know this girl who's crazy good with computers. I could ask her to take a look, if you'd like? Might not be able to save it but maybe we could recover the files?"

"...I'd like that, to be honest."

"Muy bien ." He leaps to his feet, palm stretched towards you to help you up. "I'll run you a warm bath or something. You're creating a puddle and it's going to ruin my floor."

"Our floor, asshole. I pay rent here, too." 

~~~

You find that you enjoy being around him, and he feels the same. 

You can't help but compare him to your shitty ex who you were planning to move in with: and even with his quirks, Miguel is better in every way. 

There is harmony in your household, for a while, and you almost look forward to coming home to him after class. Almost. 

It doesn't last long, because of course it doesn't. You'd thought you'd come to a tentative ceasefire, able to casually rib and joke with each other - takeout and B-roll movies aside. He leaves you leftovers from food he makes, you turn down your music when he's studying, and he even woke you up the other day when you had slept through your alarm.

Beyond the wall, his music is loud: a playlist you recognise as the one he puts on to (unsuccessfully) mask the noise of his usual late night adventures. Cheesy love ballads, heady RnB that leaks into your own room. You'd rather die than admit his taste in music isn't horrible, but it usually means a long, long night for everyone around. With finals around the corner, there's no way you can let this stand. 

What kind of person does that? Lull you into a false sense of security with Snakes on a Plane and pepperoni pizza? 

Absorbed in your own work, you hadn't even realised he had someone over; let alone was gearing up for obnoxious sex. You'd bang on the wall, but you feel like you guys are past that: crossed a threshold of intimacy that means you can shout at him up close and personal. 

So you stomp over to the hallway, banging at the door to his room. In the short trip there, you've worked yourself into a frenzy. How many times have you told him to keep it down? That it was rude and inconsiderate to flaunt his sex life in your face; to fuck other women so loud you were practically involved? There was something about the little smile he would give you afterwards, when you catch him shepherding his latest out the door in the morning - like he gets off on it, enjoys it, when you react. Even when you think you're over it, he still manages to drive you absolutely crazy. 

“Miguel? Open the fuck up!"

You're still fuming when the door opens with a click, and Miguel appears in the sliver of the doorway. He opens it so that his frame is half swallowed by the door, top half peeking through with a lazy hand in his hair. And of his top half, he's bare from the waist up, black band of his boxers sitting low on his v-line and loose sweats. 

All the wind is knocked from your sails, and you lose your train of thought. 

"Yeah?" 

"I…" You clear your throat. "I don't care who you fuck, but when I'm doing work-" 

"-I'm not." He chuckles. "There's no one here, hermosa. Just me. And you, I guess…"

There's something about the way he says it, lazily, as if it's his first time saying those words - wrapping his tongue around your name to see how it fits. If it fits, how it tastes. His relaxed posture, the way his hair falls…

"You're high." Your brow shoots up. "... you're high!" 

With a finger pressed to his lips, he grabs your hand and pulls you into his room, eyes darting around the hallway. 

"Shhh! You can't-" Now, he gets close, whispering like he's saying something he shouldn't. "You can't tell anyone. "

"I won't." You breathe. His face is serious at first, and then you're both giggling. You've never seen him so carefree, and it's nice to see Miguel walking around without the weight of the world on his shoulders.

He's still holding your hand, pressed close, and you see him drag his eyes up and down your figure. "You want do something you'll regret…?"

"...I've got a 9am, tomorrow, I really-" 

"-shouldn't?" He finishes, dragging his hand up your bare arm, pupils blown. He gets up to your shoulders, tucking your hair behind your ear. It's sinful, the way his touch is gentle but gaze heavy - violent in the way he practically eyefucks you. You feel bare, in little sleep shorts and a t-shirt.

He steps back, lounging on his bed, and makes for a half finished blunt by the adjacent window sill. Sighing, you sit by him, sinking into the mattress. He pats you closer, dangerously close, and you comply. One arm curled by your waist, the other brings the blunt up close and you wrap your lips around it. When Miguel brings a lighter to the blunt, you lean into it, knuckles brushing your lips. 

You take a drag, long, heavy, eyes closed. And when they open, you're met with his own. Maybe it's the weed, maybe it's the heady atmosphere, but you swear his eyes are low and deep with lust.

"Good girl." He rumbles, cupping your chin and tracing a thumb to your lips. He separates, bringin the blunt to his own lips before leaning back to pass it to you. As quick as he gets close, he pulls away; leaning back into the expanse of his large bed. And he looks good, head drawn back and the curve of his tan arm drawn upwards. Tufts of hair from his chest, the trail that leads down suggestively - and without inhibition, you basically drool over him. God, there it is. You feel it kick in and let it wash over you. 

His music, long forgotten, blends into your downy haze. You want to sit in his lap, rest your head on his chest. You get it now: if this is the view all those women he tutors get to have, then you finally understand. 

"Come closer, hermosa ." You barely register the nickname, only focused on the way he says it, the delicious way it rolls off of his tongue. You nod, and shuffle closer. His siren song sounds sweeter, somehow, up close. 

You pass the blunt between you both, and watch it dwindle to the last dregs. Lying down next to him, he clutches your hand and takes the butt between his fingers, letting its flames die as you watch. You giggle and his gaze softens.

"I didn't expect this from you." You look up to see an upside-down Miguel, hiding a smile. 

"Expect what?" He drags himself downwards, to rest his head by your side. 

"All…" You gesture vaguely. "This. Don't even think I've been in your room for this long, before."

His room looks exactly how you'd expect it: tidy and modest, a row of trophies neatly lined up on a shelf, a telescope pointing out towards a window. There are posters by his bed; science related, mostly. You tilt your head in the direction of one of them.

"Is this what they see?" You mumble to no one in particular. 

He manages to catch it, sluggish in his response. "...Is this what who sees?" 

"All the girls you fuck." It tumbles your of your mouth, before you can help it. 

He tilts his head too, looking at the poster and you watch the sharp lines of his jaw besides you. Even at this angle, he's so pretty. 

"Huh. I guess they do." 

"It's not very romantic, is it?" You blink, oblivious. Your question is met with a noncommittal shrug. "What was her name last time? Cassie, Clara-something…"

"Katie." He hums. 

"Katie." Ignoring the twinge of disappointment at his quick response, you hope it's the weed and not jealousy that made you pretend to forget her name. 

You sit up on your haunches, tracing the valleys and mountains of his bare chest with a leisurely finger. You try not to notice the way he shivers at your touch. 

"I could hear everything. Every, 'Yes daddy'," You feign a moan by curling your lips into an O-shape. You bring your other hand to your hair, head tilted back with exaggerated movement. "And 'right there, Miggy, right fuckin' there' ." 

Technically, you're making fun of him and laughing, expecting him to follow. But he doesn't, head back and eyes boring into you - only bringing a hand to press yours at his chest. 

"Thin walls, Miguel." You clear your throat, sensing a shift in the atmosphere. Too far, probably. "Sorry, shit. I didn't mean-" 

"I hear you too." He says softly. "I heard you, the other day."

Head filled with cotton, it takes a moment for his words to really click. So he elaborates, lacing his fingers with your own. 

"Fucking yourself, hermosa ." He says it lazily, like the vulgarity of the act doesn't register.

Your eyes widen in horror. How much exactly did he hear?

"...and I heard you say my name." 

"It was…. i-it wasn't like that-" Fuck. You can't think straight as it is: and his voice is low and silky, rubbing circles on your hand close to his chest. Even now, he oozes confidence, the steady thump-thump of his heart giving away nothing. 

"Hmmm? Then what is it like?" You blink at him, unable to answer. "You're a hypocrite. You complain about all these women I supposedly fuck, but then-" 

He pulls you closer, so that your lips almost touch his. "-you lock yourself in your room, touching yourself and thinking about your poor roommate. What am I meant to do with you?"

A pause, and in your daze, you can't breathe. For all your theatrics, it's too easy for him - to prod and tease, and for you to chase after him. You move to kiss him, but he grabs your chin at the last second. "Not quite. I want to hear you say it."

"Fuck- " You crumple, hiding your head in the crook of his shoulder. Even in your haze, the nerves bubble up from the base of your stomach. "Fuck me, please , Miguel."

He places a hand on your thigh, leading you to straddle his middle, other hand wrapped around your waist. He grinds your lower half into his, leaning up to bring your lips together. 

He tastes sweet, greedily lapping up your moans in the clash. You're not thinking, not really, lost in the heat of his body, desperate and eager when you kiss. To contrast, Miguel cups your chin, pulling you away for air whenever you sink too deep. Somehow, he still manages to look smug, taunting you with a flash of his little fangs whenever you separate. If you weren't feeling the effects of that blunt, you may have had the means to be embarrassed at how much you want him - needily grinding against him and pawing at his chest. 

It's too slow, too leisurely, like a punishment; and he refuses to give you what he knows you want. Your whines betray you when he finally slips a hand down your shorts. 

"¿Paciencia, hmm?" He grabs a handful of your ass, clothed cock catching on your clit. It rips another moan from you, which he happily swallows with another kiss. "Patience, princesa."

You hump against one another like teenagers, your hands planted by his head for purchase. Hips moving of their own accord, you chase the relief Miguel provides: with his hands kneading your ass, length catching at your clit, and teeth nipping at your bare neck. 

He licks a stripe up your collarbone, soothing the blossoming hickeys with a hum. 

Fuck, how can he be so casual ? You don't know if it's the weed or something else, but he is in his element, hand dipping down your back to graze at your pussy from behind. He hisses when he realises how wet you are, swiping his fingers down your slit and taking them out to pop them in his mouth. 

Now, flushed and face hot with embarrassment, you look up at him with big doe eyes. It makes Miguel feel guilty for stopping you so close to your climax. Beautiful : lower lip hooked under your teeth, plump and swollen and kissable. He'll make up for it later: a promise he whispers into skin. 

"You're soaked." He cups your cheek to press a kiss to your forehead, and all you can do is whine. His gaze dips down, to the swell of your tits in that thin shirt.. 

"What did you think about when you touched yourself?" It's soft, said in the warm press of your bodies; hook-shaped and hazy and you fit like you were made for one another. The thought lingers, plants a dangerous seed that makes you forget that the man underneath you is your roommate : unrepentant whore, Miguel O'Hara. 

"You." You've seen it first hand, he eats hearts for breakfast; and yours is on a platter for him to devour.

He laughs, deep and rumbling, hands resting on your waist. "I know that, baby. You don't have fantasies? Fuck yourself to the thought of someone touchin' you just right?"

Not just someone, him, you think. Your voice dies in your throat at the way he looks at you. "Just… n-nothing really-"

He hums, grinding your hips onto his. "Speechless, I can't believe it. Is this what I need to do to get some fucking peace around here?" 

You roll your eyes, "Don't be a dick, Miguel. When I shout, it's because you deserve it."

"...there it is." Eyes shining, his face stretches into a shit-eating grin. Wide, unabashed, unambiguous. "You back with the living, sweetheart?" 

It makes you laugh, even though you hate to give him the satisfaction. 

"What do you want?" He kneads your thigh and pleasure pools at the base of your stomach. 

You mumble something begrudgingly.

"Hmm? Can't hear you, baby."

Louder, now. "...want to sit on your face, Miguel." 

Lowly, he groans, shaking his head. "Mierda… of course you do."

Expertly, he helps you take your shorts off, dragging the thin material down your thighs. You clambers upwards, wrapping them around his shoulders, watching intently as he kneads the soft skin. It's tentative, at first, and you place your hands on the headboard to perch just above his mouth. 

He licks, diving in with the flat of his tongue: a long upwards stroke that ends with him sucking your clit. Moaning, your hips jump and he chases your pretty pussy up, large palms pushing you back down. He concentrates on your bundle of nerves, lips around your clit like a man on a mission.

And, God, does it feel good; he watches and learns from your every movement, committing your body to memory. His moans vibrate deliciously, tension building at that spot faster than your mind can register it. Then, you clench around nothing, gushing into his mouth whilst he eases you through it. The noises he makes are obscene; one leg off the bed and a hand snaked under his boxers. He's getting off on it; watching you crumple and sob around his tongue. 

And when you begin to move off, thighs sore, he doesn't relent, sealing his mouth on your pretty little hole. 

"Miguel.. fuck-" After your first orgasm, it surprises you when he continues, tongue fucking you with fervour. He presses you close, impossibly close, and your body fights against his ministrations. Heat, everywhere, and it's too much. The haze of the blunt begins to wear off and you are left with biting clarity. You want more of him, deeper; drunk off of just his tongue. 

You card your hands in his hair, and he moans: deep and wanton, with his eyes fluttering shut. He wants to look, to watch you when you cum on his tongue for a second time. Back arched, the curve of your tits peeking through a tiny top, fucking yourself on his face. He wants it hard , wants you to take control and use him to get off. 

"Right there, fuck… "

Like you can hear his thoughts, you press yourself down harder, riding the deep ridge of his nose for relief. Miguel complies and leans into it. He eats you out like a man starved and the carnality of it all brings you to a second peak. You cum once again, legs wrapped tight around his face. Head back, he laps it up readily. 

You separate with a wet pop, and Miguel looks blissful : fucked out and panting, wiping the slick off of his face with a forearm. Exhausted, you lean back onto the mattress beside him. 

"That was…" He searches for the right word, and it's your turn to finish for him. 

"... good. " Scarily good. So good you won't be able to see him around the apartment without remembering what he looks like trapped between your thighs. 

Gently, he turns to cup your cheek and bring your lips to his. It starts off sweet and deepens rapidly, making that thread at the pit of your stomach tighten, again. He grabs your thigh, bringing it closer, and you feel his length poking your stomach. Fuck. 

"You haven't…?" Your hand makes for his trousers, and he stops you. "I want to, Miguel. Want you to feel good too."

His head sinks into your shoulder. "I know, baby, I know. Not like this. Not yet."

You nod, still wrapped up in his arms. You haven't even fucked, and it feels more intimate than it should. 

"You've got a 9am tomorrow." He smiles with a hand underneath his head. 

"I've got a 9am tomorrow," You repeat, sighing. "...and my life is falling apart. I'm failing half of my classes as it is."

He turns to you, lazily. 

"I could tutor you, if you'd like."

…

"That's not fucking funny, Miguel."

_

_

_

Miguel taglist: @d1lf-loverrr, @afro-hispwriter @ilovemiguelohara @weedxgirlx420 @ladydovahkiin180 @aaliyuh3 @sweetanimebakery @vvitcxen @rosecoloredlenses708 @daikondal @magikmina @impettywhenyouare @alonelygirlsuicidenote @plushyplants @javi0ca @rheeves @starrfruit @nikirikii @marsbars09 @foxglove-grove @mimooyi @crosshairclown @dead-by-light @kynamitedessert @naarra @wanderlustingcastaway @sagejin @cookielovesbook-akie @tangerineloverrr @gobblegluckgluckgod @wolfiepirate @jxxey3 @ebrysteria @elliemm @manchuria @youngghostpeachslime @weasleybuns @ilovemuppets @vauriz @bonbyon @aimno256 @ancientbeing10 @tvije @venus1224idkpleaze @neteyamsbulletwound @chickenjefferson-blog @maki-z @jasjasthings

The only way I’d want Eddie to die is if I sucked his soul outta his dick. Send tweet.

oh god this has me going absolutely feral, ugh what i would give to have sam fuck me like this-

Training Day

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

Characters: Sam Wilson x woc!reader

Summary: The one where training with Sam leads to other things

Word Count: 2k+

Warnings: look….it’s smut. choking, semi public sex, female receiving oral, spanking (once really) unprotected sex (wrap it before they tap it), creampie, daddy kink (just the name used once), size kink because sam was so gd beefy in tfatws and it makes me feral 

A/N: SAM WILSON PIN ME TO THE WALL CHALLENGE. This one goes out to my main Samhoes @ritesofreverie​ & @certainaesthetic​ This is obviously set after TFATWS so Sam is Captain America (AS HE SHOULD BE). The divider is by @firefly-graphics

DO NOT repost or translate my work anywhere. Reblogs are always welcome, and let me know that you enjoy my fics.

Keep reading

FERAL. INSANE. LOSING MY MIND. THIS WAS EVERYTHING ‼️

under my hands

pairing: adrian chase x reader (gn pronouns, afab sex descriptions (vaginal/breasts))

rating: e+

word count: 4,334

one-sentence synopsis: from the moment you let a little secret slip in the bar, you're driving adrian out of his mind.

author's note: i got a bunch of very feral requests that made me so unhinged i combined them into one and then went completely bonkers so ENJOY!!!!!!!

read on ao3!

“I do, too,” Chris argues at the top of his voice, slamming his glass down on the bar tabletop. “What, you don’t fucking believe me?”

“No,” John replies. “I genuinely, honestly don’t.” He seems almost delighted that Chris’ face is going red with anger, even as he’s getting agitated himself. “You seem to forget that I, like, watched you in the hospital. I studied you. For a while. It was my job to know you. I know you don’t have any.”

“That’s such bullshit,” Chris says. He shoves away from the table, pushing up to his feet with such force that every glass and pitcher on the table rattles, making everyone shout and reach out with steadying hands.

“What are you doing?” Emilia asks, suspicion heavy on every word she speaks.

“I’m showing you my fucking tattoo,” Chris says, and starts unbuckling his belt.

“Whoa!” John shouts, as Leota calls, “Hell no, Chris!” across the table.

“What?” Chris demands. “You don’t fucking believe me, then I’ll show you—”

“You can’t pull your goddamn pants down in here right now,” Emilia hisses at him, like he somehow needs to be told that.

“Wait, dude, hold up,” Adrian says. “I think I have a pic on my phone.”

“Why?” you ask, and Adrian, already scrolling through his phone gallery, glances over at you.

“Because I took a picture,” he replies, returning his attention to his phone.

“You know,” Emilia adds, “I actually have a tattoo.”

“What?” John scoffs. “You do not.”

“You do?” Chris asks. If Emilia was trying to distract him, it’s working, because he’s reaching back between his legs to haul his chair in again, retaking his seat, leaning halfway across the table towards her. “Where?”

“Somewhere I am not going to show you right now,” Emilia replies.

There’s a beat.

“But maybe later?” Chris asks, and Emilia gives him a look that could have killed him if she had been slightly better trained.

“I have a tattoo,” you add.

Adrian’s head snaps up. “What?”

You thought that might get his attention back on you. His eyes burn through yours before they start skimming over your face, then downwards, coasting over your collarbones. He goes further before snapping back up to meet your eyes again.

“Where?” he demands, before insisting, “No, you don’t,” then asking, “Where?” again.

“Jesus, put your eyes back in your fucking head,” John admonishes him.

“You didn’t see it?” you ask him. It’s only a small tattoo, a tiny design you let your friend do on your hip. You’re not surprised he didn’t notice it, since you’ve only been together a handful of times and your hip is usually either covered by something— his mouth, or his hand, or his leg, or his own hip— in those times.

“No,” Adrian exclaims. “Where is—”

“God, please, not here,” Leota insists.

“Tell me,” Adrian insists immediately. “Tell me. You have to tell me. Where is it? I’ll—”

“We should probably start heading out soon,” John suggests, keeping the coolest head as designated driver and still managing to look halfway certain Adrian’s about to get them kicked out. He jumps to collect cash from everyone for their shared tab.

The entire time, Adrian’s eyes and heated gaze are fixed on you. Only briefly will they flit away before returning back. You’re finding yourself glad John’s the designated driver, because you’re sure Adrian would crash the car— or make you crash the car— if one of you were the ones driving back to the motel.

It’s only when you’re all actually back out at the cars you rented for this mission that you realize you can only ride in one together if there’s only one designated driver.

“Fuck,” John says, staring at the car. He sighs, then steps around the car to examine it from another angle. He sighs again. “Okay, well. Anyone willing to walk?”

“No,” Emilia immediately stops anyone from volunteering. “We can fit. We’ll just— We’ll share.”

“Sorry, we’ll share?” Chris asks.

Adrian turns to you. You can see the intention in his eyes in the moment before he speaks, leaping on the suggestion with, “Yeah, yeah, I’ll just— Harcourt, you sit with Chris, and— (Y/N) can sit with me.”

“Gross,” John comments. “No way.”

“I can sit with Chris instead, I guess,” you say. Adrian’s eyes snap to yours, blazing with a sudden snap of surprised anger.

“No,” Emilia responds first, too quickly, before Adrian even can. “I’m okay sitting with Chris, that’s fine.”

“If you’re sure,” you say, smiling at Adrian. His eyes are fixed on yours before they skate down again, still seeking. If only he knew what else is under here.

“Only if you promise not to do anything fucked up,” Leota warns all four of you. “I mean it, sickos.”

“Cross my heart,” you reply.

“Isn’t this illegal?” John asks Adrian, who waves him off.

“That’s not applicable here,” he tells him, already climbing into the car.

There’s barely enough room for you all, even with your stacking arrangement. In order to fit everyone in the tiny vehicle, John and Leota take the front seat— little more than a bench in front of the steering wheel— while Chris and Adrian are side-by-side in the back. They’re so broad that the spread of their shoulders practically stretches window to window. Chris, especially, is so huge that Emilia probably has the most space to sit just for sitting on him.

You don’t have a lot of attention to pay to Chris and Emilia, though. They’re focused on themselves— and John on the road, and Leota on her phone— so you can dedicate yourself to being as covertly gross as you want to be.

From the moment you climbed into Adrian’s lap, he was completely full-body tense. One of his hands holds your hip, keeping you in place, unknowingly stroking his thumb in tiny sweeps just over the small marks of your tattoo. His other hand is held over your thigh, fingertips stretched to the inside.

Underneath you, in the little rattling rental car, you can feel the initially half-hard line of his cock. He’s pressing up into your entrance through your clothes and his. Every time the car shifts even a little bit, the two of you even slightly jostled, you can feel him getting harder and harder. The thick line of it only gets more solid beneath you, his grip tightening with each passing second.

You can feel yourself getting more and more soaked in response. You clench our thighs together in his lap, desperate for any kind of friction you can get, but it’s not enough.

When John hits a pothole, Adrian accidentally shoves up into you, a quick there-and-gone grind that has you biting back a soft noise in the back of your throat. Adrian’s hands tighten so hard you can feel the indents of the bruises they leave.

You twist slightly, your eyes flying up to meet Adrian’s. He looks up at you from the other side of his glasses, a burning green fire that surges into your mouth and down your spine without a word being spoken.

Beside you, Chris makes a slightly-too-loud grunt of a noise, and Leota calls from the front seat, “That better not be what I think it was.”

“We’re here, anyway,” John says. You’re wedged against Adrian’s front still, arms tucked together, the hard, hot line of his cock striking just against your center, sending a jolt through you as the car comes to a stop. The heat of the car feels impossibly heated. You almost wish the ride wasn’t so short.

When you climb off of Adrian’s lap, all you can feel is how wet you are, how on edge you’ve become. Your underwear is soaked, and you haven’t even shown it to Adrian yet.

“Alright, here’s the room assignments,” Emilia says, fishing a bag of motel keys and a little notebook out of her bag. “John and Leota, me and Chris, Adrian and (Y/N).”

“Just because we’re not fucking one of y’all,” Leota grumbles. “We should get our own rooms for putting up with this.”

“Seconded,” John agrees. “I don’t mind, though.”

“I don’t mind,” Leota says. “I’m just saying. Why should we have to share just because they’re using it as an excuse t—”

“Goodnight,” Adrian declares, taking the key for your motel room with him from Emilia’s hands. Your bag and his have already been removed from the car’s trunk and slung over his shoulder.

“Goodnight,” you echo. You offer them a wave before jogging after him. It’s obvious— to you, and probably to anyone who can see him— that he’s rock hard right now. You follow him without hesitating, practically sprinting up alongside him to catch up with his long strides.

“You need to get in this room right now,” Adrian tells you, as soon as you’re within earshot. “I am going to lay you out, and I am going to find that fucking tattoo, and I am going to fuck you into the mattress,” he informs you, fumbling with the key in the motel room door. “And then I am going to—”

“I actually had a thought first,” you suggest.

Adrian all but breaks the door to the motel room in. He flings his bag aside, sets yours on top of it before he’s whirling on you to pick you up and haul you over his shoulder. Kicking the door shut behind himself, he locks it twice, the knob and the deadbolt.

“Put me down,” you insist, so he takes you to the foot of the only bed in the room and throws you down on it. You laugh as he tears his jacket backwards off his arms, already starting to climb up over you. “No, wait—”

“I waited long enough, I think,” Adrian argues. He takes you by the hips and drags you down to meet him, ducking down to press his smile to the hinge of your jaw. “Don’t you think I’ve been so good?”

“Yeah,” you breathe. “Don’t you think that’s why you should get a reward?”

Adrian lifts his head immediately, eager, excited. “What? Did you actually get me something or are you just teasing me? Like, obviously you’re a present in and of yourself, but—”

“Get up,” you tell him, and Adrian scrambles backward, up and off the bed.

You stand, hooking your fingers in the collar of his shirt so you can spin him, swapping your places. With your hand flat against the center of his strong chest, you push him to sit down at the end of the bed.

“Here or in the chair?” you ask him.

His excitement impossibly seems to double, triple, as he reaches up to skim his hands up your thighs. You push him away, stepping back and out of his reach.

“Decide,” you tell him, and start unbuttoning your shirt at the highest button, up by your throat. “Bed or chair?”

Adrian turns to look at the armchair by the curtains covering the windows at the front of the motel room. He’s clearly torn, but the novelty of the chair seems to win out for him, because he points towards it and answers, “Can we—”

“Yup,” you tell him, and he’s already scrambling. He nearly vaults over the length of the bed to get to the armchair, dragging it out and setting himself in it. When he turns back to you, he’s all eager anticipation and aroused confusion, waiting for your next move, trusting that you have a plan for him.

You do very much have a plan for him. You slip the next button loose on your shirt, threading them down one at a time. You have an undershirt under this top layer, so you’re not too concerned about revealing skin, not just yet.

“Are you going to show me your tattoo?” he blurts out, hands gripping the meat of his thighs as he watches you, struggling not to just reach out and touch. “Please, please, please, show me? I’ll do anything, anything you say, I’ll— I’ll fuck you,” he tells you, pleading, “I’ll fucking— I’ll make you feel so good, you won’t fucking believe it, just— Just show me, just— I have to know, I have to—”

“Shh,” you quiet him, reaching out to set your fingertips over his lips. He’s silenced, eyes flickering up to meet yours. “I’ll show you if you don’t touch until I say. Okay?”

“Yes,” he agrees. There’s no moment of hesitation. His nails dig into his jeans, tight in his hold of his own thighs. His knuckles are going white, he wants to hold you so badly.

You smile as you reach the last button on your shirt and slip it back off your arms and onto the ground. Adrian’s eyes are already coasting down your body, searching every newly exposed bit of skin for a mark, though there isn’t much yet to see. You reach next to untuck your undershirt, taking the edge of the fabric in your hands so you can ease it up and over your head in one long, sinuous roll. Your muscles all work together to reveal you from the waist up.

“Oh— Motherfuck,” Adrian curses automatically. “N— No, you fucking did— not, where did you get that?”

“I just came across it,” you tell him, reaching for the button on your jeans, pushing them apart.

“Can I?” Adrian asks, grinning, and you laugh.

“Maybe.” You ease the zipper down, then spread the fabric so he can get a glimpse at your underwear before you lean to push your pants down in a curl that has Adrian leaning forward, hands sliding forward to hold tighter the joints of his knees. “When I saw it, I just thought, you know— That looks so familiar.”

You kick your boots off, then remove your jeans, letting them join the rest of your clothes. When you lift yourself back up, shoulders back and spine straightening, you can feel the heat working over your expanses of exposed skin just the way Adrian’s eyes are.

“And then I thought,” you tell him, stepping closer. “‘You know who would enjoy this?’ You lean in a bit to whisper, grinning, “‘Adrian.’”

“You were right,” he insists.

“I figured,” you reply.

His grip slides up his thighs and back down again. His cock is impossibly obvious in his jeans, a hard, thick line you can see from here. He’s studying the lingerie set you’ve been wearing under your clothes all day in preparation for this moment. The set is mostly black, sheer enough that nothing beneath is concealed, but both the top and the bottom of it each have a thick teal v stripe cutting in with a thinner silver stripe matching just above, following the sharp lines in wrapping curves around your body. It’s a near identical match for his Vigilante armor, practically painted onto your skin.

The v cuts across your chest on both sides, streaking across your nipples. They’re visible through the sheer material still, and the budded peaks of them grow obvious as you become more flushed under Adrian’s unrelenting stare. The v on the panties cut down in stripes across your hips, laced in a scoop down your waist. It looks like the v is pointing downwards, as if Adrian needs more direction than he already has.

“Fuuuck,” Adrian draws out in a long curse before he whines. “Please, I— Fuck, you look so hot, motherfucker, nobody’s going to ever fucking believe me—”

You laugh, and Adrian’s words cut off, flying up to your mouth, then your eyes again. He tracks your every movement as you draw closer, taking a step nearer, then another, then another. You pause before him, considering, just barely in touching distance but not yet touching.

It looks like he’s actually sweating. You lean in nearer, letting your hands come to grip the arms of the armchair, holding you up without touching his body. Adrian’s nearly shaking, trying to keep himself still. It’s an impossible feat for him on a good day. You haven’t told him yet, but he’s already held out longer than you expected him to, which means he does get his handsome reward.

He is my handsome reward, you think to yourself, a thought so absurd and sappy you resolve to tell him— but later, when he can appreciate it properly.

“Do you like it?” you ask him.

“Do I— Sorry, do I fucking like it?” Adrian demands. “I want to— Can I—” He groans, insists, “I have to fuck you, please, plese, please—”

“Hold on,” you half-laugh. It’s impossible to be fully humored when you’re clenching around nothing, wanting friction on your clit, wanting him to fill your cunt, aching for him. You take the last step closer to him, reaching to brace yourself with a hand on his strong shoulder.

His face is burning red as you climb up onto his lap again. You have a much better angle this way than you did in the car, settling your knees on either side of his thighs, wedged into the armchair with him.

You let your other hand come up to thread through the hair at the back of his head, guiding him into tilting backwards to look up at you. He looks like he’s about to fall apart, his hands trembling where he’s gripping the arms of the chair, now. His heart is racing so quickly that his pulse is visible rabbiting in his throat, an obvious pound-pound-pound you can see throb.

You drag your hand down to cup his jaw, tilting him up into a soft kiss. You just barely press your lips to his as you lower down onto his lap again. He’s so hard now that, even through his jeans, you can get friction on him through your panties.

The fabric is soaked, and drags against Adrian’s denim over his cock to make him cry out your name, teeth biting into your lower lip.

“I’m trying to do something here,” you tell him against his mouth, half-mumbled before you draw back again. “I watched YouTube tutorials on lap dances, let me do this.”

“I’m so sorry, I don’t think I’m going to make it that long,” Adrian tells you in what sounds like mostly a genuine apology. “Please, can I touch you?”

“Soon,” you promise. You lift up off of his lap, missing the touch as soon as it’s gone, but you’re dropping down again only a moment later. You grind down on his cock in rolls, gripping his thick hair in one hand, his strong shoulder under the other.

“Oh, my God,” bursts out of Adrian’s mouth. “Oh, my God, oh my God, oh my— Oh, my fucking God—”

He comes forward, seeking the closest piece of skin he can reach. The flat of his tongue drags up the curve of one breast, moving to mouth at your nipple through the sheer fabric of the black-silver-teal bra. His teeth scrape up over the hard bud of it, and a shock shoots through you.

“I’m sorry,” Adrian apologizes in a rush, his words hot and wet against your skin through your lingerie. “I’m sorry, I forgot you said not to touch, I had to touch, I’m so fucking sorry—”

“It’s okay,” you tell him, smiling. You reach between your bodies to push open the button on his jeans to open them yourself. “You can touch now.”

His hands fly upwards, grasping your waist and tugging you inwards in a sharp jerk. Your breath whooses, tightening your hold in his hair. “Where the—”

His mouth glides up your throat, his hand following, He’s cupping your breast in his hand, thumb brushing over your nipple. Your back arches, and you grind down over him, desperately seeking friction.

“Where the fuck is your tattoo?” Adrian demands, pulling back enough to start searching over your skin again, trying to find the mark.

You don’t answer with words, but you do guide his hand to your hip, and he gets the hint easily. Before you know it, he’s grabbing you up by the hips, hoisting you to throw you down on the bed all over again. He yanks off his clothes so hastily his shirt half-rips, but he doesn’t even seem to notice, dropping them in scattered piles across the floor.

It must be such a relief for him to get his cock out; you watch him finally slip the last of his clothes off to leave him bare, taking himself in hand, and he moans out loud in the next second.

“Oh, fuck,” Adrian bites out. He jumps back up onto the bed over you, shoving you up the mattress, diving into your throat to suck a rough mark there beneath the cut of your jaw. He rolls his hips into yours, then glides down, searching. He’s kept his glasses on, focused as he examines every inch of your skin.

He follows his eyes with his lips, tongue following, teeth biting, mouth sucking. He’s practically fucking your leg by the time he reaches your hip, tugging the fabric down, and cursing, “There you are, motherfucker—”

You huff a breathless laugh as Adrian bites your inked skin, laving his tongue over the mark to soothe you when your back arches, a cry ripping up out of your chest. He rises up on his knees, eyes stroking up over you as he frantically strips his own cock at the sight of you.

“Holy fucking shit, I want to— I want to take fucking— I want to take, like, fucking boudoir photos of you and frame them and put them up all over my fucking house but if anyone else ever saw them I’d have to fucking kill them so maybe I shouldn’t—” Adrian’s babbling, and he only stops when he drops down to take your nipple in his mouth again over the fabric. He makes a half-whine, half-moan that shoots straight down to your cunt.

Adrian’s free hand wriggles down between your thighs to tear the fabric of your lingerie aside. He doesn’t bother taking off the panties, just getting them out of the way so he can drag his fingers up through your slit. There’s wetness everywhere, slicking his path; he dives deeper, finding your entrance, pushing in just a bit.

He takes your wetness to his cock, uses it to ease his glide. Within seconds, he’s dragging his mouth up to the hinge of your jaw, biting in as he pushes into you in a hot slide, his hips meeting yours.

“I think I’m going out of my fucking mind for you,” Adrian mumbles into your skin. “Oh, shit, I think I’m losing it, I fucking— I think I love you—”

“Adrian—” you say, your heart jolting as your cunt tightens, feeling his cock pulsing inside you. You’re impossibly filled, pushing up to roll into the friction of him, grinding up frantically to get the last shocks you need to push you over the edge.

Adrian drags you in closer, fucking you up in his lap before he shoves you back down onto the bed. He’s already losing his rhythm, the teasing you drew out for so long— from the night at the bar, to the short ride here in his lap, to everything you’ve done since you got into the motel room— finally coming to a head. He can’t stop saying your name, begging you, face flushed, glasses knocked askew as he drags you into another kiss.

He’s gasping, then, and his lunatic pumps into you and the crazed way he’s grinding against you has you knocking over the edge. You collapse into a melted pile in the bed, his arms the only thing holding you together as his cock splits you apart.

You tell him, “I love— I love you, too,” because it’s all you can feel, your chest and heart and cunt full of the emotions. You’re coursing with it, and he slides his hand up to guide you into a biting new kiss.

“Fuck,” he says, from his throat into yours, more a vibration than a word or even a sound. In the next instant, he’s over his own edge, holding you tightly in place on his cock as he fucks you through his orgasm. You’re overstimulated in the best way, completely dissolved, chest heaving, aftershocks rattling through your mind and body like white lightning that takes you over in rattling waves.

You reach out for him, bringing his throat to your mouth. A gust of a sigh breezes out of your chest when you brush your lips over his throat, then drag your tongue up the strong cut of muscle to his jaw, working lazily and sloppily at his skin.

He huffs a shaky laugh, murmurs, “I can be ready to cum again in, like, ten minutes at the most if you keep that up.”

“That’s not incentive for me to stop,” you mumble, working aimlessly against his skin.

He turns to face you, letting his face drag along yours until he can pull you into a long, open-mouthed, loose-jawed kiss, licking behind your teeth. You let out a shaky moan, and he smiles into the kiss before separating you. He pecks the corner of your mouth, then the tip of your nose.

“Maybe I don’t want you to stop,” he tells you. His eyes skim down again, a blaze of heat down your body before his calloused fingers trail up to grip your hip again. “You are— Oh, fuck— I love you—”

You smile, drawing him into a long kiss that has him grinding up into you again already starting to fill thick and hard again before he’s even pulled out of you.

Against his lips, you ask him, “Do you mean it?”

“Do you?” he replies quickly, and you nod, grinning. He flushes up to his ears, says, “Hell yeah,” and dives in, threading his fingers through your hair to drag you in again.

-

requests used:

"Hiii hope you're great. DRINK WATER💕💕 anywayy I was hoping you can write a one shot of the gang in a bar after a mission and they started talking about tattoos and reader has a hidden tattoo. Adrian wants to find it so badly. He begs and talks so dirty he'd do anything to see it 😭🥴 thank youu" (anonymous)

"Adrian chase/vigilante x reader (has a vagina) >explicit Ok but what if you all have to take a smaller vehicle and he offers to have you sit on his lap because it's either him or someone else and he cant let you sit on anyone else's lap and you end up sharing a room (optional: oblivious mutual pining + oblivious cuddling + awkward mornings) and some like rough Adrian. Please 0nly do what you feel comfortable with" (@delirious0pandemonium)

"Help! I’ve fallen into an Adrian Chase shaped hole and I can’t get up (nor do I want to). Just wanted to say I have been LOVING your fics and present to you an idea - showing up to Adriana place with a coat on, then opening it up to reveal a lingerie set in his colours/matching his armor (like black bra with the teal v stripes) and him going feral. That’s it, that’s the ask." (anonymous)

"i would take pictures of you like this so bad but if they got leaked and you were exposed without your consent i would rip out my own eyes out in retaliation" (@nobodys-baby-now)

"Could I have an Adrian x reader, where he comes home and the reader surprises him with a lap dance? I would love to see how you write his reaction. :)" (anonymous)

-

adrian chase taglist:

@violetrainbow412-blog @bigassbisaster @amysuemc @sunflowerfive @papitas-con-sal @saturnngal @neptuneswritingwork @jewishdelis @myguiltypleasures21 @pinkygunslingy @violinchick @r3tr0sp3ct @chaseadrian @breathing-in-waves @rishlurh @x-milf-hunter-x @goblynnrockz @theowritesstuff @jaysfav @themartiansdaughter @dallasvakarian @missscarlettangel @pieriinova @samantha24015 @hillaryroadheadcllinton @ohmybubbletea @buckys-estrella @witchywcmans @ladyrebel25 @eviejune @vigilantesluvr @bb-skyrunner @qjuiq-odakyu

being fucked so hard from behind and they lay on top of your back while they’re fucking you senseless and moan in your ear

TW⚠️: 18+, sex!!, spit, nekkid

PAIRING: spencer reid x fem!reader

A/N: im touch starved, dont judge me. i just really like spitting & sex and reid so,, // just a lil blurb cause im too lazy to write a whole thing just to justify spencer spitting in someone's mouth 🌚

⚠️ MINORS DO NOT INTERACT !! ⚠️

continue reading blow the cut 👀

Spencer didn't know what exactly had drove him to do it. Well, he had an explanation, but he pushed the thought away in less than a millisecond, the haziness of the adrenaline almost blinding him as he felt her swallow his spit, a hand not too gently on her throat as he pounded in her fervently. Her moans had turned into pleas then. Good. She liked it too. He leaned down to kiss her, his tongue diving right in, before pulling away and half opening his heavy eyes and staring at the string connecting their mouths. With a grin on his face, he felt the very last ounce of reason leave him as he pushed two fingers in her mouth, now her tongue caressing his digits the same way she had his dick some minutes ago. Her walls pulsated so fast now. One, two, three thrusts more and wave after wave of pleasure washed over her, him following right after.