#(the bars so fucking low🙃)

[answrs]

A doctor saying "Good news! Your labs look great" is like if you were watching a cop show and the chief walked in like "Great news, everybody! The best news! The killer is still at large and we have no leads."

[dreamonminecraft]

Yeah they unfortunately completely missed out on building someone up in the last four years so it's gonna be really hard no matter who they choose I think :/ ans Trump getting shot certainly doesn't increase their chances of winning 🙃 I guess they were just kinda sure Biden would go for a second term but come on, this had been coming for a while 😭😭

on one hand it's like. literally nobody has liked Biden as a person for the last year minimum. he's losing his mind and should not be allowed to be president regardless of how effective he's been legislation wise because he can't speak publicly and thats crucial. but also campaigning is SO critical and the fact that there isn't a clear replacement here (and that he doesn't mention one in his statement HELLO) is such a fumble

It's less surprising that he dropped out and more surprising that he waited this long considering what a fucked position it puts all other potential candidates at but also I think anyone even a little bit younger will get a lot of center voters and even republicans who don't like trump. it's really a low bar.

[ladymazzy]

The past few weeks in UK racism have been wild and exhausting. Such an incredible concentration of denial, misrepresentation, whattabouttery and asinine takes. And whilst I'm not especially invested in the Meghan & Harry drama (I'm not a royalist, hate tabloids and I'm also unsurprised that they have problems with a family which serves as an institutional representation of white supremacy, imperialism and colonialism, as well as being fundamentally dysfunctional in the most basic 'fucked up family' way), the way certain people in this country go after them is something

Just recently, a white British man was arrested and charged for an arson attack which killed a Black muslim woman and her two infant children. This man has apparently made and followed racist and islamophobic content on social media, yet the police are mysteriously reluctant to investigate this as a possible hate crime

On top of the ongoing crises with racism in the police ( both in how they police, and as it directly affects Black & Asian police officers), and the NHS, ethnic minorities working in the Fire Service have also spoken about the racism they are subjected to within the service, following the suicide of a Black firefighter Jaden Francois-Esprit.

When Ngozi Fulani made a twitter post about being subjected to the 'where are you really from' experience at Buckingham Palace, the backlash was swift and relentless. Everything from accusing her of lying, accusing her of some kind of entrapment, of bullying a poor defenceless old lady (because Black women are just so mean and aggressive 🙃) questioning why she changed her name and why she was 'dressed like an extra from Black Panther'...

Fulani didn't even mention Susan Hussey by name, nor did she demand she be 'sacked' or anything. The royal household didn't deny it, Hussey immediately stepped down, and has since (finally!) apologised face-to-face with Fulani. And yet Fulani has still been subjected to endless hate and speculation to the point where Sistah Space had to temporarily suspend services because of safety worries

None of this is racist, they say. Britain is super 'tolerant' they say (as if 'tolerance' isn't an incredibly low bar anyway). Even amongst people with left-wing politics, there are *still* people saying 'the real problem is class', as if racism is just an interpersonal irritation rather than a whole structural phenomenon, designed with purposeful intent, and with an ongoing legacy. As if some of us do not experience racism and classism (and sexism, homophobia, ableism, transphobia, ageism...) *at the same time*

And yet... the weirdo racist tabloid journos lost their minds and cried 'that's racist!' when Meghan mocked *herself* for over-curtseying to the Elizabeth II when they first met. Because, apparently, proper curtsies in the presence of royalty is uniquely white culture, and white people have been horribly oppressed for this over the centuries by terrible, mean Black people who simply do not have any conception of what it means to genuflect (sarcasm - just to be clear)

And then a weirdo racist notorious prick of the ages wrote a whole thing fantasising about a ritual humiliation of Meghan Markle, Game of Thrones style, because she's as bad as Cersei Lannister ( a fictional woman who arranged assassinations like I write shopping lists, and who had an incestuous relationship with her twin brother) and Rose West (a *real* woman who committed crimes so vile I'm not going to list because they actually affected people who are also real). And when the prick was called out, he made some half-arsed apology that was basically 'sorry you didn't get my GoT reference'

Wild times

Merry Christmas!

[yutofia]

Also a good reminder that we will never meet him (in THAT kinda way) so who cares if he’s a fb 🙃 so far he’s in my good books in terms of footballer (the bar is very LOW) and I can look past him being a slutty hoe

Could never look past Grealishs behaviour for example but people can look past that too so I guess it’s just a matter of perspective

bro fuck boy or not how can i stop simping when he posts stuff like this out of the blue? i'm a woman after all😔

[clotpolesonly]

if you'd want to share your expansion of the declinsky fic idea I'd eat it up!!!

OKAY IF YOU INSIST

continuation of this idea which was already quite long on its own lmao (tw again for abuse aldfkjg)

.

so we left off with Ronan having stormed the underground boxing ring to find out what the fuck is going on with his brother and Kavinsky, Declan having a whole-ass meltdown, and Ronan coming to the conclusion that his brother is being victimized and needs help.

which would be all well and good, if Declan had actually come to that conclusion and wanted help. alas, this is Declan Lynch we're talking about. he's still clinging to the idea that he has some amount of power in this situation. and he is not big on that whole "admitting weakness or showing vulnerability where other people can see it" thing. nothing more humiliating. he needs to regain some of his fucking dignity.

thusly, in the morning, Ronan finds that Declan's changed his tune. he downplays it all. he had a bad night. but, obviously, he's fine. it's not that bad.

convincing someone to leave an abusive relationship isn't always a linear process, and it's certainly not an easy one. he's acknowledged that it's toxic as fuck, and he's not walking that back, but it's certainly not anything he needs his little brother to rescue him from. he can handle his own relationship.

Ronan gets whiplash 😂 feels like he's going crazy. after all that shit last night? the crying and panicking?? everything he said???

"oh, now you take my word as gospel? what happened to Declan Is A Liar"?

"what, you're saying you lied about Kavinsky abusing you?"

"i never said he was"

Declan has gone way past his quota for sharing his emotions in the last 12 hours, he is DONE with letting people in or being honest with them (or himself). walls have gone up. and he's real good at being a condescending shitbag when he wants to be. he laughs at the idea of Ronan being qualified to give him relationship advice, as if Ronan's ever gotten anyone to like him enough to get any experience in that area.

and on some level, Ronan knows what he's doing and that he's doing it on purpose. lord knows he does the same thing when he's feeling defensive. but that doesn't make him any less reactive to the button-pushing.

he yells back that if Declan really wants to let K slap him around, then fine, don't come crying to him about it again.

Declan does go back to Kavinsky. he's got a match. and when he does, K is.....not nice. he could never pull off nice, and Declan would never expect it of him. but he's better. he lets Declan snap at him and doesn't snap back. he kisses Declan more gently than he usually does. he even talks bad about Ronan for once. (last he saw, Ronan was attacking and blaming Declan, which is exactly what he was hoping for. to sow chaos, drive a wedge between them, make things fun and interesting.)

his version of lovebombing is basically just not being a shithead, and it works because the bar is set so so low 🙃 it's not like Declan thinks they're in love or anything. he knows that's not what this is or will ever be. he knows he should be walking away, mutual toxicity or abuse, but it's easy to let himself be talked into forgetting that when Kavinsky says and does all the right things to make him feel like what he'd said to Ronan was true:

it's really not that bad. he doesn't know what he was freaking out over.

Ronan, for his part, is fucking pissed at Declan. but he also can't forget everything. no matter what Declan claims, he was fucking scared last night. Ronan can't forget what he said about being lonely and desperate and putting up with shit treatment because he didn't have anyone else. even if Declan is an asshole, that shit's fucked up and not okay.

the only reason Ronan wasn't going straight out to beat Kavinsky's ass into the ground was because Declan asked him not to, but now he's mad at Declan, so fuck it!!!

he's all riled up and pissed off and needs to do something, and kicking the shit out of Kavinsky is a pretty appealing option. problem is, K runs with a crew and is rarely alone. so Ronan alone doesn't pose all that much of a threat, no matter how good a fighter he is, and all Kavinsky does is laugh through a mouthful of blood and taunt him about how much Declan is gagging for his dick.

"you wanna hear about how he begs for me to fuck him? he's real fucking pretty when he begs. i bet i can get him to call me daddy soon."

so that confrontation goes. badly.

Ronan has to cut his losses when Kavinsky's buddies jump in to fight too, and it didn't actually accomplish anything besides giving Ronan some very distressing mental images. he falls back to lick his wounds, but not before declaring that he's not gonna race with Kavinsky anymore. with what K is doing to his brother, he's fucking done.

he's made that claim before and it's never come to anything, but this is different. this time he means it. he doesn't fuck around when it comes to family. he's not coming back.

Kavinsky is not happy about that. and who is he gonna take his frustrations out on? Declan just haaaad to go run his fucking mouth, didn't he.

it's one of those encounters that makes it reeeaaally hard for Declan to rationalize how this is not outright abuse. like most unpleasant escalations in their relationship, it's probably at least sex-adjacent. Declan's a trained and experienced fighter, he really could kick Kavinsky's ass in an outright fight, but dub-con edging into non-con is a very different thing to handle. Kavinsky putting his mouth to better use, one might say 🙃 not that much rougher, necessarily, than what they usually do, but with far more anger behind it. it feels very, very different.

but it's not abuse. and, therefore, if Kavinsky is not abusing him, then he must have done something to earn this. only he didn't do it this time.

Declan told him not to step up to K. Ronan did it anyway, and look what happens.

when Ronan comes around to his place because he won't answer his fucking phone, Declan's got fingerprint bruises on his neck and a spectacular black eye and he tells Ronan in no uncertain terms that this is his fault. that if he had just left well enough alone, like Declan fucking told him to, everything would've been FINE.

slams the door in his face.

locks it.

doesn't show up to mass that week.

Ronan's at a complete loss. how are you supposed to help someone who doesn't want to be helped? and how, when going after the person hurting him only makes things worse? what is he supposed to do??

Matthew is getting worried by now too. Declan's bruises aren't the kind that can be hidden or explained anyway by walking into door jambs anymore, and he's been acting weird enough for even Matthew to pick up on the fact that he's being lied to. Matthew calls Ronan, like "is Declan......okay? 😥"

which, obviously, he is not. but Ronan isn't sure he wants to tell Matthew that. doesn't wanna lie to him, doesn't wanna burden him. but in the end, they're all brothers, and Matthew has as much right to know that Declan isn't okay as he does.

and, he thinks, maybe Matthew can get through to Declan where he's failed to! weaponize those big sad concerned puppy dog eyes! problem is, Declan knows immediately that Ronan put him up to it, and now he's lashing out at Matthew too, which he's never done before.

Kavinsky's operation is getting more attention. that means more and better competitors. higher odds, higher profits.

Declan has never lost a match.

but he's been fighting so much for so long, he's exhausted and he never has a chance to recover from any of his injuries. not to mention, ya know, Kavinsky, who never feels the need to retreat once he's pushed (or crossed) a boundary. plus the general emotional strain of trying to convince himself that he's okay and handling this.

exhausted, always in pain, pissed at Ronan, guilty for having yelled at Matthew, teachers getting concerned because his grades are slipping.

Declan doesn't lose a match.

but he gets close.

Kavinsky is.............displeased. and suddenly Declan's position as his favorite prize fighter is in jeopardy, and Kavinsky makes it very clear that he will drop Declan the second he disappoints him.

this is, unfortunately, when Ronan shows up at the ring again.

every other attempt to contact Declan has failed. he won't answer his fucking phone, he's stopped coming to mass, he's evaded all of Ronan's attempts to find him at school, he'll barely even talk to Matthew, and he hasn't been home when Ronan's gone looking there, so this is the only thing he's got left to try.

at this point, he just wants to see Declan. is it too much to ask to fucking see him and make sure he's fucking ALIVE and in one piece?? he can't get the image of Declan with fingerprint bruises on his throat out of his mind. he knows better than anyone how fucking volatile Kavinsky can be. if the only way to check on Declan is to go back into the metaphorical belly of the beast, then so be it.

only Declan won't look at him, and K won't let him get close to try and talk. "big brother's got his game face on, can't have any distractions." clearly relishing Ronan's concern and frustration. that he's got something to hold over Ronan's head. "all that power," he croons, "and i get to take him. all because you didn't wanna play."

it's impulsive, Ronan saying that maybe he wants to play now. but it catches Kavinsky off guard which is not easy to do.

"you've been trying to get me to fight for you for ages. what, you don't want me anymore?"

"oh, i want you. baby, i always want you."

leering in a way that would've squicked Ronan out even before, now that Ronan knows what Kavinsky has done to his brother?? makes his fucking skin crawl. but needs must.

Declan, on the other hand, is furious. everything else aside, this, the fights, the ring -- it's his. this is where he has value, where he's the best. he's carved out a place for himself where it feels like he matters for once. he is not ABOUT to let Ronan show him up, here of all places, absolutely the fuck not. especially not with the warning from Kavinsky so fresh.

how much of his life has he spent playing second fiddle to Ronan? how quickly will Kavinsky drop him if he stops being the best? (what will happen to him when Kavinsky gets tired of him?)

if Ronan wants to fight, and Kavinsky wants to let him, then fuck it. Declan's gonna win this fight if it kills him.

by the time they get in the ring, Ronan is very much doubting his life choices here, but he's in too deep to back out and maybe he can get some words in edgewise during the match. it's not like he's never boxed with Declan before. they grew up doing this! this should be old hat.

but it's not like any of those matches. this is Declan pacing like a caged tiger, covered in a patchwork of fresh and half-healed bruises, looking like he's ready to rip Ronan's throat out. he doesn't fucking hesitate when the bell sounds. he definitely doesn't like Ronan get a word in. his technique is sloppy (the exhaustion is really catching up to him, and he's letting his anger drive him more than is wise), but he's out for blood. and there's a reason that Declan is undefeated.

Ronan, fresh and uninjured, is pretty sure he could win this match if he really wanted to.........but that's not the point. he didn't come here to win, he came for his brother's sake, and with the way Kavinsky is watching them, the way Declan is fighting like his life depends on it, the way he looks for Kavinsky's approval in every break......

Ronan throws the fight.

it doesn't take much, they're pretty evenly matched on a good day, all he has to do is pull back a tiny bit and Declan lays him out flat.

undefeated.

the crowd goes wild, everyone is cheering, Declan's got a gloved hand raised in triumph. K goes to him, like he always does at the end of a match, taking him by the shoulders, crowing.

usually, that's it. Kavinsky isn't much about propriety, tbh, but he's been pretty okay with keeping their fooling around to themselves, as is certainly Declan's preference. there are other algionby students in the crowd. there are potential future business associates. people Declan doesn't necessarily want to come out to and definitely doesn't want to wave his dirty laundry under the nose of.

but Ronan is watching.

so Kavinsky kisses Declan, right there in the ring, in front of the roaring crowd. because what Declan wants doesn't really matter when stacked up against the opportunity to stake his claim with Ronan there to witness it.

Ronan finds Declan in the warehouse's makeshift locker room after and tries talking to him again. tries to explain that he didn't actually come here to fight. he still wants to help him get out of this.

"don't come crying to me" definitely gets brought up, but Declan is also still insistent (maybe even more so now, sunk cost fallacy and whatnot) that he doesn't need help anyway, and where does Ronan get off pulling a stunt like this anyway?? fuck him.

"that kiss, then, in front of everyone. you're saying you wanted that? that wasn't a problem?"

"i'm saying it's none of your fucking business who i kiss, when, or where."

Kavinsky finds them. riled up from the fight, the victory, the successful shit-stirring and the goddamn DRAMA of it all. his hands on Declan's hips, kissing his neck. making eye contact with Ronan over his shoulder the whole time. "you staying for the rest of the show?"

Declan tries to push him off, to get him to stop, but resisting never does him much good when K's in this mood anyway, and he's not gonna make a fucking scene about it in front of Ronan. he's not gonna risk pissing K off and making it worse.

every instinct Ronan has is screaming at him to attack, but he remembers the bruises on Declan's throat, the door closing in his face, "this is your fault".

he looks away and keeps his mouth shut.

Kavinsky doesn't push it too far, just far enough to make his point, to feel like he's got both Lynches under his control. he leaves them alone again, promises Declan he'll be back in a few minutes so leave the motor running.

all Ronan says is "you deserve better than this."

Declan feels like punching him again. the night has been one humiliation after another. winning felt good, for a minute, like it always does, but it's ever-diminishing returns. Ronan's concern, his pity, reminds Declan of just how much it's not enough. he's tired, and angry, and ashamed. Kavinsky just pushed another one of his boundaries (a big one), and he's gonna come back wanting sex, which Declan is not in the mood for, and basically everything is fucking terrible.

he tells Kavinsky no.

he lets Ronan leave without comment, and he tries to make himself give Kavinsky what he wants, but he's so worked up and angry that all of it comes out in K's direction. all his suppressed anxiety and the conflicted feelings Ronan brought up in him vented into an argument about that public kiss.

Kavinsky was in such a good mood, but not anymore. he's really real tired of Declan's fucking attitude, thinking he can run his mouth off like this when K has been gracious enough to provide him with all this money and acclaim. where's his goddamn gratitude?

clearly, he needs to be reminded of his place. Kavinsky is not gentle about making his point, even if it'll knock Declan out of the ring for a while. and when he's finished, Declan, for the first time in a long time, calls Ronan.

he says the magic words.

"i need help."

Ronan may be pissed, but he picks up, and he turns the car around. Declan's right where he left him, only significantly bloodier.

Declan bitter and ashamed, letting Ronan half-carry him to the car: "finally got what you wanted, huh?"

Ronan, really wishing they were not back in this position, right where they were weeks ago, only worse: "Deklo, this is not what i wanted."

but it may be the breaking point that's needed for Declan to really and truly accept the position he's in. denial can hold up to a lot, especially for someone as proud and stubborn as a Lynch, but everyone has a limit. Ronan, at least, sure fucking hopes this is that limit.

.

.......aaaand that's installment 2 😂😂😂 i continue to muse on it and let it play out in my brain like a very self-indulgent movie. how to get Declan out from under Kavinsky's thumb when Kavinsky has no real conscience and is a dreamer to whom the law is really more of a gentle suggestion than a real threat?? idk, i'll figure it out sometime lmao, i'm just here for the hurt/comfort

hope you enjoy it lmao

[spandexspangles]

Having read the books many a time, I knew the season 3 finale of His Dark Materials would hurt me. And it fucking did, I cried buckets and full on ugly sobbed for the last fifteen minutes.

But THE CLOUDED MOUNTAIN. Again, I knew what was gonna happen, but y'all. My mom died in February. Mind you, she was a way better mom than Marisa Coulter (low bar, I know). And Christmas was her favorite holiday. It's December 26th right now, and yesterday was so painful. And watching Lyra watch her mother's daemon disappear just... broke me, in the worst way. I wasn't with my mother when she died, and the idea of watching a part of her fade away is excruciating, largely because I don't know if it's worse that I didn't, or if I had been able to.

Anyway. Well done, HDM team and Philip Pullman. You utter bastards. 🙃

[thebibliosphere]

Sorry for this long addition to an already long post, but I've been running numbers all night.

So the way this works, I'd get 10% of the sale.

So if someone buys a copy of my book through Allstora, which has been marked up by roughly 40% to $33, I'll get $3.30 per sale in affiliate payout (that's before taxes and processing fees). If they drop or increase their pricing, I'll get 10% of the new price.

But only if someone were to buy the book using my link code. If my link isn't used, I don't get anything.

I have no way of telling without signing up as to whether I'd get 10% of the sale if someone bought it at the membership price. The website is helpfully vague.

But again, the membership price is significantly lower than the current retail price, so who is eating that cut to the cost of printing?

It's not fucking Ingram, I can tell you that much. Am I making negative money on these membership sales? Because according to Ingram, my book cannot physically be printed for any less than $19 and still offer the necessary retailer discount to get in stores. So, if it's retailing at $16, I'm earning... *runs it through the Ingram calculator* -$1.05 🙃🙃🙃

So, even if I did get $1.60 per membership book bought via my link. I'd be earning a total of 55 cents 🙃

And if it's not being bought via my link... idk, am I just out $1.05 per book? That's not legal. Are they paying authors out of a pool like Spotify and Scribd to make up for that? (How are they doing this? I need to know!)

For frame of reference: I get roughly $2.50 per copy of Hunger Pangs bought via my bookshop.org affiliate links PLUS what I earn in royalties from Ingram. (Which is also roughly $2.50 after you subtract the retailer discount and the fee Ingram takes in printing. So call it $5 per book bought via bookshop.org. Roughly.)

Books, which I might add, that are not marked up and are selling at their recommended retail value and every sale of which bookshop.org gives a cut of their profit -- not mine -- to independent bookstores.

The only reason Allstora "pays better" than other affiliate programs is because of the steep markup.

And considering their membership pricing, that might not even be true. With the membership, I'd be earning less with Allstora than I would with bookshop.org, not to mention the cut to my royalties that is presumably happening at that steep of a discount.

So, I can either scam my readers and get them to pay 40% more for a book so I can earn 80 cents more from affiliate links or get my readers to sign up for the membership and earn less from my royalties and less from affiliate links.

There is literally zero incentive for me to drive people to Allstora as an author. I'd actually prefer you bought it from Amazon.

At least that way you're not getting price gouged and I'm not getting my royalties potentially fucked to hell and back.

Do you know how low the bar is to not be more evil than Amazon, and companies keep finding ways to limbo under it? It's incredible.

Hey just to let you know in case you hadn't heard, Ru Paul opened a drop shipping book store and is pretending its a queer bookstore, and then added the entire Ingram collection to the site and wildly marked the prices up more than anywhere else. Both versions of Hunger Pangs are listed and are being sold for $33.32 ($16.66 for "members"). Idk if that is something you have any control over or care about but just in case I figured I should let you know!

Ooft, that's a hefty markup.

Regrettably, I can't control which retailers use Ingram, nor can I control the prices they choose to sell at.

Ru Paul's company, Allstora, can mark it ten times higher than the recommended retail price and claim it as pure profit if they want, and there's nothing I can do about it. (I am side-eyeing the membership price because that is significantly lower than the rrp through Ingram, so I'll need to see how they're compensating for that.)

This is a good time to remind buyers that authors don't get paid more if they buy above the recommended retail price. Our contracts with printers like Ingram are negotiated based on the recommended retail price we select, not the final sale price chosen by retailers.

So, y'know, buy wherever works best for you.

Personally, I won't be buying anything from Allstora when there are queer indie bookstores out there who aren't price gouging their customers.

Incidentally, if you're in the US, if you go to Bookshop.org, you can select which bookstore you want to place your orders from by visiting, bookshop.org/pages/bookstores

When you scroll through the different options, you'll see whether the bookstore is queer-owned, female-owned, black-owned, Indigenous-owned, etc.

It's a neat little way of ordering books online while still being able to support brick-and-mortar stores, even if you don't have one near you. I like to switch mine up every few months just so I'm spreading my money around.

[feathercigarette]

So after my last post, that night my partner wanted takeout. That fucked up my weight. And that stretched me out and I was so hungry I ate like 10 biscuits in one day and I gained weight 🙃

Now my period has started and I always weigh more on that and idk why. So my weight today is barely under what it was before the weekend.

Yesterday I had a protein bar and a super light dinner and I STILL GAINED WEIGHT. 0.4lbs. How do I stop this??

I've basically been binge-watching SSvsSS and scrolling tumblr but I've seen everything at this point. All that's left is people who are already skinny who only have like 20lbs between their SW and GW and I feel like I have so far to go. I'm 80lbs down but still have like 50lbs to go. 3st8lb to loose before I can feel good and my partner is there having a mental breakdown because she's the heaviest she's ever been and she's still a really low weight. Like, can't she see that when she's chatting shit about her weight she's implying an awful lot more about what she thinks about me.

She's there chatting about making sure I don't "fall back into it" when I never got out of it. I just got sneaker.

Im thinking about saving cash and getting some gym equipment for at home. The gym here is so expensive and clearly I'm not doing enough with what I have at home. I just have to convince my partner its for a healthy reason and not because I wanna spend all day on a treadmil until im skinny.

[enchanting-eloquence]

Good... very good

Authors note: This is my first story share in a looong time but what can I say? TGM got me good, and I 'm kinda obsessed! All feedback welcome 🙃 Note - I've played around with timing here and set this the night before mission take off, I figure Rooster would definitely get on that piano more than once!

Synopsis: 3.3k words. You (f!reader) go for a quiet night at the Hard Deck, but Hangman has other ideas and takes you away somewhere quiet to make the most of his last night of freedom.

Warnings: Sooo much smut, definitely NSFW and minors DO NOT INTERACT, alcohol, penetrative sex, swearing. I think that's it but tell me if I've missed anything - it's been a while!

Good... very good

It wasn’t your usual scene, and you knew fine well that drinking alone in a navy bar was just asking for trouble. But it had been one of those weeks and you needed some down time to clear your head.

And so there you were, perched on a bar stool at the Hard Deck with a glass of wine cradled in your hands, exuding a “fuck off” air to everyone but the lovely owner, who’d introduced herself when you wandered in from the beach and told you to call on her if you had any trouble.

A glass and a half of wine in and trouble was so far pretty distant; or so you thought until a ringing bell and accompanying loud cheer made you look up from the table and straight into a pair of steely green eyes on the opposite side of the bar.

Hot was your first thought.

Trouble was your second.

And since you were determinedly avoiding the latter, you simply took a moment to appreciate the perfect blond hair, broad shoulders, tanned forearms, exquisitely fitted uniform and delicious jawline before shaking your head and turning your attention back to your wine and the football game playing on the screen above you.

“This seat taken?” A low voice drawled, as you noticed an arm on the stool next to you.

Sighing, you looked up, only to meet those eyes once again.

Your head told you to get rid of him, but when something deep in your abdomen pulsed, your early wine buzz told you that maybe a little flirting could be fun. And so you shook your head.

He nodded in acknowledgement and put two drinks on the table - a beer in front of his own stool, and a glass of wine in front of yours.

“Thought you should take advantage too. Some idiot’s buying a round for the whole bar.” One side of his lips perked up as he jerked his head upwards. “Hangman.”

Grateful for the drink you raised your eyebrows. “Y/n. Thanks for the drink - that you didn’t buy.”

He took a swig of his beer, eyes never once leaving yours. “You look like a woman on a mission y/n.”

“And if the mission was to avoid arrogant ass navy boys then I’ve failed huh?”

He laughed, the insult sliding off him as he took another drink.

“You don’t look like a woman who fails at much.”

You let out a low laugh. “Well, maybe you should tell my ex that. He liked to think I failed at a lot.”

“Sounds like the man was an idiot.”

It was enough to raise a genuine smile. Enough that you gave up on solitude once and for all, and turned to face him as you raised your glass. “True. Here’s to living life without idiots.” You sipped your wine thoughtfully and looked at his face - really looked. Christ he was hot.

“How about you Hangman? On a mission tonight?”

He pursed his lips consideringly. “The mission starts tomorrow darlin’, and it’s a big one. Tonight is about living life.” He raised his own glass in return and drank deeply, his eyes still on yours in a way that seemed to unlock something inside you. You felt your self-control wobble slightly.

“What does that even mean, living life?” You nodded towards the other uniformed pilots drinking and laughing by the pool table. “Drinking with your buddies over there?”

Hangman shrugged, for the first time looking away from you as he surveyed the scene across the bar. You saw the change in expression as he took in each of his colleagues; a softening of his eyes as he looked at two chiselled men by the dartboard, the threat of a laugh as he took in a woman and a nervous looking guy joking their way through a game of pool, and finally a grimace as he saw a tall moustached man in a Hawaiian shirt make his way towards the group. The changes were almost unnoticeable - and probably would’ve been if you hadn’t been watching him so shamelessly; shamelessly enough that when he turned back to you, you found a blush rising in your face. He only grinned that wide smile.

“For them yeah, maybe it is. For me,” he licked his lips in a way that shot straight to your core. “If this is my last night of freedom then I’d rather spend it with a good beer and a beautiful woman.” He leaned in, close enough that you could smell his spicy cologne. “You see darlin’, I’m the best at what I do. At everything I do. And if this is going to be a good night for me then I don’t see why it shouldn’t be for you too.”

From where he was, you were certain Hangman could hear your gulp, but it didn’t seem to matter when he got to his feet and extended a hand for you to follow. “Care to dance?”

The slow rock from the jukebox wasn’t loud, but there were a few people moving to it. And since the last of your resolve had well and truly deserted you, you had no real choice but to take his hand and let him lead you to the area that passed for a dance floor, where he turned back to face you and pulled you to him.

You were close enough to feel the rough, perfectly pressed fabric of his pants against your bare legs; close enough that when he leaned his head in you could feel his breath on your hair; close enough that the cool metal of his service medals chilled one spot on your shoulder; and close enough to be certain that he could feel the deep heat radiating between your thighs.

His hands were on your waist, fingers grazing the very top of your butt in a way that made you desperate to have him move lower. As the two of you began to sway, you felt him press against you - every inch of that hard, lean body pressing into yours as you moved to the rhythm of the music.

“See isn’t this what life’s about?” Leaning down until his breath tickled your ear as he pulled you closer.

You placed your hands on his chest, feeling rock hard muscle under the shirt, and nodded up at him from beneath your lashes.

“It isn’t exactly the night I had planned.”

“Oh really, and what was that? Couple of glasses of wine alone in a bar, let the day get just hazy enough that you can’t feel whatever has gone on this week any more and then home to sleep all alone?”

You laughed quietly, “When you say it like that it sounds pathetic.”

He shrugged. “You say pathetic, I say a bad plan. One you needed to be saved from.”

“And you’re here to save me?”

He gripped you tighter, his fingers pulling you close enough that your hips ground together and you felt the beginnings of his arousal. “Saving people is what I do.”

“I told you before, the plan was to avoid arrogant navy boys.”

The arrogant look was back. “Good job you found yourself a man.”

It was such a cheesy line that you couldn’t help but throw your head back and laugh properly. “Oh man, you’re good.” You confirmed, tilting your head in approval.

With your head back, he pulled you in closer still - something you’d thought was impossible, shifting his hands down to grab at your butt and moving to within a breath of your lips as he murmured, “No darlin’ I’m very good.”

Whatever you’d expected when your lips met, the reality was better. The hard pressure of his mouth on yours sending fire through every nerve of your body as you gasped into the kiss. It took all of your restraint not to paw at him, instead simply fisting your hands in his shirt like a woman deprived of oxygen who needed him to breathe as he grinned against your lips.

You probably wouldn’t have noticed that the music had stopped, but heard the chant go up from behind you, causing you to pull away and look around in confusion.

He exhaled loudly, huffing out something that sounded a lot like “fucking Rooster” as the piano at the other end of the bar began to sound.

With the rest of the bar’s attention firmly focussing on the moustached guy playing the piano, Hangman took your hand, “Let’s continue this where he can’t bother us.”

You’d expected him to lead you outside, maybe even out to his car; but he only moved to a door in the back corner of the bar, dragging you inside what looked like a storage room that was pitch black but for the moonlight filtering through the window.

Closing the door behind you he pulled you close again, and this time you wound your arms around his neck, pulling him in to deepen the kiss from earlier in a tangle of lips, teeth and tongue.

He laughed softly into your mouth, “Guess you wanted this arrogant navy guy after all, huh?”

“Arrogant ass,” you muttered as he pushed you back into the door and pressed his entire body against you, his arousal hard and hot now against your core. His mouth moved to your neck, grazing his teeth just hard enough to make you gasp. As his lips moved further down, he pulled away to meet your heavy lidded eyes.

“Are you ok with this?”

You nodded, all thoughts of a quiet solo night completely gone from your mind, and fisted your hands in his shirt again to pull him close.

But he resisted. “Use your words darlin’. I might be an arrogant ass, but I need a yes.”

“Christ,” you murmured, reaching out to grab his belt and begin to unfasten it. “Yes. Yes to all of it.”

The laugh died on his mouth as you grasped his length through his boxers and found him thick and rock hard. Reaching inside to take him fully into your hand, the look of sheer pleasure that crossed his handsome face as you moved up and down slowly sent a thrill through your body.

“Should I ask if you’re ok with all of it?” You asked. “Or is this part of that living life you talked about?”

Reaching behind you he fisted a hand in your hair, pulling your head back and crashing his lips against the curve of your neck fiercely. Your hand jerked hard and fast, spurred on by his growing wetness and the ragged breaths he let out with each movement.

As you writhed, his other hand moved to the hem of your skirt, pushing it up and sliding a hand over your panties.

“So wet,” he mumbled, the arrogance momentarily knocked out of him as you continued to work your magic.

As his fingers moved past the fabric and into your folds, you were momentarily aware of the chorus of Great Balls of Fire going on behind the door. Momentarily aware that a bar full of people were waiting just on the other side of that door while you were about to be finger fucked by the hottest stranger you’d ever met. Then he pushed two fingers inside of your wetness and right up to your G spot, and all thoughts left your mind with a groan.

He replied with a groan of his own. “So tight.”

You sought out his lips and kissed him hard, feeling him grin into your mouth as you let out a mewl. “Good?”

“Very good.”

His answering laugh caused you to deepen your kiss further, pressing your mouth against his as though your life depended on it. But he gave as good as he got - that talented, cocky mouth kissing you as though it were his last night on earth, while his fingers kept moving within you and his thumb found your clit.

“Holy fuck.” You groaned into his mouth as your knees went weak, causing him to grip your hips and hold you up as your hand stopped moving on him, nails scraping along his washboard stomach instead.

Behind the door, a second song began and you felt him tense even as he continued moving his fingers against and inside of you, bringing you pleasure you swore you’d never felt before.

He looked down at you. “Now there’s three songs in that guy’s repertoire. So if you want me to fuck you, it’s gonna have to happen soon. What do you say?”

You took hold of his cock again, marvelling at its girth within your fingers as you exhaled the words. “Yes. Now.”

God the look on his face was sheer sex, and if you hadn’t been more horny than you’d ever imagined possible, the arrogance in it might’ve been enough to call off the whole thing. But as he removed his fingers from you, you found yourself almost whining at the lack of contact.

“Now what darlin’? Remember what I said, I need words.”

“I want you inside me. Now fuck me.”

It was like a match to a fuse. Before you knew it, he’d grabbed one of your thighs in each hand and was lifting you - literally lifting you - onto his cock. You barely had time to register his strength before he’d pushed you back again and was thrusting himself into you, bottoming out to hit the spot his fingers had attacked so well only a moment before.

He didn’t kiss you now but instead simply stared at you with dark eyes as he spoke in a low, rough voice.

“They’re making a lot of noise out there; but if we time this wrong, they’re going to hear every sound you make. Do you understand?” You nodded, eyes wide.

“And I intend for you to make a lot of noise. Because when I do something, I like to do it properly.”

He shifted angle slightly and you felt the coarse hair on his lower abdomen begin to move against your clit, causing a loud moan to leave your lips.

“That’s it darlin’,” Hangman whispered, his mouth close to your ear as he continued to fuck you hard and slow. “You’re so wet for me, and so tight. Gripping my big cock perfectly every time I fill you. Does it make you feel good?”

You had no words, only moans and the frantic movement of your hips as he continued to thrust into you, his movements precise even as you heard him groan quietly.

“You know that’s a yes. You might’ve told yourself you wanted a night alone but really, this is what you wanted isn’t it? To be fucked against the door right here, where anyone could walk in at any time? Where a whole bar full of people might hear you having the best sex of your life?”

As if on cue, the music outside stopped and the opening bars of Eye of the Tiger began on the piano outside. You heard him laugh in your ear.

“Last song darlin’, looks like I’d better pick up the pace.”

It was exactly what he did, grasping your hips tighter into him as he pounded mercilessly against your pussy.

Every thrust stretched you in a delicious mix of pleasure and pain; the emptiness that came each time he pulled back between thrusts almost too much to bear. The change of angle was perfect though, leaving him thrusting up against all of your most sensitive spots while his mouth moved down to nip at your neck once again.

It was too much, he was too much, and with each thrust the knot inside you was winding tighter and tighter.

“So good,” you moaned, raggedly, “so fucking good.”

He moaned and looked into your eyes. “Tell me darlin’, tell me how good it is while I make you fall apart on my cock.”

“Fuck. It’s so good. You’re so good. I’m so close. So. Fucking. Close.” Your breath was coming out in pants now as you clamped your eyes shut and tried desperately not to scream his name.

Meanwhile every word out of your mouth seemed to spur him on faster, lead him to fuck your harder. The man was a machine, and just when you thought he’d reached his limit he seemed to go harder still. “Who has you that close?”

“You do. Hangman, I need to come. So close. Need to.”

You opened your eyes and found him staring back at you - his piercing eyes just an inch from yours and his jaw tight with concentration as he suddenly stopped moving. “Look at me,” he hissed. “Look at me while I take you over.” Hard and painfully slowly, he thrust again and ground his hips into you, the pressure on your clit and the sensation of every curve of him moving inside you too damned much to bear.

Through the door you were vaguely aware of the music coming to an end, but it didn’t matter. All that mattered was the sensation inside you, on you, as he once again bottomed out and sent you over the edge with a raw scream of his name.

Your voice was enough to have him flying with you, and you saw through cloudy eyes the moment the pleasure took him over as he thrust into you one final time with lightning speed and razor fast precision even as he exploded, his orgasm hard enough to send you into an aftershock of your own.

You stayed there for just a moment, his head on your chest and your hand combing through his blond hair.

“You ok?” He mumbled, his voice heavy.

“Only about a thousand per cent better than I was when I walked in here tonight. You’re good.”

His head snapped up and he winked at you as he planted a quick kiss on your lips. “I’m very good darlin’, some say I’m the best there is.”

As he set you back down on the floor you laughed, the noise hurting a throat that had been screamed ragged with that orgasm. “And by some, you mean you?”

He raised an eyebrow and re-fastened his trousers and belt, watching intently as you replaced your panties and smoothed your skirt back down. “If it’s true it’s true, I don’t believe in telling lies.”

Stepping towards him, you fingered the badge on his chest, unable to read his name in the low light. “And do I get to know the real name of the best there is?”

He narrowed his eyes. “That depends, do I get the number of the girl who just screamed my name while she came all over me?”

You shrugged, “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

The shock flashed across his face even as he immediately concealed it. “You don’t want to -.”

But your finger immediately went to his lips. “Tonight was about living life right? Fly off on your big mission tomorrow, and when you come back we’ll do some more of that living. I’ll be the one alone with my wine trying to avoid arrogant ass navy boys.”

With that you leaned forward and planted a final kiss on his lips. “Stay safe Hangman, and be good.”

And with that you strolled away from him, to the back of the room and out of a second door that led straight outside, leaving him looking somewhere between impressed and pissed off as he watched you go.

“Oh I will,” he murmured, “and if there’s more of that to come home to, I’ll be very good.”

As the door closed behind you he raked a hand through his hair and tried to regain his composure before heading back out into the bar. The piano music had long stopped, but the whoops and hollers that greeted him could be heard even outside of the bar, even as you took the short walk back to your apartment.

[zepskies]

Hey, lovely!!

Ooohh, our Chicago Firefighter is Michael 'Hadley'.

Ahaha I had a feeling you would catch that. Michael has no relation to "Kevin Hadley" from Chicago Fire, but when I was looking for last names, I remembered that character and wanted to create a nod to CF. 😘

“Oh, believe you me, that’s not something to brag about, Mike.”

Yes, Beau, perfect response there. Also find it strangely satisfying that neither Beau or Jenny shook his hand when he offered it.

Ahhh yes! I'm glad you agree lol. No gentleman's (or woman's) handshake for this guy.

Oh, please... should have thought of that before he chose to cheat (for years). It's more like he wants to have his cake and eat it!

He's special all right. 🙃 In his mind he basically had a "justification" for doing what he did. You'll see why next time, but agreed, he is a walking red flag lol.

Also, how quickly all of them agreed that she should contact them if she needed them.

Right? I mean, this did go down in front of literal police officers and a PI. They're all gonna take this very seriously.

Oooo this is more promising than I thought it would be given the mood Beau was in before she arrived. The sexual tension is definitely building. I thought we might be about to get the first kiss there for a moment before he went and ruined it.

Yep we're getting there!! loll Almost on that kiss...but not quite. Beau just had to second guess himself. 😭

“Em was right. You are an old clam.”

I can so clearly picture the confusion on his face at that comment... and him repeating it to himself after she's left.

Lmaooo thank you for shouting out his line. Low key was one of my favorites. 🤣

I did like that as soon as he had pushed her away he realised that wasn't what he really wanted. Completely understand why she left and didn't let him say anything else.

Pretty much immediately, huh? But I'm glad you thought her reaction was understandable, along with her convo with Denise. She was already putting herself out there in a big way, considering what she went through in her previous relationship. She wasn't prepared to get her heart broken again so soon.

Urgh really Michael!! Now we're showing up at the ex's apartment - stalkerish behaviour right there! How did he even find out where to go? Has he been following her?

Kinda yeah lmfao. He's really fucking pushing his limits and crossing boundaries. And yeah, he probably asked around town and/or followed her home from the bar that night to see where she lived. (Creepy, amirite?)

Given that he has determination written across this face, is Beau going to need to come to the rescue? The preview for the next chapter... please tell me that she doesn't give in to him in her vulnerable state after what happened with Beau.

Ooh you shall see in Part 6. 😘

Take Me Home - Part 5

Pairing: Beau Arlen x F. Reader 

Summary: You are another lost soul at Sunny Day Excursions. You’re aiming to settle in Helena, Montana, where Beau Arlen is the new sheriff in town. But you’ve both got a past you’re running from. 

AN: Welcome back, friends! We’re gonna start ramping up from here on out.

Word Count: 5K

Tags/Warnings: Angst and tension, a bit of heartbreak, a little Shakespeare, and another small cliffhanger…

❤️ Series Masterlist

Part 5: Not That Simple

“I’m keeping close tabs on Carla and Emily just to be safe,” Beau admitted. 

Your face became the picture of concern. But before you could respond, a man approached the table, tall and lean, with a shaggy cut of dark blonde hair. He wore a pair of faded jeans, boots, and a gray Chicago FD t-shirt. 

Your face paled, and your mouth parted in surprise. 

“Hey there, stranger,” he said with a smile. 

“Michael?” you gasped. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Beau’s eyes widened. Michael was younger than him, closer to your age. And cocky too.  

“Hey, baby,” Michael said. His smile quirked with charm, but his next words were anything but charming. 

“We need to talk,” he said, raising his brows.

“We actually don’t,” you retorted in a firmer voice. Cold even. You straightened in your seat. 

Beau saw none of your softness and good humor from earlier. This was a different woman, and he was actually proud of you for standing your ground. Though he realized then that he’d never gotten on your bad side. (He hoped he never did.)

Michael frowned, sighing through his nose. He seemed to expect your reaction, to an extent, but was still disappointed. His gaze slid to Beau. 

Seeming to realize his manners were lacking, he reached out his hand.

“Sorry for interrupting. Michael Hadley,” he greeted.

Beau stared at the other man’s hand for a moment. Instead of shaking it, he held all his true thoughts inside and flashed the newcomer an easy grin, as well as the badge on his belt. 

“Sheriff Arlen,” he replied, raising a brow. “So you’re Michael.”

Michael met your eyes briefly, then Beau’s again. Michael’s hand lowered back to his side.

“So she’s talked about me,” he said.

Beau’s eyes were sharper when they took the other man in. 

“Oh, believe you me, that’s not something to brag about, Mike.”

You had to bite your lip so you wouldn’t smile. Michael’s politeness thinned, but just as his mouth opened to offer a retort, Cassie and Jenny returned with the drinks.

“Hi, there,” Jenny said with civility (sort of), but her blue eyes raked over Michael in an assessing way. She’d clocked your surprise and discomfort from across the room.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to stop the party,” Michael said, making you want to scoff.

Of course you did, you thought.

“I’m Michael, her fiancé,” he tried to introduce himself with an outstretched hand. Jenny also ignored that hand in order to set down the drinks.

It gave you the opportunity to interject with some reality.

“You’re missing an ex in there. As in no longer, and wish we’d never been,” you said. You crossed your arms and met Michael’s annoyed look with your firm one.

He eventually sighed and rested a hand on the back of the booth, behind your seat. You twisted to face him, but you were purposeful in leaning away from him.

Beau had to just watch the scene unfold. He didn’t like the way Michael leaned in, crowding your personal space when you were clearly trying to create distance.

“Can we talk?” Michael asked you. “Please?”

For a moment, you paused with indecision. You didn’t want to make a scene here in the middle of a bar. Not in front of your friends, where half of them were police officers. You didn’t want to stop them from having a good time either.

You met Cassie and Jenny’s eyes, and finally Beau’s. Despite the controlled, almost lazy way he’d handled Michael, you could see he didn’t look happy. You sighed.

“Sorry. Give me a minute,” you said. You got up out of the booth and went with Michael to a somewhat private corner across the restaurant.

Meanwhile, Beau tried not to seem like he was keeping an eye on you two. Cassie and Jenny were too, while sipping on their respective drinks.

“What’s the story there?” Cassie asked.

“Cheating ex,” Beau supplied.

“Great,” Jenny said wryly. Her lips pursed as she met Cassie’s knowing frown. They’d been there before.

Cassie turned to Beau and bumped his shoulder with her own. 

“You okay there, Sheriff?” Cassie asked him. Beau flashed her a look that showed he was unsettled. 

“I’ve got another one to add to the punch list,” he replied.

“I can’t believe you’d ambush me like this!” you whisper-yelled.

Michael crossed his arms in defense. The two of you ducked a server who was coming in hot with a plate of buffalo chicken wings.

“You came all the way to Montana? For what?” you continued. “I already said everything I had to say to you last year. And at Mary’s funeral. Thanks again for that, asshole.”

“That’s such a lie! You wouldn’t even talk to me at the funeral,” Michael shot back. “And you haven’t been answering my calls, my emails. What the hell was I supposed to do?”

“You’re supposed to respect me,” you snapped. Though you couldn’t help the emotion making your voice shake, just a little. “You’re supposed to respect me, and my choices. That’s what you’re supposed to do. But I don’t why I should expect you to start now."

You started to walk away from him, but he grabbed at your hand. You turned back around and jerked your hand out of his grasp.

“It’s over. It’s been over for months. Damn near a year,” you said. “What do you want?”

He looked down at you through sad eyes under his furrowed brows.

“I never wanted it to be over,” he said quietly.

“Well, you pretty much made that decision for us,” you said, crossing your arms. You didn’t know whether it was to stand firm, or to shield yourself. “And I’m done. Quite frankly, I could live the rest of my life without seeing you again.”

“Come on. You don’t mean that,” he said.

He genuinely looked gutted, which was the confusing part. You shook your head and tried to blink the frustrated tears out of your eyes.

“I don’t know what you want from me,” you said.

“I want to say I’m sorry. And I am, more than you know. I want…I want to ask if you can forgive me,” he all but pleaded. He touched your arms, not quite grasping. For the first time since you’d known him, he seemed desperate. “Look, you know how hard it was for me to come out here and beg like a dog, but here I am…because I still love you.”

You were shocked into silence for a moment, but not out of happiness.

Then, you had to sigh. You held up a hand against his chest, a subtle move at pushing him away. 

“I can’t give that to you. Even your apology is hollow. Because what you did…” you said, on a halting breath. “You did it to me for years, Michael. Pretty much from the beginning of our relationship, if it ever was one.” 

You shook your head as a tear made its way down your cheek. 

“And if you could do that, then you never really loved me,” you said.

Michael’s eyes fell away, to hide the emotion stinging in them.

“So…just go home,” you told him. “Be with Kate if you want. I could really give a shit.”

Once again, Michael held your wrist when you tried to leave, this time more gently. He met you with frustrated blue eyes. Those eyes you used to drown in. 

“She’s not you,” he said. 

You slipped out of his grip and uttered a laugh devoid of all humor.

“That, you should’ve known from the beginning,” you said.

He was hurt.

And when he was hurt, he tended to cover it up with anger. His jaw began to work with frustration.

“What, so you’re just going to run away? Live in this dusty piece of shit town until you die?” he said, with the derision you’d come to expect from him when he didn’t get what he wanted. 

“Go home, Michael,” you repeated. “I’m not going back.” 

“Everything okay?” Beau asked, when you finally returned to the table. He didn’t tell you that he, Jenny, and Cassie had been watching on standby, in case Michael tried to press his luck and get more grabby. It had taken everything within Beau to stay in his seat for the past ten minutes.

You gave him a smile and took up the shot of tequila Cassie had brought for you. You downed it and grimaced at the burn.

“I’m good,” you said, with a bit of difficulty. Part of you felt accomplished, that you’d faced Michael and hadn’t let him soften your resolve. Yet there was a big part of you—not so deep down—that felt like utter crap.

“Sorry for the unnecessary drama,” you muttered. 

Jenny gave you a more serious look. One that said she had no problem stepping in if she needed to.

“If you ever feel unsafe, just let one of us know,” she said. 

“That’s right. If he doesn’t leave it alone, all you need to do is call,” Beau added. Cassie echoed that sentiment with a nod. You met Beau’s gaze, despite the uncertainty inside you.

If you need me, call me, his eyes said. 

You nodded then, with a thankful smile. 

Beau couldn’t help it. He felt protective of you. It welled up in his chest and simultaneously felt heavy like a stone. And he could admit, if just to himself, that it was in the personal sense. 

He tried to remember that his life was complicated right now. Too complicated probably, for all of that…but he cared about you. And he didn’t want to see you hurt.

Out of the corner of his eye, Beau spotted Michael Hadley at the bar. He was drinking a beer with an angry frown, and no good written all over his face.

Carla called Beau in a tizzy yesterday morning. 

Not only had Avery bought a gun, but he’d given her some unhinged, quasi- “If I die” speech that had freaked her the hell out. 

In searching Avery’s vacant hotel room, Beau found the missing pages of Paige’s journal. Pages that contained a seed phrase passcode to unlock the $15 million crypto account she and Luke had stolen. 

If Avery had those pages, then it only confirmed that Avery had made a play for the money in order to save his failing business. He was attempting to break the encrypted code to unlock the account, likely for the shady-ass people Paige stole the money from in the first place.  

Naturally, Beau had gone looking to bring the man in for questioning. He’d found Avery at a different, much seedier hotel, being led away by another man who walked and talked like a killer. Beau rightly assumed he was a hitman, gunning for Avery, and quite literally about to take out the trash.

Maybe the people he was working with were tired of waiting on him to unlock the account. Or maybe he’d already done it, and now they’d decided they didn’t need him anymore.

Beau was able to save Avery’s life, shooting the hitman. Then he’d arrested Avery. In return for that save, Avery had been giving Beau the runaround all night, with a side helping of audacity. 

“What’s your plan here, man?” Beau asked. He leaned forward in his chair across from Avery’s. A narrow table lied in between them within the small holding cell for questioning. 

“New identity? Thailand? Or maybe you’re not into the whole heat thing. Maybe Winnipeg,” Beau posed, with all due sarcasm. “You see, these people don’t forgive. And they don’t forget. And the ones that steal from them rarely die alone, which means you have put Carla, and you’ve put my daughter into danger. Did you even think about that?”

Right about now, Beau himself was beyond forgive and forget. In fact, he was irate. But he held it all down beneath a thin line of professionalism, despite the fire in his eyes. 

Avery rested his elbows on the table as well.

“Everything I’ve done has been to protect my family. That’s all you need to know,” he said. “You on the other hand. You’ve made quite the mess, haven’t you? Killing that man put us all in more danger.”

He then leaned back in his chair, as if he held all the cards, and Beau was just a monkey wrench in his plans. It was a good front, but Beau saw right through it all. Avery was bluffing through his ass.

Still, he put on a good show.

“And now I’d very much like to speak to my lawyer,” he said. 

It took everything within the sheriff to stop himself from reaching across the table, grabbing the other man by the collar, and yanking him down hard on the table, face-first. 

Instead, he got up from his seat, deceptively calm. The only explosion of his rage came when he kicked his chair hard on his way out, making it slide across the room and hit the wall. He yanked the cell door open and closed it firm behind him.

He knew he couldn’t hold Avery, not even on Paige’s journal pages. As Avery had so cleverly pointed out, the money hadn’t been reported stolen (why would criminals drop a dime on themselves?). So Beau would let Avery go, for now. All he could do was wait for the cocky son of a bitch to mess up, even more than he already had. 

Beau hated waiting.

But his next step was returning to his office and calling Carla. He asked her to join Emily in staying with him, until this thing with Avery blew over. Likely the people he was working with knew where he lived, knew how to find Carla and Emily. 

Carla sounded shaken even on the phone, but she agreed.

“Is Emily at work right now?” he asked.

“Yeah. I’ll tell her,” Carla said, releasing a breath. “I’ll take her to your place again tonight, and I’ll bring an overnight bag for myself.”

“Good,” he said. “Thank you.”

After hanging up, Beau leaned back in his office chair and covered his bearded face with his hands. He rubbed at his tired eyes. What the hell do I do now? 

The answer eluded him, especially when a knock sounded against his door, disturbing his thoughts. He sighed.

“Yeah?”

“It’s me,” you answered from behind the door. “I come bearing baked goods.”

Beau’s eyes widened in surprise. He beckoned you to come in, and so you did. 

“Working hard, or hardly working?” you teased.

The sight of you was a balm to his frayed mind. Your familiar face, your pretty yellow sundress, the way you’d done your hair. It all managed to kick up his smile at seeing yours. Not to mention the delicious smelling basket you carried on your arm. The top was covered with a red checkered cloth. 

“Hey, there. How’re you doin’?” he greeted, trying to hide the brunt of his former frustration and worry behind a more upbeat attitude. 

He knew he hadn’t done well enough when your smile began to fall. 

“Sorry, did I come at a bad time?” you asked in concern. “Deputy Poppernak told me I could stop in real quick…”

Beau shook his head and waved you in. “It’s all right. Come in, please.” 

He stood and walked around his desk to sit on its edge. 

“I have a feeling I’m gonna want whatever’s in that basket,” he added, nodding at the whicker you carried. You offered it to him, and your warm hand brushed his on the exchange. 

“Just a little something,” you said. “And an apology for making a scene at the bar last night.”

Beau frowned. “You’re not really blaming yourself for that, are you?”

Though he soon brightened, whistling lowly when he found a half dozen chocolate chip muffins under the checkered cloth. A smile grew across his face when it dawned on him. The first thing you offered him when he met you was this very same treat. 

He had a feeling your muffins would be even better. (...And he tried not to think about the potential double meaning there.)

“Damn, between you and your aunt Denise, I’m gonna have to start running again,” he quipped. His eyes met yours in amusement. “And between you and me, I freakin’ hate running.”

You chuckled at that. “I’m more of a yoga girl, myself.”

Beau’s brows rose in interest, but again, he tried not to picture you in some tight-ass yoga pants.

“Thank you for this,” he said, instead, waving the basket of muffins. He set it down beside him on the desk. “I definitely needed a pick-me-up today.”

You searched his face and began to frown at what you saw there. He both looked and sounded…tired, down. Not himself. 

You drew closer and chanced resting a hand on his arm. “Hey, are you okay?”

Beau glanced down at your hand. He took in a deep breath through his nose before he met your gaze again.

“Yeah, don’t you worry. Everything’s fine,” he said. You gave him a somewhat chiding look.

“Beau, you don’t have to tell me it’s okay when it’s not,” you said.

He considered you ruefully. He should’ve known you were perceptive enough to see right through him. Or maybe he was just a shit actor. 

He blew out a breath and nodded. “I asked Carla and Emily to stay with me for the next few days. At least until this investigation of Avery plays out.”

Your patient expression melted into worry. You had a feeling he wouldn’t do that unless things were truly dangerous. 

“See, that’s what I didn’t wanna see,” he said, lightly bumping a curled finger under your chin. Despite yourself, you smiled a little. “I just want them where I can see them, is all.” 

He was putting on a good front, but you weren’t convinced. And Beau could see that. He nodded at you to change the subject. 

“Has Mike tried to contact you?” he asked. It was your turn to let out a sigh.

“Only two calls and eleven texts before lunch, but I’m not answering. He’ll get the hint and go home soon,” you said. 

But Beau was perceptive too. He knew you well enough to read your added thoughts as you frowned and looked away. It said, At least, you hope he will. 

Beau wanted to reassure you, not just to help make you feel safe, but because his gut churned with both unease and anger at the thought of that guy harassing you. 

Beau reached out and gave into the temptation to stroke a thumb across your cheek, earning not just your attention, but your widening eyes. 

“Hey. No more worrying, huh?” he said. His voice was quieter, warmer. He gave you a smile, along with an assured look.

“If anything happens—” he started to say, but you actually beat him to it. You held his hand to your cheek, surprising him this time.

“Yeah, I know. I’ve got the sheriff on speed dial,” you said. Your smile was sweet and teasing. 

Beau had to smile back. His gaze roamed your face. Then your eyes dipped down to his lips. There was heat between you, prickling across your skin and zipping up his spine. It was an inevitable, raw kind of feeling.

He wanted, more than anything, to lean in those precious few inches and find out what you tasted like… He wanted nothing more than to haul you up on this desk, hands sliding up the skirt of that sundress.  

But he held himself back with more self-control than he thought himself capable of. His hand fell away from your cheek. You looked up at him in confusion, and a bit of hurt.

“I’m sorry,” he said, in a lowered voice. “My life is…complicated.”

“And mine’s not?” you countered.

“Not the same,” Beau said. “Trust me. I uh, I’ve got some things in my past that I’m not proud of. Let’s just say you’re better off steering clear.”

“Let’s just say?” you repeated. Your brows drew together in frustration. “Why don’t you just say it? God knows you know everything about my messy life.”

Beau sighed. His gaze fell away from yours. 

“It’s not that simple, darlin’,” he said. 

He saw your disappointment, tinged with disbelief. As much as he didn’t want to hurt you, he also didn’t really have time to explain things properly to you. The truth was, he didn’t have time for this. 

“Look—” he tried, but you cut him off.

“No. It’s fine, I guess,” you said. You looked down at your shoes and muttered, mostly to yourself. “Em was right. You are an old clam.”

“What?” Beau asked in confusion. 

You shook your head and withdrew from him. 

“Okay, sorry. I just…you know what? I need to go,” you stumbled over your words a bit, and you backed away.    

It had Beau feeling at a loss already, not to mention the lance of guilt hitting him between the ribs. He stretched out a hand to you.

“Wait—”

You were too quick for him to stop, however. He watched you leave his office in a hurry, and mentally kicked himself all the while. He sighed and looked over at what you’d left behind—the damn basket of muffins. They smelled heavenly. Torturing him. 

Damn it all, he thought, until he played back the reel of what you’d said in his mind.

“Old clam?” he repeated. 

Once again, a knock on his office door disturbed his thoughts. Except this time, it was Deputy Poppernak.

He stopped short, seeing the furrowed look of confused, guilty frustration on the sheriff’s face. 

“Everything okay, boss?” 

“Fine,” Beau said, shaking his head. “What d’you got?”

Poppernak hesitated for a second, but he held up a file that he passed along. 

“Here’s everything I could dig up on the guy from the hotel shooting,” he said. 

 Good, Beau thought. A worthy distraction. 

You gave Poppernak a belated wave on your way out. You didn’t want to answer any questions or talk to anyone else. You just wanted to escape to your car, where you covered your face with your hands and tried to breathe through the tears stinging in your eyes.

Once again, you felt stupid. Your heart was racing in the worst of ways.

So you peeled out of the police station and headed home…

Or rather, you almost headed home. When you saw Dewell & Hoyt P.I. coming up on the right side of the road, you turned into the parking lot and went inside to see if your aunt was working. 

Cassie wasn’t in, but Denise and Emily were. You greeted them both with warm hugs (and you tried to hide your frustrations from the latter, especially). 

“What brought you in, hun?” Denise asked. 

“Nothing really. I was just in the area and decided to pop in,” you replied with a shrug. Denise smiled and rubbed your arm.

“Well good. Em’s actually going on a coffee run for us. You want anything?”

“No, no, I’m good,” you said. 

“You sure?” said Emily. “I can get you a banana bread or something.”

You smiled and shook your head, touching her arm in thanks. “It’s okay, honey. I just had lunch not too long ago.”

“Okay. Oh hey! Did you ask Dad about being on the podcast?” Emily asked. 

You blinked as you went blank for a moment. The last thing you wanted to do right now was see that man (even if your heart called you a liar). You narrowly kept yourself from lying to Emily as well.

“Uh, yeah, we did talk about it. He’s on board with the idea,” you said, trying to give her a smile. Maybe it didn’t reach your eyes, but Emily seemed to buy it. She smiled back in triumph.

“Yes! Okay, this is good. Now I just gotta start thinking of some questions and we’ll set a date to record the first episode,” she said, doing a little fist pump into the air. 

You tried to match her enthusiasm, but you knew you were falling short. Denise could see it too. Lucky for you, Emily ran off to get to the nearby bakery, the excitement keeping her face bright all the while. 

Denise turned to you knowingly. 

“Okay, grab a seat. I’ll make us some tea, and you can tell me what’s got you looking white as a sheet,” she said.

You sighed and sat down in the lounge area—a seating of couches and a chaise. You sat on the couch while Denise took the chaise. And between mugs of jasmine tea, you told her everything that happened at the precinct when you went to visit Beau.

When you were done explaining, Denise looked contemplative and sympathetic. However, you knew there was more to that look. 

“Okay. Honey, I know you don’t want to hear this, but he’s in a complex situation right now,” she said. ���Between investigating Avery, and how it’s falling back on Carla and Emily—”

“I know. He told me about that,” you said. You were worried about them too. While you didn’t know Carla all that well, your friendship with Emily meant something to you. And not just because you had some…unnamed feelings for her father. 

Your bond with Emily had started at that damned camp, and solidified the night of Mary’s murder. “Trauma bonding” was a thing for a reason. But besides that experience, you genuinely enjoyed the girl’s company, hearing her talk about her interests in school, careers she was considering after college, and even helping her explore her creative side. She was young, but she was bright and mature for her age. 

You cared about what all this was putting her through…though you finally realized that Emily might not be comfortable with the thought of “you and Beau.”

“I don’t want to upset Emily with all this either,” you admitted. “I don’t even know what she thinks of her dad possibly dating again.”

And something else you hadn’t considered. Could all this shakeup between Avery and Carla, not to mention her and Emily staying at Beau’s place now…

“God. Maybe he wants to get back together with his ex-wife,” you realized, with some small shock. 

It wasn’t inconceivable, and it had tears welling up in your eyes for a whole different reason.

"Oh, honey, you don't know that," Denise started to say. You shook your head and set down your tea.

“You know what? I’m just gonna go home,” you said, but Denise tried to keep you with gentle hands on your arms.

“Come on. You don’t have to go,” she said. 

You shook your head and eased out of her grasp. 

“Sorry. I just…it’s his choice, and if he’s already made it…” you trailed. You didn’t want to even acknowledge that your heart was fracturing. “Well, if that’s the case, then I have to respect that.”

Denise didn’t know what else to say to you. But that was just as well. 

“Tell Em I’m sorry, but I had to go,” you said. 

Denise protested, but you left Dewell & Hoyt before your tears could fall in earnest. 

When you actually got home, you were exhausted. It was a case of emotional stress weighing down your body as you forced yourself up the stairs to your second-floor apartment.

You didn’t bother changing. Instead, you grabbed a familiar book of plays from your desk and dropped yourself onto the couch. You got comfortable with Much Ado About Nothing. You hadn’t finished reading it while at the camp, and you needed to brush up on it if you were going to be mentally prepared for the coming school year.

It felt like a world away, but at least with the characters in Much Ado, you had familiar ground. In the scene you were reading, the main characters, Beatrice and Benedick, were already at each other’s throats:

BENEDICK: What, my dear Lady Disdain! Are you yet living?  

BEATRICE: Is it possible disdain should die while she hath such meet food to feed it as Signior Benedick? Courtesy itself must convert to disdain if you come in her presence.  

BENEDICK: Then is courtesy a turncoat. But it is certain I am loved of all ladies, only you excepted; and I would I could find in my heart that I had not a hard heart, for truly I love none. 

BEATRICE: A dear happiness to women. They would else have been troubled with a pernicious suitor. I thank God and my cold blood I am of your humor for that. I had rather hear my dog bark at a crow than a man swear he loves me.

It was hard to believe that these two were supposed to fall in love. Actually, their later “epiphanies” would lead them to realize that the sniping and the arguments and the misunderstandings between them had been love all along…

But you’d come to realize that there was no “Benedick” for you in real life. Sometimes, the angry sniping wasn’t sexual tension. It was just a man who’d never truly respect you.

And sometimes, the arguments and misunderstandings were just two people in the right place at the wrong time, never quite meant to be. 

Thankfully, a knock at your door interrupted your romantic musings. 

Releasing a sigh, you set Much Ado on the glass coffee table in front of you. You got up from the couch and went to the front door, where you looked in the peephole. Your lips drew into a frown, but your disbelief had you unlocking the door before you could think better of it.

“Michael?! What are you doing here?” you asked. 

He stood there with determination set across his face.

“We really need to talk.”

AN: *Sigh.* This guy just doesn't learn, does he? And I'm not just talking about Michael.

Next Time:

“If you give me one more chance, I promise I won’t mess it up again. I’ll be the man you deserve,” Michael said, taking your hand and uncrossing your arms in the process. 

“Believe it or not, I took a week off without pay, just to be here and get a chance to say this to you: I love you. I love you. And I know now that it’s meant to be you.”

You hesitated, and even made the mistake of looking up into his eyes.

Ko-Fi Me ☕

Series Masterlist

Big Sky Masterlist

Main Masterlist

Series Tag List (Part 1):

@kazsrm67 @letheatheodore @agothwithheavysetmakeup @jacklesbrainworms @foxyjwls007 @wincastifer @iamsapphine @simpforbuckyb @roseblue373 @brianochka @branj19 @globetrotter28 @hazel-eye-coffee-shop-girl-blog @ades106

@charmed-asylum @waywardxwords @deanwinchestersgirl87 @this-is-me19 @rachiem4-blog @sweettimelady @leigh70 @clinicallydepresso @emily-winchester @xiphoidbones @skoveu @nyotamalfoy @kmc1989 @deans-baby-momma @tabsluvsu @samanddeaninatrenchcoat @deanwanddamons

@antisocialcorrupt @lacilou @deans-daydream @deans-spinster-witch @agalliasi @venicesem @chriszgirl92 @lyarr24 @iprobablyshipit91 @ladysparkles78 @solariklees @lostin-jensenseyes @deansbbyx @candy-coated-misery0731 @curlycarley @sarahgracej @bagpussjocken @deanfreakingwinchester @chernayawidow

[separatist-apologist]

81 & 46 for Elucien 🙃

81- the missus and the ex & 46- blind date

-

Lucien couldn't decide if agreeing to a blind date was adventurous or desperate. Feyre Archeron had assured him she had the perfect person that ticked all his boxes and Lucien figured he had nothing to lose. Nothing could be worse than Stella, an influencer who spent the entire evening live streaming her date with a Vanserra to thousands of people.

"Lucien?" a soft voice interrupted his humiliating replay. He stood so quickly his chair fell backwards and Lucien spent a stumbling second righting his chair and then himself.

Ah, shit, he thought when he looked at the beautiful woman standing in front of him. He thanked God for the warm summer air that forced her into a strappy lilac dress, revealing swaths of tanned skin. She was stunning, the kind of beauty that seemed to belong in Renaissance paintings and not the rooftop patio he was currently standing in.

Palms sweating, Lucien offered her a one armed hug. "Elain, right?"

She nodded, smiling sweetly. She sat beside him instead of across from him, liquid brown eyes focused wholly on him.

"How do you know Feyre?" she asked, ignoring the menu he was using to hide how nervous he was.

"We ah...we went to college together. She dated one of my friends."

Elain's eyes narrowed. "Which one."

Stupid, he thought miserably. "Tamlin."

"Are you two still friends?"

"Fuck no," Lucien said hastily, pleased to see her smile return. "How do you know Feyre?"

"She's my sister," Elain responded promptly. Ah. That made sense. Feyre only had four friends to start with and Lucien had met them all.

"Do you-"

"Oh. My. God. Look who is out with another woman," an all too familiar voice interrupted Lucien's next question. Panicked and filled with dread, he turned to see the overly contoured face of Stella staring into her phone as she clacked towards them. Shit.

Elain turned too, curious at the commotion Ianthe was about to rain down on them.

"I knew you were a player but this is low, even for you," Stella spat. Elain looked back to him, eye brows raised though her expression was mild.

"P-player?" he spluttered. It would have been funny if he hadn't liked Elain. Now it was upsetting. He didn't need Elain thinking he had some kind of reputation with women when he certainly didn't.

"Did he tell you he took me out recently?" Stella demanded, pointing her phone towards them, effectively putting them on blast. Elain seemed taken aback.

"How is a month recent?" he demanded, finding his voice. Fuck her and fuck her manufactured drama for likes and follows.

"He didn't call me back, either," Stella continued, clearly hoping for some female solidarity. "Just absolutely ghosted me."

"You live streamed our entire date. Surely you could look back and find my obvious disinterest," Lucien shot back.

"What's wrong with your shoes?" Elain asked instead, taking Lucien by surprise. Ianthe, too, glanced down at her feet.

"What do you mean-"

"Knock off," Elain finished, looking back up at Stella, daring the influencer to call her a liar. "That's embarrassing."

"You're a bitch," Stella declared. Elain merely shrugged.

"A bitch in good shoes."

Stella opened her mouth, perhaps to respond with something vulgar. Lucien stood, ready to demand she leave but two waiters who had clearly been watching the entire exchange seemed to sense danger. Making a beeline for Lucien's table, Ianthe shot Elain one last filthy look before slinking off, lest she be caught on camera thrown out of one of the city's better bars.

As she left, Lucien could hear her outraged squawking. "I am so sorry," he said before Elain could say another word. She only shrugged.

"My ex was a gym-fluencer. I get it. They do everything for likes...it's exhausting. I won't hold it against you if you buy me desert."

"Anything you like."

[msfett]

✨ More smutty excerpts 😁 NSA bebe 🔥

✳️ Boba Fett x F!Reader ✳️

Rating: NSFW Explicit 18+ Only

C/W: Explicit Sexual Content, Angry Rough PIV Hate Sex, Breathplay 💕

*please just suspend belief that Tipoca City was destroyed on Kamino during TBB* 🙃

**********************

Lightning illuminates the dark sky followed by the steady rumble of thunder. Windows line the outer wall allowing a dim light to cast shadows across the interior of the small, sparse room.

Your mind feels distant. The dark horizon blurs seamlessly with the ocean and you barely register the soft clank of armor. It’s as if you’re submerged in the depths of Kamino’s waters, sound muffled, moisture fully bathing your skin through water-laden clothes, limbs too heavy to move against the drag.

Few people have ever seen your entire face, felt your hands. These barriers have been essential for your survival, for continued anonymity. Even those that had gotten too close, accidental or otherwise, risked removal of such memories.

Fett doesn’t know any of these darker capabilities, but you doubt that knowledge would alter his premeditated actions. He’s a bold man with few occupancies for regret. The fact he is seeing your face, touching your bare hands, makes this infinitely intimate.

He’s carefully pulling a saturated glove from each of your hands, and is deliberately slow reaching up to remove your mask, not wanting to reveal your face too quickly, to overstep his boundary.

He’s trying to find support, something dense enough to push his thoughts in a different direction instead of tilting from the uncomfortable truth you present to him. And it’s not just now, but every time he’s asked you to, gladly offering your hand to build something different, something better.

Unobtrusive, yet powerful, your exhale is the soft breeze that topples the dilapidated structure.

In the midst of release, his grip encircles your arms, pulling you against his chest, thrusting your body upward into his. And before you can inhale, his mouth is seizing yours with barely checked ferocity, opening and entering, rolling his tongue against yours as he elicits a low groan.

His hands sweep up through your rain-soaked hair, capturing your delicate head, pulling you deeper into him. You feel his emotions rush over you, raw and blistering, justifying your own intensity. Your hands slide up the back of his neck and into the depths of his rich hair as your body bows backward, curving, fitting against him to melt into the heat he radiates.

One step and he has you pinned against the cold, horizontal bars across the transparisteel window, his body tightly trapping, daring you to escape his hold with one arm outstretched, palm flat to the window as the other hand presses into you lower back pushing your hips forward. And just like every other situation you’ve been in with him, he relentlessly battles you for total control.

But you’re a worthy opponent, and pulling away you savagely yank him back by his hair as if you would put him at a distance, hissing, “You’re so fucking aggravating, Fett.” Your forearm is pressed across his upper chest, sharply digging your nails into his bicep with each word.

He leans his head forward, into the tightness of your grip like he’s enjoying the prick of pain it causes, comfortable with its sensation. His gaze turns primal as you watch the softness recede from his eyes. You hold your breath, brow furrowed, matching his as hunger licks hotly through his blackened irises. Your belly contracts in response as his eyes skim over you, consuming you without so much as a touch.

“No, Jedi.” His raspy address is not the acerbic curse you once heard. “It’s you that’s fucking infuriating.” He jerks your hips impossibly closer to him, like he wants you to feel his anger take shape, his erection hardening against your body.

You are suspended in this moment as war rages in his obsidian eyes, fingers gripping his scalp in a desperate message of conflicting needs, when unexpectedly he begins to closely trail down your body, eyes locked with yours as he slowly descends.

It does something to you, watching him lower before you, a posture of submission except there’s nothing submissive about this man even as he sinks to his knees. He is thoroughly controlling every second of this. And you wonder what degree of perverse insincerity desecrates his deferential action, like worshiping a goddess of peace forced upon a violent throne.

His hands slide up your ankle, fingers tracing the seam of your pants to the thigh strap of your holster, and your hand constricts into a fist at your side. He doesn’t break eye contact. He doesn’t need to see. He knows exactly what he’s doing, slowly unbuckling.

Looking down at him, water drips from your hair to stream across his cheeks and down his angled jaw. And it’s a depraved, wicked movement as the edges of his lips curl up. You want to absolutely rip that mocking caricature of a smile off his fucking face, but all the same it s ends a shiver through your body.

“When’s the last time you used this blaster?” A dark sound, if it can even be classified as a chuckle, releases from the back of his throat, eyes steady with yours.

“Careful. Or it’ll be tonight.” The muscles in his jaw clench with your answer. He likes this weapon. He’s familiar with it. He’s exceptionally skilled in operating it. This type of violence is tangible, straightforward, simple cause and effect. He doesn’t want grey; too much room for error, uncertainty.

His hands glide up your other thigh, and you feel his seductive mix of fear and desire in knowing what lies concealed, hilt safely sheathed. “Don’t touch it,” you warn through gritted teeth.

“Too personal?” He mocks the sanctity of the weapon, but you can sense his unease. His ignorance about the functionality scares him, a novel thrill. Unlike the other side, it’s a sharp pinch as he jerks loose the leather strap and your lip twitches in contempt.

He could never understand the sacredness of this weapon. It is your lifeblood, acting as a conduit between you and the Force, serving as a symbol of honor and commitment. He wants to break each part, smear your honor across your face, across his in spiteful derision.

You hold back, breathing through the waves of anger trying to pull you under. He’s stoic under your glare, but stubbornly complies with a snort.

In a smooth, continuous motion he runs a hand up the front of your hip while his other palm dips dangerously low, moving across before gliding up to unclip the holster. He refuses to disengage from your glower as he places your effects on the floor with surprisingly great care.

He’s disarmed you. Your safety has been set aside by him. You’ve allowed it.

You briefly see that same acknowledgment echoed in his eyes before he bows his head, a disingenuous pretense. The significance of his forehead resting against your belly is implicitly tarnished by his enduring scorn. But he is the first to look away, breaking the aggressive stare, the smallest of surrenders.

You remember his whisper. This changes nothing.

And though you recall how those words shook you, he’s the one on his knees, an undeniable vulnerability itself, a yielding of some portion of control, and something has change d with this position of his choosing.

The heat of his breath against your skin sends a shiver through your body as his hands firmly grasp the back of your thighs. His lips ghost over the small space between your shirt and pants, softly pressing until you acutely feel the scrape of teeth across your skin.

Reestablishing your grip against his scalp, you yank him back. He has the hem of your shirt between his teeth, lips pulled back ever so slightly revealing the glint of his bared teeth as he bites down. He locks eyes with you again, the shirt snapping back as he intentionally releases it, teeth clicking, his decision to let go.

Confidently he rises up, sliding his hands up over your ass, flexing his fingers to lock you against him. The tension you’ve been holding is made apparent as you completely release him, knuckles white from intensity, tentatively unfurling your hands on his chest. Though his position has changed, a charged balance is present, an unfamiliar give and take you’ve not felt from him.

His breath rushes so hotly, prickling the shell of your ear. “You should’ve killed me when you had the chance.”

You make sure he can feel the indentations of your nails as they scratch down his chest, body shuddering in response as you grit, “I don’t need those weapons to completely destroy you.”

The sound rumbling from deep within his chest is absolutely feral as you willingly let him crush you against the warmth of his body, bending and not breaking from his intensity. “You made a bad choice coming back here. I took you somewhere safe.”

His mouth comes to hover over yours, ready to devour your words as they spill from your lips. And just when the weight of control seems to tip the scales, a secondary shift of balance occurs, an equalizing push and pull. “I wouldn’t be here if you had just left me alone. This is all on you.” 

You’ve matched his intensity and he proves capable of an uncharacteristic mutual concession, groaning against your lips. It’s a move in your favor, and you decide to break even, gasping into his mouth, fingers clutching the back of his neck, thumbs tracing his hairline. You feel his strong fingers gliding up your shoulder blades to follow back down the curve of your spine, sliding slowly over each contour, heading with purpose toward your waist, your hips.

He sinks his fingers into the swell of your ass, and you pull back slightly to draw a breath, a small sound high in your throat, lips glistening until your teeth find purchase on his lower lip, biting and sucking him into your mouth. He hisses, a small fissure on his lip opening and you can taste the hint of iron mixed with salted rainwater.

You realize this is what he’s tasted like his whole life.

Your hands begin to move over him with sudden liberty pulling his dampened shirt off, feeling the expanse of his muscled chest, fingertips drifting lower over his taut abdomen. He clutches your rounded ass tightly in both hands and you eagerly leap up as he lifts your feet from the floor.

You sling one knee over his hip, the other leg snaking quickly around him so he’s caught in the encouraging vice of your legs. Your torso rises up high in his embrace, your mouths separating as you guide the back of his head, pulling him toward the fullness of your breasts. You gasp when he captures a peaked nipple through your clinging undershirt, sucking it into his mouth and catching it gently between his teeth.

The table he places you on is littered with items still set as if the occupants had left hurriedly in mid-use. He doesn’t bother to clear anything and the cold temperature of the alloy penetrates the fabric of your pants. The sitting position naturally draws your thighs up so your knees bracket his hips as your ankles hook around his legs. The movement causes objects to fall, hitting the floor with varied resonances.

There is a rushed sense of urgency coming from him, from the environment. You glance to see a child’s toy ship become part of the scattered mess below in his haste with you. And now he won’t bring his eyes to your face. The combination of contrasting sensations pour into you, heartbeat quickening, and it feels like the vibration is humming through your entire body.

You can tell he’s acting purely on impulse, every wild twist of his mouth against yours a reflection of the need to rapidly remove thought from his existence. His demanding hands wrap around your hips and drag you forward to the edge of the table where balance seems unlikely. But just as your arms have been clinging around his shoulders, he holds you steady as he pushes himself deeper toward the juncture of your thighs. Your gasp becomes a moan beneath the command of his lips as you feel the hard impression of his erection pressing against the center of your core.

His cock is straining against the barrier of his pants and you make an abandoned sound of pleasure, wriggling toward his frame, slowly rolling your hips. Your hands glide down over his back and onto his firm ass where you can feel the muscles driving towards you. His abdomen flexes against you, the sinew of his thighs jumping tensely to attention, cock twitching in excitement with your engagement.

His course satisfaction is palpable through his groan at your eager response. He’s precariously soliciting a mindless state as he makes savage use of your mouth, kissing you, until breathless, you release little sounds of encouragement for him.

You feel his fingers thrusting hungrily under your damp shirt, burning back up over your hips and belly until he’s caught your breasts in impatient palms. His touch is aching skill, an assured manipulation that molds the supple flesh, rubbing his roughened hands against you. He draws an already peaked nipple between his thumb and forefinger and rolls it into a deft pinch. You gasp, your torso arching forward into him, moaning as he toys with the opposite breast, melting liquid down the center of your body until you are soaked with it. As you sharply inhale, you become aware of his musky scent. It is bitter rain spiced with sweat, heated by the warmth of his skin.

This is how he’s always smelled.

Mouthing along his jawline down his neck, your tongue flicks along the increasing pace of his jugular pulse and over the scarred skin where you deflected the blaster bolt that fateful evening. He recognizes your silent, veiled intimation, the first time you chose to spare his life. He growls a fast, foreign phrase through clenched teeth causing a pulse of heat to seep down your center, wet as it bursts the confines.

Then he’s ripping your shirt up and over your head, flinging it aside carelessly. You lean back on your hands and watch as he focuses on your bare breasts, his gaze completely transfixed, his hand slowly skimming feather light over the top of one, then traveling to the other. This measured exploration is nothing like his desire to dismantle you, nothing like the more aggressive need you can feel radiating from him now, expertly hunting your shadow. He is dangerous and you can feel it as he insinuates himself around your thoughts.

Your walls clench under his thorough visual examination, touch narrowing to a single fingertip that traces the slope of your breast until it is just his nail scraping over your rigid nipple. You jerk sharply, unprepared for the spear of heat the simple touch sends hurtling through you as he squeezes your breast harder. His mouth catches your nipple, drawing it deep into his mouth, suckling languidly as you moan softly. You cup one hand under his jaw as he alternates his attention to the other breast, feeling the grains of sand left behind by your shirt, pleasantly chafing with his tongue.

Looking down, you’re stirred by the fullness of his lips wrapping around your sensitive nipple, by the contrasting color of his flushed lips against your skin highlighted by streaks of lightning outside. You place your palms on the backs of his hands, urging him on, tightening his touch. And fuck. The intoxicating way he looks as he lavishes your body, how the half-mast of the thick lashes lightly tickle against your breast, floods you with moisture pooling hotly at the juncture of your thighs.

He releases you from his mouth, your body responsive in his embrace, and you can feel the need coursing through his body. He pants softly as your hands sweep through his soft, black hair, fingers curving until your nails are running over the sensitive back of his neck, teasing and making him even harder. You scrape your nails down his back, around and up to his chest, simultaneously drawing him deeper into the tender trap of your locked legs.

You’re not expecting the streak of pleasurable pain when his teeth latch onto your nipple and your whimper loudly until the pitched noise extends into elongated moan. His large hand reaches up to hold you still, almost completely encompassing your throat, lightly pressing, as a guttural growl of desire boils out of him to sweep fiercely around you, dark and carnal.

He breaks away to chase a bead of rain that slips down between your breasts, catching it with the tip of his tongue. He drags the velvet tool across your skin until he’s drawing a stiffened nipple into the warmth of his mouth as you release a small cry.

It feels like you’ve already lost the sensible part of your mind, swimming with the heat of arousal as his hands find the snap of your pants. You feel his hand slide around your hip and down over your ass again, but this time he’s touching your skin, having slipped his fingers past the loosened fabric. His depraved thoughts are exquisitely loud, knowing the rain-soaked material is the only physical barrier between him and his ability to fully experience your body. The material slides lower, setting your sensitive skin to screaming.

Your legs go lax as he supports your weight with one hand, pushing the pants from your body effortlessly and then urging your legs back to their embrace around him. His eyes rake over your naked figure. “Fuck.” He exhales loudly, biting his lower lip.

Breath quickening, he discovers you, training his sights on the glistening slit, lips slightly parted from the wide spread of your thighs. His furrowed brow momentarily relaxes as his eyes flick back up to meet yours. “Beautiful.”

There is truth in his words, devoid of his previous mocking tone, and you feel a natural softening in your chest at his revelation. Your entire body is exposed to this man and he’s chosen to stare at your most vulnerable area, your face, your eyes. It’s a challenge to look at him, wondering what he might see there.

As if reciprocating that feeling, he drops his gaze. Your body is easy to admire. He can make an objective assessment of each part, like any other man.

Shifting into a more comfortable frame of mind, he splays his fingers over the trembling muscles of your belly before rotating his hand to cup the mound of your sex. His middle finger brushes over you and you’ve been wound so tightly that this light touch inundates you with sensation, softly sighing as your eyelashes flutter shut.

“You weren’t supposed to be like this,” he gravels, burying his face into the side of your neck, inhaling deeply as if to drag your scent deep into his lungs. His finger is slow, deliberate, sliding just enough to gather slick for the tip so it glides without friction over your sensitive nub.

“You’re complicated.” His accented voice is coarse as his fingers thread through your hair, gripping hard enough to pull your head back. “And confusing.” He opens his mouth on the side of your exposed neck, sliding his hot tongue up its delicate length, dipping it into the hollow behind your earlobe.

“You make me think.” His confession unravels through guilt-burdened lips, unable to look in your eyes. “I don’t want to fucking think,” he mouths into your neck. “I don’t want to feel.”

“Is that why you hate me, Fett?” you murmur, forcing your hips to remain still under his increasing pressure.

His answer is audibly silent, but his is mind is booming decibels, breath blowing hot into your hair, over your skin, the speed chilling the sensitive back of your neck. His heavy panting makes you feel like your own short breaths are deprived of needed oxygen.

“I don’t even know your fucking name.” His fingertips slide into the collection of arousal between your soaking folds, running through until they’re completed coated before slipping one thick finger and then another into your wet, silky flesh. You gasp, a stuttering intake, encouraging his strong fingers to curl tightly as if he can coax your name into his covetous hand. Your arms drape over his shoulders, pulling him closer so that your face can burrow into the side of his neck, mewling as your walls clench tightly around the welcome fullness. He hums in satisfaction at your reaction, at the way he’s pulling these sounds from your tempered composure. And it’s messy as he presses open mouthed kisses along the top of your shoulder.

He feels you shudder, marveling at how tight you feel around his fingers, how your insides quiver with delicious, eager little spasms under his touch. Your hand grips around his taut bicep, muscles flexing as he pumps his fingers slowly into your cunt. You grind up against the calloused pads of his palm, stimulating your clit with every deep curl of his fingers. Allowing this momentary loss of control, you let him fuck you with his thick fingers and it feels so good. And you want to feel him too so you shove your hand down between your bodies, grasping the hard outline of his cock, preparing for the inevitable breakdown of will.

And just like this, he’s making you completely mad with dizzying sensation. He’s leading you up to the edge, and you’re so ready to cum all over his fingers, electricity branching out like lightening from your center…when his fingers suddenly stop.

And this time it is an unmistakable deviant chuckle.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” you pant, and it looks like evil retribution pouring from his dark eyes as he pulls back from your grip enough to rob you of both your orgasm and of the beautiful image your mind was creating of his cock.

Why his cruelness still shocks any part of you is beyond comprehension and your fingers claw into whatever you can find. Then you see what he’s staring at, and your eyes dart between his face and his hand, from looking at his reaction to watching him slowly remove his fingers from your cunt. He’s absolutely soaked in your arousal so as he parts his fingers, strands of glistening slick web between them.

It looks like he’s inventing a new way to sin as he opens his mouth, sliding his fingers in to taste you, wrapping his lips around dirty, criminal fingers. His eyes close, wide nostrils flaring as he takes a deep, purposeful breath, drawing in your scent, solidifying his violation, groaning as he palms his cock over his pants.

His eyes snap open to confront yours, removing his fingers to spread them over his lips. He drags his fingers down, tongue licking between them to consume your residual arousal.

“Tell me.” And you clench at the sight of him spitting into his hand to reach under his waistband, roughly stroking his cock. The flared, engorged head is just visible, shining with the mix of his saliva and your slick.

“You are a hateful creature,” you sneer. This is not justifiably reconcilable, chest heaving, and you fight to keep your lips sealed.

You can feel his urge to take you, to be buried deep inside, rolling off him in torrid waves. “Don’t make me say it again.” Though it sounds like a demand, he’s waiting to hear your answer.

Feeling insolent, you mouth off to him. “Is that all you have for me, bounty hunter?” Your own vicious smile turns up the corners of your lips. “I expected more vigor from the Fett line.”

And your comment has exactly the desired effect, purposely rousing the sleeping beast. He’s growling, flipping you around, roughly pushing you against the metal. The table is cold against your heated cheek, biting at your sensitive nipples as you hear his unfastened pants swoosh to the floor. One hand is pressing hard between your shoulder blades, the other gripping into your hip, holding you in place as he uses his knee to shove your legs apart.

His muscled arm is like a band of durasteel as it crosses your lower abdomen from hip to hip, his other hand grasping through your hair until he has a firm hold near the base of your head. He jerks you back hard against him, your ass snuggling deep into the well of his hips as his thick thighs keep you parted.

Your body is wet from rain and arousal, and becoming more so with every eager rub of his suggestive burrowing against you. Your breath comes out as sharp gasps of pleasure as you feel his head slide along the edges of your slick folds. You feel your body craving, seeking, fuck it begging to be filled as he’s leaning forward over your outstretched body. The clamp of his teeth on your shoulder and the bruising force of his hands only intensify those desires. He’s so conformed to your body, bent over your smaller frame, as if he can absorb your pleasure, your anger, fuck, whatever you’re releasing, through contact.

You can feel the raging of his body, his want to be deep inside, the slick welcome of your anticipation bathing him in invitation. You writhe back against him, demanding him with savage provocation, tilting your pelvis forward as if he needs help accessing your soaked cunt, your body wildly seeking the fulfillment the hardness against you promises so hotly.

Oh and he fucking wants it too as he tries to moderate the bastardized ego of his current control. His breath is ragged. “Maker you’re so confusing.” But it sounds like he’s trying to convince himself more than you.

“Even if,” he’s barely managing to grit out between placing his mouth along the back of your neck, relentlessly teasing his cock over your clit, “I don’t hate you...” All the buildup is making you soak his length before he’s even entered you. “That’s exactly how I want to fuck you.”

You feel your cunt involuntarily clench at th e words he’s growling into your neck, brutal in their honesty. His animalistic need to dominate you is overwhelming and you grind against his hard length until he can’t withhold. Returning upright, he grips your hips even harder with bruising intensity, dragging the tip of his head through your wet folds. He slowly enters you allowing you to adjust to the thickness of his cock. And though you haven’t seen the entirety, you can feel the breadth of it breaching you.

“Fuck.” He extends the word as you whine with the intensity of him stretching you, and you know he can feel you contracting around him. His thrusts are small, controlled, but deep, hitting against your cervix.

His hips are firmly pressed against your ass, letting his cock sit and twitch in your warmth, reveling in your little noises and desperate movements, when you realize he’s still taunting you. He’s barely moved except to take your overly sensitive clit between his index and middle finger, pressing and sliding his fingers slowly up and down causing you to buck your hips.

“Fucking move, Fett." It's an angry, breathy whine that sounds so unusual coming from your mouth.

You’re at that precious threshold as his sweat drips from his hair onto the small of your back. And he’s such a control freak that his restraint is torturing him as badly as he’s wanting to punish you by withholding. If there’s ever a next time, you’ll fucking remember this shit.

His groin is sticky with your arousal, and he’s got that good grip on your ass, kneading his fingertips into your cheek, indentations that will leave his mark of well-placed bruises. Beyond frustrated you tilt your hips, rocking forward, making his head press into you, hitting that aching spot in the front as your walls clench around him.

Without warning, his reaction is explosive, cursing and groaning as he pounds into your cunt, squelching with the brutal clash. He reaches for your neck, his thick, powerful fingers grasping and curling around the delicate column.

He feels you swallow, feels you breathe. Such vital, living reflexes. He can feel your pulse, feel it quicken under his fingers. And it makes him feel alive as if his world is tilting just a little off its axis. 

His other hand drives up from your hip to your waist, the dampness from the rain and his sweat coating your skin making it a slick movement. His thrusts are profound and rough, tipping you forward onto your toes. A primal sound erupts from his lips as you squirm eagerly in compliance, your rough breath rasping beneath the press of his index finger on your throat.

His exhales become groans, the transference of anger with each snap of his hips, a punctuated rhythm like his cock can shatter you, cause you to completely break down for him. You can feel him reeling from the unadulterated high as he surges into you, rooting himself deeply in your heat, feeling the impossibly tight wetness of your cunt.

“Oh, fuck…yes,” you purr as your thighs begin to shake uncontrollably. His groan a reply as he thrusts into you, reveling in the slick sensation of your folds, of affecting you enough to speak. And you can barely tolerate how he’s been able to do this to you, how his heartless, cold-blooded body has made you feverish for satisfaction. 

Then suddenly he pulls out, making you whimper in shock, overwhelmed by a sense of grasping loss as your hips writhe back to his instinctively. But he’s turning you over again, drawing your legs up, fitting them around his hips as he positions you back on the table. His thumbs are fitted into the crease of your thighs, fingers gripping low around your hips as you lean back on your hands.

And you’re so done with him teasing you, about to tell him he can go fuck off if he can’t finish the job he’s started, but he seizes your mouth with great need. His thoughts seem to flow through his lips with the nervous energy of being face-to-face. It’s as if he’s afraid he might see something telling in your eyes, and he can’t, no, won’t be able to turn away.

Breaching deeply into your eager body, he rasps. “Want to see you.” And you can feel his eyes burning back and forth between your gaze and where you’re joined, like he doesn’t want to miss out on visualizing either as he savagely drags your aching cunt over his thick length until he’s deeply seated in you. “You feel so fucking good.”

His brow is furrowed, eyes watching as he fucks into you hard, desiring to devastate, control, and he feels a sense of power. It’s like his cock is capable of conquering you, delivering his revenge by forcing your cunt to weep around him until he fills it with his seed, defeating you; defeating his own Jedi, cum dripping from his conquest, disgracefully marking her thighs.

He can do this if he avoids your gaze, make you an object, one more faceless acquisition.

But when he looks into your eyes, it’s entirely different, as if with each repeating deep thrust he’s letting go of some small thing. Like you’re giving him permission to release unwanted pieces of himself, his anger, his despair, the prideful parts that want to hold on to unfounded reasoning.

His eyes can’t seem to focus long on either, so you allow him to choose; his revenge, his peace, or something in between.

You cautiously slip past his projections and into the superficial areas of his mind. You can feel the build of pleasure climbing hot and tense around him. Rarely do you let yourself enjoy admittance to the mind, but it’s almost like he’s inviting you in, letting you access the lust, hatred, anger, confusion, the conflict of his want for you. It’s all tangled in tiny knots that only time and patience and determination have any hope of undoing.

He moves energetically within your body, and drawn in, he feels you match his rhythm. His hands glide over you, seeking sensitive spots, and focuses on your throbbing clit. His thumb rubs minute, firm circles in response to your walls squeezing his solid cock. You’re gasping with each successive movement he makes inside you, ruthlessly driving into you.

Your hands come up to clutch around his shoulders, pulling your chest against his. He’s tense, coiled, but the gentle way you press your lips against his neck causes him to involuntarily shiver. And as his muscles relax, you finally explode, crying out, cunt fluttering around him in rapid contractions. A screaming burst of energy flashes hot and bright from your center, radiating through limbs in pulsed waves. Your cum drenches his cock and you can feel the wetness spread down your ass making the table even more slippery.

There is a loosening of your limbs, weight falling against him, relaxing as you feel him tear into what’s left as you, yielding shreds of resistance you’re willing to part with. But he wants that piece you’ve been successfully guarding. His press against your hips asks you to lean into a new embrace. He supports your lower back, cradling the base of your head in the other hand, and it’s a only a whisper but has the force of something much greater. “Let me see you.”

And when your eyes drift to his, he’s not sure in his request, but your hand smooths back sweat-soaked strands of hair from his face, thumb removing the sheen from his cheek and his dark eyes lock with yours. His hips are beginning to lose rhythm, panting as his hips pull back, and his final thrust is shuddering, dislodging your gaze. His groan is long and undulating with violent, lurching spasms as his cock pulses with bursts of seed, filling you until drips of genetic material are smeared along your cunt.

Recovering, you almost don’t feel his come down, his give. He’s leaning into the light caress of your hand, mouth turning to kiss your palm; the palm that redirected and peacefully diffused his intended kill shot, that painfully bore shards of glass after the fall from his paralytic dart, that mercifully healed and granted him another chance at life.

And once again your palm is there, and this frightens him. Mind following body, he untangles from you and a different intensity replaces the more basic urges.

“Wait.” He motions for you to be still, and you can’t help but smirk at his muscled ass as he pads across the room.

“Here.” The blanket’s edges are frayed from age and use, but nonetheless soft in way that can only come from time and purpose. “There’s a bed in that room.”

“I’m fine out here.” Out of habit, you thumb back and forth over the worn material.

“I’d prefer you not be in the room with all the weapons.” He glances over to the separate piles accumulated on the floor.

“And I, you.”  This impasse was inevitable.

“Fine, but the bed is small.” He begins to replace items that had fallen during your activities back on the table, rearranging them methodically.

“I thought I saw another bedroom over —“

“No,” he interrupts, stopping you immediately. “We’re …you’re not going in there.”

You nod, not questioning him, and he follows behind you after repositioning the toy ship on the table.

Just like the blanket, the bed has its own imperfections. Made for one person, there are permanent indentations from previous use and you both become similar shapes around each other, shifting toward the center to better fit the impression.

“I’m a light sleeper.” You are cautious.

“So am I.” But he seems more comfortable.

“If you move, I’ll know.” The room feels particularly cold to you.

“Same.” As if for emphasis, his arm wraps around your hip. The warmth from his body lulling you into that dream-like, in-between space of consciousness. The rain has become a soothing background noise, something that belongs.

*********************

💕 Smut-tastic excerpt from Chapter 6 of When Light Meets Matter 😁 If you enjoyed, stroll on over to my blog, @msfett for the full chapter and previous chapters 😊 Come say hello or send me some thots about our sexy bucketheads!

Please feel free to reblog and share ☺️

Crossposted on A03: msfett_ifyourenasty

💕 Partner consent, communication, and trust are essential when engaging with any elements of BDSM. It's safer, more intimate, and just straight-up sexier to know what a partner wants, needs, and agrees to 💕

Safe. Sane. Consensual.

[helium-queen]

Kinda late to @autumnleaves1991-blog Writer Wednesday but this photo inspired a dirty thought 🙃

Impatient

Warnings: 18+ Smut

Word Count: 619

Pairings: Lance Tucker x F!Reader

It was dark, chilly and a little foggy out as you and Lance stumbled out of the bar.

“Just wait till I get you back to my place” Lance states confidently

“Yeah? What’cha got in store for me?” You ask laughing as Lance tugged you by your wrist in a hurried fashion

“I’m gonna fuck you so good, your not gonna be able to walk for a week” He says huskily

“I don’t know if I can make it” You say standing still on the sidewalk in front of a phone booth

“What?” He asks looking at you confused

“I’m so fucking horny from all the teasing in the bar, I want you to take me right here” You say pulling Lance into the phone booth

“Well fuck, you don’t gotta tell me twice” He chuckles

As soon as your back hits the glass his lips are crashing into yours and his hands are roaming all over your body

He’s rough and needy, massaging your tits and tugging your low cut tank top and bra down to expose them, your nipples instantly erect from the sting of cool air hitting them. He grabs them and brings his mouth down to give each nipple a generous suck

You reach down and stick your hand into his track pants where your not surprised to find he’s gone commando. His cock is hot and hard, straining against the confines of his pants, so you slip them down his hips and begin stroking him

“Damn your hand feels good, baby” He groans into your ear as he kisses up your neck

“My pussy will feel even better, Fuck me Lance” You demand

He swiftly grabs your leg and wraps it around his waist, opening you up to him. He reaches between your bodies and slides your panties to the side before thrusting balls deep inside of you in one swift motion

“Holy shit!” You cry out at the delicious way he stretches you

You reach down with one hand and grab his cute little ass while your other hand holds on to his shoulder

“Goddamn, your fucking tight!” He groans as he starts thrusting into you at a relentless pace

You feel the familiar sensation quickly growing in your abdomen and your surprised at how close you are to cumming already

“Fuck, Lance don’t stop! I’m gonna cum! You groan as you reach down to rub your clit, the added stimulation flinging you over the edge

“Yeah? Cum on my dick baby, that’s it!” He says continuing to pound into you as your orgasm washes over you

“You gonna cum for me, Tucker?” You ask looking at him through hooded eyelids

“That’s what you want, baby? You want me to cum in your needy pussy right here where anyone can see us?” He asks grunting as his thrusts get rougher

“Yes! Fuck yes, fill me up with your cum!” You cry out at the overstimulation

Lance is overwhelmed by the tightness of your pussy and the risk of being caught from fucking in such a public place. He feels his orgasm hit him like a truck and causes him to grab frantically at the pay phone next to you in attempts to hold himself up as he empties himself inside of you, feeling weak in the knees.

“Fucking hell, I’ve never cum that hard before” He pants out coming down from his high

“I believe you” You say giggling motioning to his hand

“Wh..” he begins to ask before realizing he’s holding the phone tightly in his hand as the cord dangles around his arm after being ripped from the booth

He looks back at you and you both begin to laugh hysterically

[0jamajos]

man... Im sick and like I don't wanna think that it's covid, but what if it is, but I was told by the test lady that it's probably better if I wait a couple days since I got symptoms b4 getting tested, so now I just have to sit in my room in uncertainty til then... and im just here with a million emotions like, bro, im actually pretty privileged to be able to just stay home sick and not worry too much, which is fucked up cuz what kind of low subterranean bar even is that, but also, even so, whats gonna happen at my workplace without me 🙃

[breninarthur]

Forever bitter about the level of effort a woman is expected to put into her appearance compared to a man.

I have an event coming up soon and I'll be wearing a nice new outfit. So will some men. And yet I will look like I've put in no effort because I don't wear makeup or high heels, I don't spend hours intricately styling my hair, and I don't spend a ton of money on these things.

And yet the bar is so low for men, they're praised if they wear fucking floral for a change 🙃

[skinny80s]

nov 16th, 2021 - tuesday

breakfast: 350cal

6:43am ↴

Breakfast was only 350cal so I'm excited to check my calories burned tonight because it's normally a little over 100cal and that will be such a nice total number.

If I keep this up I can lose a bunch of weight I know it <3 I will find my bones.

snack: 228cal

10:32am ↴

So my mom gave me a quest bar peanut butter cup and it was already unwrapped and this is why I am a fatass 😃 use self control 🙃 at least it was low-ish cal ig. Started the day with such high hopes //:<

lunch: 580cal

1:40pm↴

I HAVE NO FUCKING CONTROL ):< It's starting to really fucking upset me

another fucking snack: ???cal

2:11pm ↴

I'm going to die 💀

dinner: skipped <3

eaten: around 1,200cal

burned: 207cal

total: 993cal

okay I was feeling so fake and invalid all day but 993 is okay considering my tdee is around 1,976cal (according to a website calculator 😬)

Tomorrow I'll try harder at my fast and turning down food that's offered. I don't need to eat I need bones.