#Pavlov’s Dog Series

[tankgotstuckinthecircusgate]

my n1 guilty pleasure is thinkin that post m2 lauretta moved deeper into criminal after several years & ended up sentenced to jail somewhere in the middle of 1970s

[manchesterau]

dnp calling me out for watching their videos to sleep idc!

[pm-00]

"Vecinos" started showing at my aunt's house today and I almost lost it when I heard the theme song, I inmediatly looked for Roier. Mind you I HAD seen that the tv was on and what cannel it was. Embarrasing 😔✋

[sytoran]

LACY, OH LACY

from the series "pretty in pink"

🌷 pairing: sub!bunny!wanda x dom!owner!reader

🌷 rating: 18+

🌷 notes: this'll probably be my last fic in a while... enjoy it while it lasts :(

there is something to be said about your weakness for white lace. or more specifically, the sight of your bunny girlfriend in white lace.

wanda just looks like such a fashion of angelic porcelain, perfectly dolled up in the garments you chose for her. as pure as her innocent heart is, the downright sinful thoughts of the things you’d do to your angel is evidently not lost on her doe eyes.

cataclysmic seconds is what it takes before you’ve got your long fingers dipping into the gentle curve of her hips, feather-light enough to make her squeal, pin-hard enough to make her bruise. 

the white lace just makes her tits look so perfect, and the way your hands play with her ample assets are telltale enough. her posterior looks fantastically edible in the lacy garment. what’s more is the dampness between her legs, decorated and wrapped in the fabric like a christmas present.

santa takes kindness on you, if that’s the case, because your dominant hand trespasses her panties in mere seconds, and you’re delightedly greeted with the type of wet heat you dream about at night. 

two long and veiny fingers plunge into the threshold of her cunt, explorative and unforgiving. you stretch out your fingers and curl them inwards, unable to hide your smirk at the affected cries wanda lets out.

“feels good, baby?” you would tease, letting your teeth graze her earlobe as she jumps at the contact. the way she squirms in your greedy hands, high-pitched breathy whines and soft mewls, should be marked with a warning of libido overload.

“s’there!” wanda mewls, when your fingers curl into a particularly spongy spot of her cute cunt. you retract your fingers all the way, hearing wanda whine and mewl in protest, but then you plunge in all the way again and she cries out.

“daddy,” she whines, fingernails scraping at your abdomen and downwards, the telltale sign of something else of yours she wants.

you could almost laugh at her insatiability. “okay, baby, you ready?” you only ask, tilting her chin up with two fingers, sending her a knowing smile.

wanda doesn’t have time to question your ulterior motives because she feels the head of something huge poking into her butt and she squeaks, bumping into your chest.

her cheeks flush so prettily, so quickly, because she knows exactly how this is going to end up. and you do, too, fiend perpetrator of her dirty dreams and filthy nights.

“come on, angel, you know what to do.”

your words work like clockwork. wanda’s blind obedience could rival pavlov’s dog, even more so with her drooling lips and perked ears. angelic locks of blonde hair frame her face as she moves up.

leaning back into your bed with a slow kind of arrogance that has wanda’s heart rate speeding up exponentially, she heeds your lofty command and straddles your hips.

plush, pale thighs spread as she positions herself above your cock, and you peel off her soaked white and lacy panties with a satisfied hum. “needy bunny,” you tease. 

watchful eyes of yours darken significantly at the strings of slick on her panties that cling on to her soaked pussy, an emblem of your bunny’s arousal — and something like a pit of bottomless, desperate fire builds in your stomach.

almost as if she could feel your burning want, wanda’s front teeth sink into her bottom lip, ears burning pink. you think she’s never looked so pretty. your hands dig into the plush of her thighs. 

you want to see her break.

“s’tight, daddy,” wanda whimpers, clawing at your abdomen as she fits herself onto your large cock. you can see the way your clefted tip stretches out her hole, and you hum in faux thoughtfulness.

“want my help, bunny?” you ask slowly, already knowing the answer.

wanda hardly has time to nod her pretty, dumb head, before you’re forcefully grabbing the plush of her thighs and pushing her down onto your cock.

she cries out as you mercilessly spread her open with tacit ease. “daddy-” she gasps wetly, slick running down her thighs as you greedily bury yourself hilt-deep.

your huge cock just barely fits into her tight cunt, stretching her out fully. wanda looks pretty as a picture, her watery doe eyes and front teeth sinking into the bottom of her lip. 

“fuck,” you growl, unable to help yourself, slapping her tight ass with your large hand. it ripples under your touch, bright red blossoming across her porcelain skin.

wanda’s whiny moan reverberates in your ears. she’s just so susceptible, easy to mold. your hands run over her like fine pottery, with the tacit understanding that you could shape her into whatever you desired.

“please,” wanda whines, bouncing in your lap with an overt eagerness. you nudge your face between her plush tits, dragging a heavy tongue up the column of her smooth skin, nipping on the sides of her breasts just to hear her gasp and press into you.

already, a promised paradise hangs between the two of you. you approach the brink of insanity with every erratic whine she lets out as she struggles to take your size. 

wanda squeaks when you hoist her upwards, big palms spreading underneath a rounded ass, then you flip your bodies around. suddenly, wanda is being pressed under the possessive hold of your body weight, sinking into the soft mattress, doe eyes looking at the way you lick your lips.

“y’look good enough to eat, baby,” you say breathlessly, a hand trailing over her bare tummy and down to her ruined mess of a cunt. “but i’m gonna fill you up first.”

wanda lets out a ragged moan when you spread her legs easily, sliding in again with fervour. her wet folds spread so obediently to take the size of your cock, fluttering around your cock to provide you with optimum pleasure.

you, on the other hand, are not faring so well. wanda’s so wet, and tight, and fuck you’re gonna come again. she’s just so irresistible—

“daddy!” the long, dragged moan drawn from wanda’s angelic lips blesses your ears like a holy shrine, but it is nothing compared to the plane of existence you ascend to when you release inside wanda.

out the way your cum relentlessly paints her velvet walls could have lucifer blushing. you just rut your hips into her like she’s your personal stress-reliever, eliciting high-pitched shrieks every time the head of your cock bumps into her cervix.

“please!” wanda sobs, clutching onto your shoulder blades for dear life as she gets pounded into the mattress. “please, please, daddy, please— i can’t—”

shoving yourself in deeper, you lick a long stripe up her neck to her earlobe, letting the coarseness of your tongue and its pierced ring do their work. “i know you can, bunny,” you say easily, rich chocolate and honey, melting wanda’s insides with the way your words turn her into mush. “let me fill you up, hm?”

you never get to hear her acknowledgement because wanda’s head lolls to the side as she cums again. you grunt with effort, heaving yourself up and lodging your bodies skin-to-skin. 

you cum goes so deep inside your bunny girl that there’s almost no way she won’t be taking your pups, and the sheer thought of that has you tipping over the edge again.

a blissed-out expression meets your eyes as wanda regains a semblance of her composure, with inquisitive perked-up ears and entirely subservient eyes.

“want another, please.”

had this one stewing in my google docs for the longest time

reblogging means a lot!!

[hellishjoel]

playing hooky

9.2k / pairing: linecook!frankie x waitress f!reader

Series Masterlist l Previous Chapter l Next Chapter

summary: Frankie calls in sick for his shift. You simply must investigate. 

warnings/information: MA 18+ (minors DNI), mentions of reader previously being on her period, smoking w33d, getting h!gh, swearing, pet names (angel, princess, etc.), handjob if you squint, oral (f! receiving), unprotected p in v, h!gh sex, aftercare, tangled feelings/messy emotions, sitcom vibes

A/N: tune in next time for a special halloween episode of Table for Two! 

follow hellishfics and turn on notifications to see the next time I update!

“We’re not at the diner right now, y’know? We can,” he pauses to find the right words, seeming to get lost in the beautiful hue of your eyes. “We can take things slow. Wanna take my time with you.” 

You purse your lips as you scribble another drawing on your order pad. You’re sitting at one of the empty barstools at the counter, one leg lazily swinging back and forth while the other is brought up under you. 

“You’re gonna get hip dysplasia.” Carla, your sarcastic manager, hums as she passes you. She playfully smacks you with her own order pad before she settles down beside you, a loud and tired sigh leaving her ruby-red lips. She rolls her swollen ankles, a side effect of being on her feet all day. A side effect of being alive. 

Your eyes lightly screw together, eyebrows knitting in curiosity. “I thought only animals get hip dysplasia.” You trail off and watch her sit with slight confusion. She parts her lips and takes a breath before her face contorts in thought. 

Finally, Carla reemerged with a new confidence. “No, baby, because my cousin- my second cousin,” she illustrates all of this with her hands. “They were born with it! I swear, look it up.”

You stifle a giggle before you both hover over your phone in search of the truth via Google. That’s when you clock the time. 

Your head swivels to the wall clock and confirms it’s half an hour past five in the evening. “No Frankie tonight?” You ask, eyes still attentive to your phone as you attempt to try and hide any obvious interest or concern. Where the hell was he?

Carla eyed you up and down. Since when did you start caring if Frankie showed up for his shifts or not? She decides not to press it, clearing her throat as she moves off her barstool once she hears the doorbell chime, a new customer sauntering in. 

“Just said he was under the weather. And we don’t need another sick line cook, that’s for damn sure. Everyone would be coughin’ and sneezin’ over their undercooked bacon and runny, nasty eggs.” She said with a little umph at the end for distaste. 

You sigh and nibble on your thumbnail. 

Frankie was a bit of an ass, but he made the shifts go by faster. Yes, even before you started fooling around, he was entertaining. 

Let’s see, there was the night he tried to see how many coffee cups he could stack and if he could make a tower to the ceiling - he tried this multiple times, and each attempt left glazed ceramic shards everywhere, to which Carla made him sweep up.

There was another time the diner needed supplies, and Rudy, the owner’s son, sent you and Frankie on an errand run. He pushed you in the cart through nearly the entire store, in search of toilet paper and paper towels, dish soap, and other amenities. Frankie bought you a Redbull at the end of it. 

Now, more recently, Frankie fucking pavloved you! Like a damn dog! Every time you worked a shift, you got ferociously horny. You had gotten so used to clocking in, working for a bit, then getting your needs met. And now that you had finished serving time being on your period, you were needy for what you missed while you were surfing the crimson wave. 

Your foot, more anxiously now, taps against the metal stand of the barstool you were sitting on, huffing in annoyance hearing that Frankie was ill. The pit in your stomach was already coiling, searching for a release that just wouldn’t be satisfied tonight. Or would it?

You’re not in the back kitchen as much as everyone else, but as the end of your shift wound down and it was nearly ten o’clock, you decided to piece together a panini and a side of fries for Frankie. You thought about how he learned you weren’t feeling good just last week, and he knew how far a simple meal went to make you feel better. Maybe you could do the same for him. And that was it. You swear there were no ulterior motives. Just a nice coworker bringing a bite to eat. 

You yank your phone from your uniform. Your fingerprints smear your phone screen with grease from the fries. 

text me your address if you’re still up

frankie (work) Huh?

You have to will yourself not to roll your eyes. 

read the first message again and ask me if you’re still confused

frankie (work) Okay sassy pants 194 Rivercrest Apartments #501

His stupid reply leaves a broken, twitchy smile on the right side of your mouth. Stupid asshole. 

Once the restaurant closes, your clunky car takes you across town to Frankie’s apartment. Your gleamy, tired vision catches the streaks from passing cars and street lamps. You pull into a visitor parking spot and let out a disgruntled sigh as you sit in silence, waiting in your idling car.

A weird part of you is nervous. Overthinking. Was this taking it too far, helping him out while he’s sick? 

You push aside any nerves and force yourself out of the car, a death grip on the doggy bag of food you had packed him. The evening Texas air tickles your bare legs, trying to adjust your uniform under your jacket after it got smushed around in the car. You buzz his number before you hear the entrance’s lock click, allowing you in. 

Glancing around for an elevator is hopeless. The entrance leads you straight to a set of stairs,  and you clench your jaw in annoyance. God dammit. You were not a woman who prayed to the cardio gods. 

Your lungs feel strained, and your feet ache, desperate to sit down after your shift and the mild hike up to Frankie’s apartment. You rap your knuckles against his door in disdain, lips parted with a few light pants for breath as you wait. The door had a few random dents and marks, obvious trails of someone moving items in and out of the apartment over time. The numbers on his door were crooked, the paint chipped. Did he have to live in such a sketchy place? It looked like the birthplace of tetanus. 

There were a few heavy footsteps on the other side before the door jangled open. And a very healthy, Frankie opened the door. Your face fell, and your eyebrows furrowed. A heavy whiff of weed smacked you in the face, and you swore it nearly gave you a contact high, even from the hallway. 

Frankie was all too happy to see you here. You drove all the way to his apartment just to see him. His face was dripping in a smirky grin. He barely fit through the door frame, his large broad shoulders and tall stature filled the entire rectangular entrance. He crossed his arms and leaned one shoulder against his door. He was perfectly fucking fine. 

“Hey, princess. Surprised to see you-”

Your lips purse and your eyes screw tight as you smack him with his bag of food. “What the hell-” smack, “is wrong with you! Fuckin-” smack, “asshole!” 

He’s slow to defend himself at first, letting you exhaust your hits as you fist the brown paper bag in annoyance. Finally on the last hit, he swipes the bag from your hand and sighs. He’s trying to dial down his stupid smirk, but it ends up turning into this stomach-twisting, sweet smile. 

You pinch the bridge of your nose and chew on the inside of your cheek. “Carla told me you were sick.” 

“I am sick.” Frankie playfully defended, standing straight and shrugging his shoulders with a half-innocent smile. “Sick.. and tired of working.” He laughs at his own joke, and you bite back a smile. Such a fucking dork. 

You’re at a weird standoff outside of his apartment. It’s like he’s holding your invitation to enter over your head, and out of your reach. He wants you to ask. You want him to ask. You’re both so goddamn stubborn. You cross your arms and stand straight, eyeing him down. 

Frankie rolls his eyes, his smile breaking into a larger one as he grabs your wrist and pulls you inside. “So fuckin’ difficult.” You hide your smile as your face lightly glides against his chest, unintentionally inhaling his scent. By the looks of his hair, he was fresh from a shower. 

Frankie closes the door behind you, and his front brushes against your back as you stand in the tiny entrance hallway to his apartment. Music was playing deeper inside. 

His hands gently settle themselves on your arms, slowly coasting his warmth up and down your goosebump-covered skin. You inhale slowly, your back lightly resting back against his front. He was so easy to sink into. But then you remember how he bailed on work today, and you jut your elbow into his gut. He lets out a puff of air at the force you hit him with. 

��You’re such an ass ditching work. Ditching Carla.” You say as you step away from him and invite yourself further in, exiting the dark hallway and working your way further into the apartment. “We had to make do-it-all Paul step into the kitchen. Do you know how terrifying that is? Such a dick, Frankie.” 

“And you’re so sweet for bringin’ me food.” You hear him rifle through the paper bag, digging out his packaged food, and seeing him smile at the contents. “Thanks. You shouldn’t have.” He brushes past you and towards the kitchen while you stand in the living room. 

You didn’t concern yourself much with Frankie up until recent events, it was odd to see his evil lair. Okay, he wasn’t evil, but you know what I mean. You take in as many important details as you can while you slowly peel off your jacket and toss it on his couch. 

It’s quaint, really. He has no other furniture in the living room besides a couch, which you feel is by design. It sits perfectly opposite his mounted flatscreen. The walls are plain beige but are decorated with band and movie posters. You admire one that was purposely framed, unlike the others, with signatures. You didn’t recognize the band, but by their look, they seemed like an 80s rocker group. 

Below his flatscreen was an impressive vinyl collection, a record spins, and you recognize it as the melody you initially heard upon entering. It was serene, jazzy almost. 

“This is what you listen to when you’re alone?” You tease, kneeling down and flicking through a few album covers to see his taste. It was expansive, to say the least. There were only a fair few that you recognized. TOTO, ABBA, Billy Joel, Bruce Springsteen, Metallica, a little Van Halen, and a whole lot of The Beatles. 

Frankie sucks the salt from the fries off his fingers, seeing he’s already munched on half his panini. “It’s something I listen to when I’m stoned.” He half-jokes, a slight smile on his face. So that’s what he’s been up to. 

“You called in so you could lay around your apartment and get high all day?” Your tone is playfully judging, but he gives you a proud nod, not a care in the world behind those slightly glazed eyes. 

“I didn’t really lay around all day.” His tone is softer since you’re both so close. He’s standing just to the right of where you’re kneeling down, your head could lay against his thigh if you wanted. “I was trying out some new recipes and shit.” He mutters as he points a thumb behind him and to the kitchen. You glance up and notice his pretty curls in the light. You don’t often see him without his hat or his bandana. Come to think of it, you don’t really see him outside of his yellow-stained apron. 

Your eyes slowly took Frankie in, seeing him casually for the first time outside of work was startling. He was big. Tall and broad, with squishy thighs and a soft tummy, strong arms, and defined biceps. He was comfortably relaxing in a pair of black basketball shorts that landed just above his knees, eyeing a few tattoos by the hem. On his upper half was a tattered, well-loved Lakers shirt with a small tear at the shoulder, which has since been sewn closed. He had a little bracelet on, one of those leather brown ones that twisted around his wrist, accompanied by a spherical, multicolor beaded one. 

Your eyes linger for a hair too long, and now he’s already smirking at you. “Like what you see, princess?” God, that stupid fucking nickname needed a break. Heat shoots up your spine nonetheless, and you have trouble staring daggers at him like you usually would. 

You huff a breath through your nose and stand up on your feet, raising your eyebrow at him. “What do you mean you trying new recipes? You can actually cook?” It sounds rude and sarcastic, but you thought Frankie just goofed around at work and cooked for the cash, not as a hobby. You slowly make your way past him, eyeing his kitchen in the process. 

There are recipe books, honest to god recipe books. Big ones, small ones. Different categories of food outlined on the covers and spines. And his kitchen was a chaotic mess, with multiple cutting boards of varying sizes across his already limited counter space. There were bright-colored vegetables cut up and diced, the scraps having been tossed in a spare plastic bag sitting on the sidelines. There was an open bottle of soy sauce and another for sesame oil, a little tin of cornstarch, and diced chicken sizzling in oil on a frying pan. 

You take a few steps in further, your sneakers landing on linoleum as you really smell what’s simmering in a large skillet. Mushrooms, bell peppers, green onions, broccoli, and peas are cooking in a thick sauce, coating them amidst freshly minced garlic onion.  Your lips part as you inhale, and you can’t believe it. You don’t even know what it is, but it smells heavenly.

You finally have to ask, because hunger is carving a hole in your stomach. “What are you making?”

Frankie parks his hands on his hips and looks at you with knitted eyebrows. “What? You’ve never had stir fry before?” 

You purse your lips and reach for the spatula, looking to Frankie for reassurance, to which he nods his head. Go for it. 

You smile as the vegetables sizzle once you push them around on the pan, relishing in the attention as you allow the other less glazed vegetables to catch some heat from the burner. Frankie hums, like he’s debating something, like he’s learned something from his little experimentation. He reaches past you, his front brushing against your shoulders as he reaches around you and adds a little brownish-amber liquid to the pan. It sizzles, splashes, and dances across the different vegetables, which makes you grin. 

You were never big into cooking, especially since you started working at Tommy’s Diner. You’ve seen enough grease to last a lifetime. You were fine settling in on the couch with a bowl of cereal and a glass of cheap wine. You saved making extravagant dishes for when you had a date over, and even then, that was risky. 

But there was something about Frankie actually knowing how to cook cuisine that you liked. “I didn’t know you knew how to make dishes besides burgers and fries.” 

He sneers and rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling the entire time and lets you continue slowly shifting the vegetables around, watching as the glaze sizzles. “I didn’t know you cared enough about me to visit me at my apartment. We’re both a bit surprised tonight.” This was your worst nightmare. 

“I only came here under the impression that you were sick-”

“So you came to my aid?”

“Psh,” You huff, “You wish. But no.” You insist more forcefully, setting the spatula down and turning to face Frankie, who is all too close to you. You lose a lot of your angry traction as his hand finds your hip, feeling his fingers flip to the stovetop’s burner switch to a lower setting. 

His hands navigate you away from the oven, your back flushed against his counter now. His eyes trail you, grazing over your body as his hips now plant you in one spot. You swallowed a lump in your throat, your still resisting hands planting against his chest. You can feel his cock twitch against your thigh. 

You can’t explain why your fingers twitch and start to clutch his shirt, pulling him a little closer. Stupid Frankie with his goading smirk, bringing his forehead down against yours. It was so hot in his kitchen, in the middle of summer. You feel a bead of sweat sprout behind your ear and lightly glide down your neck as you flutter your eyes closed. It wasn’t often you felt your power to resist him rendered useless, but tonight you felt like he had a quite literal home-field advantage. 

“You want me to stop?” He asks, voice low and lust-drenched. His leg parts purposely between yours, jutting them open and spreading what was his. 

Your throat is closed off, the lack of air draining from your busy head. “I..” Your words fall off, distracted by something scampering through the living room.

“Do you have a cat?” Your eyes light up as you slink past Frankie. He found your stray of attention a bit adorable, despite being given a slight case of blue balls. 

You carefully padded out of the kitchen and into the living room, using the excuse to slip off your sneakers at the entrance. The small orange cat had curled up onto Frankie’s couch by your tossed jacket from earlier, forming a perfect circle amongst all of its tangerine fluff. Its eyes were closed serenely, absent of a new presence. It was fucking adorable, in short. 

Frankie was still flummoxed in the kitchen, adding the cooked chicken into the stir fry before turning the burner off and putting his masterpiece aside. “That’s Leo.” He announces, Frankie’s voice carrying annoyance that he lost a sure thing in the kitchen. Now you were cooing over his cat. 

He settles two bowls on the counter and adds the stir fry to each, a few splashes of the sauce splattering around the rim of the bowl. With two forks randomly stabbed into the piles of food, he walks one of them out to you. “Could have eaten this whole thing by myself.”

You smile, taking the offering and humming as you flop on the couch, the orange tabby finally peeking its eyes open. “I don’t doubt that, so thanks for sharing.” You recognize how he had eaten the panini and fries, and he was still excited over the stir fry. Poor guy probably had the munchies like crazy. 

With the kitty taking up one of Frankie’s couch cushions, he’s forced on the end with you in the middle. He sets his food aside on a spare side table and reaches for a small pipe, your breath pausing at the sight. “You want a hit?” He asks.

His face glows orange as he flicks on the lighter, spreading the flame over the green, now black, substance in the tiny bowl. He inhales, and you watch in mystification as he takes in the smoke filtering through. Your heart thumps harder in your chest, the right side of your mouth twitching up in a sly smirk. 

Let’s smoke weed with Frankie Morales tonight. 

He lets out a labored breath, the smoke flying loosely in the air and creating hazy grey circles that flood the ceiling before disappearing altogether. The stench fills the small apartment rather quickly. 

“I get really weird dreams after I smoke.” You whisper, biting down on your lower lip as you glance down at the pipe he’s holding, a small glow still coming from the weed. 

“It’s still lit if you want some.” His voice is low from smoking, and you have to clench your thighs closer together. Damn this stupid uniform, you wished you would have brought a change of clothes so you’d at least be comfy eating stir fry, petting his cat, and getting stoned with him. 

He raises the piece in an offering, and you look to him for one last look of reassurance. It’s polite to be offered free weed, especially since he’s the one who paid for it. He gives you a nod and looks at you with furrowed eyebrows. Are you crazy? If you want it, take it. 

So you do. And you smoke it. And you pat yourself on the back to do so without coughing. It’s a small hit, but you don’t need much, your brain already feels like it’s as light as a cloud, dancing in slow motion. You giggle by accident. 

Frankie lets out a sputter of laughter, watching you get high with him is a bit comical. “Princess knows how to smoke. Kudos.” 

You let out a puff of laughter through your nose and grab your warm bowl of stir fry, stabbing into a green pepper. “Shut up, Frankie.” 

He ends up putting on a show you both agree on, something comical that makes you both laugh your high asses off. You eat the stir fry and almost forget Frankie is the one who made it. It was delicious, you ate everything down the the finely chopped green onions. 

You both shared another hit, and you felt like you were loosening up. Any need to hold onto control slipped through your fingers. Any issues you had been dealing with drifted away. And you realized how stupidly happy you were to be beside Frankie. Trying to do anything of actual initiative went out the window after your second hit. You both found yourselves on the floor of Frankie's room, sat side by side, heads resting on the edge of his bed as you both stared up at the ceiling and spoke gibberish. 

“Aliens?” He asks, your thighs brushing. 

“Of course.” You hum, slowly blinking in a gentle haze. “Ghosts?”

He sighs and takes a long time to answer, which apparently offends you because you snap your head up and look at him in disbelief. 

“You can’t be serious. If you believe in aliens, you have to believe in ghosts.” You argue as you stare at his fan. 

He lets out a throaty groan, closes his eyes, and runs his hands down his face. His curls are pretty. They haven’t been run through a million times yet or smothered by a bandana or hat. 

“I think… I do believe in ghosts. I just don’t want them to bother me.” He says, a weak smile on his face. 

“What? Like you’re afraid to be haunted?” Your head lays back on the bed but rolls over, watching his profile while he continues to look up absentmindedly at the ceiling. 

He’s silent for far too long. Finally, he rolls his head over to face you, your noses lightly brushing. He’s so close that looking at him feels a bit cross-eyed. 

“Wait- what? Sorry.” He finally says with a broken, short laugh. 

“Can you focus?” You ask teasingly, pushing your hand up against his cheek and making him stop staring at you. 

You take the soft silence as an opportunity to rest your hand lightly on his thigh. He does the same, except he feels the warmth of your skin and the material of your uniform. Goosebumps form shortly after, and you smile shyly up at the ceiling. 

“Have you…” You start to say but trailed off, bashfulness overcoming you. 

“Have I what?” He asks. You both blink slowly as a car’s lights flash through his window only for a few seconds, lighting up the dim room before it is filled with darkness again. The moon and an orange lava lamp was the only source of glow. 

You distractedly look away from him, admiring a tapestry on his wall and his soft comforter. “Have you had sex with someone high?” 

He shrugs and slowly smiles before gently nodding his head against the edge of his bed. “Yeah. Have you?” His head rolls over to look at you again. You feel his warm gaze, but you just keep your eyes locked on his ceiling fan. 

Warmth and a subtle shyness flush across your chest, your thighs nearly trembling in excitement. “No.” You whisper. 

He doesn’t say anything, but he watches you for a few moments. 

“Want to, though.” You finish, feeling a knot slowly grow in your stomach. 

Frankie’s eyes flick to your long lashes, then down to warmth creeping up your neck. “Yeah?” He asks.

You gently nod, too, eyes still too shy to meet his own. “Yeah-” 

He doesn’t let you get out one more syllable. His large hand comes up and meets your cheek, guiding your head to meet his gaze.

Frankie kisses you deeply but at a slow pace. And you’re feeling a desperate hunger to have him. You eagerly cup his cheeks in return and swing a leg over his lap, intensifying the kiss as your hands glide down the landscape of his clothed chest, bunching up his shirt in the process. You feel like a horny jackrabbit, but it’s really all his fault. You can feel his half-hard cock as you grind the center of your pelvis over his own, whimpering into his mouth desperately.

“Take care of me,” you whisper, and it ends up sounding a little more like a desperate, whiney plea. 

Frankie’s lips part against your own, feeling the neediness of your touches. His hazy vision peers open, breaking your kiss for a moment. 

“Hold on, baby,” He sits up a little bit against the bed, his eyes scanning yours with a certain deepness. 

You pause, your chest heaving lightly as you regain your breath. “Frankie, come on, don’t make me beg.” You say as you lean in once more, but he catches your face and pauses your movements. You feel like a deer in headlights, static tingling in your ears as you feel a sudden rush for embarrassment. Why wasn’t he just as excited? Or eager? Or desperate? Were you the problem?

Suddenly, your eyes were dashing around for an escape. Then he speaks your name. Soft, gentle, careful. Hear him out. You swallow your pride and stay seated over his lap. 

“We’re not at the diner right now, y’know? We can,” he pauses to find the right words, seeming to get lost in the beautiful hue of your eyes. “We can take things slow. Wanna take my time with you.” 

You can’t help but let an awkward chuckle escape between you, eyes having a hard time meeting his. You playfully scoff and smack his shoulder lightly to regain a sense of control. “Shut up, Frankie.”

His head cocks, and he looks at you with that stupid fucking smirk. “You don’t know how to take it slow, do you?” 

His words antagonize you, and your eyes light with fire. A defensive fire, because he was right. 

Slow meant feelings, slow meant experiencing, slow meant bonding. You weren’t slow. Sex was supposed to be fast, hot, desperate, counting down the seconds until a sweet escape, racing to an orgasm, chasing it like a fever dream. You weren’t good at slow. 

You hate that Frankie has learned this about you. Giving up the upper hand wasn’t in your caliber. And you find yourself frowning as you look down at him once his smirk washes away. He’s looking at you like he cares. Even with you both stoned, brain’s hazy and light, he sees through all that and looks at you like he gives a damn. 

He lightly shrugs his shoulders and softens the hold he has on your face, his thumb gently stroking along your cheekbone. “Can show you.” 

Hesitancy screams across your blank face, but he reads you better than anyone else. He speaks your name, more genuinely explaining his offer. “Let me teach you.” 

You let out a gentle sigh, slowly giving in to temptation. Because having him at all was better than not. So you take it slow. Frankie teaches you zen. Teaches you how to melt. 

One of his hands falls from your cheek and lands on your waist, gently stroking your hip in a soothing slow circle. It feels like heaven. 

His brown orbs dip close, and you let him take the lead. He kisses you tenderly, soft. His tongue lines your lower lip once he’s ready to lightly increase the intensity, begging your mouth for permission to part. If it was any other night, your tongue would be down his throat, and you’d be a grinding, sloppy mess in his lap. Let him teach you.

You take a deep breath in as your tongues tangle. 

It almost makes you giggle again, because it feels stupid, but you sort of like it. 

His stubble brushes your face, and you fight to release a moan. Frankie’s hand on your hip shuffles to your lower back, and you feel him add pressure. Your chest meets his, and you let yourself melt into him. His strong torso easily keeps you both up. Your heavy breaths hit the room, and you force yourself to pull away for air, despite how much you enjoy making out with him. He grins at the sight of satisfying you. 

Frankie pushes a stray hair that’s fallen out from your loose ponytail behind your ear, smiling as his hands move to the back of your uniform. This will be the first time he actually undresses you properly, not just shoving the material up past your ass so he has access to your pussy. 

“You know how to work the zipper?” You playfully ask as you settle your head on his shoulder, taking the slower moments to breathe and relax. 

He stuffs down a chuckle and nods, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “I think so. Am I doing it right?” He asks as he guides the zipper down your back, feeling your flesh exposed to the rest of his room. 

You purse your lips and slowly sit up in his lap, watching him take in a deep inhale as your centers brush lightly. You hide your coy smile as his eyes light with excitement, but he’s made a point to be slow with you. You guide the sleeves of your uniform down to your hips, exposing your breasts to him. Giggles leave your mouth as you wiggle out the last bit of your dress, Frankie is more than happy to help you. 

“I’m feeling a little alone here.” Your voice is soft, tugging at his shirt before you push it up just past his pecs. Your high ass got a little distracted, staring at the hair sprinkled in dark trails across his torso, feeling him struggle in his shirt as he laughed. 

“Focus, princess,” his arms tangle with his shirt before he tosses it off, especially since you started slacking. You shyly smile and flutter your eyes down to his warm body as your hands explore the landscape for the first time. You had yet to undress each other like this, you sort of liked it, especially with this whole slow and steady thing going for you both. 

Frankie leans back against the bed, admiring the sight before him. You feel a little awkward, goosebumps rushing up your arms as you shyly smile and playfully push his face away. “Stop staring, perv. You’ve never seen a pair of tits before?”

He’s quick. “Not a pair that nice.” 

You smile and crack out a laugh, knowing sex has never felt this casual before. No pressure. Good vibes. And it’s not just because of the weed. It’s because it’s Frankie. And he looks at you like you put the sun in the sky and you could do no wrong. But then he starts staring at your tits, and you realize he’s just another guy. 

His hands caress your waist, thumbs dipping into the curves and appreciating the way they run up you like beautiful rivers. You decide to do the same. Your hands slip lower, letting his happy trail guide you to his black mesh basketball shorts. His rough and calloused hands cup your tits, taking them in his palms and giving you a tentative squeeze. He’s figuring you out, what you like, what makes you squirm and whine. As soon as he pinches your nipples between his thumbs and pointer fingers, a broken gasp is elicited from your mouth. 

“Shit,” you curse breathily. Everything was a bit heightened right now, including your sensitivity. It felt like a million little strums were being played, making your spine shiver and your head grow foggy. And you were determined to make him feel the same way. 

You bite down on your lower lip, fishing your hand into his shorts and fisting a hand around his already hardening cock. A smirk tangles on your lips as he lets out an earthy grunt, low to the ground and heaven to your ears. 

You start a bit fast, eager to please, wanting to see him tremble for your touch.

His lips meet yours in a distracting manner, rocking your steady pace. “Slow.” He murmurs against your lips, and you gently nod, a shy smile spreading from embarrassment.

“Slow.” You whisper, your lips brushing his. Your ego trips on the power you have over him, fisting him, his heavy length weighing in your hand. You couldn’t even fully wrap your fingers around him, he was all just… girth. Your body ached for him, needy for the feeling only he could satisfy by being inside of you. His tip trickles with precum, and a low moan drips off his tongue like honey. It fuels you. 

“Spit on my cock, princess.” He grunts out, his face leaning in to capture one of your nipples in your mouth. You squeak lightly in excitement before doing just as he asks of you. 

You angle your head over your centers, letting a long line of saliva puddle down onto him. It meets the strokes of your hand, and Frankie’s jaw twitches as he squeezes your breasts involuntarily harder.  You let out a long whine as your nipples form peaks between his fingers, feeling your heart thrum against your chest. 

Frankie likes how you look on top. Back arched, chest pushed up, messy hair falling loose, eyes lit with an eagerness and curiosity for him to teach you the method of going slow. Admiration mixed with respect. He feels like he’s dreaming. 

All he can imagine is you like this, bodies in sync, riding his cock. Tight walls milking his cock for everything he has. His skin becomes riddled with goosebumps, thinking about your nails digging into his chest, your tits rocking up and down, how he would tumble out moans of your name and squeeze your hips with adoration. Yeah, he’d like to see that one day. 

He’s not sure how much longer he can last with merely your hand on him. 

“C’mere, baby.” 

A gasp of surprise jumps from your throat before you can stop it, Frankie managing to stand up off the ground, wrapping your legs around his waist for security. His strength, how easily he lifts you and shuffles you around like a ragdoll spurs white hot heat in your stomach. You were going to fuck him good if you ever got past the going slow part. 

His smirky mouth meets yours in a hot kiss, one heavier than before. Like he’s needy for you. Your eyes melt closed as your fingers wind into the pretty curls that were formed at the nape of his neck. Your back meets his mattress and blankets, your fingers dance along the pattern, your high mind hypnotized seeing Frankie on top of you. 

His body rests between your parted legs. You whimper into his mouth, feeling his hardened cock resting against your core. 

“Take my fucking panties off,” you beg more than you mean to. 

Frankie tries not to sneer. His teeth capture your lower lip, and you mewl out a moan before he lets you go. 

“To hell with going slow.” 

You hastily nod, feeling his fingers grip your panties at either side of your hips before he shuffles them down. You whine with how the sticky center stays latched to your core, he gently peels it loose with a hellish smirk. 

Frankie’s heart thrums against his chest and echoes into his ears. Hearing you desperate for his touch was heaven, he felt undeserving to have such an angel vying for his attention. “So wet f’me, barely touched you, princess.” 

He discards your panties to the side, off on the floor with the rest of the clothing you both have shed. You’re completely naked together, makes you a little nervous. 

Frankie promised to speed up, but you’re finding harmony in the way his soft lips trail down your body, leaving wet prints between the valley of your breasts to the soft skin of your stomach. Your breaths come out heavier, thighs shaking as he drops back down to kneel at the edge of the bed. His hands grip your thighs and yank you impatiently closer to his eager mouth. You whimper as your body is shuffled closer, your fists that were clutching the sheets being torn away. 

You giggle as your thighs shake around his head, feeling those perfect kisses move between the warmth of your legs. 

“Fuck,” you finally let out, excitement seeping through your bones. Frankie’s stubble drags across the sensitive flesh of your inner thighs, and again, you feel that heightened sensitivity that makes your stomach roll. 

Frankie decides that dragging out the teasing is enough. He wanted to taste you, every mile, every inch, every centimeter. 

Your core glistens in his eyeline, begging to be touched, kissed, fucked. He can’t help but dive in. His dopey brown eyes meet yours as his face disappears lower and lower before he’s past the valley of your tits, and all you can see when you crane your neck are those mocha brown eyes. 

His tongue tastes you, and divides your folds, as he laps up your juices. 

The feeling is exhilarating, like the rise and fall of a roller coaster. 

A gasp riddles its way up through your throat, concaves your chest, and your pupils blow wide in excitement. Frankie enjoys your taste but aims to pleasure. His mouth latches onto your sensitive clit and suckles, his tongue intervening every few swipes to flick across your clit. Rise. 

His large hands grip the outside of your thighs, pinning your lower half to his mattress, and lapping over you in a heated race to the finish line. Your face contorts in pleasure, fingers drifting down your stomach before you wind them in Frankie’s hair. He growls against your pussy, you’ve never felt your blood pump faster. Fall. 

“Fucking- Christ,” you push out, gripping his hair strands tighter and making him grunt hot heat against your core. ���Feels so fucking good- oh my god,”

He pulls away for a breath and sucks a love bite into the sensitive flesh of your thigh until it swells pink and purple. One of his hands on your outer thighs wraps around the shell of your body, playing with your clit. He slowly shakes his head as he looks at you. You wonder if he shares your hazy vision. The pleasure makes you feel like you’re seeing double. 

“Christ isn’t making you feel good,” his words make you whimper, “I am.”

You quickly nod, but you realize your body can’t move quickly under the influence. You’re just hazily bobbing your head, your hand in his hair dropping to his strong bicep. 

“Frankie, I need you,” you plead as you gently sit up on your elbows and cup his cheek, wiping your glistening slick off his pretty bottom lip. “Need you inside of me.” You whisper, a desperate look splashed across your face. 

You hated how much power he had over you. He almost just made you cum from playing with your clit. You need him biblically, fully, flesh and blood, blood to bone. It was carnal, primal. 

He doesn’t need much further convincing. Frankie preferred to pull an orgasm from going down on you, but he listened to your needs and what you wanted. 

His lips meet yours in a hungry kiss, working you further up the bed and letting you collapse into his pillows. Your eyes catch the sight of a dream catcher while his tongue tangles with yours. You flush at the taste of your own arousal. That’s when you realize his hand is still between your thighs and working soothing circles into your clit. 

You whimper as he adds a tad bit more pressure, and you feel the white-hot heat of adrenaline making your stomach pool even more excitement into your tummy. 

“Frankie,” you whisper softly, and his forehead rests over yours while he guides his shaft to your center. 

He lines his tip up and down between your folds, your jaw dropping as he sickeningly uses your slick to lube himself. He lets his entire shaft rest against your sex, and he does slow thrusts back and forth, lining his entire cock with you. Holy fuck. A shiver was sent up your spine, goosebumps parading across your body. 

Your chest swelled for him. 

“What do you say?” He asks in a taunt, knowing how weak you are. 

You huff and move your hands up his arms and hang them loosely around his shoulders. He complies in moving in closer. 

“Please.” You finally admit between gritted teeth, which makes him grin. 

“Alright, princess,” his forehead now rests against your temple, cocking his chin down to get a better angle of your centers. He guides his tip to your entrance, slow and patient, before he notches himself inside of you. 

Your eyelashes flutter, and you watch as his eyes clench closed. He likes to act all tough like he wouldn’t fold for you, but you know he would time and time again without having to say more than a simple please. 

Both of you share unsteady breaths. It feels like a dam is giving way inside your chest. 

Frankie thinks how he has never been inside a tighter pussy, squeezing the last bits of air from his lungs. 

Your walls pulsate around the intrusion, but your dripping core and his wet tongue from earlier allowed him to slowly push in, inch by inch. 

You swallow a lump in your throat. You don’t realize your eyes are closed, and you're gripping him around the neck to keep him close until he sponges a soft kiss to your cheek. 

“Alright?” He forces out. It’s like you’re choking him, and it makes you twitch up a smile. 

“Mhm,” you muster up, feeling his chest rumble lightly with laughter. 

“Baby,” he whispers, and your chest surges at the pet name. “Can’t breathe.” Oh, shit. You damn near had him in a headlock.

You loosen your grip around his neck, shyly smiling as your desperate hands look for something to ground you. 

Frankie stays flushed inside you but shifts to be more centered over your body, gently resting his forehead just above yours. 

“C’mere,” he whispers before he takes your hands. You decide not to question why he interlocks your fingers. But it feels safe, and you’re still high, so you’ll blame any poor decision-making on that. 

“Fuck me,” you finally grit out, desperate for him to just fucking, “Move.” 

Your whine is met by him reeling back his hips, only for him to plow right back into you at an unforgiving rate. A gasp ripples through your throat, and you feel like screaming. Your entire goddamn body was on fire with the way his girth parted your walls, splitting you open. You let out a string of whimpery moans, and your eyes glared desperate daggers into him. 

“S’what you wanted, right?” He grunts out, jaw tight, pretty curls falling limply in front of his eyes and crowding his forehead. “You wanna be fucked hard, is that it?” He can barely speak authoritatively, you’re squeezing him like your last lifeline. 

But he’s right. Tears cloud your vision, and you weakly nod as desperate puffs of air leave your pretty parted lips. “Yes,” you squeak out, relaxing your hips so Frankie falls into you more. 

“Feels so fucking good, can’t-” An eager cry leaves your lips as he pulls himself out, just to thrust right back in and rocking you further up his bed. Your chin tips to the ceiling as you curse every god, man, woman, whoever the hell created Frankie Morales. 

“Can’t what, princess?” His tone is lower, sinister even as your walls twitch around him but only gush out more arousal for his cock to slide in and out of you. 

You find it hard to string together syllables. So he squeezes your hands that you’re holding for dear life. He stills inside of you until you answer. 

“Shit,” you whimper. 

“Can’t what, angel?” He probes again, cocky asshole waiting for his answer. 

You whimper and peek open your eyes. The right side of his face is highlighted silver from the moon, your hazy vision thinks he looks like an angel. His hand wanders between your centers and finds your throbbing clit, making you cry out the answer. Your face crumbles as you own up to what you need to say. 

“Fuck! Fuck, Frankie! Can’t go without your dick,” you pant out as he subtly rocks into you at a good pace upon your confession. “Can’t even go- can’t even go a week without it,” you admit in defeat. 

That stupid, cocky smirk of his graces his parted lips. It’s crooked and perfect, and he’s fucking you like your life depends on it. Because it does, you think. 

His thighs clap against your ass, pounding you into the bed, drilling you into place, suffocating the air from your lungs.

Your vision goes hazy, seeing white, then rainbow, then stars. They cloud your vision, and you’re not sure if you’re still high off the weed anymore. Or just high off Frankie. 

You whimper strings of his name tangled with profanity, he’s still filling you to the brim. It once seethed hot with pain, but now your stomach is contorting in pleasure. It’s like he knows exactly how to crack your vault, penetrating your walls, unlocking something deep inside of you that no one else manages to know the code. 

His messy fingers continue to circle your clit, and you know your end is coming. 

Frankie’s grunting with every thrust, moaning a symphony of your name every chance he gets. He likes holding your hand, resting his sweaty forehead against your own, listening to you beg for his cock, for your finish. It’s the only thing he wants to give you. He’d be at your every beck and call if you let him. He wouldn’t mind if the only thing he ever got was a fraction of your praise. 

Frankie’s thighs clap against your ass, the sound echoes around his bedroom. If his neighbors didn’t know his name, they did now. 

“Fuck! Frankie!” You cry out, feeling every inch of his cock massage your insides. His tip kisses your cervix, and your jaw drops. Nothing more comes out of your mouth, so your blown-out eyes do all the talking. 

I’m so fucking close.

“I know, baby, feels good, doesn’t it?” He grunts as his balls slap against you. “Feels good having my fat fucking cock inside you, huh?” 

You shake under him, your thighs clench around his hips, and you pray to the gods for making Frankie. You take back what you thought before, you need him. 

You don’t care that he’s a little older, that he’s an asshole, that he eggs you on. 

Because in the shelter of his bedroom, locked in your embrace, he swallows your name and persuades you into pleasure, time and time again. 

Your clit tingles, and your walls furiously clench around him. Finally, your mouth finds words to try and elaborate on what you’ve been holding inside. 

“Fucking- shit! Fuck me harder, right there- fuck me, Frankie! God- I’m coming!” You cry out as his pants fill your space, fanning across your face. He fucks you harder and faster as you near your orgasm, wanting to help you reach it. And he gets you there.

Your back arches, and he groans lowly as he stills inside of you. It’s almost beautiful the way you cum in unison. 

Your hands hold his tighter, and he reciprocates by squeezing gently. I’m right here, I’m here, baby. 

You’re not sure how long you lay there, still. Your hips get a little achy. He feels you twitch and knows it's time to let you go. 

A gentle whimper leaves you as he pulls out. You feel a bit empty, a little cold.

His sweet laughter makes you peek open your eyes. He’s trying to move out from around you, but you haven’t let go of his hands. 

You shyly let go, and both of you squeeze your hands to flex the knotted muscles and stiff knuckles. You close your legs and lightly curl up. He doesn’t come to rest, he gently pats your outer thigh once or twice before he disappears to his bathroom. 

You think he couldn’t have been gone for more than thirty seconds, but he comes back in a fresh pair of boxers and his basketball shorts, his tanned torso still exposed for your viewing. 

“Frankie,” he pauses like a deer in headlights as he stands up from grabbing your panties. “I’m gonna… spill.” You finally pitch out, a bit embarrassed. 

“Oh,” he says, feeling like an idiot. He circles back to the bathroom and grabs a towel and a wet washcloth. 

“Sorry, my brain is all-” he starts to say, but you quickly shake your head. 

“I know me too. S’okay.” You whisper with a smile as you weakly sit up on your elbows. The record playing in the living room had stopped. He shimmies the towel under your hips before he aids you with a clean washcloth. 

Feels too domestic, so you take over, much to his annoyance. You wrap yourself in the towel once you’re done, and sit up to retrieve your uniform. You dread putting it on. 

“Can I take the towel for the way home? My underwear is still too..” you trail off. Soaking wet was the words you would have used. 

Frankie’s face screws up in confusion, his eyebrows knitting together. 

“You’re going home?” 

Now your expressions match. “Yeah?” It sounds more like a guess than a statement. “What else would I do?”

Frankie shifts back and forth on his feet before he sits down beside you on the bed. “Dunno. Stay here.” 

You take in a hesitant breath, and he feels it. “You shouldn’t drive home, you know. You’re stoned. And tired. Don’t need you falling asleep at the wheel or some shit.” 

You frown. Staying here does sound nice. Thinking about going down those five flights of stairs with your jelly legs sounds like a walk to hell. 

But there’s a certain rule about sleeping over. One you don’t want to cross. You and Frankie are just fooling around. Nothing more. 

“I don’t know, Frankie.” You say with a small frown, tightening the towel around you even more. His sullen look deepens at your words. He doesn’t want to overly convince you. If you want to go, he doesn’t want to stand in your way. 

You chew on your bottom lip and weigh your options. You don’t want to go down the stairs. You’re tired as fuck, and you don’t want to get pulled over or something else. And you really don’t want to put your uniform back on. And you want to stop trying to put issues in your own way when you really just want to stick around. But the decision is made for you. 

“Stay.” 

Your eyes meet his. He’s more certain now, going after what he wants. 

“Stay the night, it won’t kill you. I’ll get you something more comfortable to wear, and you can just…” he trails off and shrugs. 

“Stay?” You ask, raising an eyebrow. He nods. 

You sigh loudly but inevitably smile as you point to his closet. “I need a shirt. Please.” 

A big smile glides across his face, and you can’t believe you’re the one who put it there. 

“Alright, princess, whatever you say.” He squeezes your thigh and stands up, his back to you as he fishes through his closet and smells a few shirts to see how clean they are. 

You roll your eyes and sigh as you fall back into his pillows. 

You change into something clean, you hope it’s clean, and end up curling into a protective ball under his covers. 

His cat, Leo, circles up by your feet, and you coo, gently stroking the pretty fur along his back. Frankie retrieves two glasses filled with water and hands you one. You instantly take a few gulps before your hand gently strokes down the shirt he’s put you in. It swims a bit on you, but you like it. The hem hangs at your thighs. 

“Can you get in here?” You ask impatiently. “M’getting chilly.” You whisper with a coy smile. 

Frankie blows out a few candles in his living room and finishes putting away any leftover stir fry. 

Your high has worn off, and now you’re just a sleepy little thing. A long shift plus getting railed would be your new nighttime sleep aid. 

Now that the apartment is drenched in darkness, he pulls back the covers and moves in beside you. Cuddling was not an option. He spoons you, yanking you halfway across the bed and out of your little ball. His warm flesh meets your back, and you hum at the feeling. He was a furnace. His head settles above yours, you feel the stubble gently poke at your hair. Your eyes are already closed as his arm wraps around your waist, an affirming hand settling on your tummy. He must need skin-to-skin contact because his hand slips under the shirt he’s put on you and settles on the warm skin by your belly button.  

You let out a short little laugh. “You do this with all the girls you sleep with?” 

“No.” He quickly says, and your eyes peek open. 

“No?” You ask curiously. 

“No. Just all my coworkers I sleep with.” You roll your eyes and reach around to slap the back of your hand against his hip, forcing out a chuckle from him. 

“M’kidding.” He somehow pulls you closer. Your head rests comfortably on his bicep, the cold tip of your nose warmed by his flesh. 

Questions pour out of your stupid brain. Were you the only one he was sleeping with? If you weren’t, who else was there? Was this normal to him, cuddling after a friends-with-benefits situation? Did Frankie want something more? 

You sigh and close your eyes, attempting to shut off your brain as your finger lazily draws shape on his forearm. 

He murmurs a goodnight against the shell of your ear. You blame how happy and comfortable you are right now on his cat. And it somewhat makes you feel better. You never pictured falling asleep beside your coworker, let alone Frankie Morales. 

Sleep eventually overcomes you. You dream of Frankie sitting in a bowl of stir fry like a hot tub. 

---

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[artisticdysfunction]

Intentional Trauma Based Psychological Conditioning (ITBPC)

yes, this is a post of us proposing a term we use personally be a community term.

so, what is this anyways?

psychology conditioning is a common thing to occur as a result of abuse, or other chronic traumas. pavlov introduced the concept of psychological conditioning with his testing on dogs. what most people know it as, is in relation to dog training. in terms of chronic trauma, it is a natural response to what happens to a person. it's why triggers exist, after all. and in terms of chronic trauma survivors, our system would personally call it trauma based psychological conditioning.

what would make it intentional, though?

for us, we define intentionality when a person is put through a series of related psychological conditionings, through traumatic means, for the purpose of making that person fit a particular goal.

one example that most people may be familiar with, is with cults. trauma inflicted onto people, on purpose by the cult, to make them good and willing cult members.

however, ITBPC can and does apply to more situations than that. it's more commonly seen in survivors of organized abuse, abuse done by an organized group. it can cause trauma disorders as any kind of abuse and trauma does.

why did we coin this for ourselves? and why are we making this post?

we have our issues with the term Mind Control. other than the fact that it is commonly thought of in terms of science fiction and hypnosis, we also don't believe it to be the most direct in what it is. mind control does refer to psychological conditioning, so we believe that referring to it as such would be more direct and lead to less confusion.

no one has to use this term if they don't want to, though. this is a term we made for us, and wanted to share in case anyone else felt right for them to use as well. anyone can interact with this post, just be civil.

[the-californicationist]

Scenario for the gif game 😊

okay, this was a challenge! it took me a while to think of a scenario, but here's what i came up with. i hope it's okay! thanks so much for the ask, my friend!! <3

TW: ghoap written by someone who doesnt write ghoap (sorry, im trying to get better!), references to anal sex, masturbation, smoking

Menthols

Simon had been out on a mission for nearly two weeks, and Johnny was stuck in their apartment, losing his mind. He’d binged three Netflix series, all absolute shite, and finished the novel he’d been putting off for months. The house was spotlessly clean, and his hands had angry calluses from how often he had used the gym to blow off some steam. 

Nights were the worst. Johnny would lay, spread-eagle, legs wide with his ass in the air, and his mind would wander. He could almost smell Simon’s body as his scent lingered on his pillow, and he crushed it to his nose, trying his damnedest to get to his scent. 

Johnny’s cock twitched, thinking about all of the nights he’d laid here like this, prone, keening like a whore underneath Simon’s heavy thrusts. Shameless and desperate, he allowed his hips to rock into the mattress, his prick humping lewdly across their sheets, feeling the way his foreskin threatened to slip over his swelling cockhead with each vicious, teasing movement. He squeezed his thighs tight, hips popping forward, showing himself little mercy, the pillow still crammed into his face, muffling his broken whimpers. 

Each rushing thrust was like crackling, sparking torture. He was so close, but it wasn’t enough. He needed more.

He could use his hand, or…

Johnny paused his efforts, digging around in Simon’s nightstand, finding his stache. The little white box of menthol cigarettes seemed to taunt him, laughing at his pitiful need. Then, like some sort of fiend, Johnny held the half-used pack to his nose and let his hips grind into the bed once more. 

With his nose buried in the pack of menthols, the minty smell of stale tobacco filled his mind with memories. Like Pavlov’s faithful dog, he was flung backwards in time to all of the nights, after Simon had made a mess of his holes, stretching him cruelly, making his muscles ache with his girth, he would light a cigarette and come down from their high together, letting the smoke billow and curl through the open window. Meanwhile, he’d play inside of his sated sergeant, flexing his thick fingers into Johnny’s well-used hole, smearing his own come along his walls, making wet little circles with his fingertip. 

As Johnny inhaled again, he began to come. His hands hadn’t even made it to his shaft, and he was spilling his seed like a teenager, rattling through a fierce orgasm just at the memory of Simon’s affection. The mint and the harsh nicotine spurred him on like a bull as he bucked into the wet sheets, and he could feel his own spend swiping across his belly, dampening his hair and ruining the middle of the bed. 

He rolled over, panting, and suddenly brightly aware of what he’d done, more than a bit embarrassed. Johnny felt like he was his own voyeur, judging himself for being so thirsty for his partner that he’d sniffed a pack of old cigarettes like a damn bloodhound. 

“Fuck me…” He lamented, stripping the sheets and avoiding looking at himself in the mirror. 

After he remade the bed, he sat on the edge of the mattress and looked into the pack of smokes once more, studying them as they stood up in the pack, all in a jumbled group. Just as he was about to toss them back in the drawer, he heard the keys jangle in the old lock of their front door, getting stuck in the strike like they always did. 

He jumped up, thankful that he’d at least thrown on a pair of joggers after he’d cleaned his mess, and rushed to meet Simon coming through the door. 

“Si! You’re back,” Johnny smiled, going in for a hug. 

Still in his mask, the helmet of his motorcycle in his fist, Simon stopped him. 

“What’re those?”

The enormous Brit’s brown eyes peered down at Johnny’s hand. He was still clutching the menthols.

“What? Och, your smokes. I was just —”

“Are you pickin’ up my habit, love?” Simon’s voice was dark, and it made Johnny’s hair stand on end. He’d heard that voice in the field, but never in their peaceful home.

“Well, no. But I –”

Before Johnny could answer him, Simon’s gaze twisted into a fearsome rage, snatching the pack from his hands and launching it through the den. It fell with a soft slap against the wood floor, lost somewhere behind the couch.

“Don’t you dare start,” Simon crossed the space between them, clutching his lover by the nape of his neck, towering over him, pulling up the bottom half of his mask, “Don’t… I don’t want to lose the way you taste.”

Johnny was stunned by his aggression, and he tumbled into a sort of pliant submission as Simon claimed his mouth, pressing his warm, pink tongue through his lips and down his throat, forcing his jaw to open to take more and more of his kiss. 

It was everything Johnny needed. The minty flavor mixed with Simon’s own unique, human musk went straight to his core. Johnny’s cock seemed to have forgotten its recent release, and it was preparing for round two, eager to be plunged into whatever part of Simon he’d be given, hungry for that sacred gift. 

Simon pulled away, ripping his mask all the way off, throwing it down on the floor with his other gear, staring at Johnny in disbelief,

“You didn’t smoke?”

“No, you mad bastard,” Johnny smiled, shaking his head, “I just… I needed you, and… uh…”

Simon’s lips curled into a sultry grin, pressing his body against him, tugging playfully at the handful of mohawk he was still grabbing,

“Johnny… were you havin’ a wank with those?”

Johnny felt the flush rise into his cheeks, staining them red. Worse still, his cock jerked in his pants, too obvious to hide, eager at the thought of living out his fantasy in real life. He didn’t answer him. He couldn’t think of the words. His mind and his body were slipping out of his control.

Simon chuckled in a deep, warm rumble, his hands digging into Johnny’s elastic waistband, sliding over his dripping rod. He pumped him once, twice, watching as his sergeant’s eyes fluttered closed from the pleasure, so sensitive from his recent release. 

“You needy little slag. Come show me how much you missed me.”

[astonmartingf]

REAL LIFE RELATIONS — THE FIRST

mick schumacher x reader x liam lawson

series summary— the world of motorsports is vast, yet it is also very limiting. like an intricate web of relationships, connections can get you everywhere, and underneath the pinnacle of motorsports are the secrets waiting to be unfolded.

CHAPTER ONE — BABY IT'S NOT THE END OF THE WORLD

news catches to your parents while you spend time with them during the break, and new rumors begin at the start of the season

warnings: daddy issues, reader has nervous breakdown, even more conspiracy theories

previous ★ masterlist ★ next

“I’m surprised you found your way back home.” 

Your father’s voice is cold and distant as you enter the front door, no bother sneaking around your own house. After your late night trip to a taco truck and two orders of fries, you decided to stay over at Yuki's, a place you both shared together when you wanted to get away from your own house.

Entering the living room, you catch your father at the dining table, in his pajamas, glasses adorned on his face with his hair unkempt, a cup of black coffee on one hand and scrolling through his iPad on the other.

Old you would’ve caused a ruckus by now, shouting in the early mornings causing your father to reply in the same fashion. One thing you learned late, is that you are your father’s daughter, no matter how you may act around each other, you’re both made from the same pieces of string. There’s no denying that, not at least to you.

The best way to avert the situation is to play it cool and keep calm, walking past him making your way in the kitchen. You situate yourself on the kitchen island making your own breakfast, the same butter and honey on pumpernickel toast since you came home from college. It became a comfort food, reminding you of home, rather, your father.

“I slept at Yuki’s, I planned things with him way before the dinner and I was running late, it’s rude to be late at plans.” Your father scoffs, nodding his head slowly. Your face falls flat. You’ve seen that expression before, disappointment, doubt, suspicion. Your appetite weans off as you drop the toast back on the plate, avoiding his gaze.

“I see… Care to explain this then?”

Raising your head, eyes following the screen of your father’s iPad— a news article of you, well Mick’s but you could see yourself in the blurry pictures. You sit frozen, trying to gain composure, hiding your own nervousness to your father. There hasn’t been a close call like this, not in the last five years at least.

Your eyes wander, rereading every paragraph double-checking, triple checking if your name is mentioned. The thought leaves your mouth dry as your hands begin to shake under the table, eyes flickering through the screen. Taking slow and deep breaths, you avoid your father’s eyes. Knowing for sure he’ll have another outburst- this time it was truly your fault.

Your father cares too much about you to not let this slide, he always put your privacy above everything else, to the point where you began to think if he wasn’t proud of you, or if he didn’t want to be associated with you. 

It didn’t matter what you did, he always let you do whatever you want, as long as you're careful around the public. Your identity, a mystery to everyone, maybe it’s why you didn’t have a lot of friends growing up, maybe that’s also why you’re always with Mick or Yuki, you can be yourself around them.

Your perception of your own father confuses you sometimes, he would do all these contradictory things, like Pavlov’s dog you’d learn when to react to his affection, and when to keep distance. He’s always controlling what and what not to do, act, say, at some point you find yourself an extension of your father and not yourself.

It was whiplash, one second he’s singing you praises, the next he’s looking at you like the piece of shit under his shoes. Nonetheless, you’d learn to understand that it was all for your safety, as much as you loathe him, he’s your father.

There are things that can’t change.

“Of all the people… Mick? God YN, when will you stop acting out everytime things don’t go your way and grow up-”

“Stop it this instant.” You glance at your stepmother and step sibling as they walk into the kitchen. You stay frozen in your seat, hands trembling as tears slowly pool on the corners of your eyes. You look at her through your blurry eyes, desperate to leave, you didn’t want her to see you like this.

Especially your stepmother, but things don’t ever go your way, as much as you want to leave, your legs are stuck on your seat. Your heartbeat dampening the sound of whatever your father might be talking about, it only dawned then the gravity of your mistake. Not being with Mick, but the mistake of being seen.

You learned to live for so long away from the camera, you got used to not being seen. Sure you went on races but it was easier to control variables in the paddock. Seeing yourself on the front pages of a local newspaper-

“YN-” Standing on instinct, you face your stepmother, “if you want, you can leave.” 

Wasting no time, you burst through the door- leaving your bag, you had nothing but it didn’t matter now. You walk around avoiding the main streets to the nearest park in the area, feeling grateful how you chose to sleep at Yuki’s last night. It was still early enough, not a lot of people your age, mostly elders and their breed dogs walking around the park.

You don’t know how long you spent adorning the lake, it could’ve been minutes or hours— not that it mattered, you’re enjoying the solitary time. From the corner of your eye, you catch a familiar figure, a blondie panting as he points in your direction. “You’re hard to find you know.”

Watching him sit down beside you, he pants catching his breath before situating his head on your lap, lying down on the grass. “I know what you’re thinking… but you need to wait until I catch my breath… I’m— I'm not letting you leave this time.”

Instinctively, you move your hands at the stray hairs sticking on Mick’s face. Wiping the sweat off his face using the sleeves of your sweater, observing his face, the sweat dripping off his forehead as he catches himself in labored breaths, eyes closed. Smiling to yourself, you relax in his presence, leaning back on the heel of your palms copying his actions.

Closing your eyes, you feel the cold air rushing through your face, the warm sunlight peeking through the branches of the tree, shining light on both you and Mick. Your breaths, slow and steady, taking in every moment, when you open them, you watch Mick’s intently gaze upon you.

“How’d you find me?”

Mick smiles before showing you his phone, a message from your stepmother saying you left. You roll your eyes hiding the laughter growing in your smile. “Of course she told you…”

“Who else if not me?” Mick shrugged, clearly not caring if your stepmother called him early in the morning, or late at night. 

“If it’s you, of course I’ll come. I’m always one call away YN, for you especially.”

His statement earned a scrunch from your nose, cringing at his cheesy lines, “Even while you’re racing?”

This time it was him who grimaced at your statement, “Okay don’t play smart with me, if I could answer my phone during races, why not. But you know what I mean YN.”

You sit still in silence at his answer, playful or not, you knew Mick was sincere with his words, there are few people who you trust with all your life— Mick was one of them.

Which made it even scarier to you as you continue playing around with fire like this. Moments like these are a wake-up call to the burning fire already spreading out in your mind. Moments like these which make you think if you'd been a normal person, maybe your chances with Mick might be better.

Unlucky are you.

Pushing blondie away from your lap, you stretch your legs ready to leave. The blonde senses this and follows through your actions, timing his movements with yours, making sure he’s steps behind you leaving you space. It only frustrated you more, knowing how observant he is—

He who knows your quirks and the little things you do, your mannerisms, what you like and don’t like, he’s constantly there, showing up. Slowly picking up the mess you leave every single time you fuss or mess up, always the first one you call and talk to, always the one you look forward to seeing.

He’s always there.

And it hurts more knowing that one day, he might get up and leave— off with someone better, someone normal. Someone who isn’t you. And you’ll be left alone, still used to him, still looking forward to him, still you’ll be waiting for him.

“How does it feel to have offers left and right?” You bump your shoulders against Yuki as you walk around the Bahrain International Circuit with him. Your friend scoffs, looking back at you, “You mean to ask that to yourself?”

You press your lip into a thin line, hiding the smile growing from your lips slowly feeling bashful at his words. “My offers are yours Yuki, you know I won’t leave without you. I’ve been training to be your race strategist since forever, I think I’d rather be with you.”

“I heard from Helmut they’re interested in taking in a new race strategist for a second driver.” Your eyes widen slowly walking closer to Yuki, head glued beside him.

“A second driver for Tauri? Are they replacing you?” You shake his arm, whispering right by his ear.

Yuki scoffs, pushing your head to the side, “It’s for Red Bull, apparently they’re looking for a second driver for the next season.”

Raising your brows, you pull Yuki to the side of the track letting other members of the team walk first. Looking left and right, you check for other staff in the track doing their own session. Once the coast is clear you bring Yuki closer to you, “Where’d you get that? The season has yet to start, why are they looking for a second driver?”

Yuki shrugs his shoulders, “I have no idea, Helmut was asking about you since Newey wants to talk to you about something, I haven’t got a clue.”

You both continue walking, but your head is still stuck on the conversation earlier. How could Yuki know about that? You knew Helmut’s preference towards Yuki, he sang him with praises, which automatically puts Helmut in your good books. But is their relationship even that close to sharing information?

Apparently it is, but you can’t stop thinking about it, especially since Newey and Helmut asked for you— Yuki’s race strategist. Why would they want to talk to you? Unless…

“YUKI! Oh my gosh! Why didn’t you tell me sooner!” You pinch his arms, jumping in the middle of the track leaving the Japanese confused with your sudden outburst.

“You’re getting the Red Bull seat aren’t you?” You exclaim in full confidence, albeit a little loud for your own preference, it seems like no one noticed your scandalous statement as everyone continued walking along the track.

This time it was Yuki’s turn to burst out laughing, “Where are you getting those ideas from, like you said it’s the beginning of the season. I thought I heard crazy shit, but here you are spouting crazy nonsense.”

You deadpan, slapping Yuki’s arm— “Think about it, why would they ask to talk to me? A race strategist? Obviously this is about you. Yuki, I swear you’re getting this seat.”

Yuki nods along, not fully convinced, “Okay, let’s say they’ll be talking to you but they may just poach you away from me, so let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

The more you think about it, the more you feel upset about it. “I don’t want to be separated from you. I’d rather stay in Tauri than move up.”

Yuki raises his brows, patting your shoulders, “As much as I admire what you’re planning for us, it’s not as bad as you think. We still have a whole season in front of us, let’s leave those thoughts for later and focus on what we have now.”

Gasping, you throw a hand in front of your mouth, fake crying, “When did you get so mature Yuki? I can’t believe we’re already acting like serious adults, thinking about our career perspectives.”

Earning a groan from Yuki as he shakes his head in disbelief, “Like I said, forget what I said and let’s focus on the upcoming season. Also, don’t you dare tell anyone about it, and expect a call sometime now. I haven’t told anyone as well.”

“Not even Pierre?”

Yuki shakes his head left and right, leaving you flabbergasted, “This is serious, serious isn’t it? Why would you tell me something like that? Who am I going to talk to about it?”

“No one. Not even…” Yuki raises his eyebrows hinting on the person he’s implying.

Another gasp escapes your lips, “HECK NO! Especially not blondie, if he knew, then he’s contractually allowed to tell you know who…” you trail as your thoughts eat you alive.

Yuki twists your body, making you face him as he grabs both your arms, “Which is why I beg of you, don’t tell anyone. I know we already talk way too much, but you can only talk to me about it okay? And maybe Liam…”

Your face morphs into a blank expression, eyes dilating at Yuki’s deliberation, “I happen to tell him… but that’s aside the matter. Do not tell any other driver, promise me.”

You gulp at the seriousness, usually these rumors fly around the paddock all-season round but I guess this was something that will actually come to fruition in the upcoming future since they’re keeping it hush hush. You nod your head, afraid to speak anything out into existence.

What’s not adding up is how Yuki knew, at first you thought it was Gasly who told Yuki who told you. But this— this was from Helmut directly to Yuki and then to you.

How you got involved into all this is shocking, even to you. By now Yuki is probably regretting telling you, but you admire his honesty in telling you beforehand rather than getting blindsided by Helmut and Newey calling you to the main office. Suppose you knew about both teams picking drivers from the same pool, but staff?

It’s all too coincidental that they asked for you, even as Yuki’s race engineer they could’ve just gotten someone in Red Bull to replace you, if it’s Yuki they want. Especially with your personal circumstances, a secret daughter of an F1 Team Principal, people in the smaller circles of the grid knew who your father is.

You don’t want to jeopardize what you built for yourself all these years. But like what Yuki said, it’ll be another problem in the future. Maybe then you’d have the answers to your questions. Especially when you know how he isn’t your true father.

For now it’ll be better to keep your head down on the low, and focus on Yuki— because at the end of the day, it’ll be just you two. Just then your phone pings, receiving a message from a person you haven’t heard in a long time.

amgf ★ superstars @woozarts @minkyungseokie @iienstein @eugene-emt-roe @laura-naruto-fan1998

[winterweary]

You scare me sometimes but I enjoy reading your stories, soooooo how about the Weird Wizard s3x, thanks luv! 😘💕

Unironically "You scare me sometimes but-" is a delightful compliment to me <3 I'm sorry my upsetting horny beel posting scared you bby <33 Have some tentacles to make up for it.

@alpine-forget-me-nots

This was the first idea that came to me for a series I lovingly call "Solomon Uses his Sorcery for Evil".

Also after a few months after I had the idea for this posting, I definitely saw someone else post a delicious smut about accidentally summoning something with tentacles. If I come across it I'll try to link it again...I just wanted to mention it so no one thinks I accidentally or intentionally copied their concept <3

AFAB reader in a skirt. Tentacles etc. A little dubcon? But they're into it.

-

“Well, well, well. What have we here?”

You freeze, one hand fisted around a writhing black tentacle, the other reaching for the textbook that had skittered just out of reach. With a huff, you squirm to look over your shoulder, cursing when the gripped tentacle uses your distraction to flick free of your grip and smack you wetly in the face.

“Very funny, Solomon. Give me a hand here,” you whine to your sorcerer, but he only leans against the doorframe of his office and smiles.

“No, I don’t think I will,” he replies easily, laughing lightly as you narrow your eyes into a glare.

He has caught you in quite the compromised situation.

You hadn’t meant to be snooping. Not exactly anyway. You were working on an assignment and needed a reference book Solomon had shared with you many times before. It just happened to be laying underneath a thicker, more archaic looking tome. This book was covered in Solomon’s signature scribble, though in a language you weren’t familiar with, and on pages black as ink. It had also been oddly damp, like it had been fished out of the sea just hours before and had barely begun to dry out. You hadn’t even really dug into it, just lifted it off your textbook and given an idle ruffle of the pages.

Only to be sprayed in the face by a gush of seawater. While you were sputtering, the tome had fallen and something had burst out of the pages. Something with too many tentacles and a perverted streak…

“Solo-mONnn.” You try to hiss his name but it ends in a squeal as a thick tentacle latches to your thigh and begins to nurse the soft flesh with its wide suckers. One of your arms is pinned to your side now, the other back to wrestling with a cheeky limb that seemed to be trying to nuzzle against your cheek.

“Solomon what?” he coos back, fluttering his lashes at you smugly.

“…bastard.” He laughs and shoves off the door frame, but any hopes you had of him helping you free yourself are dashed as instead he moves to an armchair, settling into it with a content sigh.

“Forgive me, my darling apprentice. I think I’d like to see how this plays out,” he teases, you can’t help the excited flip in your stomach when you see he’s already hard. Dammit. He Pavlov dogged you there.

“You-“ Again, your frustrations are cut off, this time with a gasp when you feel a push between your legs, an oddly giving press against your clit through your underwear. It makes you realize you’re already slick, something in the way Solomon’s eyes rake over you and the hungry squirm of the tentacles warming your core in eager preparation.

“I hate you,” you pout.

“Mmm,” Solomon replies with a sympathetic hum as he palms his cock lazily through his slacks, “Tell me how much, my love.”  

[shootingstars-or-airplanes]

Woke up late today so I'm live-blogging the episode today. Right off the fucking bat, this title has me so concerned

(spoilers under the cut)

Sam you sweet summer child even Lena is telling you to stop with that fucking response paperwork. PLEASE RUN!

CHESTER!!!!! <3

Ok so I have audio processing issues so I usually have to listen a couple times or read the transcript to fully get all the case info, so this next bit might be disjointed

This case is somehow so Flesh-coded while having nothing to do with flesh

The fucked up desires theory is strong with this one

For some reason the use of "her" to refer to this thing makes my skin crawl

Stage 2 is reminding me of Putting Down Roots (which is my absolute favorite case/statement from either series)

The line "last night I watched my stomach unzip" is so fucking good

Oh fuck so like this bitch knows she's replacing herself... Damn...

Yeah ok some of this shit is hitting too close to home

THE BOYS THE BOYS THE BOYS THE BOYS

I JUST CHOKED ON MY SODA

Basira?????? Helen????????

Also Celia quit lying!

WAIT THERE'S STILL 10 MINUTES LEFT?? (give or take ads)

Gwenny no! Gwenny baby! (Fuck when did I start liking Gwen?)

I can hear the distant screams of all the dyhard shippers

Alice still deep in the "capitalism is the real monster" mindset and honestly, she is so real for that

IM SORRY GWEN DID YOU SAY EYES?????

Alex Newall and Jonny Sims are Pavlov. I am the fucking dog.

Yeah ok wow as a writer, ending on "I don't know" is so satisfying. But as a listener YOU MOTHERFU-

Waiting for the credits to see which one of them I can blame for my emotional distress and it's neither of them??? (I'm assuming that was the writer of the case and Alex and Jonny wrote the OIAR stuff as part of the "additional materials" but now who am I supposed to scream into the void about????)

[dbnightingale24]

This is honestly the longest ending to a series I’ve ever written (so far), and I really hope you guys like it 🥺♥️

[imrllytootiredforthis]

Sweet tears of ecstasy? That intrigues me

okay so Sweet tears of ecstasy is one that i've been working on for awhile...it'll probably (dunno for sure😅) never come out if i'm being honest because it's a whole ass series with complexity and toxicity, an actual plot between the smut.

the thing is idk if i actually have the commitment and drive to finish something like this, so if i did end up posting it, it would probably be after i finished writing all of it-which idk if it'll ever happen😭

it is hongjoong x fem!reader x mingi, a college au.

the reader is a smartass in one of mingi's classes who he's obsessed with-why? because he likes smart girls who say things he doesn't understand while he looks at them with stars in his eyes, nodding along even though he has zero idea what they're saying (basically he's a himbo)

the reader is a very private and closed off person, has a few close friends but even with them she mostly keeps to herself. one of said people she is close with is hongjoong-who is pretty popular. him and the reader are like fwb but keep it on the down-low because it's not really anyone else's business.

anyways, the plot pretty much is, mingi ends up walking in on them in the bathroom at a party one night...doing unspeakable things and immediately leaves, embarrassed but even afterwards he can't stop thinking about it

that's all i'm gonna say for the plot, just in case i ever do end up releasing it but yeah. i've got a few parts of it written, i'll release one small snippet of one of them here

Sweet tears of ecstasy

“Shit,” You groan, chest heaving, a bead of sweat rolling down your temple.

Fingers twirl through threads of his hair as he pants as well, trying to calm his racing heart while almost (maybe) unaware of the affect that it had on your shivering body from his hot breath fanning across you. 

He could barely help the churn in his stomach at the way you looked down at him, hungry as your eyes roved over his skin; ravenous, like you weren’t above pouncing on him the second after you came despite the slight tremble still apparent in your legs.

“Stop looking at me like that!” He moaned, trying to hide his head in your thigh as he squirmed, your hand in his hair holding him back.

How could you not? It would be a crime to not appreciate how puffed and red his lips were, his hair messy and chin covered in a mess that his tongue seemed determined to clean, poking out every so often. “Like what babyboy?” 

He sighs and rolls his eyes as you smile, cupping his cheek in time for him to brush his head against your inner thighs, blowing at you just to hear you hiss. 

You groan, “Don’t be a dick!” Using the position in favour for shoving him back, away from you before frowning at the cold left behind and pulling him back in.

He almost laughs but instead kisses your skin softly, lovingly.

“You’ve gotten too good at that y’know?”

“I dunno,” he looks up before crawling up into your open arms, allowing him to cuddle up against you as you light a cigarette, placing it between your lips with a puff. “Is there such a thing as being too good at eating pussy?”

The smell of nicotine fills his head, making him feel cloudy and safe. 

He’s never liked it when you smoke, told you many times to stop, tried many times to make you. 

Hiding them, throwing them in the trash, sending you websites and YouTube videos, threatening you. Nothing’s worked and he still doesn’t like it but he can’t help the way that the smell alone is almost enough to make him hard again.

A cigarette before you give him the best orgasm he’s had in his life, relighting the same one right after, right before round two and then another one before you hop into the shower afterwards.

Pavlov’s dogs or some shit, right? 

“You wanna stay the night?” The words echo hollowly, seeming to bounce off the four walls of his room. 

He feels foolish. For even asking. For even hoping. Especially when you don’t answer, simply taking another puff, offering it to him in which he declines with a quiet reminder of how you should quit.

His body feels cold when you pull away. The bed seems so much bigger when you’re not in it.

“Not tonight lover,” You grab your underwear off the floor, jeans too followed by the shirt you came in. “Got some stuff I need to do,”

He wishes that you’d grab his hoodie right next to it instead, slip it on and wear it tomorrow when he’d see you in class. “Mhm.” It’s a bullshit excuse. You know it. He knows it. 

But it’s an unspoken promise at this point. He asks you to stay. You say you have something. You leave. He stays. Cold and left with the scent of cigarettes and sex.

“You coming to the party tomorrow night?” You put out the deathstick on the ashtray that’s taken space on his nightstand, brought a couple of weeks ago by you after being annoyed with the fact that he had nothing else that you could’ve used.

“Wooyoung’s?”

“Yeah, the one at his and San’s place?”

He thinks over the things he had planned for tomorrow, ready to skip out anything originally planned to go to this stupid party with you. Graciously happy to find that he has nothing. “Yeah, why?”

You turn back to him, smile plastered across you face, looking so much more innocent than you really are. 

“Just wanted to make sure that I’d see you there, probably wouldn’t go if you weren’t. You’re the only one that makes that kinda stuff bearable for me.” He swears his heart soars with the words, with the way you lean down, placing a kiss on his neck, lingering on his jaw, then his cheek and the corner of his mouth before planting one on his lips, nipping at them playfully, pulling away just as quick before he can wrap his arms around your neck and pull you in, effectively starting round 3 of the night.

“Y-yeah,” 

He’s slightly breathless but you don’t seem to notice, fishing your phone out of your pocket to check the time. “Oh shit, I gotta go!” 

You scramble to grab the rest of your things, your bag, the pack of cigarettes and lighter you left on his nightstand beside the ashtray and one last stolen kiss.

“I’ll pick you up tomorrow, okay? 8 and don’t be late, I will leave you behind if it’s over ten minutes.”

He pouts petulantly, “I don’t take that long!”

You roll your eyes playfully as you unlock the door, peeking your head in one more time before you shut it. “Take a shower okay? You smell like sex and I’ll call you later, text me if you need anything, anything at all.” He nods and you pin him with a look that seems to say ‘don’t fuck around with me.’

“Okay!”

“Good." You smile softly and for a second he can pretend that he's really yours and that you'll come back later tonight when he's sleeping, cuddling up to him in the dark and that you'll wake up in the morning-together.

But then your next words come, like a slap to the face. What you say every night that you leave him. "See you later Hongjoong.”

And with that, you’re gone. And he’s left alone in the dark once more. 

--

so yeah, a snippet from the first part, after this it switches to mingi's point of view, already at the party mentioned the next night. which is where he ends up walking in on them.

[charlotterhea]

"Self-rec time! What are your favorite five fics that you've written and why? After replying to this ask, feel free to pass it on to five other writers to spread the love. 💗"

Thank you for the rec, @cissykenway! I love babbling about my fics and now I can even do it by invitation. 😁 (Although, ngl, choosing five stories will be hard! I've just written too much...)

1. "About Magic" The story isn't translated yet but it's the last long fic I completed and it's just so different from everything else I've written. It's detailed, new, and reads more like an actual novel than my other stories. There are so many OCs in this one that grew on me and although some readers were disappointed by the second half, I love this story to bits. It's peak slow burn, like ... you have to be really patient here! *lol* But I love it for the immense plot and the way I managed to keep it completely canon-compliant - yes, including the epilogue. 😏 I'm looking forward to translating it one day.

2. "Medicus"-Series Another not yet translated story but at least this will be my next translation project so stay tuned if you're interested! It's easily one of, if not the hardest story I've ever written, especially Part III. I've written that one coming out of a mentally very challenging time and I needed a place to put everything I've seen, learned, and experienced during the preceding years of my life. So this story ended up being full of trauma, a lot of it about things I never experienced myself, making me extremely nervous about whether I depicted it halfway decently. But ever since I posted the story, so many readers told me that it really hit home for them and that it was healing to read the story so I think I did enough things right. 😅 Anyway, this story is not just full of trauma, it's also a story full of love and there is a lot of healing happening as well although it takes some time to get there. But the end of this series is the end I'm most proud of all my stories. It's just perfect in my eyes, even today.

3. "Our Souls at Full Moon" This story was a pain in the ass! But only because I made it so. 😅 I couldn't get this plot out of my mind but didn't have the time to write such a long project either so I decided to make it a drabble story. And when I was finished with that, I spontaneously decided to try something new with my writing style, so I revised, almost rewrote the whole thing. 🙈 Don't get me wrong, I'm proud of what became of the story, but looking back it might have taken me a similar amount of time to write the long version. ^^ Still, I love it. It has some sentences in it that are unusually poetic for me, is reduced to the bare minimum, and yet brimming with emotions. I made myself cry writing this story and although I'm not entirely sure if I succeeded in translating it adequately, this has earned a place on this list.

4. "Red Passion and Pavlov's Dogs" This is my most successful one-shot, both in German and in English, so of course, this has to be on the list. 😂 Tbh, I didn't expect this story to receive so much love. I wrote it in one sitting, in a tense I wasn't used to and kept agonising over for several days until I decided to just let it go, and half of the ideas aren't mine - but the vibe, the emotions, the rawness... A lot of readers asked for a second part but I'm sure I'd only ruin it. The magic of this story is in its open end and I would never dare touch it again. I couldn't replicate this kind of vibe for a second part anyway. So this plot became the Schroedinger's Cat of my nightly musings as well. Do they get a happy end or will they screw it up? Nobody knows, least of all me, and I won't open that damn box to find out. It's perfect as it is. ^^

5. "Otherside" There are other stories of mine that are more in character, more elaborate, more profound than this for sure - but oh boy, did I have fun writing this! 😂 Putting two Severus ... Severi ... Severussi ...? Well, two of them into one story was just peak-comedy for my brain and I don't care a bit that the younger one is probably more a 21-year-old version than the 39-year-old version he's supposed to be. I had an absolute field day writing them and their banter was worth the action part I whined my way through. I'm actually rather proud of said action part; I normally avoid writing action, it's just not for me, but I'm happy with how I managed this. It was nice to see that I can write action if I have to, even if I don't particularly enjoy it. So this deserved to be on this list as well. ^^

Softly tagging @frenchpresswriter, @dragoon811, @naomijameston, @janacariad and @echoofawind. 💚

[msrhaxoz]

I started thinking about if Raphael had decided to reciprocate Otto's feelings and what would have happened.

Since Otto has been serving him for quite a long time, more than 400 years, he has learned to shut up his desires and the voice of reason for the sake of service, learned to control his emotions and feelings at the sight of the devil. And yet he still admired Raphael, idolized him, served him faithfully, despite the mental discomfort.

And here's the situation, what if Raphael reciprocated? He hinted at a desire to share feelings, would have said directly or brought it to this point. Otto would have replied with his usual strained smile, - No need, sir, I know my place.

As an example, I want to cite Martin Seligman's experiment on learned helplessness. A small definition: “ In a state of learned helplessness, an individual experiencing discomfort, pain and similar negative factors does not attempt to improve his situation, although he has the opportunity to do so. This condition occurs after a series of unsuccessful attempts to influence or avoid negative environmental circumstances. In people, learned helplessness is accompanied by a loss of a sense of freedom and control, disbelief in the possibility of change and in their own strength, suppression of will and depression.”

Seligman conducted experiments on dogs. Dogs were subjected to experiments using stimuli: an audible signal and an electric shock. The idea was to train dogs to associate sound with the discharge of current and react to it accordingly (to be scared). The dogs were placed in a special shuttle box, separated by two partitions. The partitions were low. The researchers wanted to achieve the following effect: dogs, frightened by the sound, as well as an electric discharge, had to jump through a partition into a safe compartment to avoid exposure. However, they whined, lay down and did not try to escape. This led Seligman to the idea that dogs had "learned" not that they had to be saved from an electric shock following a sound, but that it was impossible to avoid a blow. This is a creepy experiment that you can learn more about if you want to read the necessary articles (Ivan Petrovich Pavlov's experiment on the theory of classical conditioning is also related to it).

Let's return to Otto's position. Rejection and prohibition of feelings have become a common condition for him. The fact that he cannot reach the object of his adoration has become the rule in his life. And if he had the opportunity for a relationship, he would have refused. Moreover, he is afraid of mutual feelings like fire. He doesn't know and doesn't understand that feelings can be mutual. Or, more precisely, obeying orders for him is mutual feelings, because he does not know any other behavior. And true mutual love for him feels like something wrong and, first of all, unacceptable.

I don't know how to illustrate this idea, and if I had started, I would most likely have become discouraged. This is a difficult and close topic for me. And the realization that Otto did not even try to approach the devil, knowing his low position, kills me.

[ao3feed-tf2ships]

Time in a Bottle

read it on the AO3 at https://archiveofourown.org/works/58855249

by this_isnt_my_darkest_fuckin_secret

𝘈𝘯 𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘮𝘺 𝘴𝘯𝘪𝘱𝘦𝘳, 𝘴𝘱𝘪𝘯𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘢𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥 𝘰𝘯 𝘪𝘵𝘴 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘵, 𝘢 𝘮𝘢𝘥 𝘱𝘪𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘦 𝘢𝘴 𝘪𝘵 𝘮𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘴, 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘰𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘧𝘦𝘤𝘵 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘵𝘴, 𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳. 𝘌𝘢𝘤𝘩 𝘧𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘢𝘴𝘵.

𝘛𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘣𝘺 𝘪𝘵𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘣𝘦 𝘢 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘣𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘦𝘦, 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘪𝘧 𝘪𝘵 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘣𝘰𝘥𝘺 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘵.

 Alternate title for this was Pavlov's Dog, but I might save that for a later fic if i write it

Fair warning this will jumpscare you by becoming a songfic like halfway through. Yes you have to listen to the song. It's good just TRUST ME. Also check tags for content warnings

Words: 7621, Chapters: 7/?, Language: English

Series: Part 8 of Trucksandvans supremacy

Fandoms: Team Fortress 2

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence

Categories: M/M

Characters: Sniper (Team Fortress 2), Engineer (Team Fortress 2), Soldier (Team Fortress 2), Miss Pauling (Team Fortress 2), Scout (Team Fortress 2)

Relationships: Engineer/Sniper (Team Fortress 2)

Additional Tags: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Whump, Sniper-centric (Team Fortress 2), Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Dom Engineer (Team Fortress 2), Mental Health Issues, Crack Treated Seriously, vaguely, at least it starts that way, Songfic, Outlandish attempts to explain game mechanics, i lost interest in this but you can't tell. Ssssh no you cant

read it on the AO3 at https://archiveofourown.org/works/58855249