#My attempts at fanfic

[obsidiancreates]

Bad Day

Shawn Spencer, Head Psychic of the SBPD, doesn't have bad days. He had exciting days, setback days, annoying days- but never bad days.

Shawn Spencer, the ADHD and CPTSD riddled human man, does have bad days. He had them Fairly often from ages 0 to 8, Frequently from ages 8 to 18, and Near Daily from ages 18 to 28.

But he'd tucked the Regular Human Man away when the Head Psychic became a real, viable option, so if you asked him "How often do you have bad days?" he would put a finger to his head, smile, and say he never has bad days because he can see them coming to avoid.

At least, he usually would.

Today though. Today started with a groggy morning escape from a Greatest Hits Roll of his most upsetting moments in life posing as "dreams", then an empty fridge, his go-to cafe being closed for a health code violation, the office fridge being empty, and finally a voicemail from his dad scolding him about some thing. A case, maybe, Shawn doesn't know- he's already lived a full day, as far as he's concerned, and now it's time to lay in the empty office and reset.

So he lays down on the couch, closes the blinds, and lays his slightly-pounding head on the armrest.

Running through woods, sweating in a trunk, failing the math test and knowing the bully did too, gun to his face, gun to Gus's face, tape on his Mom's face-

"Shawn!"

Shawn's eyes snap open, taking a breath like a barb that stabs the back of his throat. Great, he slept with his mouth open and now his throat is sore and dry. Just what he needed today.

"The Chief just called me, she's been trying to reach you all morning." Gus picks up the office phone, and tsks. "How many times do I have to tell you which way the phone goes in the charger?"

"You could try telling me when I care." Shawn throws his arm over his eyes.

"Wha- Shawn!"

"Wha, Shawn!"

"You better knock that off before we get to the station."

"Sure, Dad."

"I'm serious, Shawn! Get up! She said it's important!"

"She always says it's important."

"And it usually is!"

"And sometimes it's her needing a babysitter!"

"Fine, then I'll go get the case, and keep your part of the check."

"... Fine."

The ride in the Blueberry is quiet. Gus keeps looking over at Shawn, and it makes his skin prickle. It's not the first time- Shawn loves attention, but sometimes someone looks at him in just the wrong way at the wrong time and it feels worse than having a weapon waved at him.

They pull up, and they walk in, and Lassie and Jules are already in the office.

"Gentlemen, nice of you to finally join us," The Chief says, her controlled tone the perfect example of Passive Aggressive.

"Sorry, Chief, it's just that we have lives sometimes."

She pauses her flipping through files, and looks up at Shawn with narrowed eyes and lips pressed thin. Out of the corner of his eye he can see Gus begin his Lamaze breathing, Jules's eyes widen as she dips her head, and Lassie smirk a bit at the oncoming trouble Shawn's surely just invited for himself.

"Well, Mr. Spencer, so do we, but-"

"But you're city employees, aaand we aren't." Gus elbows Shawn, hard, and Shawn just grits his teeth and pushes back.

Lassie looks at him with equal amounts shock and wicked delight, Jules with just plain shock. The Chief blinks, letting out a huff of what could be laughter, but probably isn't.

"I don't know what's got you in a mood, Mr. Spencer, but I suggest you sort yourself out now. This case is looking like a high-profile murder at the moment."

"Looking like?"

"We've got blood, a broken-in door, and a knife missing from the residence. The body is missing, but our victim was one of the top, tobacco production CEOs in the entire west coast, and he had enough enemies to fill the station and more."

Lassie whistles. "Impressive."

"And time-consuming. We need-"

"Me to get a reading on the suspects, right, can I see the crime scene photos?" Shawn grabs them without an answer. Jules gasps like she just witnessed a stabbing- or is about to, which she very well may, given the look The Chief gives him. If Shawn's head didn't hurt, and he didn't feel like every emotion he's ever felt in his entire life were all compacting into one horrible apathetic brick in his chest, maybe he would care enough to scale back a little.

He flips through. Standard crime scene, terrible photos, worse than the time the murderer was the one taking them. "You should fire whoever took these. I mean it."

"Shawn!"

"Shh." He waves his hand in Gus's face. Knife missing from the knife block, no evidence of it anywhere else in the house, blood on the bedroom rug, smearing suggests a body being dragged, but ooooh, what's that?

"Who checked this crime scene?"

"We did." Lassie looks at the photos over Shawn's shoulder- well, head. "Why?"

"We were really thorough."

"Do we both think that word means the same thing?" He doesn't want to say it, but it slips out, and Jules looks hurt instead of shocked this time. But he's not wrong.

"The victim isn't the victim, he's the killer. Oh, I see it." he half-heartedly waves a hand and closes his eyes. "Yeah, the blood spray, the victim was attacked by someone laying in the bed. And this one-" He flips to another photo in the stack, eyes still closed but knowing it's right. "-This one shows the knife block, I can see there are no grooves in that slot of the block, it wasn't regularly removed and returned but all the others were. I think our 'victim' knew someone was after him and probably slept with that knife under his pillow."

"We did find a journal with some paranoid ramblings," Lassie mumbles.

Shawn opens his eyes. "Seriously?"

"Well, they were written like a whackjob. Just pages of the same thing over and over."

"What thing, Lassie?"

"I don't know, some bull about being watched and being ready."

"Like maybe by an enemy? And being ready to kill to defend himself?"

"Geez, Spencer, what is wrong with you today?"

"You're right, I'm sorry. Clearly, we should throw out all the important evidence because it seems just too helpful!"

"Watch it-"

"That is the usual procedure around here, right? Just sort of miss and ignore evidence until I show up? Follow all your worst leads first?"

"That's it!" Lassie grabs Shawn by the collar.

"Detective!"

"Carlton!"

"Shawn, say you're sorry!"

"You've been an ass before Spencer but this is- CHRIST!"

Lassie yanks his hand away, and Shawn makes a face as he wipes at his teeth with his shirt. The fabric comes away slightly red.

Jules pries Lassie's good hand off the hurt one, and then looks at Shawn like she's never even seen him before. "Do you even know what you just did?!"

"Assaulted an officer!" Lassie growls, accepting tissues from The Chief to press to his bleeding knuckles.

"Not my fault you have thin skin. ... Literally."

Lassie reaches for his gun.

"Enough!" The Chief slams both hands on her desk. "Mr. Spencer, out. I am letting you off with a warning this time but if you ever, bite one of my officers again-"

"He won't," Gus says quickly. "Right Shawn?"

"Did everyone miss the part where he tried to choke me?"

"Shawn!"

"Right, sorry, I'm sorry, everyone, I forgot that Lassie gets special privileges when it comes to police brutality."

"That's a serious accusation, Shawn!" Jules is backing away now, standing closer to Lassie's side.

"Wow, I had no idea! It's not like I know everything about police procedure because I was drilled on it my whole life!" Shawn knows he's out of control now- he knows, he hates it, this isn't fun out of control, this is bad out of control, this is that Out Of Control that pushed him to steal a car and run away without goodbyes and try to just burn every bridge. It's building up, brick after brick of compressed bad days and weeks and years, and it's not fair to take it out here and now but he can't help it.

"Mr. Spencer, you are officially withdrawn from this case."

"Got it, uh, good luck, detectives, with actually arresting the right person."

"MCNAB!" The Chief's shout makes Shawn flinch even through the foggy, half-aware state he's slipped into. He's just... mad.

Buzz comes running in, almost slipping, barely avoiding hitting his head on the door. The laugh that sneaks out of Shawn is ugly even to him, and he hates it, hates everything he's said and done this whole day, but it happens away and Jules looks at him with unfiltered contempt and Lassie looks ready to actually kill him and Gus looks like he might help out.

"Escort Mr. Spencer out, of this station."

Buzz points at Shawn, mouth slightly agape as his eyes travel over to Lassie cradling his hand and Jules now refusing to look at Shawn at all and Gus holding Shawn like he's a misbehaving dog.

"Careful, I bite." He's not really in control of his own mouth anymore. He feels more like he's dreaming now that he did earlier. Is this the part that isn't real? Is this the nightmare? God, he hopes so.

"Oh, geez." Buzz hesitates for a second, and then tentatively puts an arm behind Shawn. Shawn smiles at him. The look in Buzz's eyes makes him think there's still some blood on his teeth.

He jerks at Buzz a bit. Buzz only startles, but Lassie, Jules, and The Chief all brace to get in the way. Why did he do that? This is getting dangerous. He should just stop.

"Um, just, this way." Buzz puts only a little pressure on his back, but it sends a shock through Shawn's system like a car battery. He has a full-body convulsion away from the touch, and in the shocked silence that follows it he shoulder-checks Buzz as he storms out the door through the station. Eyes are on him, prickling and stinging at his skin, brick on top of brick and-

... Ow.

He blinks at the blood on the rough wall of the station lobby, and looks at the mottled skin on his knuckles.

Gus catches up to him and takes in the scene. The whole station is probably staring too. A numb feeling in his hand starts to spread, but it's not numb-numb, it's pain-numb.

"I think I broke it." His voice sounds jarringly solid and steady to him.

"Yeah." Gus approaches carefully. "Are you uh... feeling better?"

"... No." Shawn clenches his fist and watches the skin stretch, fresh blood beading across the wounds. That should be bothering him. It should be snapping him out of it. It's not.

"Are you gonna do something if I try to touch you right now?"

"... I think so."

"So this is bad-bad."

"And I thought I was the observant one."

Gus tsks. "Will you go to the car? Without anyone making you?"

"... Maybe." He wants to say no. He's just barely holding back from saying no, from calling the car stupid and pointless like it's driver and he doesn't want to think that but he's barely here right now and it's just ringing over and over in his head and-

"Can you stop yourself from punch the car?"

"Yes!" It comes out a snap, a shout, and Gus backs up, and Shawn feels sick but he can't seem to do anything about it.

Gus is about to say something more but Shawn is moving and slamming the door behind him and he could get shot he could get shot but he does and he avoid The Blueberry and just walks. Away from the station, his apartment, the office-

His phone chimes and his hand is shaking as he rips it out of his pocket and throws it against a wall, gritting his teeth so hard as he walks away from it shattering that he breaks a tooth as well. He hears it happen. The phone is more of a good solid bam! while the tooth is a smaller crrrk!

The wandering is the most dreamlike he's ever felt. Just passing buildings and people and seething over nothing and going nowhere.

And then all of a sudden he's Back.

He blinks, and stops, and sucks in a breath, and it all crashes down on him.

The bricks blocking up his chest crumble, their dust clogging his lungs, and he can't breath as it all replays with a sharper clarity than he'd had in the actual moments. He sinks against a wall in some... somewhere, and stares at a tree while it all plays over and over and his head screams to go back and face it an apologize while his everything-else screams to just leave, just go and keep going and never look back-

It's nearly dark out when he sees The Blueberry come into view, but he just stays like he is, arms on his knees and head leaned against the dirty concrete wall. Gus slams the door as he gets out. Shawn feels a flinch try to make it's way to the surface, but now he's in a different dream. It's not so mad, but it's still not good. He's still not here. He was, for a few minutes, and then he'd sat down and... when exactly did he go away again?

"Dude, you have problems." Gus is sweating, breathing hard, eyes bloodshot. "You have serious problems!"

Shawn would nod, but his neck is stiff. He hadn't really noticed until now.

"... Get in the car." Gus's voice is a little softer this time. "I'm taking you to see someone tomorrow, I mean it. ... Chief's orders. It's that or we never work for them again."

"That's fine with me." It's not fine. It's not fine! Why'd that come out of him? He didn't say that.

"No, it isn't." Gus moves out of his vision. Shawn hears fabric against wall, so Gus probably sat down next to him. "... What is this, Shawn?"

Shawn swallows. His throat is dry. He hadn't noticed that, either. No, not hadn't noticed- hadn't been capable of feeling it. Like how he can't feel his body, really, and can't seem to control his words, and can't even control where his thoughts are going.

He has to try a few times, to be able to say anything. To even pry his dry, cracked lips open. To even wrestle back control of his vocal cords. To even identify the problem.

He licks his lips, and Shawn Spencer the ADHD and CPTSD riddled human man, speaks.

"... I'm having a bad day."

[angies-writing-blog]

Trapped beneath his weight is your body, every muscle tensed, but against his raw strength, you stand no chance. Sun Wukong looms over you, his eyes glowing with a dark, unforgiving light that brooks no dissent.

As he holds you mercilessly, your breath comes in ragged gasps. His claws rake across your skin, carving deep lines that burn and bleed. First, a gentle scrape, then a sharp bite—you feel his teeth at your neck, sinking into your flesh, wanting to take a piece of you, to mark you as his forever.

With a force that shows no regard for restraint, he thrusts into you. You feel him cross every boundary, as if he's forgotten that you're made of flesh and blood, fragile in your humanity.

Each thrust is an unrelenting claim on you; his claws dig into your hips, pulling you harder against him. Your body trembles under the intensity, and though you want to resist, you find yourself helpless in his grip, caught between desire and fear. Meanwhile, his teeth are everywhere—nibbling, biting, tearing at your skin as though he intends to possess you completely, as if every fiber of your being is meant for him alone.

The heat of his breath, the sting of his touch, the sharp claws piercing you—all of it blends into a whirl from which there is no escape. You are his prey, and Wukong hunts you to the brink of your endurance. His deep moans merge with yours, a wild, animalistic sound that makes you believe he would continue even if all strength left your limbs.

Then, after a final, deep thrust, he collapses over you, his body trembling with unbridled power. You feel him come inside you, hot and unstoppable, an ultimate claim on you that embeds itself in every fiber of your being. His claws dig deeper into your skin as his breath crashes against your ear, a silent cry that speaks of all his passion and power. Finally, his arms wrap tightly around you, as if he'll never let you go, and with every deep breath, you feel him claim you forever.

[vakariaan]

ultimate ships challenge - the first otp Harry/Hermione  »  Harry Potter

Harry felt a thrill of something that was beyond excitement, more like fear. Now that he was so near, he wondered whether he wanted to see after all. Perhaps Hermione knew how he was feeling, because she reached for his hand and took the lead for the first time, pulling him forward.

[peachdues]

a glimpse at some soon-to-come Hashira interaction and a wee predicament in Compass

CW: slight reference to/implied roofie-ing • protective Sanemi • violently protective Sanemi • bad boy/gang AU • slight mention of throwing up

“Y/N?” Sanemi catches you right as you stumble once more. He brings you in against him, keeping you upright with his body as your knees give way.

“Y/N. Hey, hey.” He lightly slaps your cheek, cool and clammy under his touch.

Your eyes have rolled back and you’re muttering and moaning incoherently under your breath, but you manage a single, whimpered “Sanemi.”

“I’m here, I’m here, baby’. I’ve got you.” Sanemi loops your arm around his shoulders, allowing you to fully sink into his side. His other arm anchors itself around your waist. “What happened? Did you drink something?”

You mumble again, your head rolling heavily into his shoulder.

He sidesteps with Iguro, blocking him while keeping you in his arms.

“The diner on 12th street. Tomorrow night. Seven.”

And Sanemi knows, by the way his fellow Hashira’s eyes widen — marginally so — that he’s struck a chord.

Good, Sanemi thinks. Let him know that he has leverage of his own; an ace in his back pocket, should Iguro decide to test the limits of his patience.

His raven haired companion only responds with a tight nod that Sanemi returns before he turns toward your apartment building, and carries you inside.

“We’re home, baby,” he soothes, cheek pressed to your clammy temple as he carries you toward the door.

Sanemi doesn’t let himself think about the mental slip he’d just made, by telling you that you were both home; as though he has some claim to your apartment. As though he deserves to, especially after he failed to be with you tonight, when you needed him most.

He sets you down only for a moment to rummage his pocket for the key he’d had made to unlock your door, before he lifts you back up into his arms and totes you inside.

He makes a mental note to check your jacket for your own keys, as well as your wallet — to ensure they’re still on you and haven’t been swiped by whomever targeted you, lest they think it wise to return.

Some brutal, violent part of him dares them to try; let them come for you again. His reputation is brutal enough as applied to the lowlifes he’s tasked with breaking; let them see what he can do when someone he loves is threatened.

He’ll show them a monster.

But first, he needs to get you situated.

He makes for your bed, resolving to strip you free of your clothes and find one of the sweaters or shirts he knows you’ve swiped over the last few months when you begin squirming in his arms.

“Throw up,” you moan, pushing weakly against his chest. “Gonna — up —“

With lightning speed, Sanemi whips around and makes a beeline for your bathroom. He barely has time to set you down in front your toilet and flip open its lid before you’re retching into the bowl.

Sanemi sighs and settles in behind you, his hand gathering your hair together and sweeping it back, holding it out of your way. His other hand rests solidly against your back, occasionally rubbing soothing circles in between your great, shuddering gasps.

At some point, he helps you peel your sweater off of your sweat-dampened skin, leaving you in nothing but your bra and jeans as you continue heaving your guts into the toilet.

Sanemi leans forward and presses his lips against your sticky shoulder. “I’m sorry. I’m so fuckin’ sorry.”

You moan in some vague attempt at a response, though he’s not entirely sure you’ve heard him. You only rest your cheek against the cool porcelain of your toilet, your eyelids heavy as your breathing eases.

When an hour passed without you vomiting up your insides, Sanemi decides it’s likely safe to try and move you to your bed. He would be concerned by the heavy way you rest in his arms, dead to the world, if it wasn’t your steady breathing.

Once he’s stripped you of your jeans and underwear and found you his worn, white and black sweater to wear, he strips himself down to his briefs and climbs into bed with you.

You don’t move, even as he slides his arms under you to bring you to his chest , still too worried that you may throw up at some point in the night and be unable to roll to your side. But Sanemi basks in the temporary relief of knowing you’re here, warm and safe in his arms.

Whoever did this to you should be grateful Sanemi can’t unglue himself from your side right now. He will kill them regardless, and it will hurt; of that, he is certain.

But if he’d had the chance to hunt them down right then, Sanemi was fairly sure there would be no mercy. No where they could run, no where they could hide, where Sanemi would not hunt them down and make them pay.

Annnd Iguro knows about her

[comatosebunny09]

insecurities | astarion a.

summary: “why don’t you like me?” he asks, his voice small amid the symphony of the forest dwellers. you choke on your spittle. how unlike your undead friend to sound so unsure of himself.

The night is quiet.

Most of your companions have retired to their tents. Tending to their weapons, reading, sleeping.

You’re left by the fire, snapping twigs to further kindle it. You smile quietly. The atmospheric pop and fizz bring you comfort as a summery breeze slides in.

You turn away in search of more wood when you hear a weighted sigh, followed by the thunk of the log behind you.

Seems someone’s decided to impede on your party of one.

You spin around to see your favorite vampire sitting opposite you on the log, his features accentuated by the fire. Astarion watches you with a pout on his lips and his brows knit together. You snort, wholly prepared for him to complain about something.

“What’s wrong, sunshine?” you query, squatting and poking around the campfire. “Our lodgings not to your liking? You break a nail? A rat crawl up into your ass?” Your eyes crinkle with mirth. 

Astarion leans back on his hands, one leg crossed over the other. He stares at you with those petulant eyes, studying you for a beat. It’s unlike him to be so serious. Silence stretches between you for a moment longer before he asks, “Why don’t you like me?”

You nearly choke on your spittle. His brazenness floors you. Literally. You plop down on the ground, dusting off your hands, your expression bemused. “Excuse me?”

“Oh, come now.” He crosses his arms. Looks off to the side, face screwing up into a scowl. “You haven’t slept with me. You shrug off all my advances. Hells, it feels like you won’t even give me the time of day.”

Another snort. Your tone drips with sarcasm. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know I had to sleep with someone to show I cared.”

Astarion scoffs, waving a dismissive hand. “Bullshit. Have you seen me? I’m irresistible. The very definition of sex on legs, so I’ve been told. People would kill for a chance at me. And I would’ve bedded you a thousand times over, had you stopped playing hard to get.”

You sigh. Laugh a little disbelievingly, slowly standing. “Astarion—”

“I’m not your type, am I? Do you even have a type? It’s Halsin, isn’t it? That oaf of a druid.”

You caution a few steps around the fire towards him, your hands stretched out placatingly. You’re exasperated. “Astarion, look—”  

“I don’t blame you. I would’ve bedded him, too.”

“Astarion!” 

You’re in front of him now. Bent over, gathering his icy cheeks into your palms. He looks at you with confusion marring his features. You have his attention, nonetheless.  

Your eyes gloss over with wetness. A forlorn smile rounds your lips. Your chest swells with emotion, and you tuck some errant curls behind Astarion’s ear.

“I thought we knew each other better than that.” You swallow before wetting your lips. You look down at the ground, inhaling deeply. Kneel before him, taking up his hands with all the gentleness of the world, your eyes shining with the threat of tears.

“You are more than your body, Astarion. More than some fling. More than a romp in the dirt. I wish you could see that. Sex is nice. Gods, it can be such an incredible thing. But I don’t need it to know I mean something to you. And I don’t need it to show you I adore you.”

Astarion blinks. For a moment, only the two of you exist in this world of chirping crickets and crackling fire. Tenderness flashes across his face before the vampire chuckles softly, patting your hands, squeezing them. His lashes flutter. He’s breathtaking.

“You adore me, do you?” Astarion purrs, his cockiness returning tenfold. “I am rather amazing, aren’t I?” He leans back again to have a look at his nails, radiating smugness.

You snort, standing and wiping your hands on your breeches. “You just had to muck it up, didn’t you?” You can’t help the quirk of your lips as you turn back to tend to the fire.

“Darling. Who would I be if I didn’t?”

“And to think, I was just about to kiss you.”

The indignant sound Astarion releases behind you makes your ribs blossom with pride.

Ah, well. Maybe next time.

masterlist

[thefreakandthehair]

grow where you're planted

written for ‘stuff’ | wc: 483 | rated: teen & up | tags: modern AU, no upside down, landscaper steve harrington, homeowner eddie munson, eddie munson & gareth friendship, confident!steve harrington, flirting, different first meeting @steddiemicrofic

“What is all that stuff?” Eddie mutters under his breath.

He’s alone in his shiny new shotgun house with no one around to hear his question but he asks it anyway because seriously— what is all that stuff? How much mulch does one Indianapolis front yard need?

A lot, apparently.

He keeps watching through the glass window in the front door as they slice open bags and pull plants gently from their pots. One of the landscapers, a lean guy who’s worked up a sweat with toned shoulders and moles that cascade from the side of his neck, runs his fingers through his hair. Dirt sticks to his temple as he bends down to plant something with yellow flowers beside the mailbox and Eddie wants to lick him clean.

“Jesus Christ,” he whispers to himself, yanking his phone from his back pocket.

Eddie: landscaper is too hot help Gareth: you brought this on yourself Eddie: there’s a guy in the shortest basketball shorts i’ve ever seen. like, 80s pin-up short. i’m in over my head Gareth: then go talk to him? Eddie: good idea, lets get all the bad ideas out now Gareth: i’m serious! Eddie: i pre-paid online for a reason, i can’t even look him in the fucking eye

Eddie looks up from his phone, intent to watch Shorts Guy from a distance only to find himself face to face with Shorts Guy through the offending glass window.

“Fuck!” He blurts, dropping his phone in the process. Please don’t be broken, he thinks as he tries to discreetly slide it aside with his foot and opens the door.

“Hey! Sorry to scare you. We’re all set,” Shorts Guy says with a smirk as he glances up and down from Eddie’s phone to his warm, flushed cheeks.

“Cool! Awesome!” His voice is about an octave too high– he clears his throat. “Looks great!”

“Thanks! If you’re satisfied with the work, leave us a good review. Goes a long way. And uh…” Shorts Guy does that thing with his hair again and Eddie might actually be sweating more than him now. “Maybe you can give me a call if you’re extra satisfied? And if your phone’s not broken.”

Shorts Guy nods to Eddie's discarded phone and what the fuck is happening right now? Eddie blinks and then shakes his head, grabbing his phone to find it blissfully still intact.

“All in one piece,” he says, turning the phone around toward Shorts Guy as if he needed to prove it. “I’d– yeah! Totally. I’d love to. Y’know, since it’s not broken and all that.”

Shorts Guy takes Eddie’s phone from his outstretched hand and saves his number as Steve. He texts Steve immediately, exchanging numbers and names before Steve’s even left the driveway.

Eddie: hey, it’s Eddie. extra satisfied. free this Saturday?

Gareth is never going to let him hear the end of this.

doubling up with a microfic and a gift for @starrystevie! happy birthday, bee!! here's some confident, sweaty landscaper!steve harrington for you! <3 I've been thinking about it for days and couldn't stop myself. love you!! have the best day!!

[synodicsoma]

My old werewolf hyperfixation mauled Stanley so now this AU is rotting my brain.

[ccrites]

chokehold

listen, I've had this idea in my wips for a while (since the begnining of the year actually) and the fat reader worms have been wiggling in third gear with all the awesome stuff early ( @391780 ) has been putting out lately. So have 6.4k words of Soap being an absolute pussy eating freak but you know you love him

(also on ao3 if you prefer the formatting there, or if you want to drop a kudo)

.

The second the doors swing back closed behind you, you start feeling the scratchy feeling of doubt at the back of your throat.

It was predictable, really.

A small gym in a small town, heads turn when the hinges creak, not because they’re staring at you specifically, but because it’s a reflex.

Or at least, that’s what you tell yourself to keep the scratchy feeling from turning sour in your mouth. Or make you throw up from embarrassment.

Perhaps your New Year’s resolution should’ve been to start on a home gym type of situation. Buy yourself some girly weights, a mat, and some sort of stepping device, and do those easy exercises every slim, pretty, high-ponytailed YouTube instructor seemed to preconize people out of shape do. Like a hamster on a wheel inside their cage. A rat chasing its own tail, maybe.

No, you promised yourself no more fake promises. Perhaps the money spent on the gym membership (stupid fucking New Year’s promotion) would motivate you to use it, lest it’s just money down the drain. 

You wore the stretchiest, thickest pair of black leggings you owned, hoping no one would see the terrible shape of your underwear through it. On the opposite spectrum of things, you knew the largest hoodie you owned would smother you and make you boil with sweat, so you chose the next best thing: the widest black t-shirt you owned. It was definitely not black enough, the dye faded into a dark gray from use over the years, but it was the only thing that camouflaged your body enough from the others’ sight. God forbid they imagine what your body actually looks like underneath.

The heads pretty quickly turned back around as you started walking towards the empty treadmills. It couldn’t have been more than a second, but the combined weight of at least a dozen pairs of scrutinizing eyes would’ve been enough to make you turn on your heels and back to your car, fuck the membership price.

At the very least, you could convince yourself that walking in place (no better than a hamster on its wheel but oh well) would be enough to get you started. Baby steps, and all.

It doesn’t take long for you to realize the treadmill fucking sucks. Why would anyone suggest looking at a parking lot while suffering instead of the pretty scenery of a park or forest (while also suffering, but still).

The timer you’d set for the warm-up (ten minutes, just like the pretty blonde coach suggested!) crawls by way too slowly for your taste. You’d be all but whooping with joy when it beeps if you weren’t so out of breath and conscious of a gaze on you.

You’d seen him as soon as you walked in.

Between figures of balding men trying to get rid of their beer gut with abs, two thin women whispering to themselves in a corner while trying to look inconspicuous, and a few other, completely average-looking men and women, there he stands, eyes meeting yours in the mirror as he deadlifts an impressive amount of black plates.

He immediately looks straight ahead, correcting his stance, as if there were anything to be corrected, in your unathletic opinion. The muscles in his arms bulge even through the thin, grey hoodie, and the ones in his legs coil tight as the weight is lifted off the ground in a slow, controlled motion. Not even a grunt escapes his lips, at least no one you could hear from where you stood, completely mesmerized.

There was always something almost unappealing about overly muscled men. Their wife’s not feedin’ ‘em enough, your granny would grumble when passing by the rows of magazines at the checkout of the supermarket. 

Yet this man.

Yeah, he was muscled. But in a way, he looked… almost normal. Like he was built for strength, not necessarily vanity. Each bend of his legs, each twist of his arms…

You’d swoon if you hadn’t lowered your standards so low he’d trip on them. Accepted it a long time ago. Fats belong with fats, thins with thins, and if there’s a thin with a fat, either one’s getting fattened up, or the other’s getting dumped. It’s a self-fulfilling prophecy, and one you’d rather not be a part of.

You walk with shaky legs to the water dispenser, then get ready to grab the second to lightest weights to try some bicep curls.

You try to remember the positioning from the videos. Rotate in… or out? Should the wrists be like this? You go through ten repetitions on each side, before you think that you should’ve gone for the abs straight away. God knows there’s fat to burn there, and that the flab under your arms can wait.

You turn back from the rack and walk straight into a wall.

No, a chest.

Fuck.

“Sorry there, miss,” says a deep voice. You detect some sort of accent, unable to quite place it right away.

Your eyes run up, instinctively stopping for a second at chest level (holy heavens that’s a Chest with a capital C if you’ve ever seen one) before finally meeting that same pair of eyes you met a few minutes ago, through the mirror.

Double fuck.

“S-sorry, it’s me, wasn’t watching,” you stammer out, gesturing to the weights in a panicked way. “Just, y’know, switching exercises,” you sputter with a nervous laugh, like it was a completely normal thing to switch exercises after one rep.

He chuckles, and you really need to start planning your escape, because holy shit the way his pectorals rise and fall as his chest puffs up is getting a bit too much for your poor little humiliated self to handle, but he doesn’t let you as he speaks in a soft tone.

“I’m getting arms aren’t really your thing, eh?” he asks, not unkindly. Gosh, did it have to be a Scottish accent?

You can’t meet his eyes, they’re too blue, too piercing for your liking. “To be fair I don’t know what’s my thing yet, I’m just starting out, y’know?” you shift your weight on your legs, conscious of the size difference, and not in the way you wanted to be. Your neck is very warm all of a sudden.

He laughs again, like it’s the funniest thing in the world, and you almost want the floor to open up and swallow you whole, but the words that come out of his mouth are completely unexpected.

“Figured! A girl with thighs like yours, I’m sure you can deadlift more than me with just a lil’ training. I’m Johnny, by the way,” he adds in passing, as if offering his name is the least of his concerns. “You ever got someone to train you?”

You’re entirely unsure if you’re dreaming or not. Did this Scottish hunk of muscle really just offer to be your personal trainer?

“Never - uh… lifted anything, I guess. Just when moving, my couch and bed and all, but I had a friend help me.” You definitely feel like you’re oversharing and you’re struggling to ignore the weight of the gaze of the two thin women, burning through you as they whisper among themselves, when you realize you hadn't answered the second part. “Oh and, uh– no. I’ve never… trained. Been trained. It’s my first time in a gym since- a while. I don’t want to bother you.”

You finally look up at him, and you’re unable to read his expression. There’s a sort of curiosity, a fascination, that blends fast into a wide-eyed joy that’s so open, so sincere that it makes your head spin as he gently but firmly grabs your wrist and pulls you where his bar stands on the thick mat, ignoring your sputtering protests. “Not a bother at all, lass!” He lets go of you as he bends down and effortlessly racks the barbell, starting to remove plates as he continues. “We can start by measuring your max lift, then the one where you can easily do three reps, then we’ll hike it up till failure, so I can calculate your starting training weight!” he rambles on excitedly. You nervously shift on your feet, conscious of more curious gazes on you, but then he’s back in your bubble, pulling your attention towards him like a magnet.

His smile is like a blazing sun, and you don’t have the heart to tell him to prepare for disappointment.

He’s infinitely patient as he shows you how to place your feet, and the angle of your hips (oh, how you feel your knee weaken at the feel of his light tough through the leggings, nothing short of electrifying, despite being perfectly friendly), the hold on the bar. It’s all a blur till you find yourself bent over in front of him, looking in the mirror at your position and trying not to feel conscious of the way he’s placed behind you. Or let your mind wander in inappropriate places.

“Whenever yer ready, hen.”

You brace yourself, close your eyes for a brief second, wondering how the hell you’d landed on this planet, then breathe in, open your eyes-

The weight is in your hands. Not on the floor. You’re holding it.

You almost drop it when he cheers behind you, warm palms rubbing down from your shoulders to your elbows and back up. “Easy! I told you you’d be a natural! ‘S all in the legs and you’ve got awesome legs, bonnie! Let’s add twenty more.”

It’s a blur of racking and de-racking and lifting once and setting back, and redoing it again and again. You’re out of breath, sweating like a sinner in church, but you’re smiling along with him, finding yourself giving him double high fives, and doing small, excited jumps.

“Next one’s exactly my weight, if y’can lift that, I’ll be losing my bloody mind! D’you realize how well yer doin’ for a first-timer?” He says as he bends next to you, adjusting the bar for the next set of weights. With a wipe of his forearm over his forehead, he crouches slightly down, placing his head right above your shoulder and looking your reflection in the mirror straight in the eyes with a conspiratory grin. “Swear to God, if ye can lift it off the ground, I’m buying you the most expensive drink at the bar next door!” he says, grin blending into a blinding smile, too genuine for your own good.

He’s just friendly, just friendly, just friendly, you say to yourself like a mantra as you position yourself. He stands again to his full height behind you, hands ready under the bar, a safenet.

Deep breath in– hold it…

Slowly but surely, you lift the weight off the floor, your ears ringing from the effort. You see his lips move as he cheers you on, but the blood pumping in your eardrums makes it impossible to hear him. Suddenly, the weight is back on the ground and your feet are off the floor as you’re lifted in a tight embrace and spun around like you weigh nothing.

You yelp and flail but he’s holding you tight, face pressed smack-dab in the middle of your chest, between your tits, rumbling praises about your prowess while you’re trying to figure out whether this can be something that your brain is capable of summoning as a dream.

“Put me down, Johnny, oh my God, put me down!”

He thankfully complies but not before squeezing your ass tighter, and suddenly nothing feels real anymore.

“Jesus, I knew ye were perfect,” he says, pulling back reluctantly to rerack the bar and put back the weights. “I cannot wait to properly start training ye’ tomorrow, but for now, I have a promise ta’ keep, and, uh, let’s just say I wouldn’t mind using those strong thighs as earmuffs with this freezin’ weather. On the way back from the bar, what d’ya say?” he adds, wiggling his eyebrows with a crooked smile that lets you know he’s joking around. (Is he?)

You laugh with him and for a second, you forget what you were here for.

+++

The way to the bar is short. It was just a block away (Good for business, he jokes), but the conversation with Johnny made time really fly by. 

He seems genuinely glad when you tell him you’d decided to head to the gym not just as a New Year’s resolution, but trying to simply become a better you. There’s no condescendence, no talking down, no (God forbid) pity, just an overall nice interaction the whole time. He tells you about being on leave as a soldier (Medical leave, he specifies, a fucked up knee can work in a gym, but it’s a different story out in the field), you tell him about your studies and how that led into a “big girl” job that left you no time for yourself.

“But I’ve always been a big girl,” you feel the need to justify. “Just… gotten bigger as I stopped finding time to move. The desk and the laptop are pretty stationary,” you joke, still trying to make sense of why a man like him (broad, and tall, and strong, and… gosh, just perfect-looking) would even deign to accept being seen with you.

(It’s not a date, you dumbass)

“I happen to like big girls,” is what you don’t expect him to say.

Wait, what?

His blue eyes glue you to your seat, and you respond dumbly. “What?”

“I mean, why do you think I’d offer to train you?” he continues, placing his hand, big and warm over your thigh. It’s squished as you sit, wide and flattened in your seat, yet his hand covers a good amount, almost covering the whole width.

Your brain is short-circuiting but you have to answer something.

“Out of– uh… out of niceness?” you stammer out, feeling your insecurities climb back out of the hole they’d been sleeping in all this time, making you shrink even more, trying to cover yourself as if he didn’t see right through you with that piercing gaze. “To feel good seeing you be the reason I lose weight?”

He chuckles, squeezing your thigh as his head hangs down, almost as if to hide the smile that spreads on his lips.

“Strength training doesn’t work like that, bonnie.” He looks back up, and his eyes are blue, and wide, and so pretty, that you can’t find anything to argue back. “Ye’ think building glutes underneath that fat arse does anything but make it bigger?” He shifts, inching closer as he licks his lips and drops his voice lower. “Ye’ think growing your quads will make this,” he gives an even firmer squeeze, wiggling the fat back and forth, and you tense under his grip, but he’s got you pinned down, “any less wide and soft?”

He presses closer, and the booth has no escape room, you’re practically squeezed into the corner as he pushes his body against yours, bending to whisper lowly in the crook of your neck.

“I did not joke when I said I want yer pretty thighs wrapped tight around my head.”

You can’t be blamed when you don’t remember how you ended up in the back of a cab, Johnny barely taking the time to bark an address to the poor driver and throw fifty quid on the front seat before kissing you absolutely senseless, shamelessly groping your tits with a hand and wrapping the other around your thigh, squeezing you close.

You should probably think more about going home with basically a stranger, no matter how hot, but when he presses his entire palm against your cunt, cupping it over the quickly dampening pair of leggings that didn’t seem so thick anymore, you can’t think at all. He swallows your quiet moans, and hums contently against your lips, taking each gasp for air as an invitation to slither his tongue into your mouth. God, you’d forgotten what a good makeout session was like, and you can’t even find it in you to be embarrassed when you see the cabbie’s eyes in the rearview mirror, instantly looking away when you see him staring. 

Johnny doesn’t seem to mind either, and when he notices you looking in the front again and again, he crowds you against the door behind the driver with a huff, half-climbing over you until his knee is pressed against your core, and the only thing in your field of vision is him.

“Johnny,” you try to say, but it’s getting hard to think, with the way you’re being squeezed in a corner, this hunk of a man of pure muscle pressing against you like a weighted blanket, kissing you like you were a drop of water in the desert and he was a parched man drinking you for his salvation. You feel his excitement pressed against your thigh, and it gives you enough lucidity to try again. “Johnny,” you gasp out again, “aren’t we going a little fast?”

He laughs instead, choosing to focus on the side of your mouth, pressing fervent little kisses down your neck before starting to suckle the delicate skin over where your clavicle is. “I can go as slow as you’d like, bun.” He takes the spot an inch next to the previous one into his mouth and sucks again, this time more forcefully, marking you, and oh God you’re going to have to conceal it before work tomorrow, unless you can find a turtleneck to wear–

The cab driver clears his throat, and you notice that the car is stopped in front of a small apartment complex. Johnny says a cordial thanks as he pulls you out of the car and throws another twenty on the backseat, before wrapping his arm around your shoulders and taking all of the thinking out of the equation as he walks you to the entry.

His flat is pretty well furnished, all things considered, but he doesn’t give you enough time to observe the deco as he presses you against the door and slides his hand under your leggings.

“Got me starin’ at that ass the second you walked in, best fuckin’ thing I’ve seen in months, d’ye realize that, bonnie?” he breathes out against your ear as his entire palm cups your sex, and you can only whine as you press your forehead into the crook of his neck. “And by how wet this pussy is, I think you liked starin’ at me, too.”

“You are–” you say, but he curls his middle finger in, spreading your lips and spreading the wetness to your clit, making you choke on your words, “-very nice to stare at.”

“Yeah?” you hear the grin in his voice.

“Mmhm,” you nod, as he keeps the back and forth of his finger, never dipping in too far, just keeping you hungry for more.

“Then how’d ye like to stare down at me as I taste this wet cunt of yours?” he purrs in your ear as he stops moving completely, letting the words process.

Brain.exe has stopped functioning. 

Had you ever had a boyfriend willing to speak filth like that to you when you were down to do the deed, maybe you would’ve gotten enough practice to know what to answer something sensible and intelligible to that, but as it stands, all you can muster is a very dumb-sounding “Huh?” as you stare back at him.

And that, apparently, is the funniest thing in the world to him, because he dips his head down and laughs, almost like a boyish giggle. Not only does that not stop him from kneeling in front of you, but it also somehow gives him more confidence to keep talking like that.

“How about you look down into my eyes as I eat out your pretty little pussy and make you come around my tongue, how’s that sound?” His baby blues bear no trace of maliciousness, no trace of a joke, as his fingers hook around the waistband and trace it around your stomach. You have to make a very conscious effort not to suck it in immediately in preparation for the letdown, but he doesn’t pull them down yet, only moving his hand alongside the edge. Your silence as you try to process what is happening only seems to spur him on instead. “In fact, how about you close your eyes, I close mine, and you hold my head close as I devour you, would you let me do that, pretty girl?”

“I’m not-” you can’t think of any way to properly let him down, not when he looks up with such pleading eyes, so the words stumble out gracelessly. “I’m sweaty, you don’t wanna–”

But he interrupts as he pulls your leg closer by gripping your thigh and squishing it against his cheek “But I do.” He inhales deeply, and your own breath shakes at the sight of how blissed out he already looks. “God, I want it. Let me have this.”

A voice somewhere inside yells at you that this has to be some sort of weird fetish, and that he most certainly won’t be having the same aura of desperation around him tomorrow, when post-coital rationale shows up and he sees your body past the veil of lust, but for now, you think that getting some with Johnny cannot be that bad compared to any one of your past encounters. Might as well enjoy it when you still can.

You wrap your hand around the one he still has around your waistband, and see his face positively light up as you softly caress his cheek.

In the end, you’re the one that pleads.

“Johnny, please.”

Your pants are off you and your leg is over his shoulder before you realize what is happening.

The feel of his warm tongue against your slit makes any thought, any doubt, any fear positively vanish, and the content sigh that he lets out as he licks at you is the same sigh as finally removing a bra at the end of a long day, it’s the sigh of laying down carelessly onto a soft bed after standing up for hours, it’s the sigh of the first bite of the best meal a man has after starving for weeks.

It should be awkward the way his arm wraps around your thigh and sinks into the softness of your stomach, using it to pin you up as he uses his other hand to spread you out enough for him to work his jaw the same way he did when he was making out with you in the car… Yet it’s not. It’s natural, the way his hand squeezes you as he licks, and sucks, and kisses around your pussy, unhurried yet passionate, languidly but firmly, pressing his tongue in, licking around your lips, and maddeningly avoiding the place you wanted him to touch most.

“Johnny,” you moan as he grazes his teeth around your sensitive nub in response. You almost buck out of his hold, but he’s firmly keeping you in place. “Please, don’t tease.”

He hums in response and dives back in, eyes fluttering closed as he ignores your whines. Every time his tongue or lips graze your clit, he works his mouth the opposite way, holding your thigh harder and pressing his palm up as he counters your hip movements with a clever swipe of the tongue. It’s absolutely maddening. “Johnny, please!”

He chuckles as he pulls back, an obscene string of spit lengthening as he pulls back, only breaking when he runs his tongue against his reddened, swollen lips. “Thought ye’ wanted me ta’ go slow, bun.” His eyes sparkle with challenge, but you can also discern a veil of unhidden desperation, of waiting for you to give the go-ahead for him to let loose.

“I’m fine with faster–” you start, but the words dissolve into a barely restrained moan as he hikes your leg up more, getting you closer to him, and immediately singling onto your neglected clit.

His forehead rests onto your belly now, and if you had more than two functioning neurons you’d wonder how he is that he’s breathing, but his hums and moans let you know that he’s perfectly content burrowing his nose in your pussy, nudging at your clit with the tip of it as he licks you with all the dedication you’ve never been shown from a man of his caliber.

He builds it up, and soothes it down, knowing exactly when to put more pressure, or when to teasingly swirl his tongue around your entrance, or to lave broad strokes of his tongue, so much so that the knee that’s not hooked over his shoulder almost gives out on a particularly forceful suck of your clit.

“Easy there,” he groans almost petulantly, as if you’re interrupting him. “Can’t have you fallin’ over when I’m not done wit’ ye.”

“My legs are gonna give out,” you say honestly, trying to catch your breath and avoid having the perfect man at your feet steal it again. “You’re a bit too good at this.” He grins up at you, “Am I?” and you want to give you a playful swat, but instead decide on carding your fingers through his now disheveled mohawk. “Guess the mess on my face speaks for itself… Shall we take this to the bedroom?”

You throw a glance around the apartment, assessing your options. “Couch is closer.” His smile is blinding. “I like how ye’ think.”

It’s now the second time he surprises you by scooping your legs from under you and picking you up like he couldn’t wait any longer and that carrying you bridal-style was the only way he could think of moving you. You yelp out a protest but he swallows it with another hungry kiss, shamelessly smearing your own wetness over your cheek as he walks you both to the couch.

You sink into the cushions where he places you gently without so much as a grunt of effort, and oh God, there they are, the standards are rising.

You reach over to pull him closer as he straightens up, but he only gives you a peck on the lips in return, like he hadn’t been kissing you sloppily the entire time.

“Come back,” you whine, hoping you can get it done before he comes back to his senses, like they all do, but he just smiles and kneels between your feet, hands pressing your thighs apart. The squelch of your lips parting should be embarrassing were he not looking up at you like you were the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, eyes full of adoration, like a child staring up at the full moon on full display on a clear night’s skies. Maybe you are his moon, his goddess, judging by the lust-clouded look directed at you.

“I did say I was gonna make you come on my face,” he says lowly, the gravel in his voice making you squirm as he places a trail of kisses up your thigh. “And I intend to keep that promise.”

With that, he dives in again, using his forearms to pin your legs open on the couch and his fingers to tease around where his tongue can’t reach. You mewl when you feel his tongue at your entrance, circling it around it briefly before delving in as deep as he could, his right hand stroking your clit rhythmically. The fact that he’s so good at somehow playing all your buttons like a maestro directing an orchestra has you thinking that he must be some sort of womanizer, some freak who does this kind of thing every night, but then his lips wrap around your nub and he gives a firm, long suck, and any restriction that you could’ve conjured up simply vanishes. Your thighs want to close around his head, but you can’t move under the iron grip he has on you.

You fist his hair more forcefully than necessary, and he looks up, wet eyelashes framing his beautiful eyes as he hums in response.

“Please,” you moan, and he hums affirmatively again, closing his eyes to focus on licking and suckling harder. He heard you, he simply doesn’t seem to care. “Johnny.”

“What,” he asks, voice muffled and why is this so hot? 

“I need… I need,” you whine, unable to string the words together, and desperately trying to buck your hips under him, for lack of strength to actually close your thighs how you want to.

That seems to get his attention, and he chuckles, before pulling back with a gentle kiss on your mound. “Guess you’ll have to keep tryin’, pet,” he sussurs, a condescending pat on your thighs before he dives in slower than before.

Oh, the absolute asshole. Now he wants you to work for it?

You think that doing the opposite, relaxing your thighs open and letting him go to town however he wanted would help, but he seems hell-bent on riling you up every once in a while, getting you closer and closer with each lave of his tongue over your poor, overstimulated clit, but never enough to actually push you over the edge.

After what seems like an eternity, and almost, almost starting to think that this was a mistake, halfway ready to let him do this thing before your hip starts to cramp up, you feel a finger nudge at your entrance.

“Fucking finally–” you start, ready to curse him out, but he’s faster than you can think in your blissed-out state, and he slides a second finger alongside the first one, immediately zeroing in on that spot that makes you go cross-eyed and buck under his hold.

“Thassit– there you go, pretty girl,” he murmurs against your clit, and oh, okay, maybe you were closer than you thought, because the rhythmic curl of his fingers doesn’t need to last long before you’re off like an arrow, back arching and thighs squeezing, coming harder than you ever thought was possible. If he were any less skilled at making you completely lose the ability to think, you’d maybe notice that you’d managed to close your thighs almost completely around his head, but he wasn’t, so you don’t, twitching helplessly in the aftershocks of the most wonderful orgasm a man had ever given you.

Limbs that somehow still belong to your body hang uselessly off the side of the couch, and you struggle to catch your breath. You blink lazily, noticing him smugly wipe his face with the back of his hand, his half lidded eyes not any less blissed-out than yours. 

You didn’t believe a man like this ever existed, until now. It aches that this might not be something that would last, so you make grabby hands at him, unable to find the will to speak just yet. 

He laughs softly and gently grabs your arms, kissing from your knuckles slowly up your arm, to the crook of your neck. The patience he has is almost inhuman, as he takes the time to let you regather your senses, matching the marks he made earlier on the other side of your neck. You cup your hand around his head in response, and he smiles at you.

“Ye’ with me, bun?”

“Mmhm.”

“That slow enough fer’ ye’?” He holds himself up, an inch fron your face, and you reach up to kiss him.

“I’m gonna kill you dead,” you mutter against his lips, and he chuckles.

“Let me at least fuck you properly, first,” he whispers, and you notice that he’s long since unbuttoned his pants. You barely get a view of the massive size of him over your belly as he holds himself in his hand, large palm not enough to cover the whole length of him as he strokes himself, angled in such way that his tip rubs against your clit on each downstroke. The word “Please,” is not even halfway out of your mouth when he sinks into you in one swift motion, the rest dissolving into a long, drawn-out moan.

“Fuck-” he grunts, “so tight, cannot believe it.”

He guides one of your legs to wrap around him, keeping it flush against his body with his elbow as his palm grips your ass tightly, the other holding him against the backrest, forearm near your head as he pulls you closer for a sloppy kiss as he starts rolling his hips. You moan into his mouth and he swallows them greedily, leveraging each trust of his hips with a pull with his hand, helping you move in tandem with him, readjusting when your thigh threatens to slip out of his hold. The slaps of his pelvis to yours should sound obscene, his hard muscles hitting against your soft, jiggly skin, but his groans into your mouth are like music to your ears, the fact that he’s vocal about it has you almost reaching your peak again in no time, but he seems to sense it, and slows down immediately.

You try to kiss him harder, but he makes a small noise of protest, muttering something that sounds vaguely like “no, let me, let me just–” and you want to ask what he wants to do, to help him, but he instead reaches down both hands to grab your hips and pull you off the backrest. You yelp as your ass suddenly hangs in the air, his cock speared inside you the only secure point as he pulls you halfway off the couch, but he directs you firmly, “Here, around me,” helping you wrap your legs tightly as he starts thrusting again, harder than before.

“Oh, God, oh God,” you flail around, but each thrust in pushes your back into the cushions, and he reaches behind his back to hold your feet in his hand as he presses his palm near your head for support, spewing more filth as he does.

“That’s it, hold me tight, squeeze my cock like ye’ almost squeezed mah heid off earlier, huh, bonnie? Show me what those thighs can do, fuck-”

Your whole body is jiggling with each thrust, and you don’t have it in you to even feel self-conscious with the way each time he fills you, the tip of his cock nudges against the spongey spot inside, making you mewl in tempo with his relentless rhythm.

“Johnny, Johnny,” you moan, and he bends over to kiss you again, swallowing his name like communion while you chant it like a prayer.

“Don’t give up now, bonnie, keep squeezin’, fuck, I can feel ye’, yer so close.”

You try to get some leverage with your upper body, trying to push yourself up the cushions, but his cock suddenly slips out of you as your thighs almost give out, and an apology is already halfway out your mouth when he kneels back down and burrows between your legs, tongue first with a rushed “Need ta’ taste us, fuck, both of us, together-”

One hand wraps around your hip and over your pelvis, reaching up to knead desperately at your stomach, to pull you closer or push you away, you can’t tell, the other pulling your lips apart to settle his entire lower face against your pussy firmly– before letting go as he starts humming.

Your thighs are free to squeeze around his ears, and he nods encouragingly as he keeps licking, and then you hear it: the sounds of wet stroking. You don’t see him fisting his cock, but you hear it, fast and desperate. As your hand tangles in his hair to pull him closer, and another hum– no, another moan vibrates through your core, it’s the last thing you hear before you’re absolutely gone, gasping out a curse as you tense up in his hold, trembling as you come.

It’s even more intense than the first one, and as you buck out of his hold, he stands up shakily, his hand moving faster and faster around his cock, the angry red of his tip at the same level as your face. You gesture for him to sit down, trying to signal to him that you want to reciprocate despite the post-orgasmic haze and exhaustion, but he shakes his head, and, seconds later, you feel warm wetness land on your belly and slowly trickle down as he moans your name when he comes.

You feel like you still have to give something back, and, when he slumps down next to you with a content sigh, you climb over to place a delicate kiss on the tip of his cock, letting out a huff of laughter when it twitches under your touch.

“Ye’ absolute menace,” he whispers fondly as he pulls you up and tips his body to the side to lie down, using his legs to push you up halfway over him, trapping you between his body and the cushions, yet protectively shielding you from falling over. You place another kiss on his stomach, and you see his abs tense under your touch as your warm breath moves his hairs as you hover for a second, before deciding to shift up and use his pectorals as a cushion. He hums softly as his arm wraps around under yours, reaching to pull the plaid off the back of the couch and settle it around you both. Ticklish, eh? That’s a piece of information best stored for later.

You’re still breathless, absolutely done for. God, best decision of your life, going to the gym. “Now what?” you can’t help but ask. It’s the same fear that always creeps up, the fear that he got to try out a fantasy, and now that he was done with it, he had no need to want to continue anything possibly serious. Not that eating a girl out on a first date, if you could even call it a date, was a sign of a one-night stand, you can’t help but feel awkward and insecure now that it’s all done, despite the comforting cuddle.

He chuckles in response, that same chuckle from earlier in the day, a What a silly question chuckle. Like he’d read into your thoughts and insecurities and found them absolutely laughable.

“Same time at the gym, tomorrow? I want you to squeeze my head off next time.”

“Next time, huh?”

He pulls your leg over his pelvis, trapping his still half-mast cock between his belly and the crook of your knee, hand firmly wrapped to shift you up, almost completely on top of him. When both of you are comfortable and you start feeling the tendrils of sleep pull you deeper, he gives a last, playful squeeze to your ass.

“Next time.”

[w1ld-wr1t3r]

could you write a cute lil drabble of reader who has anxiety (could be general or maybe something specific like being in a car) x lando norris and lando is a big comfort to the reader and then one day after a bad race the reader gets to be a comfort to him (i imagine their love language to be physical touch)!

Normally I don't like to write reader inserts, but I like this prompt so I'll give it a try just this once!

The greatest comfort in your life was Lando. He was one of the only ones who understood you, who understood what you went through. He never judged you when your anxiety got bad. He would just hold you close and whisper comforts in your ear, until you felt like yourself again.

Your anxiety often struck when you least expected it, snowballing from slight nerves to nearly immobilizing fear before you could stop it. You were more likely to have an attack when you were stressed, be it about work or your relationship or even just life in general. Lando was one of the only ones who had never made you feel bad about having anxiety, and he'd always done his best to help you through it, even when he'd been scared of doing something wrong. It was one of the many things you loved about him.

It wasn't often that you had to return the favor. He was so strong, taking steps to preserve his mental health and facing everything thrown at him with confidence. He wasn't immune to anxiety, but it struck him so infrequently that you hadn't had a chance yet to take care of him the way he'd always taken care of you. You would never wish for it to happen, never, but you did wish that you could show him how much you appreciated everything he did for you.

That time came unexpectedly after a wet race where things went completely to shit.

You'd nearly had to leave the garage halfway through the race, so anxious that you were almost vibrating out of your skin. Lando had had horrible luck today, ranging from a poorly-timed pit stop to caught in the crossfire of not one but two separate incidents on track. When a Williams collided with him on lap 42 and knocked him out of the race for good, you only breathed a sigh of relief because at least it was over now, and you didn't have to watch him try not to die out there any more.

You knew he would be upset, of course. Who wouldn't be after a race like that? You knew you had some of his favorite comfort meals on hand, and were ready to pull one of them out when you got home and start cooking. The activity would help calm your own nerves, and familiar food would hopefully lift his spirits, too.

But when you got back to your room, he was already there, and he was already crying.

You froze for a moment as you took in the scene before you. He wasn't just crying, you realized, he was sobbing. He was huddled on the sofa, curled into a ball and head in his shaking hands. Three different hoodies were strewn around him, like he'd been trying to find something comfortable and soothing to wear but nothing had done the trick. And he hadn't even changed out of his fireproofs. He must have come straight here as soon as he was free, too broken and upset to face anyone.

"Lando?" you asked cautiously, walking closer to him. He didn't stop crying, but didn't move away as you carefully sat next to him. "Are you -"

You cut yourself off before you finished the question. Of course he wasn't okay. Why ask the question when the answer was already obvious?

"Is there anything I can do to help?" you asked instead. You itched to pull him into your arms and hold him, hug him tight until the tension finally left him and he felt safe again. You wanted to ask what had made him cry, but you knew he probably wouldn't be able to tell you now, not while he was sobbing his eyes out and breathing little hiccupping breaths. You had a theory, though, that it was because he felt like he'd let everyone down today and was a failure. You wanted to tell him that that wasn't true, that he'd done amazing today, even with all of the odds stacked against him. He'd been so strong all day, and it was okay if he needed to cry now. You just wanted to help him through it.

Without looking up at you or saying anything, he leaned closer to you, reaching out with a whine. You understood what he wanted immediately, and tugged him to your chest for a hug. He sobbed into your shirt, burrowing into your arms until he felt like he was safe.

"Don't let me go," he whispered, sniffling. "P-please don't let me go."

You hugged him tight, rubbing his back soothingly. "I won't," you promised. "I'm here."

He settled deeper into your arms, clutching you like a lifeline. You continued to hold him, gently rubbing his back and occasionally whispering soothing words to him. You weren't anxious about the day's events at all any more - you were just glad that you could be here to help him through this.

Finally, after a long stretch of silence, he sniffled and whispered. "Th-thank you. I love you."

You smiled, giving him a gentle squeeze and kissing the top of his head. "I love you too."

You two had each other. And you were going to be okay.

[hazbinshusk]

day fourteen of salem's unofficial attempt at kinktober:

heat sex/breeding/touch starved/"knife" play (husk x reader)

a/n: it's my birthday; have some desperate, needy, heat-overcome husk.

knife play refers to husk being a little too forthright with his claws.

+ + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +

“Hey, honey, Charlie said you’d been stuck up here the last few days,” you say as you toss your key on top of the bureau and immediately begin to shed your clothes. You toe off your shoes, leaving them haphazardly on the floor as you turn towards the bed. “I’m sorry I was gone so long, I didn’t realise your—oh, baby…”

Husk is face down on the bed, the sheets torn and littered with feathers – both from his own wings and the pillows he’s managed to shred. He doesn’t seem to have even noticed your presence; a pathetic mewling sound escaping him as his hips move in a weak, disjointed rhythm against what’s left of the sheets.

He’d gone into heat not long after you’d left, and with you gone for a few days, he was left with this burning, aching need that he’d been unable to satiate on his own. Now, it breaks your heart to see where he’s managed to pull out fur in frustration, to see the limp line of his tail hanging off the side of the bed. You’d known this was a risk, you being gone during – once you and Husk had begun seeing each other, his heats had become more… focused on you. He couldn’t get through it without you.

“Baby, I’m so sorry,” you murmur as you approach the bed slowly. You notice Husk has some of your clothes balled up on the bed, his nose pressed deep into the fabric. You touch a hand to his shoulder carefully. “Husk…?”

The bartender jerks up under your touch as though you’ve sent an electric shock through him, his whole body shuddering. You watch his pupils dilate; his jaw almost slack. He looks… delirious, the closest you’ve seen to creature in a long time. “Doll…?”

“Hey,” you say softly. “I’m sorry, I’ve—”

“Please…” he whines. His hips are still thrusting weakly into the mattress, his voice breaking. “Please…”

“It’s okay, Husk,” you promise gently, gliding your hand slowly down his back, smoothing the mussed fur and frowning when more of it falls away with your touch. Husk groans deeply; he buries his head against your thigh. He shudders, full-bodied, and you realize the bartender has cum into the sheets from that simple touch. He’s never been this far gone before; you’d seen him so deep into his heat that he’s barely let you get through the door before he’s shoved you up against it. You’ve seen him so addled by it that he’s barely been able to talk outside of growling urges for you to take it, to have his kits. This… this is so much more concerning. “Oh, you really need this, don’t you, baby?”

He can’t make out anymore words; he just lets out this soft, cattish mewl that makes tears of pity burn in your eyes.

“Lay back,” you tell him, pushing gently on his shoulder. Husk is clinging to you, and his desperation to get you further undressed only makes it more difficult. His claws catch in the waistband of your underwear, and they leave tracks of red as he tears it away, the sharp point of them slicing into your skin. You hiss in pain but otherwise ignore it, gently forcing him to lay back against the mattress and straddling his lap.

Husk’s cock is hard and already leaking again with precum, the barbs standing rigid. You wrap your hand around it and he moans, thrusting up into your hand. You coo reassuringly to him as you stroke him slowly a few times, collecting his precum on your hand. You release him and slide you hand between your thighs, slickening yourself with his excitement.

Husk’s claws dig into your thighs as you lift yourself up over his lap, gripping the base of him and guiding his cock inside you.

The possessive growl that rips through the bartender’s throat as you sink down onto him is nothing even approaching human, and you feel a shiver of excitement roll up the middle of your back. You know he can’t handle slow, not while he’s like this, and you feel yourself ache with the way he stretches and fills you as you take up as urgent a pace as you can handle without foreplay.

Husk begins to purr as soon as you start to fuck him, clutching desperately at your thighs, your ass, your hips. You grasp at fistfuls of fur on his chest, and the purring doubles, a chainsaw rumble that you can feel reverberating under your fingers. It takes barely more than a minute before he presses his hips up into yours so hard he almost unseats you and cums again, choking on a moan.

It does nothing to ease the almost manic look in his eyes, the tension in his jaw, but feeling his cum fill you makes it all the easier to take the thick line of his cock.

“That’s it, Husk,” you murmur, stroking fingers through the fur of his neck. He whines, arching his neck to the side to give you better access. “That’s it. C’mon. I can take it, baby.”

You grind your hips down hard against his, your eyes rolling back for a moment as you feel his barbs tease against a sensitive spot inside you. Husk hisses softly, and you gasp as his claws carve into your thighs.

You swallow back the shock of pain, gritting your teeth as you begin to bounce yourself on his cock again.

“I can take it.”

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

Husk pounds himself into you, your thighs aching with tension as he presses them down hard against your torso, your knees bent over his shoulders. He has his face buried in the curve of your neck; his hands braced on either side of you. You can’t even moan anymore – your voice is all but gone, hoarse with the pain in your throat.

There’s no doubt in your mind that the others in the hotel have heard you both, especially with the way Husk keeps growling, the way the sound of flesh meeting fur fill the room, but you can’t bring your mind together enough to care. You’ve been going so long that you can feel your hair and skin are damp with sweat, sheets and feathers sticking to your bare skin.

You can feel Husk’s cum leaking out of you with every thrust, dripping down over your ass and onto the bedding beneath you. He buries his teeth in your shoulder as he cums again, and the sound you make is raw and painful, and you bring your hand between your thighs desperately.

“Fuck, doll, I missed you,” he groans against your skin, lips grazing the side of your throat. You turn your head and he kisses you, the taste of your blood staining his lips. Still, you wrap an arm around his neck and slide your tongue into his mouth, thighs quaking as the attention you give your clit builds inside you. “I missed you so much.”

“I’m sorry, baby,” you murmur in a husky voice, clutching at the fur behind his ear. His purrs grow louder when you run your fingers through it, your nails scratching at the base of his ear. “Show me how much you needed me, okay? Show me what you need.”

“Need to fill you up,” he growls desperately. He pistons his hips into yours, hard enough that your cunt aches with the force of it. “Need you full of my kits and fuck… gonna fill you up, sweetness, gonna fill you so fuckin’ full of my kits…”

“Yes, Husk,” you whimper, letting your head fall back against the ruined pillows. “Fill me up, baby. I wanna have your kits so bad…”

“Gonna be so beautiful with my kits in you,” he pants, his tail lashing behind him. His wings spread wide, loose feathers floating down from them. He stumbles on his words as you cum again and tighten around him, his hips beginning to lose their rhythm. “Gonna be so fuckin’… fuck, I need you to…”

Husk moans your name as you feel him cum inside you again, collapsing on top of you with a choking sob. You unhook your legs from his shoulders slowly, wincing as pain flares through the stiff muscles. You run your fingers through the fur at the base of his neck, a small, tired smile touching your lips as you feel him pepper soft kisses over your chest. His wings fall to rest limply by his sides, the feathers tickling against your legs.

“Missed you,” he repeats in a barely-there whisper, his breath tickling against your skin. “Fuck, I missed you…”

“I know, baby,” you murmur, still petting him in a soothing rhythm. “I’m sorry I was gone so long.”

He lets out a soft growl as his lips find the bite marks he’s left in your shoulder, leans back enough to turn his head and see the scratches on your thigh and hip bone. “Shit, baby, I’m—”

“Don’t,” you admonish, drawing him back against your chest. “Couldn’t help it.”

“I shouldn’t—”

“It’s fine, Husk,” you promise, leaning up to brush your lips over his. You feel him relax slightly to it, and you begin stroking fingers through his fur again. “I’m okay.”

“’m sorry.”

“I know,” you say simply. You feel his half-hard cock twitch inside you, and you sigh, closing your eyes. “Just… rest. I have a feeling you’re not quite over the urges just yet.”

Husk reburies his face against your throat, his lips pressed to your skin. “Love you, doll.”

“Love you, Husk.”

[hollowblxxd]

[ AU / Speculation for me ] [ I CAN FIX IT .... NOT FOR YOU ]

Okay so because I am a man who hates to see things end badly Im here writing a sort of... fanfiction for myself that cleanse up the mess of Mouthwashing. No disrespect to the whole game but this is my thoughts Some warning for mature subjects and obviously possible spoilers for Mouthwashing!

Basically I thought about the idea of Jimmy being dealt with before he could complete his plan against the crew and it all stems from the idea that there's actually a secret cryopod on the ship. We see only 4 in the main part but there's 5 people on board, which even if you want to argue Pony Express doesn't give a shit, I think its somewhat reasonable to assume that should there be an emergency there would in fact be enough cryopods for everyone to get into so that a potential crew can be saved. This secret cryopod is obviously ONLY used in the case of an emergency and is ONLY known to exist by the captain. Aka Curly. Curly realizes that Jimmy is getting too unhinged and crossing far more lines than hes ever seen him do before. Though Curly fears and cares for his unfortunately stupidly manipulative friend, he realizes he has to take action against Jimmy to ensure no harm comes to the remaining crew. So Curly basically tricks Jimmy into thinking that he's going to be revealing a secret to Jimmy, something only "a captain and his co-pilot can know" before taking Jimmy to this secret cryopod. Since technically having a "potential psychological unsound person" on board DOES class as an emergency and with no "brig" available for holding, Jimmy is put in there. His last moments is Curly's well deserved "betrayal." Thus now Jimmy is a festering sleeping mess inside the cryo-chamber, grinding thru a horrific nightmare where he gets his revenge on Curly, where he gets control of the ship while spiralling further and further into outright INSANITY in some jacob's ladder style purgatory as his mental state is forever stuck "coping" with his anger, his guilt, his fear, his hatred, his selfishness and so on and so forth. Basically everything that happens in the events of Mouthwashing is a already crazy's man nightmare-ish delusion as he awaits judgement day, aka the time when he leaves the pod and has to face the justice he deserves. Meanwhile with Jimmy put away in hold, the crew get a chance to breath. Jimmy overbearing nature eases everyone tension and though it was a hard decision it was a well made one. Its not all perfect however because Anya takes all of this quite hard feeling guilty that it got this far. She does attempt to end her life which she is luckily saved from by Curly and the rest of the crew. Since Anya is now sick, Daisuke has to take over acting as Nurse, following Curly and Anya instructions on how to make this all easier. Anya is safe around Daisuke and his bright optimistic personality is really fitting for a nurse, never once does she feel ashamed or scared and for once feels a sense of relief and freedom. Her commenting that Daisuke would make a good nurse which Daisuke takes to heart since he still obviously struggling to find "what hes good at" Curly temporarily takes up the role of being an engineer with Swansea since, Curly as the lovely captain SHOULD know his ship inside and out too and hey, even as a bonus, he may even show Swansea how to steer a ship. This ends up with Curly and Swansea having a good man to man bond. In the end, Anya recovered free from her abuse and regains her personality and happiness, Daisuke discovers his passion for medical work happily taking college recommendation from Anya, Swansea learns a bit about riding a ship and thinks "hey I could probably do good as a space trucker" and Curly also detached himself from the parasite that is Jimmy who constantly been trying to drag him down! So there, I fixed it. But not for him.

[obsidiancreates]

I will get on my hands and knees and BEG for Booker x Grumley domestic fluff, please, I beg, I NEED more Uprooted content, especially Booker x Grumley!!

"Oh, wow." Grumley looks around their shared cells. "This is the nicest jail we've ever ended up in!"

"Is that a pillow mint?" Booker picks it up and gives it a cautious sniff. "How high are the taxes on these poor bastards? Well, at least it's going to making our stay comfortable."

Booker is inspecting the cell for weak points when he hears Grumley whimper. He turns around to see Grumley trying, in vain, to scratch behind his own ears.

"Whattya doin'? Come here, come here." Booker waves Grumley over and scratches the itch for him, leaving Grumley to sigh in relief. "You know that can't reach that spot."

"You were planning our great escape! I didn't want to bother you!"

"Okay first off, maybe say that first part a little quieter next time. Second, since when does planning something come before making sure you're all set? I'm not the one who volunteers you for kidney puncturing for plans."

"That's true." Grumley points behind his other ear, and Booker switches his focus there. "I'm sorry I couldn't fight off the guards."

"There were like, a hundred of them! You're one pug! If anything Peggy should've used her magic again!"

"The clown mask, right? Not the bottle with the fire?"

"Never again the bottle with the fire, I'm never getting those images out of my head as it is. My point is you're strong and you're brave but you're not our only option for intimidation so don't blame yourself for stuff that can't be helped. Hey, sometimes a con just goes wrong!"

"Thanks, Booker."

"Anytime, Grumley."

"... Can we have a little kiss? They cleaned my face folds before they tossed us in here."

"What is this jail, a spa? Alright, one little kiss then I have to get back to work."

"Okay!"

It's a quick, soft smooch, and it leaves Grumley contentedly laying on his belly on the floor watching Booker with his tail wagging as Booker, blushing, keeps trying to figure a way out of this one.

[myokk]

She hears him calling her name as she flees down the spiral staircase, almost tripping over her feet in her rush to get away from him, but he catches up quickly, reaching out to grab her arm in an attempt to slow her down. She stops running immediately - she supposes her traitorous body wants to see what he has to say, or maybe it just wants to bask in his intoxicating proximity. He crowds her space, and she sees that unfamiliar look in his eyes again. So very different from the cold disdain she had seen the last time she had been this close to him, during the argument that had ended their friendship.

Oh, Merlin, he's getting closer to her, and she can now clearly see the freckles dusting his cheeks and nose and forehead and then before she knows it, his hand is sliding up her arm, leaving goosebumps everywhere he touches and then he's caressing her jaw with his rough thumb and he pauses. Her eyelids flutter closed as her head tilts towards him - she couldn't stop herself even if she wanted to (what does she want?). She can feel his warm breath ghosting over her lips and she has the improbable, ridiculous thought - how is he remembering to breathe? - before he speaks. His lips brush against hers with every soft word and a deep shiver runs through her body.

"I," she hears him say, his voice so, so low, "haven't been able to think since last week."

That's all she needs to hear, the brush of his bottom lip against hers all she needs to feel, to push her into closing what minuscule distance there is between them and then his lips are on hers and it's better than anything she's been imagining. His mouth is soft against hers, insistent, and her hands go up to grip the collar of his plaid jacket to make sure he doesn't go away or disappear on her.

from my oneshot💘

[bumnyv]

'And it was an odd thing, resting his hand over Nico di Angelo's. In a sense, it was as if he were formally resting with the boy in the darkness of a coffin.'

Do yourself a favor and go read Leo Valdez & The Olympians: The Ceaseless Eve by @rosesradio

Ok? Ok.

Please, it's so good.

[theimpurelily]

“isn’t Cui Wenyan meant to do your chores? Are you going to give it to him? Can I come with you? I want to throw snowballs at him, my aim has become so good.” “Oh. Wait. Have you spent these days throwing snowballs at him?” “And Ming Fan,” Ning Yingying cheerfully admits, “and if Zhao De was here, him too! But I would add a rock in those.” Holy shit.  (from chapter 8)

I fucking love how unhinged NYY can be in @grubus Shen Yuan of No Relation

[obsidiancreates]

"Gid, hold this."

"Yer flask?"

"It ain't a flask, Gid, it's just a bottle!"

"Well why am I holdin' the bottle?!"

"Just hold it!"

"Yer agitatin' me! I'm all fired up!"

"Good. Give it back now."

"Wha- are you shakin' it?"

"Logs were too damp to start a fire an' heat up the milk."

"Well if yer cold just say so! We can- ... uh, we can huddle. Fer warmth."

"Right. Just for warmth, now."

"Yeah, yeah, just warmth."

"Yeah..."

Your prompt: Gideon Coal making Kremy Lecrux some hot chocolate.