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sleepyhutcherson · 2 months

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can you write a fic where mike is jerking off to a pic of reader because she’s on vacation or a family trip?

please.

pairing: mike schmidt x gn!reader

contains: nsfw, minors dni, m!masturbation, sub!mike. let me know if i forgot anything else!

a/n: eee thank you for your request (๑>◡<๑) hopefully this isn’t too boring lmao hope you enjoy <3 !!

mike becomes so desperate when you’re gone—you’ve only been gone for four days and you wouldn’t be returning from your holiday with your parents for another three days which wasn’t long…but it was too long for mike. he’s used to having you around all day but now the house is extra quiet without you and he hates it.

you call him everyday, you text him whenever you can and mike appreciates it, he feels less alone when he’s talking or texting you. albeit, there’s a familiar melancholy feeling that washes over him the moment he hangs up with you, your goodbyes only reminding him you’re not there with him. he misses you terribly, it’s almost so pathetic how much he misses you. he misses your voice already, your laughter, your smile that he cherishes so much, your lips, your skin…the way he would have access to it, running his digits against your soft skin whenever he craved your touch. god, he missed you so, so much. he missed the sounds you would make whenever he was burying his cock inside of you, the way you would praise him for doing such a good job fucking you, the sight of you bouncing on his cock while he whined and begged for you to let him cum.

a whine falls from his lips once he’s brought back to reality, the living room’s empty and it’s almost dark out, his cock twitching in his boxers. he needs you now - fuck, he needs you so bad. a sob escapes from him… it’s such a pathetic sound it only makes him more desperate for you. he thinks about calling you, he needs your attention, but he isn’t sure you’ll be able to help him with his little problem—what if you’re with your parents? he can’t risk that. instead, he scrolls through your messages, back to that photo you sent of yourself a few days ago. it was a low quality photo, one that shouldn’t have brought him the pleasure it did, but you just looked so beautiful.

he fiddles with his belt, struggling with one hand. once he finally manages, he unbuttons his jeans pulling them down along with his boxers, letting them fall down to his ankles. he positions his phone in front of him where he can get a good look at you. he starts stroking his cock, pre cum dripping from the tip… he’s lucky he has the house to himself considering how loud he starts to get. he whines, begging for you… “please, please, please,” he begs, his cock throbbing in his hand as he’s stroking it. he stares at the photo of you, eyes brimming with tears at the overstimulation. he quickens his strokes, his cock desperately wanting to release. “mm’so good. please, please let me come.” he whines, bucking into his fist. the thought of you denying his release only made him harder.

his eyes were hazy, daring to shut but he so desperately wanted to continue to stare at how fucking hot you looked in that photo. more whines escaped from his mouth, crying out your name, begging for you to let him come. “i’ll… i’ll be so good for you just - fuck - please let me come,” he cried out, picking up the pace. lewd sounds of his hand pumping his cock and his whimpering sounds filled the home, he wondered if the neighbours could hear him. god, he wished you could hear him. hear how much he needed you—how eager and hungry he was for you, for your touch; for all of you.

he was close. he continued to stroke himself, the thought of your pretty hands around his cock only bring him closer to his release. “m’so close, baby. please let me come.” he sobs and like that he threw his head back, a loud final groan slipping from his lips as he bucked into his hand one last time before finishing, his come coating him. he panted heavily trying to catch his breath—he was a complete mess now. his hair sweaty, sticking to his forehead, cheeks flushed, his hand covered in come. if only you could’ve seen him like this.

#mike schimdt x reader #mike schmidt #mike schmidt x you #mike schmidt angst #mike schmidt smut #josh hutcherson x reader #mike schmidt fluff #mike schmidt comfort #josh hutcherson fanfic #josh hutcherson fluff #josh hutcherson smut #josh hutcherson #five nights at freddy's #fnaf

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fayes-fics · 7 months

Text

Call Me

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader, modern AU

Summary: When you are parted from Benedict, he guides you through pleasuring yourself....

Warnings: 18+ smut, minors DNI, phone sex, dirty talk, masturbation, use of sex toy.

Word Count: 3.5k

Authors Note: this is a very belated request fill for the talented and lovely @broooookiecrisp from her ask HERE, where Benedict guides the reader through masturbation. She also chose the pic above, which looks very modern Benedict in Tuscany :) I hope you enjoy this story, my lovely. Thanks to @colettebronte for reading this through & @eleanor-bradstreet for the title. Enjoy! <3

The Facetime call connects as you recline, wearing your noise-cancelling wireless headset.

“Hello darling,” that familiar smooth voice greets, “I've missed you.” His sigh is deep and heartfelt. With the volume up, it sounds like he is lying right with you, but then it's in both ears; the stereo effect makes your tummy feel warm.

“I've missed you too,” you hum, toying with the corner of the duvet you lay under. You are so happy he secured an artist retreat residency in Tuscany for the week, but you miss him terribly. He's only been gone a few days, but it feels like forever.

“I'm sorry this has to be an audio call; the wifi here is shockingly slow and the phone reception non-existent; I thought it better to sacrifice a blocky video for crystal clear audio,” he explains. “You will just have to imagine my face,” he adds with a soft laugh.

Indeed, your mind fills with images of his handsome face; you can even picture the gentle, lopsided grin you can hear in his tone.

“Are you somewhere private?” you ask, a little nervous.

“Yes. Why do you ask?” his question shifting into that lower cadence that fires all the butterflies.

“I miss you,” you offer again, hoping perhaps he can intuit what you are asking for, drawing your knees up, the cotton sheet catching on your heels as you do so.

“I miss you too,” he echoes again, “but I don't think that needs to be said in private,” his tone laconic.

He knows exactly where your thoughts have slid, but he's playing innocent. He always goads you into pushing to speak your mind, to voice your desires, and tonight is no different—gently coaxing you to profess what you want.

“I want you to talk to me,” your voice with a slight waver that betrays a hidden meaning in the words.

“I am,” the timbre makes the little earphones in your ear almost vibrate, and a frisson runs down your spine.

“No…” you hesitate, “talk to me,” emphasising the word.

“If you want something from me, darling, all you have to do is ask,” his tone a dark lilting tease now.

“Talk to me like you do when we are intimate,” you rush out on an exhale.

His rich chuckle makes your nipples pebble without so much as a touch. “Now we are getting somewhere….” he buzzes. “Are you going to touch yourself for me while I do, hmm?”

You bite your lip but can't disguise the whimper that escapes. You close your eyes and flick the volume up two notches on your phone, throwing it aside so both hands are available.

“I want you to tell me what to do,” you breathe, pushing the duvet down your body, feeling heated.

You hear the noise that catches deep in his throat; it's thick and desirous, and you thank the technology gods for headsets with this level of quality.

“What are you wearing?” he rumbles.

“Nothing…” you confess, knowing it's breathy and wanton.

“Oh god, yes,” his rushed response, a reflex that makes you clench your thighs together, loving how affected he is just by that simple statement. “Where are you?”

“In our bed.”

“Under the covers?”

“I was, but now I'm feeling hot, so I've pushed them aside. It's just me… naked… uncovered… alone… resting on your pillow…”

With each little phase, you can hear his breathing getting more pronounced. “Why my pillow?”

“It smells like you,” you answer.

“Does that turn you on?” his voice going tight.

“Yes, oh god, Ben, yes, it does.”

He growls lightly when you say his name, the noise in your ears so loud it makes you squeak, a hand straying to your breast.

“Guide me, please; I need to imagine it's your hands on me. “Draw me a mental picture as clear and evocative as one of your beautiful paintings.”

“Hmmmm,” his thoughtful hum runs right through your body with the volume up. “How about we take this slow, build to something? I have a painting I worked on earlier today. Would you like me to describe it to you? Describe how I would paint you into it?”

“Yes! Yes, please,” you enthuse quickly, desperate for his artistry in all senses of the word.

“It's Tuscany, a sun-drenched summer’s day,” his storytelling is always spellbinding, so you settle back into the pillows as if listening to a private audiobook made just for you. “The sky is azure blue; the fields are bright, verdant green. Olive trees dot the rolling hills all around. Right in the middle is a small vineyard. A gentle slope of neatly rowed vines, the leaves canopying bunches of ripened grapes, drooping heavily, ready for harvest.”

As he speaks, you spider your fingertips over your collarbone, imagining the heat of the sun on your skin.

“The grass between the vine rows is lush and thick, a balm from the heat,” his sonorous voice continues at a lush pace. “That is where I would paint you, lying on that hillside. The cool blades tickling your back as the sun bakes your skin.”

“What am I wearing, Benedict?” you inquire, gently biting your lip as your hands stray lower onto the swell of your breast, so enchanted by the picture he paints.

“Exactly what you are right now,” he responds with a slight hitch.

“Nothing?” you gasp, the idea suddenly so risque but more beguiling.

“That's right,” he rumbles. “I would paint you utterly nude.”

You brush lightly around your own areola, writhing gently under your own touch.

“Are you with me, Benedict? In this vineyard?” your breath quickening.

“How else am I going to paint you unless I am there too?” he teases gently. “And guess what I would be doing while I'm painting?”

“What?” goosebumps on your arms with anticipation, your fingers moving concentric circles.

“I would tell you to touch yourself, just as I am now. There is nothing I want to paint more than you in the throes of ecstasy,” he exhales raggedly. “You are beautiful, wild, glorious….”

“I want that too,” you rush out. “Why have you never done it before?”

He chuckles richly; the sound feels like a shimmer over your body. “Because it would be impossible to be near you when you are naked and not to touch you,” his admission is almost rueful.

“I wish you were with me,” it’s wistful.

“I am,” he assures. “just remember hmm? Sunny hillside, naked, the sun on your skin and me there with you. Now, darling, I can tell you are already doing something; I can hear the quirk in your breath. Tell me, tell me in detail.”

“I’m..” you hesitate, “...I’m touching my nipples,” you rush out, finally letting your fingers trail over the nub, pebbling hard as he moans lightly.

“Oh yes,” he stutters, “don’t stop. Give them a gentle pinch for me. Between your finger and thumb…” he waits for your little hiss, and then he hums, “Mmm, does that feel good?”

“Yessss,” you hiss.

“Imagine it’s my fingers, darling,” he requests, and you do.

You think of how it feels when his hands cup your breast, as you do now, and tease your nipples until you beg him to stop. You hear his breath catching in his throat as you make tiny little needy noises and tilt up a fraction off the bed, teasing yourself as he does.

“That’s it,” he encourages. “Now wet your fingers, suck on them…”

You know he can hear the wet, suckling noise right in his earpiece as you do as commanded, returning your fingers and painting the dampness over your skin as it puckers heavily under the sensation.

“Now pinch yourself just a little harder; imagine it’s my tongue and teeth; I know how much you like it when I suck hard and just a gentle bite….”

“Ben…” you murmur his name as you move, your head rolling on the pillow, eyes fluttering.

“Fuckkk,” you hear him mutter, losing his composure. It makes something inside you catch fire, a tingle between your legs buzzing harder.

“What next?” you beseech, wanting this to go quicker but at the same time to never stop.

“Slide your fingers down over your ribs, my love,” he stumbles a little, and you hear a squeak as if he is changing position.

“Tickles,” you giggle, and Benedict laughs softly with you.

“I know. I love to run the tip of my nose there,” he divulges, “or I may use a firmer touch. Do that, darling. Sweep your whole palm down, and feel the rise and fall with your breathing as you go.”

You do as asked, the heavier touch centring you somehow as your hand slips onto your tummy.

“Take your time, but don’t stop moving lower, darling,” he lectures. “You know I never do.”

It is so low it echoes around your whole being. Your thighs fall open, a trickle escaping your body.

“Oh god, I’m burning for you, Ben,” it’s out before you can stop it.

“Where?”

“You know where,” you obfuscate.

“I'm not there, remember? I need you to paint me a picture. I know you can do it. Don’t worry. No one can hear us; it’s just you and me. Missing each other.” His gentle, loving reassurance is the push you need.

“Between my legs,” you stutter under his coaxing.

“Are you wet for me?” he queries, panting a little.

“Yes,” you disclose quietly.

“Are you touching yourself?”

“Not yet,” you swirl your fingers through the patch of hair, almost as if waiting for his permission to touch.

“You want me to tell you exactly what to do, don’t you?” He intuits.

“Please,” you croak.

“Okay. I just have one condition…” he tapers off, temptingly, knowing he has you on tenterhooks.

“What?” the question is breathy, impatient.

“You have to be loud for me,” he petitions. “Don’t you dare hold back; I want to hear it all.”

“Okay, I promise,” you whisper, your clit pulsing, aching to be touched.

“Alright….” He begins as you hear more sounds like he is getting into position in bed himself, a slight rustle of cotton. “Bend your legs, bring your heels up high right near your bottom…”

You do as instructed.

“Now, splay your knees out wide.”

Again you follow to the letter, feeling the cool air swirling around your exposed, damp slit.

“Reach behind your head and then slide my pillow under your hips…,” he continues in that sinful tone.

“Why?” You check even as you do as asked.

“Because I want my pillow to smell like your pussy when I get home,” he snarls. The untamed way he says it, so loud in your ears, makes you squeak. He has no shame in being explicit, even if you often flounder to do the same.

Now, with your hips raised, it’s easier to touch yourself; likely, he thought about that, too.

“Mmm, are you comfortable again?” he checks.

“Yes,” you confirm, hand slipping to where it was before.

“Good, now take your middle finger and slide it lower,” he instructs. “Keep going until you find that little clit of yours,” you swear he has entered an even throatier register now, each word like dark silk cloaking you.

As your finger pad slides over that spot, you can’t help the little ohhhh that escapes your lips.

“Oh yes, you’ve found it, haven’t you? Now slide a little lower, hook that finger, and pull back up.”

You do as told and moan as your finger immediately snags the most sensitive spot.

“Oh fuck yes,” you can hear the shudder in his tone, how affected he is, making you fizz too. The self-consciousness melts away as his precise instructions root you into your body, letting your mind shut off all the thoughts and worries—just focussed on the present.

“Swirl that finger gently for me, baby,” he compels, “anticlockwise.”

Instantly, your body responds as if it were his touch. You breathe deep as you keep moving, the slickness of your desire easing your motions.

“Are you swelling just a little?” he sounds more urgent now.

“Yes,” you confirm, your clit swelling under your touch as you picture him, his face hovering over you, imagining his fingers teasing you as his lips slid hot over your neck.

“Oh god, I love when you get all swollen and puffy and flushed right there for me,” he groans lewdly, and it’s a beeline straight to your pussy. It convulses around nothing, leaking over your bottom cheeks and onto his pillow. You call his name louder, squirming bodily, something tugging inside. Your body craves him—to be fucked, invaded, pushed open, pounded until it aches from that delicious stretch.

“Fuck I need you, Ben,” you moan as your fingers move faster, sliding over that little pearl. “I need you to fuck me so hard.”

“I want that, but not yet,” he grits out, your declaration seeming to fuel him. “Imagine it’s my tongue, darling, lathing against your clit, drinking up all that beautiful juice. You always taste divine, like a slightly tart peach, sweet but sharp.”

Your mind supplies images of just that, his slightly stubbled jaw rubbing against the sensitive skin of your labia as he has to use both hands to hold you open to his onslaught, your legs reflexively wanting to close up around his head at the powerful sensations you feel, your fingers running into his lush head of hair, nails scraping along his warn scalp, praising his skill.

“When I tell you to, you grab your vibrator, baby.” he interrupts your reverie.

“Yes,” you comply, knowing it is tucked safely under your pillow beside you.

“For now, keep rubbing for me; go faster,” he implores. “Let me hear you, your beautiful voice….”

You speed up, changing motions as he guides you to do so. Softly chanting his name as you notch higher up that invisible ladder. But he knows your body so well—knows with absolute precision when to shake things up, as he does now.

“STOP!!!” he instructs harshly.

You instantly halt ministrations, whining, hearing his laboured breaths loud in your ear, your fingers frozen inches above your folds.

“Oh, are you pulsing baby? Are you so close to coming?” he sounds proud, almost smug.

“Yesssss… please let me continue,” you plead, lungs heaving.

“No,” he menaces as your hand wanders over your thighs to stop the temptation to defy him, feeling the quiver in your muscles.

“Where has your other hand been?” he quizzes.

“Gripping the sheets,” you admit as he huffs a laugh about your honesty.

“Now swap. Touch your clit with that hand,” he tutors.

“What about my other hand? It's soaked,” you confess abashed.

“I know, baby, we are going to put it to good use. Slide two of those soaked fingers inside your pussy for me,” he instructs, so low that every word buzzes in your bones.

You call out his name as you slide two fingers deep into your own soaked pussy, rippling around your touch, a lewd, squelching sound as you do so.

“Oh fuck… I think I heard that,” he inhales sharply.

“You,” you assert, “you did this to me.”

He makes a feral noise in response, breathing in harsh gusts.

“Fuck yourself,” he growls, “fuck yourself with your fingers.”

Your movements are instinctual now, following his words to the letter. Shame melted away under the heat of desire. For him, for this. To come so damn hard you scream the walls down. Plunging your fingers as deep as you can reach, over and over. Your hips are pushed high off the bed, shoulder blades and feet taking your weight as you race greedily towards your peak, forehead and the back of your neck dewy from the exertion. Thinking of his fingers buried inside, of how, when it’s him, he holds you down with a solid quad muscle over your thigh, doesn’t let you buck up as you are now.

“Please, Ben. I need your cock,” you bumble, uncensored, whimpering that you can’t quite reach as deep as he can, reach that spot that makes you babble utter nonsense and white out with pleasure.

“Grab that vibrator y/n. Fuck yourself properly,” he orders gruffly.

You release your clit and fumble under your pillow for it, a slight sound of victory catching in your throat as you do so.

Without preamble, you thrust it inside yourself, just as he would with his cock when he knows you are this mindless. The stretch isn’t as good as him, not the same weight and heat, but it still feels like a heavenly sensation in your heightened state. Your noises staccato as you take it all on board, pausing slightly to get used to the invasion.

“Did I say you could stop?” he interrogates.

Without riposte, you scramble to obey, withdrawing the vibe then sinking it back in, attempting to ape one of his rhythms, the sense memory of him moving inside you making you moan loudly.

“That’s it. Does that feel good?” his voice practically a purr.

“Yes, but not as good as you,” you answer, missing the feel of him surrounding you when you are fucking. Skin, sweat, scent, weight, the feeling of another body covering or moving under yours.

“I know, darling. I promise it will be me soon. I’ll be home in a few days,” he pledges, breathing hard.

“Will you fuck me as soon as you are home?” you implore, wanting nothing more in this moment.

“Yes, baby. I’ll take you in the hallway if you want,” he vows, his cadence desperate.

“Please…” that word is all you can stutter as the hand controlling the vibe becomes a frenzy, your pussy clinging to its mass as if it were his cock.

“Don’t forget that engorged clit,” he reminds. “I need you to rub it as hard as you can with that other hand,” his voice is becoming more broken. “Im fucking you right now,” he avows roughly, “It's me, darling, fucking you so hard. And you feel so so good clenching around my cock…”

You belatedly realise he may be touching himself, may have his cock in his hand as he walks you to orgasm. It makes your thighs tremble and clamp around your hands.

“Are you touching yourself too, Ben?”

“Yessss”, he hisses. Below the sound of your joint panting, you can hear the faint sound of skin slapping lightly as he fucks his fist.

It’s that image in your mind - him sprawled naked on a bed, skin sunkissed against the crisp white sheets, in a thick stone-walled Tuscan villa, the scent of wildflowers and the lush sound of crickets wafting through the open shutters - that hurtles you towards completion. Imagining yourself right there with him, gripping the wrought iron bed frame as he fucks so deep you can’t help but scream his name and shudder as it is his fingers snagging over your clit rather than your own.

The next few moments are a frenzied blur as, after some last gasps, you emit a long, loud scream as you come so hard, convulsing around the facsimile of his cock, your clit jumping under your touch, dimly aware he is still streaming filthy, needy encouragements that descend into gruff noises as he follows you over, the tell-tale sound of that final moment when he comes so loud against your eardrums as if he is right there slumped around you, his lips hot on your neck.

There is nothing but gulping breaths as both recover, feeling no shame, just a bone-deep satisfaction that makes you languid and heavy, not wanting to move, just curl up and sleep, a t-shirt of his you grabbed earlier your companion in his absence.

“Fuck I came so hard,” he sounds almost sheepish as it sounds as if he is cleaning up his torso.

“Me too,” you concur, little ripples of fire still running down your legs and arms, oversensitive to any stimuli; even the bedding feels almost too much.

“I want you to come again, but you sound sleepy,” he assesses correctly, and you hum in agreement.

“Too sleepy,” you slur the words as you turn onto your side and fling away the toy to be dealt with another time.

His amused sound is rich and warm. “Curl up, my love,” you once again find yourself carrying out his bidding without conscious thought.

“How long until you are home, Ben?” you mumble after a stifled yawn.

“Thirty-three hours,” you can hear the affectionate, lazy smile as he says it.

“Too long,” you lament gently into his t-shirt, the citrus-woodsy scent of him a comfort.

“Next time, come with me; it's beautiful here,” he murmurs ardently.

“I may love it there too much,” you jest, “I may never want to leave.”

“If you were here with me, I may never want to either,” he imparts softly.

You just hum contentedly. “Will you stay on with me?” you ask quietly, “until we fall asleep?”

“I never planned for anything but,” he responds fondly, a warmth blooming behind your ribs at his words.

And that is how you drift off, whispering sweet nothings as you slip into a restful slumber. The call only disconnects hours later when your batteries run out as you both sleep soundly.

Benedict taglist: @makaylan @foreverlonginguniverse @iboopedyournose @aintnuthinbutahounddog @severewobblerlightdragon @margofiore @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @nikaprincessofkattegat @baebee35 @crowleysqueenofhell @bridgertontess @fiction-is-life @lilacbeesworld @angels17324 @queen-of-the-misfit-toys @divaanya @musicismyoxygen84 @benedictspaintbrush @miindfucked @sorryallonsy @cayt0123 @hottytoddyhistory @truly-dionysus @fictionalmenloversblog @zinzysstuff @malpalgalz @panhoeofmanyfandoms @kinokomoonshine @causeimissu @delehosies @m-rae23 @last-sheep @kmc1989 @desert-fern @starkeylover @corpseoftrees-queen @magical-spit @bunnyweasley23 @how-many-stars-in-the-sky @amygdtjhddzvb @0x1harmonia0x1

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