#I don't like how these look on tumblr rip

[kisakis-boyfriend]

Dazai, Chuuya, & Kunikida x werewolf reader

Author's Note: Requested by the same anon who asked for this with Fyodor, Nikolai, & Sigma. I just had to break up the posts thanks to tumblr's tag limits 🙄 + bonus Kunikida because I can ✨

Pairings: Dazai, Chuuya, & Kunikida x male reader (separately)

Warnings: Male werewolf!reader, dom/top!reader, sub/bottom!characters, implied dom Chuuya as well, mentions of breeding, knotting, rough sex (Chuuya), heat cycle

Dazai

The Shameless Slut

“Ooh please fill me up, my love! I'll gladly take all of your dick uwu”

Yeah, Dazai can get a little too excited about your werewolf form sometimes…

He can be such a pillow princess too. He just likes to lay there and show off his beautiful body while you're carving your place in his insides

Scarily possessive when you pop your knot into him

As soon as Dazai feels that sudden stretch, he's locking his legs around you and pressing it further in

His fingers tangle in your coarse fur, and a groan slips out–

“Yes! Tell me I'm yours, belladonna!” he'll rasp, staring you down with enough intensity to make your heart skip a beat

If you're comfortable with it, Dazai will brag about his insanely hot werewolf boyfriend

Rip ADA members who have to hear about you every single day… and rip PM members who also hear about Dazai's horny bf every time they meet 😅

Chuuya

The Greedy Slut

That's not your massive dick, it's Chuuya's. And you'd do well to remember that

Your werewolf form does something to Chuuya's brain. The man already enjoys rough sex, but this large, canine form stirs something up in his belly

Demands to be bred. There better be no cum spillage, it has to be in his hole(s)

Definitely uses his special ability to make you hit deeper and pound harder — so much so that it's caused Chuuya to pass out before

After that first time, Chuuya asked if you kept going. And when you said of course not, he looked rather disappointed 😟

From then on, you agreed to breed him whether he was still conscious or not (within reason, though)

Calls you 'good puppy' and similar affectionate terms

You two have had conversations about buying a collar and leash — and, if you choose to incorporate that into your sex life, you won't regret it. Chuuya will make very good use of them 😏

Kunikida

The Slut in Denial

Also a total denial slut

He would never admit to this even on his deathbed; but Kunikida loves edging

If you lick the underside of his cock with your rough canine tongue, growling at your beloved to hold it all in? The only thing Kunikida will have in his vision are stars swirling around

I don't think he would admit to loving your primal sex sessions either. Not unless he was already deep in sub space

On all fours, your larger form hunched over his body while your balls slap against Kunikida's ass, your fur tickling his back — this is when he'd slur out how much he loves taking your cock 💛

Also one to keep track of the moon's cycle. It's important to know when his partner will transform or go into heat

Dating a werewolf was never a part of his ideals, but he doesn't regret a thing

Becoming your mate has improved Kuni's life in all sorts of ways — whether we're talking about the amount of love he receives, or the benefits of nasty werewolf sex 😌

[stupidstupidratcreatures]

caught up with what happens next. thoughts mostly about the comment section under the cut sorry

1. it's always been really interesting to me just how abstract a depiction of a person can be and still have people that find that depiction hot. i check the comments because i'm a dipshit and there are pretty consistently 2-3 people under any vikki or gage panel there for that. also shoutout to that one "when vicki's done resting her head on her mom's lap can i have a turn" comment

2. there's a lot of speculation-presented-as-fact about 202X griffin in the comments and it all feels like stuff we kinda can't know? we've only ever seen him post-murder in that photo with gage and we haven't seen current griffin "in person" at all. this isn't normally something i would care about or disagree with but it doesn't seem like what current griffin is actually like as a person is relevant at all to the role he's playing in the story right now

3. hm it's like very possible that in-fiction named himself after the mcelroy brother huh. what year would it have been like 2014? scary stuff

4. there are like a pretty large number of people ripping on milo in the comment section also. that feels weird. i get disliking That Type Of Guy but he was made to cut up his dead friend with a saw and then also institutionalized for five years. can we be nice

5. i feel like there's stuff here that shows this comic's age even in the three years since it started. gage is less of an extant guyotype than he used to be (as in the cultural signifiers and the true crime/serial killing obsession. "poor and isolated trans guy who talks to people online" is not someone going away so long as poverty, transmasculinity, and the internet exist). vikki says "because of woke" in a panel that's meant to be part of the same scene as the very first page and that definitely isn't something they were saying in 2021. the look of the tumblr ui, that thing max graves draws a lot, has changed drastically since the comic started. i don't mean this in a cinemasins way i just mean this like. idk. the way time moves so much faster than any webcomic updating schedule does is just something that i think about and this comic gives me a lot of occasion to think about it. it's very good

[arggghhhsstuff]

if this gets 200 notes i'll shave my head without my mom's approval

[thistaleisabloodyone]

THE RAMPAGE wins the second relay race in the Battle of Kingdom

[crossbackpoke-check]

nosy anon again making a return because i think what my brain did was read that i helped find some kind of writing and then did not fully process what the writing was?? but upon rereading i am very intrigued if you ever get the urge to share i will be all eyes/ears/senses required to enjoy things!!

I GET TO DO WIP WEDNESDAYYYYYY!!! the writing exists mostly in the form of a tag (fantastic! 'verse) and also a thirty-two page doc of snippets and planning, so the sense you will be using most is imagination:

don't think i have ever actually formally written out anything about fantastic! 'verse but! the tl;dr of it is that it's a semi-college au: joel is still a hockey player for the lv phantoms, but morgan is a college student-athlete. it's incredibly relevant to the plot that joel falls in love with morgan in the check-out line of a wegman's, lies a little bit, and ends up going back to get his degree.

most of it is just good fun about college kids growing up, but i think there's a lot of parallels between making your way through a development system where traditional "success" isn't always guaranteed (ahl -> nhl, completion of higher education -> pursuit of a career) because that development system isn't always designed for you to "succeed" or have opportunities. heavy quotation marks around success because part of that struggle is learning what you want in life and how you define success. are your dreams achievable? are they still the same dreams you always used to have? it's infinite branching universes of would you still love me if i was a worm (ahl player forever) (a college dropout) (a college graduate) (older) (realizing the fallibility of your body) (uncertain of the future) (human).

silly little snippet:

[theragamuffininitiative]

Me: ya know, I do have some recent interests that none of my mutuals share/are blogging about currently. I should go dig up some good posts for them!

Me: performs one (1) search for one (1) children's/family media

Tumblr: immediately returns one text post, then three fan arts, followed by a string of explicit porn ads.

Me:

Me:

Me:

Me: and this is why we can't have nice things.

[supercool-here]

[frodolives]

1850s Tumblr Dashboard Simulator

👸🏻 girlbossladyjane Follow

It really makes me sick to see people giving money to penny weeklies when Franklin's expedition STILL has not been found 😭 There are good men out there trapped in unimaginable temperatures and literally all that's needed is a little more funding for another rescue mission yet all you guys seem to care about are your vulgar little stories...

🧔🏻‍♂️ queerqueg Follow

the franklin expedition is dead as hell

👸🏻 girlbossladyjane Follow

Disgraceful thing to say but I'd expect nothing more from a M*lville fan

10,558 notes

👨🏻‍❤️‍💋‍👨🏻 hartgrindisreal

Sorry for posting so much about Tom Gradgrind/James Harthouse from Hard Times lately. It turns out that I was getting arsenic poisoning from my wallpaper? Anyway I took a seaside stroll and I'm normal now. Check your walls y'all

#whyyy did i assume they were committing unlawful actions together like where did i even get that from lol #hard times isn't even that good by dickens standards tbh

659 notes

🎨 asherbrowndurand

Just painted this

2 notes

ss-arctic-girlie-deactivated18540927

RIP Napoleon... you may have been unable to conquer Alexander's Russia but you sure as hell conquered Alexander's bed

🖼️ preraphaelitebro Follow

HERITAGE POST

📝 shakespearesforehead Follow

How does this have less than 100k notes you could literally not avoid this post back in the 20s lol

82,170 notes

🌄 loyalromantic Follow

poets just aren't dying young in mysterious water-related incidents like they used to :/

#as useless and degenerative as i find 'the living poets' and i'm glad we're finally moving on from them #i have to agree with op in this respect

6,884 notes

🎀 thefopdiaries Follow

I finally got a daguerreotype of myself ^_^ Porcelain urn for scaling

📜 bartlebi-thescrivener

i think i hauve consumption

112 notes

🐋 whaler4life

They found oil in the ground??? WTF. THIS IS LITERALLY THE WORSTTTT. FUCK MY LIFE FOR REAL THIS TIME

11 notes

🌿 naturesnaturalist Follow

I swear this website has 0 reading comprehension skills. Darwin NEVER claimed we "evolved" from apes like if one of you guys actually bothered to open his new book you'll see all his arguments are backed up by evidence. He actually makes a lot of sense

#sure there's nuance like i don't fully agree with all of it #but his general theory of natural selection seems pretty sound imo

56 notes

🤵🏻‍♂️ byronicherotournament Follow

🙈 butchbronte Follow

Of course these are the finalists lmao this website is so predictable. Anyway vote Heathcliff if you dont i'm going to assume you're a phrenologist

📖 sapphichelenburns Follow

It's not problematic to acknowledge the fact that Heathcliff was a brute like he literally killed dogs in case you forgot. #rochestersweep

🙈 butchbronte Follow

I love the implication here that Rochester never did anything cruel either. He literally locked his wife in the attic and lied to Jane about it 😭 like that was a pretty significant thing that happened

📖 sapphichelenburns Follow

And? God forbid women do anything

#why'd you have to pit two bad bitches against each other #anyway i'm not attracted to men but still went with rochester #bc in terms of living quarters thornfield hall > wuthering heights easily

8,027 notes

👨🏻‍❤️‍💋‍👨🏻 hartgrindisreal

Not the Russian tsar dying immediately after hartgrind became canon

#i know dickens hasn't technically confirmed it yet but like. SOMETHING was strongly implied ok #see: my previous post #dickensposting

522 notes

👨🏻‍❤️‍💋‍👨🏻 hartgrindisreal

LORD HELP ME. THE BODY LANGUAGE. THE WAY THEY'RE LOOKING AT EACH OTHER. AHHHHHH

#this installment!!! im-- #dickensposting #i can't fucking cope #dickens wants to KILL us he wants us DEAD....

2,309 notes

⭐️ newamerican

Hi guys sorry I haven't been posting lately it's been so difficult getting to California 💀 I'm finally here now though just need to find a pickaxe and soon I'll be digging! :-) wish me luck lol

#gold #gold rush #gold rush grind #california #adventure

0 notes

[starcrossedreaders]

A/N: Tumblr is LACKING in Toge headcanons and over all fics, so I'm here to help the cause. These headcanons do have NSFW under the cut and will be marked with '✥' so MDNI!!! Dividers are from benkeibear on Tumblr

✦ StreamerToge! is the type to make a whole ass living off of streaming with a schedule and everything. He has his whole gaming room that gives off a minimalist white vibe with posters and figurines everywhere.

✦ StreamerToge! Who keeps his streaming schedule up on a whiteboard somewhere in the house so you see it and know.

✦ StreamerToge! Who begs for snacks when he games.

Toge <3: Please, just some cheese 🤲🏽 You: Seriously cheese? Toge <3: Mommy?🧎‍♂️🧎‍♂️🧎‍♂️ You: fine. "Yay, chat I'm getting cheese."

✦ StreamerToge! He finds ways to slip you into the conversation with chat, like he could be mid Val game and he's rambling.

"Yea no, I don't know how I pulled them when my only real defining trait is the grind on Val." "Like no seriously, they are just with me for the carry."

✦ StreamerToge! Who (if you played games too) would beg for you to join him with his games, even if you don't stream yourself he still enjoys the quality time together.

✦ StreamerToge! If you aren't the type to play games he would for sure put like a small couch, day bed, or chair somewhere just so you can spend time with him while he games. He calls it the Y/N corner because he would keep your favorite blankets, a plushie, and maybe a snack drawer somewhere near your spot.

Scrolling on your phone, you walked towards Toge's gaming room. He's been streaming for a few hours and you thought it was finally time to join him. Opening the room door, his laughs flooded out of the room before you stepped in and closed the door behind you again. Toge didn't notice you step in and sit down in your little corner till his chat started blowing up. divinedawgs: RIP to chat Jennifer4lifers: is that who I think it is⁉⁉⁉⁉ strongerinurmom: still amazes me that bro could pull 3panda: didn't you literally get rejected on your last stream? strongerinurmom: stfu sakibara: naw I'm with stronger how did bro pull at 10 while be a 4 Toge turned around to see you sitting down while scrolling on your phone, his smile could light up the whole room as he took his headset off to around in his chair. "Hey, my love." He pushed his chair towards you leaving his current match behind. Looking up from your phone you smile as Toge leans down to scatter kisses across your face. "I love you," he mumbled over your lips before he kissed you. "I love you too." divinedawgs: please turn your camera off when you do that shit strongerinurmom: bro is fr rubbing it in Jennifer4lifers: jealous fr fr

✦ StreamerToge! Even when you act annoyed to bring him snacks you still interrupt his streams to bring him dinner

✥ StreamerToge! If you get annoyed with his constant streaming and lack of attention you would definitely give him that under-the-desk support to hopefully get him to get off and give you attention.

You supported your boyfriend and his successful career with streaming. What you didn't support was how much of his time he's put into it recently. His excuse? "I need to give the fans good content before the holidays, it helps keep money coming in. I swear once I'm done I'm all yours." That stupid excuse is what led you to your current situation. Tears ran down your face as the tip of Toge's dick kissed the back of your throat. Looking up past your lashes was a sight that would bring you to your knees if you weren't already there. Toge squeezes his eyes shut as he throws his head back trying not to groan. His bottom lip was caged between his teeth and he opened his eyes to try to focus on the game in front of him. Gagging you pulled your head up, leaving a trail of pre-cum and saliva mixture from your lips to his raging red tip. He let out a big sigh, taking the time to try to compose himself, but what type of girlfriend would you be if you didn't him finish? A cruel one that's for sure. Despite the palm of his hand trying to push your head back you continued to hollow out your cheeks and bob your head up and down chasing for his release.

✥ StreamerToge! If you streamed with him, or just in general he definitely seems the type to try to convince you to stream with one of those Bluetooth vibrators.

You've never regretted agreeing to one of Toge's idea till now. The shorts you had on were soaked, along with your chair. Your thighs twitched once more as another orgasm ran through your body. Black and white dots danced around your vision and the game in front of you faded in and out of your vision. Before you could slump your body you could hear your friends through your headset. "Seriously Y/N are you sure you're okay?" opening your eyes they roamed around till they landed on your second monitor where you had the chat pulled up. Jennifer4lifers: OH NO ARE YOU SURE YOU'RE OKAY Y/N?!?!? sakibara: Girl is going through it rn strongerinurmom: calling for medical help as we SPEAK 3panda: get help divinedawgs: bruh riceballwh0re: poor baby :(((

✥ StreamerToge! He definitely tells his stream that he has to take a fat shit when he is actually running to your guy's shared room to fit in a quickie before his next match.

✥ StreamerToge! Hot and sloppy make-out sessions before each one of his streams, he claims that it gives him the luck he needs to win his games.

A/N: damn it's been a long ass time since I have written in a creative matter, so hopefully you guys enjoyed this. Requests are open but they might take a while to get to so please keep that in mind. I hope you enjoyed the new JJK content I hope to be writing more soon!

[sanemisstalker]

N/SFW. Minors DNI

CW: GN reader / Men's Mental Health IG ???

KNY characters that I think are more prone to cumming in their pants / NSFW

Giyu

-He's inexperienced.

-I admire the almost fandom consensus of him being either resident, sexy, black haired, quiet anime boy, and/or 'nobody likes this friendless loser, he definitely has a tumblr'

-Any attention, platonic or not, from someone he's attracted to is enough to make Giyu get an apparent boner. He's prone to them when the people he admires say genuinely nice things to him.

-He doesn't get to hear nice things a lot, nor does he take compliments easily, so when he believes them, his body can't help but believe them too.

-He'd rather it not be that way, but due to his floundering mental health, and general isolation, Giyu isn't jerking off very often, nor is he able to get it up when he wants to, so he just goes... months without thinking about it sometimes.

-Could definitely cum from kissing too hard. Not just kissing, but particularly the rough treatment.

-Giyu must be incredibly touch starved, I imagine. I can't fiction the last time he's hugged someone. That scene where he's holding Shinobu, perhaps?

-So when he's getting so much attention, especially so much positive, romantic attention, even if it's a little rough, I'm sure his dick would be at full mast.

-he doesn't think he's predisposed to masochism or anything. He'd hope he wasn't, but it feels better when he's kissing, and maybe his hair is being pulled on, just a little.

-he'd be very embarassed. He wouldn't cry or anything, but I think he'd get up and leave the room. He knows you knew what happened, he didn't moan, but he flinched because the build up was so immediate, and he just couldn't stop.

-How pathetic. He can't show his face infront of you ever again. All he does is ruin good things. You're definitely disgusted by him.

-Even if he didn't realize how pretty his face looked during his orgasm.

Gyutaro

-Everyday I fight the gyutaro incel allegations, and everyday I fail.

-Gyutaro is socially inept, to put it blatantly. He spends an incredible amount of time locked away in his sister, and rarely chooses to come out unless eating for the two, or-

-if he needs to jerk off. A rarity, nowadays. Looking the way he looks can do a real number on one's ability to self-pleasure. He also isn't able to seek out assistance from any brothels- He still looks the way he looks. He's no Muzan- blessed with the ability to change his appearance at will.

-So when you're on top of Gyutaro, and he feels the curve of your ass in his palm, and your sex is positioned right on top of his, just barely grazing his clothed cock, as you try and teach him how to kiss (he's doing his best, but he knows he's not good-)

-He cums, and he cums hard. He grips down on your hips, and goes wide eyed, unable to stop the moan that rips its way from his throat... and then quickly moves you off of him.

-He isn't even finished when he moves you, he's shakey armed, and he nearly drops you.

-he's mortified. After all this time, he finally gets someone willing to touch him, and he blows it. He's borderline inconsolable- switching between begging you not to look at him and begging you not to hate him-

-but the noise he made was just so... pathetic.

Haganezuka

-Men dedicated to their craft don't have time to cum? Silly of you to assume he's ever even seen another person naked. That would imply he looked away from a sword for long enough to register it.

-On a completely serious note (as serious as I can be writing this), It'd be quite awkward interacting with Haganezuka sexually. His mind has been so consumed by perfection that, even if he wasn't dedicated to the blade, he's almost prevented himself from ever being able to cum in a social setting.

-He's developed a phobia of new situations he can't control. Especially sexual ones. Swords are easy and gratifying. Why would he ever need to cum when he can just make a sword and have it be respected and revered. Wouldn't that be nice-

-So when you started rubbing him over his pants, he was, admittedly, panicking. It's not like he went nearly 4 decades without using his dick... He'd just... gone 2 and a half decades without using his dick. Nowhere near the same.

-You'd barely even touched it, barely even pressed your lips to his neck, and Haganezuka was panting.

-The fear coursing through his veins, and the attention his forgotten cock was receiving- He grew more unsightly by the second...

-and then you pressed a particularly soft kiss to the corner of his lips and he was done for. That was his first kiss-

-Though shocked, you'd pump Haganezuka through his orgasm. It'd be enough to go through his pants, and spill over your hand.

-He'd grip your robes, and will you closer to him. His heels would slam into the floorboard, and he'd try to bury his face in your neck, attempting to muffle the groan he'd loose, only to fail tremendously.

-He'd be huffy after. Mad at himself and disguising it as being mad at you.

-'Well, maybe you shouldn't touch me anymore, if you found it so gross! Did you consider that? Just not touching me- ever?'

-but you saw how sad he looked when you said you'd do whatever he wanted. What a simple man.

[delightfultheoristfox]

Never had a thing

Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Reader

I have no clue how this works the thought process was like: since I'm stuck in the worst writing block of my life why don't I start crossposting on Tumblr so it kind of feels like I've accomplished something while the truth is that I haven't been able to complete a WIP in two months? 🫠 I never posted on Tumblr. Is this okay? Anyways, Simon Riley brain rot. That's it. That's the post. Also, you can find this on AO3. 18+

Word count: 10k CW: smutty!!! jealous Simon Riley BECAUSE I honestly crave that. Soft Simon Riley because I crave that as well.

Masterlist 🦊

𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬

Simon had groaned like a battered dog when Price gave him the news that he needed to lie low. “Someone in Konni’s got your name” he’d said. “We don’t wanna take any risks. Just for a few weeks.”

He was sure those few weeks would turn into a few bloody months if he didn’t get a move on. For that, he’d hastily packed his things from the poor excuse of a flat the army had granted him, and started looking for a place to stay that wasn’t in Manchester.

Initially, Simon almost fantasized about buying his own flat. Maybe a piece of land and fulfill the wishes of the outcast that he was – living away from people, giving them the same treatment they’ve always given him.

Too bad he was legally dead. He had nothing to his name if not a grave that didn’t even exist, all his possessions were cursed memories and metaphorical things – a rank he didn’t hold, a flat that wasn’t his. Even his name barely pertained to him anymore.

The SAS wasn’t offering any accommodation, the tightwads. He couldn't buy a house, or rent one. He couldn't lean on any of his teammates, or he'd put them in danger – he wouldn't do it, not to them. Taint their lives with his name and the death it inevitably brings.

Price had helped him settle in a glorified motorway hotel. But he wasn’t picky – after all, he only had to stay for a few weeks.

A few days into his exile, he’d entered a Tesco with his head bowed and his hood on, a surgical mask on his face. A pack of Marlboro was all he wanted since the dodgy motel he was staying at (hiding) didn’t care if he smoked within the room. Plus, he reckoned that the smell of nicotine and combustion was a much better alternative to the rancid stench of mold.

However, as he plucked ten quid from his wallet, his eyes absently fell on a bulletin board behind the store clerk. There were tons of leaflets there: missing cats or dogs, people looking for a job or offering one. And then, a bright yellow paper caught his eye. Whoever printed it lacked taste but sure as hell knew how to catch one’s attention. He’d stopped in his tracks, a tenner between two fingers.

DESPERATE!!! PhD STUDENT LOOKING FOR A FLATMATE. NO SPECIFIC GENDER OR AGE AS LONG AS YOU CAN PAY RENT ON TIME. Two-bedroom flat, third floor, no elevator. If interested, please contact this number.

At the end of the flyer, the paper was cut into tear-off strips, so that interested individuals could rip the section with the phone number.

He liked that first word: desperate. He wondered if this person was as desperate as he was. Would they accept a man who wore a balaclava and looked proper sketchy? How desperate were they, really, if he asked to rent on verbal agreement – no contracts, no signatures whatsoever?

He decided he wanted to test that before he died of mold poisoning.

Nevertheless, when he dialed the number on his burner phone a few hours later, he wasn’t expecting the voice coming through the line. A shriek. A goddamn banshee. Chirpy and cheery, sounding like those damn advertisements on the telly for children’s toys. Whoever was on the other side of the phone was trying to sell.

The obnoxiously happy voice he’d heard through the receiver surely did match the person he found at the door of the flat a few days later - and the apartment itself.

It was a splash of colors Simon wasn’t even sure matched, from oranges and greens in the living room to yellows and blues in the kitchen. Walls of the same room were painted differently, and a brown leather couch lay on a round and fluffy turquoise carpet. A glass coffee table stood in the middle of it, hosting a clay vase with orange tulips.

You were a splash of colors yourself. Bright clothes, vibrant smile, and matching eyes.

Notwithstanding the loud energy that came with your presence, he could see you were tense as you guided him through the apartment. Simon didn’t blame you – he wasn’t the most trustworthy-looking lad. While he’d ditched the balaclava and had decided to go for a surgical mask, even hewould walk on eggshells around himself.

“Only a few weeks.” He’d said, deciding that he could withstand the eyesore that was the decor of that flat. “I’ll cover the rent while you find someone more permanent.”

And to his utter surprise, you’d accepted. He thought it was much too naïve of you, to let him rent without a lease. Without a document, without anything to prove that he'd pay as he'd promised in that listless fashion of his. Maybe you were as desperate as your tasteless leaflet said, in that dive of a Tesco.

He moved in in the span of a few days. You helped him with the boxes, although it was clear he didn't need a hand – especially not from a tiny thing like you. Not that you were small, he was just built like a brick house and you – well, you were made of wood, like in those cautionary tales mums tell their children. Pigs and wolves and shite.

You didn’t question why he wore the balaclava, nor why he never left his room, but sometimes you’d knock on his door to ask if he wanted pizza too, since you were ordering. He’d eat it (and any of his other meals really) in the cramped space he'd managed to rent, hosting only a bed, a poor excuse of a closet, and a desk.

Until one day he heard booming noises coming from the telly in the living room, so he peeked from the door he’d left ajar only to be greeted by Tom Cruise’s mug – Top Gun. 

Silently, he joined you on the sofa and he started correcting the way Maverick held the gun or grunting about how an aircraft couldn't make that maneuver. You never asked how he knew, but it had been a few weeks since he’d moved in and he’d already gathered how brilliant you were. You didn’t need to ask questions to connect the dots.

Simon wasn't keen on giving you his phone number, even the one on his burner phone. The paranoid that he was, and with a bit of experience to back it up, he didn't want to leave you with anything that could connect you to him.

So, you started leaving post-it notes on the fridge.

Dinner leftovers on the second rack. He’d tick off the sentence to let you know he’d read it, whether he ate them or not. Simon had this inborn ability to ghost people even without the use of phones.

Tried a new recipe. Tupperware with the blue lid. He’d write a score out of ten on the corner of the note.

I used your milk for breakfast!!! Sorry!!! He had huffed and grumbled when he’d headed out for groceries afterwards, but ever since that day, he started buying two cartons instead of one.

And he'd leave post-it notes for you, too.

Out for a few days. That’s how he would vaguely tell you he was being deployed. You would always draw a sad emoji next to it.

Watered your plants. Bloody things were more dead than alive. You’d mark down a very happy emoji, going as far as to add two poorly drawn thumbs up.

He barely noticed when his meals started happening on the kitchen table instead of his desk. Similarly, he couldn’t recall when he’d stopped taking pains to ensure your mealtimes wouldn’t coincide.

Friday night pizzas were always shared; it was a silent house rule you’d both agreed on. The both of you on the settee with the carton boxes on your thighs, two cold beers on the glass coffee table, and the telly playing a movie.

Your cheeky arse often chose a war film, and Simon had to refrain from rolling his eyes at how obvious you were being – trying to get to know him.

Zero Dark Thirty.

“Is it true you use callsigns?”

“Yes.”

“You have one?”

“Yes.”

“What is it, then?”

“Classified.”

“Oh, c’mon.”

“Negative.”

The hurt locker.

“You ever defused a bomb?”

“Yes.”

“No shit – oh my God. How was it?”

“Dangerous.”

“Why thank you for the chat.”

“No problem.”

“When did it happen? Like, what was the situa-”

“Classified.”

You made a face and mocked his accent. “Classified.”

Apocalypse now.

“You are a bit like Kurtz.”

He gave you a look. “Mental?”

You huffed. “No. I meant the things he says, not the whole insanity bit.”

Simon scoffed but otherwise stayed silent. The film rolled in the background.

He murmured, then. “The horror, the horror.”

And you laughed.

He found it inexplicably easy to strip down for you, until he stood metaphorically naked in front of your eyes. Until he told you his full name and gave you his personal phone number. Until he showed his face.

Until he noticed you'd stopped looking for a flatmate, and his weeks of rent turned into months like he’d initially foreseen, but for another reason entirely. Months turned into years, but he could’ve never predicted anything in his life to last this long.

Until two summers later, while sporting a mundane black surgical mask and casual clothing, he took a photo with you in your doctoral gown, in front of your Uni. The same picture that now hung next to the entryway of your flat.

Until two years became three, and then four.

Until he just kind of… stayed.

𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬

Simon’s day has worn him to the bone. The only thing he wants now is to go home, down a beer in two gulps, and knock himself out on any flat surface available.

He’s risked his fair share of speeding fines on the motorway, parked the car in the building's garage, and trudged up the three flights of stairs that led to his apartment. When he unlocks the door, he finds a sight that melts his frustration into a puddle at his feet.

You’re lying on the sofa, absolutely unbothered, looking lovely and homely. A lousy romcom plays on the telly. One hand is hiding in the crinkling shell of a packet of Walkers, and your other one is curled around the neck of a Stella Artois. Simon gathers that your workday must've finished a little earlier than normal because you’re already in your loungewear: a pair of loose sleeping shorts and a t-shirt he knows all too well.

All too well, because it’s his. 

And he could give you the benefit of the doubt; after all, you often wear oversized clothes. It could’ve been a laundry mishap; you could’ve absently taken it out of the dryer without a second glance, thinking it was yours. But the blatant British Army patch on the sleeve and his surname written in white block letters on the back give him very little to work with to excuse you. He doesn’t even remember he still owned that tee, probably because, factually, he doesn’t anymore.

It's clearly yours, now.

He drops the house keys in the tray lying on the floating shelf next to the doorway, before closing the door behind him. The sound must’ve alerted you, because your head drops backwards, rolling against the armrest of the sofa.

"Evenin'." You beam, looking at his downward image. Your head lolls and your mouth looks busy chewing on a handful of crisps.

Ever the vigilant bastard, he wants to flick your forehead and remind you that chewing upside down could lead to choking, but you aren’t a child. Although, with the crumbs of what smells like salt and vinegar crisps littering the corners of your lips and the baffling, chaotic way your hair is tied in a bun, you sort of look like one.

You curl your legs to leave a free spot for him, patting your foot on the sofa’s cushions. "Wanna join me?"

Simon hums quietly; his eyes flicker over to the TV for just a glance. He isn’t in the mood for a romcom, not at all. But he does want company. He sighs and shrugs off his jacket before toeing off his boots. His balaclava is snatched off by a tired hand, and dropped somewhere he doesn’t care to check. Only two wide steps with his annoyingly long legs and he’s already by the sofa, flopping onto it like a wet rag slapped on the leather cushions.

He eyes the bag of crisps in your hand and raises a questioning eyebrow.

You’ve learned how silent communication works with him because most of the time (especially after particularly hellish days or long deployments) he wanders around the flat like a haunting specter more than a living being.

You mockingly raise your own questioning brow, but alas, you hand him the pack of crisps he’d wordlessly asked for. And just because you can, and because he’s never said anything when you did it, you stretch your legs to rest over his thighs.

That earns you a grumpy side-eye that softens just as quickly when he spots the checkered pink and green socks he gifted you for your graduation.

Simon doesn’t know much about things like that. He isn’t daft, he knows how big it is to earn a PhD. But presents aren’t his thing, nor are the pleasantries built around big achievements.

At the time, he was just tired of seeing you walk barefoot around the flat and thought you needed those more than anything since, apparently, slippers weren’t all the rage in your book. Surely, before his life-changing present, Simon was used to you asking if he’d seen your other slipper while you stumbled about the flat only wearing one on your feet. He’d find them everywhere: under the sofa when vacuuming the carpet, hidden in a groove between the floor and the kitchen counter, forgotten on the washing machine or in the washing machine.

He’d figured that the only way to ensure you’d avoid knocking your pinky toe on the corner of some furniture was to make sure you couldn’t simply drop the footwear. Socks were it, apparently.

He remembers how your eyes had shone like the bleeding sun when he’d given them to you, how you’d clutched them to your chest as if he’d just gifted you a pot of gold. It had been a lovely sight, one he carefully keeps tucked in the almost empty corner of his mind, the one reserved for happy memories.

Nevertheless, Simon has rarely minded your habit of lounging with your calves across his thighs. The opposite, actually. Your friendly sentiments make him feel like, for once, he isn’t about to get stabbed in the back. Moreover, the fact that he is letting you invade his personal space like that, when he never allows anyone else to so much as touch him, truly is a testament to the monumental trust he’s placed in you.

You take a sip from your beer. "Alright?"

“Peachy.” He grumbles dryly.

Your lips purse to conceal a smirk, but hell is it hard. His dry humor never fails to rob a halfhearted smile from you. He has subconsciously started using it more often than socially acceptable just because of that.

You wiggle your toes against his abdomen, trying to steal a smile of his own from him – even if those tend to appear once in a blue moon.

What you are given, however, is only a slap on the ankle.

Catching on his mood, you down one last sip from your Stella and then you wiggle the bottle at him.

"There," you offer. "Seems like you need it more than I do."

He tosses the bag of crisps on the coffee table and accepts the beer from you, taking a rather large gulp from it. He isn’t a light drinker by any means. In his defense, it takes a whole lot of alcohol to knock him out. He has the metabolism of a properly trained soldier and his liver has processed much worse things than a bloody Stella Artois.

“Why are you being particularly friendly today?” He asks with thinly veiled sarcasm.

He isn’t complaining, per se. But he is a pessimist, one who can’t seem to grasp the notion that people can act accommodating without asking anything in return. Even if that has been your only behavior for the past four years.

Therefore, Simon understands why you narrow your eyes at his question, all offended and a tiny bit sour, as if he’s just asked something outrageous. However, he also knows you’ll brush off his comment because it is true, what he said.

You are particularly cheery.

"I'm back in the game." You state, sounding as if you've achieved some great thing. "I have a date next Friday."

That.

That is what Simon needs to hear in order to give you a genuine reaction.

He raises a single blond eyebrow and glances away from the TV to look at you with that signature hooded gaze of his – the kind that could cut through steel.

“A date?” He grumbles. “Who’s the bloke?”

In response, you squirm a little on the couch to lazily reach for your phone on the coffee table. One of your legs swings to keep your balance, and if Simon didn’t have the reflexes of a sniper, you’d have heeled his face. He automatically grabs your ankle to both prevent your fall and save the integrity of his nose, releasing a sigh – bloody used to it.

You're absolutely unaffected by whatever's happening at the other end of you, awfully concentrated on your task at hand. Fingertips graze the phone enough to slide it closer until you finally manage to have it in your grasp. It’s painfully clear how you can’t be bothered to stand.

You lie back down on the sofa with a sigh, as if that has been an exhausting endeavor.

Simon scoffs.

Your legs return to his lap with apt nonchalance. Then, you swipe through your screen. Simon can only see the phone covering your face from that angle, how the screen light illuminates your features – brows furrowed and the tip of your tongue peeking between your teeth, all focused on finding something on it.

After painstakingly long seconds, you turn your phone to him. Simon squints at the screen and then focuses on the picture you’re showing.

The man is… somewhat handsome, he has to admit. Brown hair, blue eyes, charming smile with possibly fake teeth. Definitely older. Probably a boring, pretentious tosser. Probably wouldn’t appreciate your carefree nature. He wouldn’t return your lost slippers at your door. He wouldn’t buy you socks so you’d stop whining about being on the verge of breaking your toes. He definitely wouldn’t let you paint only one wall of the living room orange, because, in your opinion, having all four would be “too flashy” - as if one on its own isn’t obnoxious enough.

He has to admit, however, that you look beyond excited, and maybe a little enamored. It’s an adorable view, really, and he hates himself for being unable to rejoice about it with you.

"Adam." You tell him his name, even if he never asked. "Thirty-nine. Associate professor of Linguistics at the Uni where I graduated. Found him on Bumble.”

Simon has to physically stop himself from giving a scoff in response to that.

“Looks like a knob.” He takes yet another large gulp of beer, finishing the last drop. You frown, and before you can interject, he adds. “Looks old. Tory, probably.”

You roll your eyes and nudge his thigh with the tips of your toes.

"He ain't a Tory." You scoff. That little frown still lingers on your features, carving a small line between your brows, as if he'd personally offended you.

His comment prompts you to turn your phone to yourself and look at the picture of this Adam lad you found on Bumble of all places.

You look back at Simon and his deadpan stare. Then back at Adam and his million-dollar smile.

Your eyes swivel back to Simon again, and you tentatively ask, "You think he's a Tory?"

Simon places the empty beer bottle on the glass coffee table. The sound somehow makes you take a metaphorical step back. "Nah. He can't be."

You purse your lips, concentrated and slightly, just slightly amused.

Eyes back to Adam. Then to Simon. "Right?"

Simon looks that ounce of smug enough to be considered annoying once he notices how you’re about to go cross-eyed in changing your focus, all hesitant and that bit concerned. He already knows how you have zero faith in your own judgment of character even if you refuse to make peace with it.

A little too naïve for this world. A tad too innocent. When the topic would come up, you’d get all riled up and primitive in your frustration, muttering indiscernible words and expletives that sound like grunts. Brows all furrowed and pretty lips scowling. He'd remind you how you let him in your flat without a single proof that he wasn't a serial killing sociopath, and your mouth would lock in place.

His hand lands on the curve of your foot, smoothing down towards your ankle; the warmth of his palm bleeds through the fuzzy fabric of your socks. He sighs, a little overdramatic as if he were about to tell you some sad, sad news. "Definitely a Tory.”

You want to reprimand his lack of faith in your choice of men. But his hand on your ankle feels so nice and you’re a sucker for physical contact. Begrudgingly, you settle that your bruised ego and your wounded pride are worth the gentle giant’s warmth.

However, the lingering touch does nothing to discourage your fire, so you glower. The least believable thing he's ever seen.

It takes much more to upset a special forces operator with a series of achievements as long as Simon Riley’s. A doctor with a mop of hair lazily tied in a bun, checkered socks in his lap, and residues of crisps around her lips surely isn’t it.

"Well." You huff, crossing your arms over your chest. "I'll ask him on Friday when we’ll have dinner."

He scoffs.

“You’re gonna bring up politics at dinner on a first date, yeah?” A condescending pat on your ankle. “Sounds really romantic.”

His dry humor again. It wins in its intent to steal a chuckle from you.

The fight leaves as quickly as it entered your bloodstream, and you flop on the couch with a sigh, your phone falling somewhere on the turquoise carpet.

"Gotta make sure I ain't dating a conservative." You quip.

Simon watches you clasp your hands over your belly as it ripples with the first waves of a breathy laugh. You crane your neck forwards, eyes squinting in mirth clocking his own.

"He looks like he’d vote Tory." You concede with a laugh and pinch the air in front of your face. "A tiny bit - just a tiny bit."

“A tiny bit?” He snorts. “Lad probably has a framed photo of Margaret Thatcher in his bedroom.”

You laugh again, rubbing an idle hand over your eyes as you shake your head, utterly defeated. He can see in the way your shoulders sag that he’s shattered the careful castle of hopes and dreams you'd built brick by brick around the man.

"God no." Equally as exasperated as entertained, you sigh. "Can't imagine shagging him with the ol' Iron Lady staring at my tits."

He scoffs again at the mental image you have just provided him with. He doubts he’ll ever forget the picture, to his dismay. “Christ. Didn’t need that in my mind.”

In the afterglow of that belly laugh, you don’t notice how he’s somewhat tightened his grip around your ankle. Simon knows you aren’t one to pay attention to those subtleties. Too focused on other people's well-being to realize when yours is being put first. He can already imagine how your heart is unraveling with the knowledge that you’ve managed to make him quirk a smile, however small, even if his day had been a proper shitshow.

The selfless angel that you are.

You turn your eyes to the ceiling, looking for something that clearly isn’t written on the colorful paint of the walls.

"All jokes aside," you murmur. "I hope it goes well."

Your eyes touch his. There’s a melancholy in yours you only allowed him to see. Thinly veiled vulnerability, heart bare just for his eyes.

"Really need a confidence boost," you say with a wistful smile. "And some love on the side."

He mutters under his breath. “Right.”

Simon tries not to wince at your words and what they imply. He thinks you’re too good to rely on other people (men, above anything) to boost your confidence. As if what he thinks are mouthwatering looks, a striking sense of humor and a brilliant mind aren’t enough to make you feel a peg above everyone else.

He hates that you don’t seem to understand it. Hates that you require other people’s approval even when you have a brain that could put most to shame and a series of achievements to boot.

He hates that despite how sharp you are, you’re slow when it comes to emotional intelligence. And it’s Simon fucking Riley who’s saying it, the most emotionally unavailable man he himself knows. It isn’t that you can’t discern signs and tells, you aren’t stupid by any means, but it’s painfully obvious how you just can’t fathom why people would be attracted to you that way. Thus, you’d always dismiss compliments and advances with annoying levity.

In four years, Simon has witnessed all your relationships wither because your lack of self-confidence made you question everything.

Seemingly aware of the tense air your comment has caused, your cheeky grin makes a comeback just to lift his spirits. You wriggle your foot under his grip to get his attention. "You think he'll like my socks?"

Simon has to admit (finally, at least true to himself) that your tireless search for reassurance about your date isn’t exactly doing wonders for his heart or his sanity.

“He’ll love them, you muppet.” He deadpans.

You chuckle at the comment, and then you relax, thinking the conversation over. Comfortable with your eyes on the telly and your hands clasped over your stomach, that gentle feeling of home and familiarity lulls you into a soft rest.

Simon on the other hand, is anything but relaxed. His jaw clenches involuntarily as if he despises even the mere idea of another man getting to see you like this: lying down, all soft and sweet and sleepy in the fuzzy socks he’s bought you. With his surname plastered on your back, of all things.

His eyes flick to the hand on your ankle. He wants to keep holding on tighter and stop you from leaving altogether. Keep you tethered to that couch without ever needing to stand up.

He could tell you to drop it. He could.

But you’re a grown woman, in her prime, with her doctorate and her big girl job that gives her enough money to start a war of her own but for some reason has never decided to pick up her things and leave that shabby flat she shares with him.

And he is poor with words. Communication is a skill he’s never learned, unless it involves extracting precious intel from skin-trading bastards or bloodthirsty pricks. He surely isn’t going to communicate with you that way, even if it's the only one he knows. The realization makes his lips dip into a scowl of self-hatred for being seemingly unable to keep you.

Simon’s eyes rake over your body – your silhouette concealed by his shirt, softly draped over you like finely carved marble. With natural flow, his hand follows the path traced by his pupils, and very deliberately slides up your leg, towards your knee.

Initially, the movement only prompts you to steal a glance from him. But when your eyes land on that frown, as if he were deep in thought, it feels natural, instinctive, to give him your undivided attention again.

Softly, you ask for the second time that day, "Alright?"

He nearly lets out a huff of laughter. Such a simple question yet so goddamn loaded he’s on the verge of blowing a gasket – his patience wearing thin. 

He locks his eyes with yours, only to snark once more. “Peachy.”

His humor this time isn’t successful in the effort of stealing a smile. In Simon’s defense, he hasn’t used it to make you crack one at all.

You frown, a tiny fracture between your brows. A little confused, mostly concerned. He can see it in your doe eyes, how you’re already miles away – overthinking every minute detail you might have missed during the conversation. You always thought so much Simon had joked, once or twice, that your skull was too small to host all that.

Your eyes shift from his face to his hand. Simon dares to be bolder and slides his palm a little higher. His fingers curl around the plush of your thigh.

"Peachy, eh?" You inquire, clearly suspicious of his antics. "You look far from peachy.”

A low scoff slips past his lips.

He is anything but peachy, he’d give you that. He is anything but sweet, far from it. Bitter, would fit better. Jealous, would fit best. He is downright pissed, but not at you. Never at you. He wishes he were a gifted conversationalist, so he could put into words what the idea of you shoving your tits in the face of some twat is making his hackles rise. He barely entertains the thought of you talking and laughing with him, never mind brushing with the concept of you riding the life out of that bastard. God forbid you brought him over and did all that in your flat – his flat.

He swallows in a piss poor attempt at juggling his feelings. His eyes shift to the TV to further conceal them.

“Just thinkin’ about work is all.” He mutters. Simon can almost hear Soap’s Scottish lilt calling him a “pining sod.”

Oh, but you’re an insistent little thing, aren’t you? Simon can hear the sheer doubt in your tone when you hum in response. The slight changes in the vibration against your frowning lips, the curves in the intonation of that simple, but so very telling sound. He catches each and every one of those details like the guard dog that he is.

In his peripherals, he sees the shifting of your eyes, from his hand to his profile. He sees you take in the crook of his nose, broken a few times (a tough job and a harsh childhood did that to him).  His furrowing brows, light honey, like his hair – all ruffled and staticky from removing his balaclava when he got home.

"Work." You deadpan, but it comes out softer than intended.

His fingers aren’t as sneaky as before when they slide further up your thigh. Simon knows you feel that same electric spark because your quadriceps stiffen under his palm.

“Work,” he affirms, his jaw tight as his hand journeys farther to reach the hem of your shorts. His thumb rubs from side to side over the skin at the edge of the fabric, and Christ, he’s fighting the growing itch to just pull them down.

While the two of you have watched plenty of films on this same sofa, in this same position, Simon has never touched you.

As in, touched you, touched you.

He’s averse to that, to anything that isn’t a noncommittal gesture. This one, however, obviously isn’t.

His hand is so big against your thigh, that plush skin underneath his callouses almost makes him feel guilty. The hardened palm used to disperse death shouldn’t touch such soft things. He feels the peachy fuzz brush against the pads of his fingers, he sees how they leave divots in the meat.

It makes his heart beat a little faster, blood pumping in all the wrong places but his head.

His expression is blank, dull eyes staring straight at the television. However, his mind is not as quelled as he portrays. It’s leading him to a very unholy place, where he wonders if your skin is as soft on your belly as it is on your thigh. Whether you’d whimper or groan if he were to flick his tongue over your breasts. If your eyes would roll back, were he to plunge his fingers deep into your core.

So many ifs he wants to put to the test.

He gently skims where your thigh meets your hip, and Simon swears he hears you gulp. He can tell you’re absolutely blindsided. You've been living with him as your flatmate for four years. Four fucking years, and if he ever tried to give you anything more than his usual snark, he might have been a little too subtle about it.

Simon glances at you, before returning his focus to the telly. One look is all he needs to hear your thoughts as if they were his own – the self-deprecation, the anxiety, that tormenting feeling of not being enough.

How torn you look. Stiff fingers curl around air only to release it right afterwards, fighting an invisible enemy. Let him do what he wants, let his hand slide up your shorts, and find the cotton lace of your panties. Or, pull away and retreat into your safe bubble, where no one can hurt you.

As if he’d ever lay an ill hand on you. All you have to say is “Stop” and he’ll take back his arm – cut it off for good measure.

Your eyes are hooded as they turn to look back at the malleable flesh of your thigh in his hold. His fingers disappear under your shorts until the first knuckle. He brushes along the hem of nice lace undies, feeling the rough fabric under the pads of his fingers.

Your voice is deliciously breathy. "Wha' about work, then?"

Avoidance. Normally, he'd let you. If it were any other situation, he'd brush it off with you. He'd keep up with the chat, coddling you in that safe place you seem too keen on spending time in.

Not now.

His head turns back to you; hungry eyes fixed on the way your mouth parts to yield that soft whisper. It makes his eye twitch, a splinter in his veneer.

“Reckon work can wait,” he rasps.

Simon is hyper-aware of how close he is to your core – a knuckle away from the throbbing heat between your legs. He sees your bowed head, eyes lidded with that primal desire he is instilling in you.

You look as if your brain has turned into soup; the ingredients a mix of shared memories and touches – even the most indifferent, neutral ones. To his utter joy, for the first time in your life, it almost looks like you’ve finally turned off your thoughts.

Your jaw clenches in a desperate attempt to get a grip on yourself. He knows you’re confused; he is too. Because it’s wrong to indulge in intimacy when more than just a friendship is at stake. Money's involved, a roof over your heads, a bed to kip, and food in your bellies – four years of shared everything is involved.

But you agree. You nod your head a little dumbly, and suddenly work can wait. To Simon, the fucking world can.

Your voice is a mumble. "Yeah, guess it can."

“Mhm.”

His gaze flicks up to your eyes, depriving your lips of the attention they were given, and he is delighted to see that you’re just as affected as he is.

Simon's fingers get squished between your thighs when you clench them together. He squeezes, feeling how the flesh rolls between his fingers, how it folds where the stretch marks crinkle.

“Lift your leg up for me,” he rasps.

Breath is stuck in your throat in utter anticipation. Simon knows it's been a long time since you've been touched in any way, shape, or form. You could've gone out and found a man willing to have a shag, it wouldn't have been hard to find someone who needed it too – someone as desperate as you look right now.

After all, that single word is the one that led him to you in the first place.

Yet you never did it. Simon has never seen you bring a man, or a woman, back to the flat. Sometimes you’d disappear with a text, saying you’d be sleeping out, but you never brought anyone home. And he never asked why – mostly, because he thought it wasn’t his business. Another part of him, however, was afraid that if he did, you’d take it as an invitation to do so. Obviously, he wasn’t too keen on the idea.

After giving it little thought, you part your thighs for him. One still rests in his lap while the other dangles off the sofa.

There's very little resolve left in you, Simon can tell by the way your eyes are so focused on his disappearing hand, and by the way you shatter when he experimentally glides one finger over the damp line on your panties.

“Fuck.” You hiss, tilting your head back.

You must want him dead, he thinks, as he gawks at the way your throat curves.

“Christ.” He mutters under his breath. He pushes the pad of his thumb down the cotton, feeling how it sticks to your slit. “Barely touched you.”

He wants to take his sweet time. He does. Wants to take it slow, reduce you to a mess of please and more before he finally gives you what you want. But he’s just as desperate as you are, isn’t he? He’s craving, clawing at the walls, to feel you clamp around him. Feel you drip down his hand until his callouses are coated, slick flowing down the crevices of his palm.

He’s no better than you are, currently.

So, his fingers slip under your panties just enough to touch your folds.

You can't help but tilt your head forwards again, only to look down at the bulge under your shorts created by his hand.

But when your eyes flit back to his, he stops.

Maybe he’s gone too far, he thinks. Maybe you’re realizing this is one hell of a mistake that can only end with you going your separate ways, something he will never forgive himself for.

However, it’s then, that you nod. That worry line between your brows, ever-present, seems gone. Smooth skin between your beautiful, beautiful eyes. And Simon feels whole again, feels wanted. The battered hound dog that he is, only useful for one thing and one thing only – sowing the seeds of death, and reaping them afterwards – is wanted.

Not tolerated. Not required. Wanted. Needed.

He knows your brain is turning its cogs, fighting against the fog of a kind of hunger that can’t be extinguished, one that only wants to be sated – by him, and him only.

Why is he doing this. 

What does it mean.

Is it because of the date you should have the next Friday. 

Is it because he's frustrated at work and you’re simply there, lying on a silver platter.

So many fucking questions it irritates him that, somehow, while his middle finger is tracing lazy patterns to part your folds, you’re still thinking. 

He doesn’t allow a single one to leave your lips, because he plunges one finger inside your cunt.

His first if is answered, then. Your eyes don’t roll back like he’d expected.

Your brows flutter to your forehead, and your mouth parts to form a pretty oval. Your chest swells as if you've just taken the first breath in your entire life. Your eyes, hazy and blurred, hold his own. And somehow, that is the hottest thing he’s ever seen.

Your leg on his lap is taut and stiff, toes curling under those loud socks you’re wearing.

Simon takes in the sight of you – all flushed and panting. The only sound in the air is the quiet drone of the telly in the background and your sharp inhales.

He can only describe himself in that moment as wrecked. Maybe even more so than you are right now, all rigid in anticipation of his first movements.

“Keep your eyes on me," he growls out, and when you nod, he curls his pad inside of you.

Your fingers seem to mimic his own, but they grip the edge of the sofa’s cushions instead. Your nails scratch at the leather with such voracity they leave beige lines against the dark brown.

He struggles against the double layer of fabric entrapping his hand to your cunt – the lace scratches the knuckle on his thumb, the cotton of your shorts is a manacle on his wrist. But fuck if he cares about all that when your hips twitch to encourage his movements.

You look ruined. And he loves that – the effect he has on you, the fact that he’s the one to have you like this.

He moves his finger in slow, long strokes. He doesn’t do it to torture you, no. He observes, because for once his constant vigilance is not only useful to quell his paranoia, but also to feed your desires. He tests movements, tries different spots, looking for that one within your walls that will make you scream. 

And he finds it, then – to his utmost delight. Here you are: your breathy moans, soft and honeyed, turn into a stuttering and almost pained "Oh." And he knows he has you under his thumb, all perfect and yearning, unraveling with just one of his fingers. He’s looking straight at your face, not wanting to miss a single twitch of an eyebrow. Your pretty lips are all slick with your spit and they part to release the sweetest sounds he’s ever heard.

His strokes intensify, drawing back as much as he can with the limited movements he has, only to push in and hit ever so slightly that rougher patch of nerves he’s located. He doesn’t want to make you squirm, but he has something tickling his brain – questions. Or better, one question.

He places his thumb over your pearl, unsheathing it from the fleshy hood with a glide. He drinks the way it makes your breath hitch and stutter in sudden hypersensitivity. He rolls his pad tentatively, only to see you grit your teeth and groan – muscles and sinews all tensed up in your neck. It's like molten lava in your belly. It's syrupy hot and gushes out of you in long, sticky droplets that pool on his finger, down to the knuckle.

“D’you think you’ll need to go on that date on Friday?” he rasps and rolls his thumb again.

His question doesn't seem to make you falter; your hips are unrelenting in their chase for release, as you push against his hand, grinding like your life depends on it. However, he can tell that it irked you. That blissed-out look pinches in frustration.

You're breathless, on a feverish hunt for that taste of heaven his finger’s promising, and Simon has the gall to bring up another man? One he's been mocking for the past half hour? He's surprised by himself as well.

You whine. "Does this look like the bloody time?"

“No,” he concedes, sounding a little patronizing.

He has the upper hand, quite literally, and to give you a friendly reminder of the power he holds, he slides another finger in.

You're absolute putty in his hands now. Your fingers grip at the sofa, your cheeks all flushed and warm. Your back arches, and he knows he just gave you that fullness you've been chasing. The sensation that causes the right amount of pleasure and pain of the stretch. He’s knuckle deep inside of you, his fingers trapped by your velvety walls as he strokes harder, lingering a little longer where you like it, but not faster. He keeps that steady pace that takes your breath away, not forgetting to lavish your clit with attention, and leaves you with just enough air for you to free those clipped and breathless moans.

He’s shameless as his other hand clamps your shin on his lap and pushes it down onto the painful tent on his jeans. He shifts his hip upwards to grind against your calf and hisses when it causes the zipper to graze his cock.

“Gonna cancel it, then?”

It’s bliss. You look like an angel.

"Yeah," you breathe out, a little incoherent. "Cancel it, 'course."

Your voice is more of an unintelligible mumble than anything else – two fingers in and his thumb on your nub drawing idle circles. Perfect pressure. Perfect fit.

He’s never seen you look this beautiful, all abandoned and relaxed, with your big brain he loves so much shut off completely. Synapses only working to generate a wish for release, so sweet and simple, and nothing else. And who is he to deny such a plain request, you sweet thing.

Simon would give you the moon if you asked.

He’s powerless in your presence, undecided if to focus on your face, or to stare at your hardened nipples. They brush against the black training t-shirt he once owned – right below the two crossing swords painted under the royal crown. It should be blasphemous. Should be bloody illegal to sully the name of the monarchy that way.

That is, if he gave a fuck about it. And even if he did, he’d see no wrong in it – because what can you taint when you’re the purest thing he’s ever touched.

Your hips move in tandem with his fingers, your face scrunched in that desperate look of someone who has a piece of heaven just out of reach. He watches you as you fall apart under his fingers and keeps your leg down so he can grind against it. If the situation were different, he’d feel like a wild animal in that regard, but there isn’t a spot on you he doesn’t wish to worship.

Especially now, when you look like this. With your hair sticking to your forehead and loose locks escaping your low bun.

He can’t take his eyes away from you – you have him absolutely entranced.

“s too much.” He hears you whine amongst the mist in his brain

“It ain’t.” He manages to grunt as if it's an order.

And you’re a little insubordinate, because you try and squirm away. But your shorts are his shackles as much as they’re yours – they fasten his hand to your cunt, while locking you against his unwavering fingers.

“Simon,” your voice is so wrecked when you beg. “Please - fuck.”

And how he finds the strength to snark is beyond him. His voice is thick and heavy. “’m tryin’.”

He drags his fingers deep down where yours can’t reach, where he’s found that patch of nerves that reduces you into a puddle of yourself. His thumb on your clit is steadfast, rubbing just above the hood where you’re not as sensitive, only to drag down again and make you see stars.

And the way that string of “Yes” leaves your lips, in that euphoric wheeze that tugs at the corners of your lips, makes his cock ache to be anywhere but in the confines of his jeans.

Your eyes are all glossy when you prop yourself on your elbows to fuel his resolve. Petal lips red and shiny, catching your teeth in an attempt to muffle your moans – bone-deep ingrained insecurity you can’t seem to get rid of. He doesn’t force you, though – he wants to hear you, sure, but most of all he wants to see you crumble to shreds. And if hiding your voice is what you need, then feel free to be his bloody guest.

Your hips stutter and your belly ripples under his large tee draped over it, and he’d recognize those signs anywhere. 

“Cum f’ me,” he orders. “C’mon, love. Give it to me.”

It takes a few more pumps of his fingers, and Simon feels it before he sees it. You clench around his fingers in rippling waves, thrumming rhythmically. Your cunt deliciously threatens to cut them off just above the knuckle.

And fuck, aren’t you a goddamn sight. 

Simon thinks it's almost cathartic to simply watch you. How your head tilts back to hit the armrest of the sofa, the way your toes curl in his lap and your foot on the floor rigidly lifts. The sway of your hips as they undulate to meet his thrusts and the liberating groan that leaves your lips, touching the sky with your fingers.

He unconsciously guides you through it, but truthfully, he has absolutely no idea what to do with himself – not with you looking straight out of one of his most unhinged dreams. His fingers slow down but keep moving relentlessly.

However, it would be a lie for him to say he knows what he’s doing.

You come down from it and your eyes are blinky and unfocused, staring at the ceiling. Your body deflates on the couch, limp and sated. Syrupy and warm. With your chest free to move now that the heavy weight on it has finally been lifted. He allows you this moment of privacy as you recollect yourself, although he truly wants you to look back at him again. He doesn’t want to miss a beat of this, yet he sort of understands.

Your breath comes out in puffs. He’s not faring any better on that note.

"Simon," you breathe, his name exquisite from your lips. "Christ."

He’s gawking. Watching your face for a moment more, he meets your eyes as they flick back to him down the slope of your nose.

Thumb still on your clit, the movements are gentler and featherlight. His voice is hoarse and rough as he speaks. “Alrigh’?”

You chuckle, breathless and a little nervous now that the appetite has been sated – much more self-aware than before.

His fingers are still inside of you and you’re already overthinking this. He knows it. He just hopes, deep down, that you’re not regretting it – because he sure as hell isn’t.

"Peachy.” Is your reply.

Oh, how the tables have turned. Joke’s on him, he’s fed you enough sarcasm for you to start throwing it back at him. Simon feels too weak to even smirk. However, his eyes do narrow, in a similar manner to how yours would at his snarky comebacks.

He gently slides his fingers out of you, mindful of your current sensitivity. He brings the hand up, seeing the gleam of your slick shamelessly coating their lengths down to the knuckles.

“Fuckin’ look at that.” He murmurs, unable to discern whether he’s talking to you or to himself, “Messy girl.”

He thumbs his middle finger and rolls the juice between the pads, thinking; tongue out to lick his lips like the voracious beast he is.

Simon reaches over and brings his hand towards your mouth. A jerky nod of his jaw, “Open.”

He knows he’s already crossed a line the two of you never even dared to toe before. And if he’s going to lose you after this, if you’re going to turn your back on him and leave the flat (leave his life) then he’s going to make the most of it.

Your brows are pinched in sudden uncertainty. A contradicting spectacle, if mixed with the way your chest is still heaving and how your cunt is still wet.

But tonight, you seem eager to catch him off guard, because you oblige. Your lips part and you offer your tongue, never breaking eye contact.

Each time he thinks you can’t look more beautiful you prove him fucking wrong.

He hums lowly in approval, and there’s something dark in that sound. He gently runs his fingers across your tongue, coating it with your taste. Fingertips slide and follow its curve. He stares at you with such an intensity, like he could consume you if he had a mind to. You devour him first, wrapping your lips around his knuckles.

When your tongue delves around his fore and middle fingers, he has to close his eyes. He has to roll his head, releasing the tension in his jaw. He has to, or he’ll cum in his goddamn jeans. The sharp inhale he takes almost burns his nostrils; his sigh heavy and anguished when his lips surrender to it.

“How d’you taste, dove?” he asks, blinking his eyes open.

The way his voice rasps out that pet name, rough like sandpaper, makes a shiver run down your neck. He sees it, the tremor of your shoulders, the goosebumps on your arms.

Simon reluctantly pulls his fingers away only so you can answer. His wasn’t a rhetorical question, and by that blush on your cheeks and the embarrassed hint of a smile on your face, you’ve guessed it already.

"Not as sweet as I thought."

His lips twitch.

“No?” he asks, his voice much too broken for his liking. He brings those same fingers to his mouth and sucks, tasting your spit and your cum. A low rumble of a chuckle escapes him – must be a blue moon tonight. “I think you taste pretty sweet.”

This can go two ways: a fairy tale ending, like those romcoms you like to watch, or an absolutely dreadful one – in which you leave. And truly, Simon doesn’t believe in a higher power; God has abandoned him more times than he cares to count. However, he hopes that whoever’s up there realizes that he's owed big time for all the crap he’s been put through.

And he asks for nothing, but you.

His face is hot, and he gathers his cheeks might be a little pink. The rare sight must give you some comfort, the fact that he’s just as overwhelmed as you are, because he feels your leg relax in his lap.

You purse your lips to hide a bashful smile - as if you have any right to be coy right now. "Flatterer."

He hums, seemingly wanting to bite back at you but unable to find the spirit for it. His eyes rake over your body, from your flushed face to your chest covered by his tee, until they land on your quivering thighs, still splayed open for him.

For him.

His hand travels up your leg, following the same route that has led to this. When his palm finally cups your hip, his fingers curl at the waistband of your shorts and tug.

“C’mere.”

You do.

He sees you bend your knees and shift on the sofa so you can crawl to him on shaky legs. As the gentleman he never thought he’d be, he helps you swing your thigh over his own and deposits you in his lap with your knees on either side of his hips.

Afraid you might say something hinting at regret, he selfishly grabs your jaw and pulls you down, finally tasting you the way he’s always wanted. His lips mold with yours, and they’re so soft he has no business claiming them as his own. His fingers tilt your head so he can deepen the kiss, and only when he sees your eyes flutter closed through the slit of his eyelids, he allows himself to surrender to you.

Your lips peck the thin scar on his cupid’s bow, but before you can run away from him (as you should), he captures you once more. He never wants to let you go, so his tongue slides across the seam of your mouth, and you, so pliantly, oblige him.

Your hands are resting on his shoulders when the kiss starts tentatively, while his slender fingers follow the curve of your waist.

But then your nails dig at the fabric of his t-shirt, as if eager to rip it, and his palms journey to your rear. He grips at the flesh through your shorts, before shoving out of the way their distressed hem and directly groping the plump meat of your ass.

The two of you never part. If anything, everything gets more heated.

He doesn’t recall when it is exactly that you start grinding your hips, nor does he remember when his shirt was removed – whether you did it, or if he’s taken the matter into his own hands.

However, he does snap out of it when he feels your palms leave his shoulders to grasp at the hem of your tee. While he wants to feel his skin on yours as much as you do, what’s separating your chest from his is not a mere layer of cotton.

He pulls away and – to his pleasure – he sees you lean in to have more. His hand lands on yours, stopping you.

“No.”

He sees you blink, dazed. A myriad of emotions travel through that pinched expression you wear, thinking like usual that you’ve done something wrong.

He quells your fears in seconds, when his other palm skims over your arm. It journeys unhurriedly, leaving gooseflesh in its wake, until it lands at the base of your throat. His thumb brushes over its column, forcing your neck to tilt backwards and your back to arch, presenting your chest.

Simon models you like clay under his warm fingers, and he takes his time to drink you in and sculpt you as he wishes. Because you seem so docile now that his intents are less covert, clearer.

He brings his mouth to your throat, and his nose scrunches when he presses it against your neck, keeping you still with one thick arm around your waist. With sluggish movements, he tastes the salt of your skin and the tang left by your perfume.

Simon pulls back only to run his tongue from the hollow between your collarbones up to your jaw, feeling right under the muscle how your throat bobs when your breath lodges in between. He curves his head and digs his teeth into the plumper flesh on the side of your neck, enough to get a taste but not enough (never enough) to cause pain.

“Keep the shirt on.” He breathes against your skin, “I wanna fuck my name into you.”

And he does just that.

It’s effortless how he lifts you in his arms, guiding your ankles to lock at his tailbone. Clothes, both yours and his, freckle the floors in a trail that leads to his bedroom. He’s famished; there isn’t a single surface along the path he follows where he hasn’t placed you – if only to savor every piece of you for a little longer.

Until he has you on that bed, the one he should’ve gotten only for a few weeks and instead became his own alcove.

You look wonderful on it.

But you’re even more gorgeous when he sits at the edge of the mattress, facing the full-length mirror in his room, and places you on his thighs to straddle his lap – your back facing the reflection.

He runs his hands over your chest, riding up the t-shirt to your neck only so he can feast on your tits. Grabbing greedy handfuls of fat and muttering unintelligible praises when his mouth all but devours every inch – sucking on your puffy nipples and grazing his teeth around each peak.

Another if is answered by the whimper that escapes your kiss-bitten lips.

You look like an angel, when your soft hand goes to grab the base of his cock and, without much ceremony, you guide it inside of you – sinking on it easy and slow.

You feel like heaven, too, impaled on him. Perfect fit, always made for him, and him only.

Simon’s not sure what he did to deserve you, now riding his cock like you’d been deprived of it your whole life. Unbridled, free. You moan and groan without a care in the world, the hesitation he saw before vanished into thin air – and oh, he couldn’t be more grateful for it.

His hands curl at the hem of your (his, his, his) shirt, lifting it up slightly at your waist, only so he can see in the reflection how your ass slaps against his thighs each time you drop. Or, how your glutes clench when instead of trying to pleasure him, you please yourself – rolling your hips to grind your clit against his happy trail.

Simon’s hands leave the shirt only to grab more of you, kneading at your hips to guide your cunt down his cock until he has you filled to the brim. Your eyes roll back, breath stuck in that pretty throat of yours. He bites at it - laps at the skin like a starved dog.

Simon shattered his chains the moment you came undone on his fingers, and now he knows no restraint – not when he has you like this.

“Look at you,” he growls, slapping your ass only to watch how the fat ripples in recoil in your mirror image.

He grabs the back of your neck and tilts your head downwards. Your foreheads touch as he guides your eyes to look at where your bodies join. The foamy ring at the base of his cock, how the folds of your vulva hug around his shaft and tip at your unhooded clit, all puffy and red.

He tugs at your mound with his thumb, stretching the flesh to expose more. With a deliberate roll of his hips, he makes a show of how effortlessly his cock slides into you, how your cunt greedily stretches to welcome him whole. 

“Look at that.” His voice is equally as raspy as it’s enraptured. “Perfect.”

Using his hand on your nape, he angles your face to kiss you again. He thrusts into you only to have you part your lips in a stuttering moan, and he drinks it dry.

When you resume grinding your hips, he whispers in your open mouth, “Fuckin’ perfect.”

Simon sees how your thighs quiver under the strain of the effort, hamstrings taut and probably burning in the attempt to wrap around his hips. He won’t keep you like that for long, don’t worry. He’ll take good care of you, like he always has.

But now, he indulges in a selfish moment.

Spare seconds in which he watches your reflection bounce on him, and you’re too lost in the feeling to notice how his hooded eyes take in the view.

The profile of your face in the mirror (his little cherub), with your mouth parted and brushing against his temple as he nuzzles your shoulder through the fabric of the shirt. One hand ecloses his nape and your other palm is on his cheek, keeping his head close to your breathless lips. Your eyes are closed in bliss – lashes shy against your flushed cheekbones.

In the scantly lit room, the reflection in the mirror of you two is as dark as everything else, but the stark white writing on the back of your tee has never looked brighter. Your hair sways with your movements, and that RILEY that peeks through your locks has him impossibly enamored of you.

And you’re so smart, he thinks. So clever, because you know, even when your senses are clouded by euphoria and your eyes are closed. You know he’s never had a thing. You know that whatever he’s held, no matter for how long, has always slipped through his fingers before he could even get a taste of it.

“I’m yours,” you whisper in his ear.

And so, Simon surrenders. He’s at your mercy, you have his trust and whatever’s left of his heart – and he knows you won’t break either.

He helps you out of his t-shirt only to hold you bare against his chest. He brings you down with him, lavishes your skin with his palms and his lips. Nose buried in your hair, Simon breathes you in. The smell of sex and the smell of you and how it has him drunk when it whirlpools with his own – a new fragrance, one that burns itself into his brain with the threat (sweet promise) of never letting go.

Because he’s never had a thing, his name barely pertains to him anymore. But the moment he saw it on you, he finally realized where Simon Riley belongs.

[oldsamarie]

mutual 1: I hate gacha boy I want to rip him in half with my teeth and then start dancing sensitive style #i love him

mutual 2: i need that old man from saw #mutual 3 don't look

mutual 3: I'm so mad about what they did to snuffleupagus on sesame street, wtfdym his arc is over

mutual 4: Sorry I've been inactive something happened but I'm better now

mutual 5: Im remaking and my new url starts with u (if you put it through a caesar cypher)and ends in 6537 (repeat the alphabet until you reach the 6537th letter) [I've seen this post at least 50 times by now]

mutual 6:

mutual 7: do any of my mutuals know how to untie an impossible knot? I'm in trouble

mutual 8: How do I watch MLP online for free? Don't tell me to pirate. I don't even have a boat

mutual 9: Give.. Me... My.... Boytoy!!!!!!!!!!!! *kills another hostage* [3 hours later] I'm so tired of living

mutual 10: i hate when people are mean to hammerhead sharks :(

mutual 11: i want to kill snuffleupagus seriously stop talking about his arc

mutual 12: i miss mutual 6

mutual 13: it's my birthday!

mutual 14: I wish the writers of my favorite show wrote something I liked

mutual 15: i wish i had a job :(

mutual 16: day 300 of being unemployed, i just recoded tumblr and also i have a plan for world peace [0 notes]

mutual 17: I love this world... It's so beautiful out here.... If you hang out with me you can see it too... ⭐🌈💫

mutual 18: I HATE THIS FUCKED UP WORLDDDDDD

mutual 19: there's no fandom on tumblr for this book from 1408 tbh im glad but also i wish there were more posts about it

[captainmera]

Hi! Would you consider sharing your adjusted Willow design (that you posted on X yesterday) here? You don’t have to of course, I was just going to reblog it to show my tumblr mutuals because I loved it so much 😊 If not though, no worries. Thank you!

Sure, this one?

Willow felt off-model somehow , I wanted to see if minor adjustments could help out. It was fun to analyse it!

And I redesigned the outfit (I couldn't help myself, clothes are fun).

I'm apprehensive to say I dislike the final look, since someone designed that. But I was dissatisfied and confused about why it felt off-model, and wanted to explore what could be done to make her feel more like Willow but still stick to the show's templates.

My mission was to figure out how to make a taller Willow look like herself more, by adding a few elements to her outline, using the show templete.

Her new height changed the visual volume of her body. So, I added more curves and plush to the limbs, and volume to the hair. That helped make her recognisable.

Because if you compare the designs, it's not that much difference in limb size. But when you make her taller, and give her flat hair, her shiluett changes, and the volume is distributed/stretched out.

The things I identified as problems was that:

1) due to her new height, her limbs appear slimmer. So I added curves to them.

2) The hair was too imbalanced with her round cheeks, which disturbed the face and made her look flat, adding puffy hair to balance it back fixed that.

3) her butt and chest has previously been more rounded in shape due to skirts or other clothes. Her final clothes design are tighter, and her torso has an additional line between chest and hip for height now. Which makes her appear slimmer. So I Rounded the hips and butt, and added a small line to indicate belly chub.

4) Her new shorts, too, have a design (the limegreen stripe against dark) that sportswear usually put there to give a visually slimmer hip. So I changed the stripe to show off the new curve-line instead. Thus assisting the visual that there's roundness there.

5) this is more of a personal thing, but I wasn't very fond of the colours. Sportswear are usually eye-straining colours, sure, but these were kinda.. eh. I decided to go with a bog/swamp colour theme instead. My only hangup is that the green on her leaf-bow don't go well with her hair. Yellow would've been better, but that made her entire outfit feel like autumn instead of that intimidating bog/swamp vibe. So I left that be. There's already too many colours going on.

The ripped fabric is a homage to Dana's rollerskate drawing + striped sock is a nod to Willows halloween outfit.

Final thought of note: if they wanted to make her more muscular, they could've gone for a hunk/bara body type. Y'know, to make her more like the Willow we know.

`\_(;•~•)_/` *shrugs*

[earthtooz]

second chance romance with sae. write it.

x : WITH(OUT) :*+ﾟ

in which: after a messy breakup with sae, you find yourself waking up next to him two weeks later, this time just more in love.

warnings: 1.8k words, exes to lovers, hurt/comfort, SFW, gn!reader, tooth-rotting fluff with quite a bit of angst, a lot of metaphors here and there i apologise if they don't make sense get on my brainwave (nicely), ooc!sae perhaps uhh lol, bad writing, reblogs appreciated!!

a/n: lets see if tumblr community labels this post... sigh. rip first version u were a champ. this is my official claim to become tumblr's sfw itoshi brothers (separate) writer. i've made progress with rin, it's time to show some (reluctant) love to sae!! i literally only wrote this bc @limitlesshq and i had an agreement.

you wake up due to the rustling beside you, the movement rousing you from your slumber as the world becomes ever so clearer with each millisecond, the drowsy haze wearing off you as you take in your surroundings.

there’s a white ceiling overhead, the mattress beneath you feels like a cloud, and you can’t remember when your sheets turned a shade of gray. no- scratch that, you can’t remember when your mattress became this soft. 

hold on.

this wasn’t your room and the mop of magenta hair lying atop your chest is an indicator of such.

you’re in bed with a soccer star who just so happens to be the ex you messily broke up with two weeks ago. he’s wrapped around you like nothing had ever happened; as if you two were still in love and devoted to one another and hadn’t shouted at each other to the point that your throats were sore for a days afterwards. 

you needed to get out of here which was something easier said than done. especially when you had itoshi sae lying on top of you, wrapping you in a vice grip as he sunk further and further into your warmth, chest methodically rising up and down. you want to slap him for being so peaceful in this very moment. that should be you but instead, you’re panicking and trying to avoid another messy scene with your ex. 

the fact that said-ex was itoshi sae too… goodness what have you gotten yourself into. you should get out of here before it’s too late.

slowly, you begin to shuffle away, trying to pull yourself away from sae’s grasp. 

you’re halfway out when you hear the magenta-haired whine quietly, the sound causing you to turn your head and look at him. it’s to your horror that you’re greeted by a pair of hazy, turquoise eyes, still groggily waking up as sae tries to adjust to his bearings. he blinks a few times, waking up a little more with each flutter.

“where are you going?” he asks, voice hoarse from unuse. his arm tightens ever so slightly around you, pulling you back towards him and completely ruining your efforts.

you’re stunned, unsure of how to respond as sae tucks himself into your chest, breathing you in.

you hate the way you feel your heart lurch in your chest, rapidly beating with the urge to be as close as possible to him. this feels like a life you once knew, especially when his fingers start running up and down your spine, nimbly finding their way under your shirt. 

“sae,” you breathe out and his ministrations stop, diverting all of his attention upon you. “i have to go.”

he groans his protest, shaking his head. “why?”

“i just have to.”

“no.”

“what?”

“stay.”

“what?”

“did you not hear me? i said stay.”

just to prove his point a little more, he puts even more of his weight on you, tangling his legs with yours as if rooting you to his mattress. ever so demanding, he is.

the breakup was disastrous and entirely hurtful, wrecking you from the inside out when you woke up the next morning registering the previous night. you couldn’t remember the last time you felt so heartbroken and it hurt even more with every trace of sae that remained in your apartment. looking back, perhaps it was a little naive to believe that he was the one for you, that he was your endgame and not simply another lesson to heal from. all that time spent in a relationship, crumbled thanks to an argument that lasted for three hours and ended with a decisive slam of his door. 

yet just when you thought you were making process on the journey away from him, sae finds a way to pull you back in.

“i can’t stay,” you whisper, voice already a little shaky.

the magenta-haired looks up at you, apathetic eyes boring into yours. “but why?”

“i just- i just can’t. thank you for letting me stay over but i’m going to go home now-”

fingers thread through yours and sae’s hand pulls yours closer towards him. a pair of warm lips press themself to your skin and linger there as if burning and branding you- all of you, as his. 

he then kisses each of your fingers delicately and softly. “don’t go,” he mutters between pecks.

you feel a little breathless. like he’s punched your gut with every piece of gentle affection he plants, twisting the knife he had stabbed in your chest two weeks ago deeper and deeper, reopening the raw wound of hurt and pain with unmatched love.

you need to leave before anything else can happen, before you begin breaking down in front of him. 

quickly shuffling away from the athlete, you abruptly pull your hand out of his, throwing the covers off of you. however quick you may have been though, sae is undeniably faster, his hands crossing the distance to pull you back. his strength forces you to sit down once more and you bounce a little from the soft impact. he drapes himself around you again, chin resting on your shoulder. 

“let me go,” you plead, putting your hands over his wrists as if trying to pry them off but you feel too much for sae to truly try and resist him. his spell, no matter how hard you try to fight back, is just as potent. 

you fear that you may never be immune to his poison. 

he begins trailing kisses along your skin, uncharacteristically affectionate. “i can’t,” he begins, voice wavering uncharacteristically, traces of heartbreak evident in his tone. this display of emotion shocks you endlessly and you stop fighting against him, freezing when you feel his breath shudder against your skin.

your heart is thumping heavily, causing your chest to clench.

"stop messing around, we-"

"i'm not messing around just stay," he hushes gently, "please."

you feel the world stop for a second. sae? pleading? he knew how to do that? the prospect of sae beseeching for anything was incredibly unfamiliar and the fact that his voice cracked merely proves how entirely unfamiliar the word was in his vocabulary. 

the love you feel for him will choke you before heartache does. unbeknownst to you, a tear begins sliding down your cheek and you don’t feel it until it’s halfway down.

“hey, hey, hey,” the magenta-haired mumbles, catching the tear with his thumb. “don’t cry.” 

he sounds so tender and doting it hurts. there’s so much love in the way he’s holding you, pressing himself closer to you with each minute as if he hates the idea of being too far away from you, as if he was trying to make sure that you were still the same love of his life from before he hurt you tremendously, as if he was committing you to memory before he does lose you forever.

but he doesn’t want that. he wants to stay with you. sae doesn’t think he can handle another day without you, that’s why he’s so stubborn to keep you here; to put you under his spell again so that you could feel an ounce of the love he has stored for you. so that this love has somewhere to go before it inevitably ruins him, punishing him for being so stupid. 

“i’m sorry,” whispers sae hurriedly. “i’m sorry, i’m so sorry pretty, don’t cry.”

glancing away from him, you wipe away any remaining tears, inhaling deeply as to try and collect yourself with whatever willpower you had left.

"i need to leave," you murmur, not entirely meaning it.

"no you don't," he answers, entirely meaning it. "just stay until breakfast or something."

wordlessly, you fall back in his grasp, leaning into the athlete when you feel rapid beating against your arm. that’s when you realise that it wasn’t your racing heart… it was his. 

giving in to his desires, you tuck your legs back up on the bed and he manoeuvres you, practically cradling you whilst you find solace in his neck with your arms wrapped around his torso. here, you feel whole again. 

you’ve lived life with sae and without sae and you now know well enough to prefer the former. something tells you he feels the same too. 

“are you going to stay for breakfast?” he asks after a few minutes of simply soaking up the other’s presence. glancing up at him, his expression remains beautifully neutral, illuminated perfectly by the bright morning light that seeps through his windows. he’s radiant, gorgeous as ever. 

you hum against his skin. “i’m not too sure. i was going to leave before breakfast.”

“let’s go back to sleep then. i’m not hungry anymore.”

amused by his request, you agree nonetheless and sae is able to move the both of you around to the same positions you had woken up in with you on your back and him on top of you. the soccer player then pulls you closer and throws his leg over your hips- something he does to keep you in your spot so you won’t slip away from him again.

you won’t. you don’t want to leave and live a life without him. 

“are we back together?” you hesitantly ask. the question floats into the tranquil air, afraid to break whatever quiet, ecstatic haze you were both in but you need to know.

“will you take me back?” the soccer player counters, surprisingly shy and unsure, so unlike the arrogant sae you’re used to. he’s putting all the cards on your table despite knowing what he wants because although he wants to be with you for eternity and a little longer after that, it’s up to you to decide whether or not he deserves such a paradise.

sae can only hope you’re merciful. 

“i want to. i miss ‘us’, i miss you.” 

he immediately feels a heavy weight lift itself off and the exhale the magenta-haired lets out communicates his magnitude of relief. fate has saved him today. 

“good.” is all he says as your hands rise to the nape of his neck, playing with the hair there. “be here when i wake up.”

“so demanding,” you joke with a smile, “but okay.” 

as sae dozes off once more, you take the time to scan around his room once more whilst trying to lull yourself into dreamland as well. 

his decor had always been rather plain and it didn’t change until you started dating. remnants of you have been lingering around his place and you’re surprised he didn’t get rid of them the night you left out of rage. a little nanodroid that you gave him of a character from an anime you both like sits on his shelf, there’s that little fake plant on his desk, and there are still photos of you two on his dresser. 

he used to only have one pillow and the only reason he bought more was so you could sleep over comfortably. you don’t think too hard about the lingering smell of sae’s shampoo on the pillows that you had previously claimed as ‘yours’.

shifting a little so that you were comfortable, you gaze up at sae’s ceilings once more. a gentle smile makes its way to your face before you doze off peacefully knowing that two hearts have found their way back home. 

[hotvintagepoll]

Propaganda

Humphrey Bogart (Casablanca, Key Largo, Sabrina)—John Huston speaking at Bogart's funeral: "Himself, he never took his work too seriously. He regarded the somewhat gaudy figure of Bogart, the star, with an amused cynicism; Bogart, the actor, he held in deep respect … In each of the fountains at Versailles there is a pike which keeps all the carp active; otherwise they would grow over-fat and die. Bogie took rare delight in performing a similar duty in the fountains of Hollywood. Yet his victims seldom bore him any malice, and when they did, not for long. His shafts were fashioned only to stick into the outer layer of complacency, and not to penetrate through to the regions of the spirit where real injuries are done … He is quite irreplaceable. There will never be another like him."

Buster Keaton (The General, The Navigator, Sherlock Jr.)—For me Buster’s hotness comes not just from his physical beauty but in the constant surprise and contradictions of the man, he’s simultaneously delicate/rough, feminine/masculine, confident/vulnerable, 5foot5 pretty face with an unexpectedly deep voice, at first glance you think oh he’s a cute little thing and then he takes his top off and it’s Superman abs underneath. He was intensely shy in social situations but had no hesitation in jumping off the top of a building. He famously never smiled on screen* but he exudes warmth and joy and laughter. He created some of the most beautiful, intelligent movies ever made but refused to acknowledge his own genius and talent as an artist, instead maintaining that all he wanted to do was make people laugh. If he was here in reality competing in this poll he would give it 100% but he would not be at all bothered if he didn’t win. And that’s why he’s the hottest vintage man. A vote for Buster is a vote for all that is good and decent in the world 💕 (*he did smile on camera occasionally despite his own assertions to the contrary 😄)

This is round 3 of the bracket. All other polls in this bracket can be found here. Please reblog with further support of your beloved hot sexy vintage man.

[enormous amounts of additional propaganda submitted under the cut]

Humphrey Bogart propaganda:

Bogart on why he became an actor: "I was born to be indolent and this was the softest of rackets."

Bogart about his wife Methot [who later divorced him]: "I like a jealous wife ... I wouldn't give you two cents for a dame without a temper."

Bogart, on why he was one of the only cast members filming African Queen to avoid catching dysentery: "All I ate was baked beans, canned asparagus and Scotch Whiskey. Whenever a fly bit me, it dropped dead."

Bogart's advice to a recently-nominated friend on how to write an acceptance speech for an oscar: "Just say you did it all yourself and don't thank anyone."

"the way he looks at Lauren Bacall……"

Buster Keaton propaganda:

"Just look at his freaking face...."

This entire Tumblr page was submitted

This post

This video

"And for those who have never heard it, here’s his lovely voice in action: link"

Submitted: Link to Buster Keaton car stunts

Submitted: BK fancam

Submitted: quotes about BK video compilation

"Ripped body, gorgeous unique face, beautiful personality too"

[littlemissmanga]

The Slow Stretch

Pairing: Wrecker x f!Reader

Warnings: This is all spice. Rated E for explicit. There's no plot. Barely a framing device. Size kink, like really that's 90% of it, praise kink is also strong in this one. 18+ only please, if you don't like smut please don't interact but do not put a label on this!

Also, lazy writing but Tumblr wouldn't let me use bullets so I apologize this isn't as smooth as some of my other stuff. It is still pretty delicious, if I do say so myself.

W/C: 1,713

Summary: I had a very vivid thought about what a session with Wrecker would look like if you had a harder time taking him. Guys this thot consumed me and then I imagined how he'd encourage you through that and what soft praise would sound like coming from him ... and I became so unwell I had to get this written. It's pure filth. Enjoy.

Imagine sitting on Wrecker’s lap, three of his fingers buried in your cunt. He doesn’t move them, doesn’t curl them to make you see stars. He’s learned that’s how you get too overstimulated too quick.

But he has to prepare you, to make you come just enough that your tight walls can relax enough to accept his much larger size.

So he just holds you close on his lap, knuckles deep in your pussy as he coos at you to relax.

“I got ya, pretty girl,” he says, his large, warm hand rubbing soothingly on your lower stomach, pressing down just a little. It wasn’t much at all, but it was enough to force you further down on his fingers, the calloused tips now brushing mind numbingly against a spot that makes your vision blur. “Don’t clench, baby. Keep them muscles nice an’ relaxed for me. You can do it, I know you can.”

You don’t want to disappoint him, so you focus as hard as you can, concentration cutting through the fuzzy pleasure vibrating through your core as you force yourself to unclench your muscles and melt into his warm, broad chest behind you.

 “Tha’s it. That’s perfect, sweetheart.” His other hand comes down to draw gentle yet firm circles directly on your clit, forcing bolts of electricity through you. “One more. Just gotta give me one more an’ I think I can fit.”

You shiver on him, around him as his relentless assault on your clit gives you no other choice than to surrender to the pleasure as he rips it from your body … leaving you perfectly boneless and ready for him.

“Please, Wreck, please. Wanna feel full.”

With a deftness you’ve come to expect from Wrecker, he presses his fingers deeper, pushing against that tantalizing spot just once more before replacing them with his cock. He pushes in slowly, pulling you back so your head rests on his shoulder. He can see your face now, his eyes never leaving it, alert for any hint of discomfort even as he groans deep at the incredible way your walls constrict around him as he lowers you onto him.

Your back arches off him, your legs curling instinctively to give him more room, to spread yourself further to ease his progress. You vaguely remember you need to relax, but the stretch of him everywhere inside you, pressing not just against one pleasurable spot but all of them at once … It’s involuntary the way you convulse around him, the pleasure from one area flaring up before the pleasure from another can even fade.

Never before have you understood what it meant to be so deliciously full. You lose coherent thought, your entire being focused on experiencing the sensations coursing through your nerves.

Wrecker pauses as he all but bottoms out, just a few inches unable to sit inside you comfortably. Doesn’t matter. All he can focus on is breathing. The way your walls undulate around him, the way he can feel the intense pleasure ricochet through your body and into his threatens to push him over the edge.

“Shhh, pretty girl … need you to relax. I don’t wanna end this too soon, d’you?”

You whimper and shake your head back and forth dramatically. Still trapped in a hazy fog, forming words is beyond you but you need to make your immense displeasure at the idea of him leaving you empty and wanting after pushing you over the edge of heaven known.

“Tha’s good. So take a deep breath for me.” Again, his hands came to rub soothingly against you, this time trailing along your sides from your knee to your ribs and back again. You could feel Wrecker’s chest expand with each deep breath, a warm encouragement for you to do the same. So you did. Over, and over, until the tension slowly leeches from your muscles.

Soon, the desperation fades as well. But the pleasurable haze does not. It leaves you pliant and dazed on Wrecker’s lap. You remain draped back over him, but now your limbs hang limp. You trust him to keep you upright.

 He moves your legs outside his own, spreading you wide around him. Looking down, he can see how wet and puffy your lips are, so red and swollen around him. He groans into your shoulder and feels his cock twitch inside you. You cry out instantly, but don’t tense beyond a quick pulse he could tell you couldn’t control.

“Take me so good, sweetheart. Knew you’d be able ta do it.”

You hum in contentment. This is what you were craving when you approached Wrecker earlier. It wasn’t just to make the most out of your precious alone time. But a bone-deep need to be consumed by him. And now you were.

“You okay? Don’ go quiet on me now.”

A gentle press of his knuckles — still a little wet from your juices — turns your head to face Wrecker, a gentle smile trying to hide the glimmer of concern in his eyes.

“M’fine,” you manage to mumble. You decide actions are easier, so you nuzzle into the crook of his neck, lips brushing his sensitive skin there and curling into a smile at the choked sound he makes in response. “So fine. So full. ‘T’s perfect.”

“Good.” He pushes your legs together, mindful of the strain he must have put on you keeping you spread open. The movement draws a prolonged moan from you, but it’s gentle enough to keep you from getting desperate again. His thumbs run firm strokes against the top insides of your thighs before circling around your middle and holding you to him.

He knows it won’t be long before the pressure that’s blissing you out now will turn to pain soon. The constant stimulation wears you out quickly. That’s why he loves when you get like this — needy not for how he can take you, but just for him. He craves getting to hold you close and feel you surround him just as much as he sees you crave him filling you to your breaking point. A small thrill runs through him, knowing only he can make you feel this full, this good.

Eventually, once your cunt has completely relaxed around him, when your eyes have closed and even your pleasant little hums have quieted, Wrecker brings his hand once again to your clit. This time, he keeps his strokes gentle, coaxing your next orgasm from you. “Doin’ so good for me. Lettin’ me play with ya an’ stretch you out like this.”

For once Wrecker’s voice is subdued. He’s not whispering, but his gentle rasp is the softest you’ve ever heard him before. It rumbles through you, waking you slowly from the foggy, trance-like state you fell into. Without thinking, you shift your hips, trying to catch that slight tickle that made your sensitive flesh tingle.

And then you do. His rough thumb catches on the hood of your clit, making you clench all at once around him. Your hands fly to his forearms that are caging you in on either side of your hips, squeezing at the intensity you’re feeling.

“Hold on to me all ya need. I got ya.” Wrecker’s free hand flexes under your thigh as his other continues its almost painfully gentle ministrations.

“R-right there,” you breathe, knowing Wrecker is out of patience and you are out of time. With a hum, Wrecker focuses his attention repeating the motion to your exact request. But he keeps his pace smooth and controlled. He knows this is gonna be intense for you. So he’s gonna be as gentle as he can.

The slow, steady push combined with how deliciously Wrecker fills you guides you to the edge of what you know will be an intense orgasm. His steady strokes leaving no question to the exact moment your body will be pushed over. Even so, you’re still unprepared when it happens.

“Let me feel you, sweetheart.”

Every since inch of your body tenses as you seize in pleasure. The walls of your cunt spasm harshly, simultaneously pulling Wrecker ever deeper and pushing him out all at once.

You can barely feel your body. All you know is the bliss that wraps every inch of you in its embrace.

But Wrecker can definitely feel your body. Can feel the way your walls threaten to strangle him and he would happily welcome it at this rate. His hips begin finally thrusting into you as his thumb continues its assault on your clit, noticing the way you jump at each pass.

“WRECK” The cry is ripped from your throat as a wall hits you.

But Wrecker’s attention is pulled by the feel of water hitting his legs. He curses when he looks down to see he’s soaked. “Kark I love when you squirt all over me.”

You can only moan as he fucks you hard now, seeking his release as your body finally offers absolutely no resistance. Absently, you can feel the way you drip around him. Delight zings the edges of your consciousness as you realize to yourself, I was able to take him.

The indulgent satisfaction only intensifies, melting into a lava that crawls through your veins as Wrecker grunts once more into your neck and after two more thrusts, presses himself as deep as he can get to come inside you.

Neither of you move for a moment, too overstimulated and sore. Soon, though, Wrecker wraps you in his arms and, as slowly as he can, pulls himself from you, earning several shivers and whimpers. He coos and presses kisses to the side of your face and forehead at each one to soothe the sting.

Finally, when he’s completely out, you both groan in unison. You can feel the surge of his cum leaking out of you, cooling the abused flesh of your hole. And based on the angle of his eyes, he’s watching it drip out of you on to the floor below.

“I’ll get ya cleaned up,” he offers in a hoarse voice.

You tighten your grip on his arms. “Just … just hold me a little more?”

You can feel his lips stretch against the top of your head. “’Course. Long as you need.”

Taglist: @dreamie411 @wings-and-beskar @starrylothcat @sev-on-kamino @wolffegirlsunite

@secondaryrealm @idontgetanysleep @multi-fan-dom-madness @dystopicjumpsuit @sinfulsalutations

@sunshinesdaydream @wizardofrozz @anxiouspineapple99 @dhawerdaverd @mythical_illustrator

Divider art by @pinkiemme, divider by @freesia-writes