#Teen rating for sex jokes

[saltycharacters]

God I'm just. Really tired of sexual shit being in everything literally cant even interact with a relativley general-age media without dealing with it at every corner. Interacting with fandoms especially it's so fucking depressing like it's not SUPPOSE to be there but people never think that their horniness isn't above critiscism and that there's little to no responsibility they have to practice when interacting with media IF THE MEDIA ISN'T SEXUAL/EXCLUSIVLEY FOR ADULTS THEN DON'T SEXUALIZE IT simple fucking logic yet I can't have shit on this bitch of an earth

[teamred]

in sickness and in health

✩‌ logan howlett x reader x wade wilson | fluff | 1.6k

SUMMARY | you may be bedridden with the flu and feeling miserable, but you're blessed with two boyfriends to take good care of you. // part of the home sweet home series + requested by anonymous!

WARNINGS | s*xual jokes, none really!

RATING | teen+

It’s early Monday morning when your body feels like utter shit. 

You toss and turn in bed, fighting the blanket away from your boyfriends in a struggle to warm up, only throwing it off seconds after because of how hot you also feel. Your muscles are starting to ache, like you ran a marathon and then some. 

Next to you, Logan’s the first to stir awake, picking up on your restless movements. Propping himself up on one forearm, he gently places the back of his hand on your forehead. 

“Darlin’,” he whispers, brushing the damp hair away from your face. “You should call in sick. Ain’t no way you’re goin’ to work like this.” 

You turn away from him in protest. “No, I’m okay. Just feeling a little tired.” 

Logan huffs and shakes his head over how stubborn you are. 

He suddenly grabs his pillow and hurls it directly at Wade’s head, who’s sleeping on the other side of you. The pillow smacks into the latter, waking him from his deep snoring with a snort and a startled jump.

“What the fuck?!” Wade mumbles, rubbing his eyes and stroking his bald head as if he’s running fingers through his non-existent hair. “If you wanted to fuck this early in the morning, you could’ve just asked, sunshine.” 

An eye-roll from Logan. “Time to wake up, sleepin’ beauty.” 

He gets out of bed and pulls on a shirt, then walks towards Wade’s side of the bed, shoving his head. “Back me up in tellin’ our girl she’s gotta call in sick today.” 

“Huh?” Wade squints at your resting body, but when he leans over and presses his hand to your forehead, his eyes widen in shock.

“Jesus H. Christ, you’re burnin’ up more than the Jonas Brothers did in 2008. You’re staying home, peanut, and that’s not a request. Doctor Deadpool’s orders!” 

You whine. “Do I really have to?” 

“Yes,” they reply sternly in unison. 

Giving into your boyfriends’ commands, you groan. As Logan heads out of the room, Wade hands over your phone.

And you hate to admit it, but you know they’re right because you barely have enough energy to call in sick. To be safe, you ask for two days off, then flop right back into bed. 

Carefully, Wade pulls you into his arms and whispers into your hair, “Need a sexy nurse to take care of you, baby? ‘Cause I think I got an outfit stashed somewhere.” 

You try to laugh, but it comes out as a flat wheeze. “Maybe later, babe.” 

“Awww, you poor thing.” He frowns sympathetically. “You can barely even laugh. Man, you must be dying.” 

A few minutes later, Logan returns, holding a steaming cup of tea and ibuprofen in his other. He sits down onto the bed. 

“Here. Take these and drink this,” Logan orders. Wade releases you as you sit up slowly, wincing as you do, and follow through with Logan’s instructions.  

“You guys should probably avoid being near me,” you rasp. You’ll definitely need to drink more tea to soothe your oncoming sore throat. 

Logan chuckles softly and Wade ruffles your hair.  

“I can’t get sick,” Logan states matter-of-factly. 

“Neither do I,” your other boyfriend adds. “Well, I mean, unless you count cancer constantly fucking me in the ass.” 

In the moment, you’re filled with utmost envy for your superpowered boyfriends and their ridiculous healing abilities.

Wade climbs out of bed, patting Logan on the shoulder as he stands. 

“I’m gonna run some errands for our little sicky princess. Hold the fort down and keep her tied to the bed with those strong arms of yours, yeah?” He squeezes Logan’s bicep playfully and gives him a wink. 

“Pick up more tea for her.” 

“Oh, most definitely. And I’ll get condoms too! You know, they say that fever sex helps you get better faster.” 

“Wade.”  

“I’m kidding, I’m kidding!” 

He leans down, whispering above you. “I’m not kidding. I’d still do you in your current state, but only if you were up for it. Love you, babe.” He plants a kiss on your head and departs with a wave of his fingers. 

The older of your boyfriends shifts closer to you on your bed. “Do you want me to hold you right now?” 

You groan in negation, shaking your head slightly. You appreciate the gesture, but with your body switching between chills and a fever, Logan’s body warmth would just make things worse. 

“If you need anything, baby, just let me know,” he says softly.  

In response, you hum and nod, allowing yourself to relax as much as you can. Soon enough, you drift off, and can feel a hand stroking the side of your head, soothing you towards your much needed rest. 

“Wade, she’s sick, not on her death bed.” 

You blink awake, the sunlight coming through the window stronger than before. Judging by the position of the light, a few hours have passed since you fell asleep. You’re woken up by the familiar sounds of your boyfriends bickering in the other room. 

To strangers, and even to themselves, it sounds grating. But to you, it’s strangely calming and comforting. 

“Well, excuse me for being an exceptional boyfriend! I just wanna make sure she’s got anything she needs,” Wade fires back.  

A brief pause.

“That’s… thoughtful of you,” Logan grumbles stiffly.  

Wade’s laugh rings through the apartment, and you can envision him standing up with his hands on his hips, shaking his head in amusement. “Wow, that must’ve felt like pulling teeth for you, huh? Wait—why aren’t your teeth adamantium?” 

You think Logan sighs and probably rolls his eyes too. “Go check in on her, dumbass.” 

“Love you too, my lil honey badger,” Wade says, his voice and footsteps coming closer to the bedroom door.  

A soft knock on the door. 

“Feelin’ better yet, honey?” Wade asks, peeking his head through the door. 

“Not really,” you grumble. 

In a flash, he’s right in front of your face, his nose pressed against your cheek. “How about now?” 

That gets a small laugh from you. He grins, leaving a loud, exaggerated smooch on your cheek, holding it down for emphasis. You scrunch your face up at the lovely gesture. 

“What did you get from the store?” you ask with Wade’s arm now slung around your body. 

“Literally everything. Whatever you want, I’ve got it. I’m basically Costco now.” 

You test him. “Diapers?” 

“Okay, I don’t have that,” he admits, deadpan. “But I do have five different flavours of soup, an action figure of myself and Logan for you to play with—or to enact voodoo sex, you know I love a little one-on-one action with our man!—some random German cookies, and a bottle of Chinese herbal medicine the lady down the street swore by. At least, I think it’s medicine? Hard to say. And that’s only a few of the things I got.” 

“Can I have some soup?” 

“Of course. Tomato, cream of mushroom, chicken noodle, spicy nacho cheese, or clam chowder?” 

“Surprise me.”

“Spicy nacho cheese, it is.” 

You grunt in disapproval.

“Chicken noodle soup, it is.” 

After Wade spent some time spoonfeeding you your soup and Logan replenishing your cup of tea, sleep claimed you once more. By the time you wake up again, the room is pitch dark. 

“Logan,” you groan weakly. You immediately hear the TV volume lowered, followed by recognizable footsteps approaching the room.

“Hey, sweetheart,” Logan murmurs gently, sitting on the bed and reaching out to touch your forehead. You’re warm, but it’s an improvement from the morning. “Everything okay?” 

“Is there any dinner?” you ask, your voice barely above a whisper. 

“Is our girl hungry?” Wade hollers from the other room. “‘Cause I’m cooking up a storm right now!” 

A corner of Logan’s mouth quirks up. “I think Wade’s on it.” 

He turns on one of the bedside lamps, the soft light illuminating the room. With it, he catches the pleading look in your eyes, one that he can decipher in a heartbeat. Without hesitation, he scoots closer and pulls you into his chest, embracing you with a tight hug. 

“I feel like shit,” you grumble into him with your arms twined at his neck, inhaling his scent. 

“I know, baby, but it’ll pass. The more you rest, the faster it’ll go away,” he reassures you, stroking your back. “You gonna admit staying home was a good idea?” 

“Mm-mm.” You shake your head, even though you know he was right. 

He looks at you with a smirk. “You’re lucky you’re as cute as you are stubborn.” 

Moments later, Wade, adorning a “Blow the Chef” apron, comes in with a bed tray. You pull away from Logan, allowing Wade to properly position the tray in front of you. At the sight of syruped pancakes, you beam, especially at the attempted heart-shaped ones. 

“Voila! Voici les crêpes,” Wade declares in a decent French accent, but you’re pretty sure he’s mispronouncing crêpes as he says it like crap. 

“Thanks for everything, you guys,” you say, glancing up at your boyfriends. “I feel really bad.”

“Never ever feel bad about being sick, baby.” Wade says, setting in on one side of you. “It just means more time for us to spoil you.” 

Logan snuggles you on your other side, wrapping an arm around you. “It ain’t your fault, and it’s what we’re here for.” 

After being out for so long, you spend your time eating the pancakes and asking how their day was. Logan gets in a word before Wade rambles on how he almost got into a fight with a kid at one of the various stores he dropped by.

With both of them beside you, you finally start to feel a little better, if not from the flu, at least from the comfort they give.

[seriousfic]

With the current popularity of Quiet On Set and its revelations, I've been seeing a ton of people combing through old Nickelodeon shows for adult humor and disparaging it. I'm not talking about some of the outright fetishistic stuff, but simple wordplay in teen shows.

Which is weird for me, as I've generally seen old cartoon jokes like these enjoyed and even, in some obnoxious cases, taken as half-joking proof that "X was never a kid's show!" Is it just the context or the current trend towards Puritanism in youth culture?

True, there's gotta be a line SOMEWHERE... I've seen clips of Adventure Time making outright rape jokes, which has to be beyond the pale... and kids generally aren't involved in the production of cartoons, unlike Schneider's work. (Sex jokes acted out by adults /= sex jokes acted out by children)

But still, I don't want all media to be divided into "cartoons for babies" and "R-rated adult stuff" (and that weird Venn Diagram of Star Wars/MCU stuff that is supposed to serve both demographics, in the same way that both a man and a dog can eat dog food).

I think it's probably good for children's maturation to be eased into more adult media with some small amount of violence, dirty jokes, and risque material.

Kids cannot just watch Bluey until they turn eighteen. They can't. Don't ask them to.

[shu-porang-porang]

Who's Needy Now? (sequel)

♡ You started it, what did you expect?♡ (Read the first part here.)

P.s. Honestly I feel like it's not my cup of tea, but I gave it a go, hope you like it.

Pairs: Lee Minho (Lee Know) / fem!reader

Rating: Explicit

Theme: Smut, 18+ NO MINORS.

Warnings: pure smut, unprotected sex (do not try at home!!), degradation, overstimulation, edging, not proofread

Word count: 1.2 k

You come back after two hours. He seems exceptionally normal! He even cooked you dinner. No mentions of your little mischief. You have a hunch it’s only the calm before the storm. You’re on edge the whole night, you know he wouldn’t let go of it so easily. You wonder what he has in mind. This calm façade is probably just a part of his plan. He likes to mess with your head like this, the suspense you’re feeling makes it all the more enjoyable for him.

Finally, he tells you to go sit on the bed like a good kitty for him. He takes a seat on a chair at the foot of the bed, leaning back, his legs set apart, his lap looks so inviting but you know better than to do anything you’re not ordered to, so you resist the urge of going over and sitting on his lap. Freaking devil! He knows exactly what he’s doing to you now. You wait on your knees for his next instruction.

“Strip.” He commands firmly, his tone makes you shudder. You start removing your clothes one by one, your eyes never leaving his intense gaze, you wanna put on a brave face, like your stomach isn’t doing summersaults anticipating his next moves.

Once you’re fully naked, his next order is: “Now cum without touching yourself, you have 3 minutes.”

You hope he’s joking but his stern face and the fact that he actually starts the timer on his phone tells you otherwise.

“What the fuck, Min?”

“It’s Sir, you filthy slut! You lost the first name privileges when you walked out of that door. Hurry up, time is running out.”

Your heart is pounding loud in your ears, this side of Minho you don’t get to see much often, but when you do… You lie on your stomach, pressing your hips to the mattress in a circular motion, you discovered this little trick back when you were a teen, and it had helped you reach orgasms but you haven’t done it for so long, you’ve found much more interesting ways to come ever since. You know you’re fighting a losing battle, there’s no way you could cum by just doing this in such a short time, but you decide to give him a good show at least, maybe he’ll pity you later. You raise your hips higher than you need to, just to give him a better view of your oozing cunt, your whimpers are more audible than usual, all in service of satisfying him.

“Please… I can’t… need you Sir” you try to gain his sympathy.

“But you left me to do it on my own. Don’t you think you deserve punishment?”

“I do… but I can’t… need touch”

“Oh I’ll touch you… gonna make you wish I didn’t!” with that warning he gets up and walks over to you, meanwhile the timer goes off. He sits next you on the bed, rolls your body over and cups your soaking pussy.

“Time’s up, now take your punishment like the slut you are.” He starts rubbing your clit with lazy strokes.

“By the way, this time you’re not allowed to cum until I say so.” He presses his finger harder on your clit and circles it faster, all the while looking at your face waiting for it to contort as you near your orgasm. You try to close your legs but he forces them open and lands a slap on your throbbing core. You focus on the pain to stall your climax for a bit. His hand leaves your core to travel up and pinch a pebbled nipple.

“You almost lost it there, needy bitch! It was only the first one, take a hold of yourself.”

What does he mean by “the first one”? How many times is he gonna edge you tonight?

His hand goes back between your thighs, he gathers your slick with his index and middle finger and spreads it on your puffy clit, with each finger resting on either side of it he starts pinching it. This time, the feeling borderlines on pain and pleasure, nonetheless soon enough you’re a moaning mess, trying to suppress another orgasm. You grab his arm, trying to stop him but to no avail, it only makes him angrier.

“Don’t make me tie you up” he growls as he pinches your clit harder. You think you’re a goner this time but right before the orgasm hits you, he stops. Your body is tensed, even a breeze on your clit could make you cum, as much as you wanna cum, you fear the consequences. You just lie there with your eyes closed, waiting for the stolen climax to die down.

You feel him shifting on the bed and open your eyes to see what he’s up to next. He slots himself between your legs. You think he’s done with the games and will finally give you what you need.

“One more time” he says with his face inches away from your core. He slurps at your running juices and you bite your lip from the sensation of his tongue lapping at you. It doesn’t take long before the knot in your stomach tightens again, how could it not with his heavenly mouth sucking you like his life depends on it?

“Please… please please…. Let me come Sir” you beg as your knuckles turn white fisting the sheets. Your pleas fall on deaf ears. You can’t take it anymore. You arch your back and let go, the orgasm washes over your spent body. As soon as he realizes, he stops, you came without his permission, he’s not gonna help you ride it.

“Tsk… what do I do with you? It’s as if you want to be punished!” It’s not like you stood a chance anyway.

Without hesitation, he takes of his pants and boxers, strokes his already hard cock a few times and slams it balls deep inside you with no warning. You almost scream at the sudden stretch. He doesn’t give you any time to adjust and starts pounding into you mercilessly. Tears spill as you squirm from overstimulation. He pins your hands above your head to stop you.

“Stay still you cumdump, that’s all you’re good for since you can’t follow orders.” His words stir something inside you. His hand reaches in between your bodies and stops on your stomach, you look at where it landed and you see the bump forming there with every thrust, the sight makes your head dizzy. You feel another orgasm building up. Your head roles back and he dives down to suck purple bruises on you exposed neck. Hitting all the right spots, he makes you cum around his cock. He lets go of your wrists so you can hold onto him while he keeps chasing his own release, his pace not faltering. Finally, he reaches his orgasm, thrusting his cum deep inside you as he rides it out.

“So? Did you learn your lesson?” he says while pulling out and dropping next to you. His words float around you like you’re dreaming.

“Say it. Say you won’t leave me like that again.”

“I won’t leave you… like that… again.” You mumble not even knowing what you’re agreeing to, your mind and body too spent up to comprehend anything. You just feel him cleaning you with a towel at one point, and the next thing you realize is being wrapped in his arms with sweet kisses peppered on your face.

[fiapartridge]

you don't go to parties | j. hughes 🎆🪩✨

“i don’t know who im looking for ‘cause you don’t go to parties anymore…” you don’t go to parties, 5 seconds of summer

pairing: jack hughes x fem!reader

summary: after ending your relationship with jack, he finally plucks up the courage to attend a party—and all he can think about is you.

warning(s): cursing, smut (like they have sex but it’s more heated & slow than trying to be super smutty), angst + fluff?? (in some aspects LOL), also noticing now that there was no protection so beware lol

author’s note: i don’t write smut so this is probably the closest ill ever get to writing it LOL but it’s much more for the plot rather than it trying to be super 18+, r-rated type smut yk

wc: 4.01k

not proofread

Glitter hung in the air, every room bathed in a purple glow as Jack hung by the wall, nursing a beer he had managed to snag from the cooler outside. The air was thick with the scent of perfumes and sweat, and the music thumped in his chest, yet he felt—detached, almost alone in the scheme of things. 

The party was a blur of lights and sounds, of hookups and dancing. None of it held any interest for him, but his friends had practically begged him to come. They nagged him the entire summer to leave the lakehouse, to have a drink at the bar downtown, or even to just go on a drive with them, but Jack always came up with an excuse. “Can’t. Training for next season,” or “Gotta raincheck. Something came up.”

They knew what it was. It was obvious. He was missing you. You plagued his mind every second of every minute of every day. Jack knew he had messed up. The moments leading up to the collapse of your relationship replayed in his mind like a broken record—the arguments, the tears, the things he said that he couldn’t take back. The memories of you haunted him. He could feel you throughout the whole house.

You met Jack when you were 17. He hosted a draft party at the lake house the second he got back home to Michigan. Jack, being the cocky teenager he was at the time, made it an open-invite party. Sure, it wasn’t smart on his part but he was a clueless teen. He didn’t know better, but he thanks himself everyday knowing that that one decision led him to meeting you.

Your brother—one of Jack’s school friends—had been invited and asked if you wanted to come. You were hesitant at first. You had seen Jack around school, laughing loudly with his friends or pressing a girl up against the lockers, locking themselves together with heated kisses. You had always found him obnoxious, masking his stupidity with insensitive jokes and being portrayed as a “dumb jock.” But ever the hypocrite you were, because there you were, at that obnoxious, insensitive guy’s draft party. Go you.

Entering the house, you noticed the high ceilings and swarm of strangers that knew Jack better than you; who were probably wondering why you were even there, or who you even were. To your left, a group of friends talked animatedly on a set of plush couches, their drinks spilling out of their cups with every swing of their arms, and their makeup perfectly done on their face like they had hired professionals for this specific event. You felt out of place and, to your luck, your brother had abandoned you the second you stepped through that door.

Who knew you could be surrounded by hundreds of people, yet still feel so alone?

Weaving through the crowded house, you made your way to the backyard, which was just as packed as inside the house, except there was a slight breeze and it didn’t smell as terrible. String lights criss-crossed above the partygoers, creating a canopy of twinkling stars. A fire pit crackled in one corner, Adirondack chairs lining the perimeter as guests chatted all around you. The pool was lit within, its water glowing an intoxicatingly vivid blue. You stood there, watching the stillness of the water as everyone filled around you. The music thumped in your chest, in your ears, in your bloodstream, but you watched the water, and for a moment, you felt okay.

“I always wanna jump in at parties,” a deep voice said beside you. 

You hesitated before speaking. “Why don’t you? It’s your party, isn’t it?” you asked, face-to-face with the man of the hour. His chestnut hair was cut short, truly showing how young he is. You wondered how he could do this: have eyes on him at all times, have so many expectations weighing on his conscience, being judged constantly. It felt—suffocating, to say the least.

“Do you know how many hockey legends are here?” he laughed, as if the building was swarmed with secret spies. 

“And yet you’re standing here. Why’s that?” you asked, looking up at the boy.

And for the first time in your life, Jack Hughes looked at you. And it wasn’t in the gross, disgusted way he looked at clumsy kids in the hallway, or the way he looked at pretty girls like they were his next meal. He looked at you in earnest, an emotion you didn’t even know he was capable of possessing.

“Do you think I don’t know you?” he eyed you, his brow raising as you broke his—hate to admit it—intimidating gaze. You watched the water before you, crossing your arms over your chest as you began to feel that unwelcome, fish-out-of-water feeling again. Moving closer to you, his voice fell almost to a whisper as you felt chills run down your spine due to the proximity. “I know you’re the obnoxious girl that thinks she knows every answer to every question, who already judged every single person at this party without ever learning their names, who doesn’t like me, yet still came. Why’s that?” he asked, repeating the same question you had asked just moments before.

You felt bare in front of him, confused as to how he knew any of that stuff about you. Surely he was too busy making out with girls and slinging a stick around to pay attention to you. So why had he just read you like a book without you having to say a single word?

You shrugged. “I wanted to see what you were about, I guess.”

“Yeah?” he smirked, his tongue poking his cheek as you dared yourself not to look up at him. “How’d I do?”

“Not sure yet.”

He bumped his shoulder with yours, butterflies bumbling around your stomach. “Not just a dumb jock, you know. That’s all Luke.”

You scoffed quietly, a small smile playing on your lips as you lessened up the need to try to fight it. You were smiling because of Jack Hughes, and to be honest, you didn’t really mind it. “He asked me the difference between a square and a rectangle once,” you joked. You had some classes with Luke, and while you two weren’t best friends, you still talked to each other once in a while.

Jack laughed, watching Luke in the corner of his eye try to talk to a girl that was way too old for him. “You’re laughing,” he smiled, noticing you cover your face and still your giggles. “See, I’m not that bad.”

You rolled your eyes before looking up at him. He watched the partygoers on the other side of the pool mingling, his jawline sharpened and his moles scattering much of the surface area of his face. You hadn’t noticed much about his appearance until then, until you finally got a good look at him, at his personality.

You two sat poolside for a while, your legs dipped in the water as you talked about anything and everything. Occasionally people would pull him away to chat, but he would always come back to you, telling you all about the boring conversations, how much he hated networking at a party that’s supposed to be fun, how he hated being treated and expected to be like an adult when he was far from it.

He didn’t notice he was talking to you for so long until the party thinned and it was just you and him in the backyard. Cups littered all around you, his mom picking them up as she not-so-subtly eavesdropped on your conversation. His brothers were inside the house, watching you two from the kitchen window, and Trevor and Cole speculated who you even were while trying not to pass out on the couch in the living room.

For the first time in a while, Jack felt, I don’t know, good about himself? Like he wasn’t praised for doing such little things, or told he’s some amazing person just because he’s good at passing a puck around. Like he was able to talk, and someone was there to listen. And for some reason, he actually kind of liked being criticized by you. It showed that you paid attention; that you were real. He hadn’t met someone real in a while.

He remembered the time you had dragged him to a New Year’s Eve party at your friend Avery's apartment a couple years later.

He was wearing “2024”-shaped sunglasses that matched yours, and a shiny, gold, plastic fedora that made you laugh every time you looked at him. His arms were wrapped around you from behind as you entered the house, his lips planting a kiss on the crown of your head as you two separated to hug the group of people that stood near the door.

You talked to your friends, catching up on everything you guys missed in each other’s lives while in college. Jack snuck up behind you, kissing your cheek before slipping off your coat and placing it on the couch by the entrance. 

The party was chill, much more relaxed than any of the parties Jack was invited to that night. You had urged him to go to them, knowing he would have much more fun with his friends, singing karaoke, getting wasted, and blasting music until they can’t hear anymore, but he shook his head, saying, “Parties are only fun if you’re there,” he shrugged. “Besides, how am I supposed to get my New Year’s kiss without you?”

The two of you mingled for a while, sharing nostalgic stories about high school and the time Jack had confused “pads with wings” with pads and chicken wings. The living room was filled with soft music and the hum of conversations. Jack kept close, his hand finding yours every now and then as if to ask if you were okay, if you needed food or a refill on your drink, if you were tired and wanted to go home—you were always his first priority. 

As the night progressed, the countdown to midnight drew closer. People began to gather in the living room, excitement buzzing in the air. Dick Clark’s New Year’s Rockin’ Eve played on the television as Jack pulled you to a spot where you could both see the screen. His arm wrapped around your waist, and you leaned into him, sniffing his cologne and laughing when he caught you.

Before you knew it, the countdown began and everyone started chanting along.

“Ten, nine, eight…”

You turned to Jack, his eyes locked on yours, a charismatic smile playing on his lips. Even after dating for five years, he still managed to make you nervous. You had hoped that that feeling would never go away. You want to be nervous because of Jack Hughes every single night—forever.

“Seven, six, five…”

The room seemed to fade away, leaving just the two of you standing there.

“Four, three, two…”

Jack’s hand gently cupped your cheek, his palm warm and tender against your skin as you leaned into it. 

“One! Happy New Year!”

Cheers erupted around you, but all you could focus on was Jack as he leaned in—not too slow, not too fast—capturing your lips in an impossibly better-than-the-last, sweet, honey kiss. Your hands were in his hair, his were glued to your hips, and it was perfect. And for a moment, it was just you and him, sharing the first kiss of the new year.

When you finally pulled away, grins were etched to your faces. You still couldn’t believe he was yours.

“Happy New Year,” Jack whispered, his forehead resting against yours.

“Happy New Year,” you echoed.

Jack’s head rested against the wall behind him, his eyes closed, the music muffling around him as he thought back to the first time he said “I love you.”

It was your 18th birthday and you were celebrating it at the lake house. Knowing Alex, Trevor, and Cole, they planned this huge rager for you, inviting nearly half the neighborhood—and then some. 

After you said your hellos and knowing that the party could continue without you, you wandered upstairs, finding yourself in Jack’s room as you sat on his bed; his gray cover soft under your fingertips as you brushed over the fabric. You just needed a minute. 

Before you knew Jack—like, really knew Jack—you hadn’t had a birthday party in years. It wasn’t like your family didn’t care about you, or your friends didn’t want to celebrate you. Everyone in your life meant something to you, and you meant something to them too. You just couldn’t go to parties to save your life. You would walk in, see all the girls that are prettier than you, all the guys that act like you don’t exist, you’d get in your head, get overwhelmed, and leave quickly after. This just wasn’t for you.

And because Jack knew you, he knew you would be upstairs.

The door slowly creaked open, causing your head to rise, and a sigh to fall from your lips—just Jack. He smiled at you, shutting the door softly behind him as he sat beside you on the bed. You two sat surrounded by the soft glow of dim lamps, and the distant thumping of music that had seeped through the floorboards beneath your feet. 

His heart pounded in his chest. He knew you were beautiful, but sometimes he’s just so amazed by you, like you’re a new person every single day. Like there were new discoveries to be made, like he could never get bored with you. To Jack, you were everything. And who needs anything else in the world if he had everything sitting right beside him?

His hand rested on your thigh, his thumb running up and down the exposed skin. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

You furrowed your brows. “For what?”

He shrugged. “For the party. I know you didn’t want it.”

“It’s not that I didn’t want it,” you murmured, sighing. “It’s just—I’m not Trevor, or Cole, or the number one overall draftee, Jack Hughes,” you smirked, bumping your shoulder with his. 

He shook his head. “No one’s telling you to be. We could’ve watched a movie,” he suggested, grinning. “Or gone on a shopping spree, or went on a drive. You don’t have to do anything for anyone else, especially on your birthday.”

“I like parties when you’re there—and no one else is,” you laughed as Jack scoffed, a smile pulling at his lips.

“I like those parties, too.” He went silent for a minute, just the hum of music playing from the outside filling the room as you focused on his thumb on your thigh. “I know I’ve been busy with hockey and everything lately, but I don’t want you to ever feel like you’re not important to me, or that I’m not thinking about you, because I am—all the time. You’re the most important person in my life.”

Your heart swelled at his words as you squeezed his hand. “I know, J,” you nodded. “I knew what I was getting into when you asked me out,” you smiled, meeting his gaze. 

He had been busy with his rookie season for the past year: being called a bust, getting injured over and over again, fans questioning if the Devils made the correct choice with him. He grew quiet during those months, more frustrated—with himself, with his game, with the people around him. You were worried for him, begging him to just talk to you about it. He shielded himself from everything and everyone. He almost lost you because of it, and he vowed to never do that shit ever again; to never get so close to losing himself that he ends up losing you.

He took a deep breath, his eyes never leaving yours. “You’re really fuckin’ cool, you know that?”

You rolled your eyes, that smile planted on your lips never fading away. “I know.”

Laughing, he smiled, a small, genuine smile that made your heart skip a beat. He pulled you closer, wrapping his arms around you in a warm embrace. “I mean it. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

You buried your face in Jack’s chest, breathing in the familiar scent of seasalt and ocean breeze. “Luckily for you, you’ll never have to find out.”

He kissed the top of your head, his chin resting on your hair as your cheek laid against his chest. “I love you,” he whispered, the words spilling out before he could stop them.

He felt you tense beneath him, pulling back slightly. His heart sped up. “What?”

He gulped before breathing in. “I love you,” he repeated, his voice steadier this time. “I think I’ve always been in love with you—you make it hard not to be.”

Your breath caught, a small smile encapsulating your blushy face. “I love you, too.”

Before you could say anything else, Jack closed the distance between the two of you, his lips capturing yours in a tender kiss. The music was gone, the thumping of your heartbeat was put to the back of your mind, every doubt and every worry you had for this relationship was dissipated immediately—nothing existed at this moment. It was jack, jack, jack, plus a hundred times more.

Jack’s hands found their way to your waist, pulling you closer, deepening the kiss. You responded naturally, your fingers threading through his hair, holding him close as if afraid he might disappear, like this moment was just a figment of your imagination. 

Gently, Jack guided you higher up the bed, his movements careful and deliberate. He laid you down, hovering over you, his eyes filled with adoration. “I love you so much,” he whispered against your lips before capturing them in another kiss.

Your hands roamed his back as you tugged at his shirt, eager to feel his skin against yours. Jack immediately understood, pulling away just long enough to discard his striped tee before returning to you, his kisses growing more urgent. 

As you pulled him closer, your own shirt joined his on the floor, your lacy red bra standing out against your skin. Jack’s breath hitched at the sight, his hands trembling as they traced the contours of your body, committing every inch and every curve to memory. He wanted to explore every dimple and every mole, every birthmark, and every faint touch that made you squirm. He wanted to know you, as thoroughly as possible.

“Holy shit,” he murmured breathlessly, praising you to the highest level. “You’re so fucking beautiful.”

Jack’s lips left a trail of kisses down your neck, his breath hot against your skin. He paused, his gaze meeting yours, a silent question in his eyes. He wouldn’t do anything unless you wanted to. You answered with a nod, your fingers tracing the lines of his jaw before pulling him back to you. 

“I love you, Jack,” you whispered against his lips. “I want this.”

Jack’s hands moved with increasing urgency, his touch sending shivers down your spine. Roaming lower, they explored the curve of your waist before slipping beneath the waistband of your pants. His fingers found their way to your core, gently exploring, teasing.

A soft moan escaped your lips, your body arching against his touch. “Jack,” you breathed.

He kissed you deeply, his fingers moving with deliberate, tender motions, drawing soft gasps and breathless moans. “I love you…so much,” he murmured against your lips.

Your breaths became ragged, his name becoming the only thing left in your vocabulary. The room grew warmer, more intoxicating. Jack felt you getting closer to your high, quickly removing his fingers before you could reach it as you whined out, breathless.

He paused, his forehead resting against yours, his breath hot and heavy. “Are you sure you want this?” he asked again.

You nodded, your eyes locked with his. “I’m sure, Jack. I want you.”

With a shuddering breath, he captured your lips again, the kiss deep and all-consuming. His hands found the clasp of your bra, unhooking it, and letting it fall away. He stared at you for a moment, taking in your bare body before his lips began to trail downwards, worshiping every inch of you.

Your hands found the waistband of his pants, your hands working sloppily as you fumbled with the button. Paying no mind, he helped you, discarding his pants and boxers in one swift motion. Jack’s body pressed against yours, the heat of his skin against yours almost too much to bear. His kisses were everywhere, trailing down your neck, across your collarbone, and finally to your breasts, where he lingered, drawing soft moans from your lips.

You arched against him, your body pleading for more, for everything. "Jack, please," you whispered, your voice barely more than a breath.

He met your eyes, his gaze soft and safe. "I love you," he said again, his voice full of emotion. "Let me show you how much."

With that, he kissed you deeply, his body aligning with yours. The moment he entered you, it was like everything else fell away, leaving only the two of you, connected in the most intimate way possible. The rhythm of your movements, the gasps and moans, all blended perfectly, like this was right where you were supposed to be—with Jack, here, and in love.

His thrusts were slow at first, measured, each one driving you closer to the edge. The feeling of him inside you, filling you completely, was overwhelming. You wrapped your legs around his waist, urging him to go deeper.

“I love you, I love you, I love you,” he repeated against your lips, over and over again. 

Jack’s thrust became more urgent, his breathing ragged, matching your own. His heavy grunts, as your fingers dug into his back pulling him closer, closer, impossibly closer, filled the warm room. 

As your climax built, your hands weaved through his hair, needing to feel him, needing to be as close as humanly possible. Each thrust hit harder and faster than the last, bringing you closer to the edge. 

“Jack,” you cried out, your body tensing as that unfamiliar feeling approached, the high almost too much to handle.

His face was buried in your neck, holding you tightly. “Y/N,” he groaned, pushing you through your high, his own release nearly there.

With a final thrust, the string you held onto so tightly, slipped from your fingers, a balloon inside you erupting at the feeling. You cried out his name once more, your body trembling with the force of your release. Jack followed, his own climax crashing over him. 

You clung to each other, your bodies trembling with aftershocks. Jack held you against his chest, his breath ragged, and his heart pounding against yours.

As you laid entwined, the world slowly came back into focus. The sounds of the party were distant now, a faint reminder of where you were. But at that moment, it didn’t matter. You didn’t care about what was going on downstairs, who was missing you, or who was asking for Jack. All that mattered right now was the two of you, and it felt perfect.

“Don’t know if I said it enough, but I love you,” Jack chuckled, his arm wrapped around your small frame.

You smiled, your fingers tracing lazy patterns on his skin. “I love you, too, J. Always.”

Always.

  Always.

    Always.

      Always.

         Always.

Opening his eyes, Jack watched the crowd around him, his gaze instinctively searching for you. He didn’t know why he was doing it. There was no point—not anymore, not when he fucked everything up. Not when he let you slip from his fingers and leave his life entirely.

His eyes settled on a girl in the corner of the room, a red solo cup in hand, her cheeks a flushed mess, and he wondered why he was even at that party. None of these girls could hold a candle to you, not even if they tried. 

Yet Jack watched the door, and willed for you to come, despite knowing you don’t go to parties anymore.

[buddierecs]

friends with benefits buddie fics

all of these are general audience, teen and up or not rated (no smut) make sure to kudos/comment on these amazing works :)

if you could hold me now, you can leave me later by: justhockey “i think we both know you’re the pretty one here, buckley.” eddie says it and his voice doesn’t catch, or tremble, or break. he even manages to make it sound like a joke, a taunt, instead of a very painful truth: that buck is everything and eddie is just, well, eddie. “here.” buck puts eddie’s plate down in front of him and hands him a knife and fork. “eat. you can’t spew bullshit if your mouth is full.” word count: 4.5k important tags: idiots in love, miscommunication, getting together, love confessions, fluff, soft!buddie lying to ourselves, acting like we're something else by: himbobuckley "after a one-night stand that buck can't get out of his head, things turn awkward when the guy- eddie diaz- turns out to be the new probationary firefighter at buck's station. for eddie, the first guy he ever hooked up with is suddenly in every aspect of his life and he doesn't know what exactly to do with it. cue the pining, not-so-clandestine hookups, and lots and lots of confusion and insecurity." word count: 30k important tags: different first meeting au, season 1 au one night stand, mutual pining, idiots in love, emotional hurt/comfort, jealous!eddie diaz home is a place where i yearn to belong by: buckleydefender "the friends with benefits to lovers (to almost fiancés) sickfic nobody asked for but you got anyway" word count: 4.9k important tags: friends to lovers, getting together, sick fic, pet names didn't quite think it through by: serenelystange "in which buck insists the friends can have benefits other than sex, and everyone but eddie is just so done with him" word count: 3.6k important tags: idiots in love, feelings realisation, fluff, getting together, first kiss friends to husbands to lovers by: onyxthroughtheages "buck and eddie get engaged, have a wedding, buy a home, and only then do they get together." word count: 4.1k important tags: friends to husbands to lovers, fluff, soft!buddie, idiots to lovers glue by: prosperdemeter "a month away from graduating the lafd academy, evan buckley gets introduced to new recruit eddie diaz and things certainly change for both of them after that." word count: 85k important tags: different first meeting au, season 1 au, slow burn, hurt/comfort

[miss-bushido]

everything counts a little more than we think

Rating: Mature Tags: Drinking, drunk kissing, implied/referenced sex

Notes:

This fic was inspired by a tweet from @jquinnworld on Twitter: “thinking about “straight” steve who seemingly just Can’t stop kissing dudes when he gets drunk”. Title of the fic is from ‘Ada’ by The National

~*~*~*~

Whenever Steve gets drunk, he kisses boys. It’s well known among the teens and young adults of Hawkins, has been for the last two years. Put a shot of tequila or three in his hand, or one of those Long Island Iced teas, and very soon, you’re getting kissed by King Steve.

He still kisses girls, too, of course, but more often than not, you can find him on the couch or pressed up against a random guy in a corner, sloppily making out with them. It doesn’t matter the social clique: jocks, nerds, freaks, Goths, punks. Steve takes all comers (no pun intended).

His partners are left flushed and gasping. Hair mussed and lips pink and shiny. They are dazed and pleased in equal measure, the memory of getting kissed and pawed at by Steve Harrington not something they would ever forget. Or would ever want to.

Steve has a reputation as a good kisser for a reason. He’s soft when he needs to be, never uses teeth, knows when they need it hard and rough. When to use his tongue and when to back off. Sometimes he’ll be so into everything that he kisses down to the neck, sliding his hands everywhere to heighten everything.

Some people call him a slut, but Steve seems to lean into it. He laughs and jokes about it himself, masking the hurt he feels deep inside with another vodka shot (or four), another boy (or five more) pulled into the dark corner of a basement.

Lots of the boys and girls in town explore their own bodies in the privacy of their bedrooms at night. Imagining it’s Steve’s hands and his body on them, the kisses deepening. Everything is sticky sweet and slow like honey with him in their imaginations, especially when these fantasies turn sexual, how they wished things would happen in real life.

And so it goes. Each party thrown: Steve drinks, and he kisses, and touches. And everyone is fine with it. All the guys are straight. Of course they are. Especially Steve. They’re all just having fun. Inhibitions dulled from the copious amounts of alcohol found in their parent’s liquor cabinets. They give one another knowing smiles in the hallways at school, but don’t talk about it otherwise. It’s a sexy dirty little open secret what goes on at the Hawkins High parties, and how Harrington can’t keep his mouth off of everyone.

Because of all these things, the night everyone saw Steve making out with Eddie Munson on the couch, no one batted an eye. It was only natural that The Freak would also get kissed by The King. No one said anything when Steve and Eddie went into a bedroom and shut the door, not coming out for hours.

Harrington must really be drunk to spend so much time with The Freak they comment, laughing into their red Solo cups before starting another round of beer pong.

It was only after several months that anyone put two and two together as to why Steve stopped drinking as much. Stopped kissing everyone he could get his hands on at the parties.

Everyone except Eddie Munson.

By the time everyone realized they hadn’t seen Steve at a party in over six months, he and Eddie had been quietly dating for the better part of that time.

And when Steve kissed Eddie, he was sober.

And it finally felt right to do it.

[griefabyss69]

Blown A Wish

Written for @steddiemicrofic!

[ AO3 ]

'STUFF' wc: 483 | rated: E | cw: The mild breath play that sometimes comes with oral sex

A little love letter to men who love to suck dick; Steve finds out he's one of them.

While Steve’s always been pretty good with his mouth, learning fast when it came to whistling, the perfect smile, and eating people out, Eddie beckons him onto grass of another shade of green.

It's newness. He hasn’t experienced anything like it since he lost his virginity in his teens. Instead of the earth cracking open to let in demons, the stagnant path of his sexuality has split into fresh forks.

"There you go," Eddie says, one hand on Steve's cheek, the other in his hair. "Ease into it."

Steve thinks about the closest he's gotten to this; an adventurous date sitting on his face. He'd open his jaw as far as it'd go, but it’s still so different. Eddie’s stuffed inside of him; he's never been filled like this in his life.

His palm presses harder to feel his cock through Steve’s cheek, and he melts, starting to get the hang of not choking as Eddie carefully pushes him further every time he thrusts.

It's been very slow, one step at a time, but he's patient; happy on his knees.

"Jesus, you’re too good," Eddie groans, his fingers twitching against his head. “It’s unfair.”

Nobody’s fucking kidding when they say Eddie doesn’t shut up, but Steve's bathing in the praise, the gold-medal glow in his chest; If dick sucking was a competition, he'd train daily. The fact of the heavy throb on his tongue makes it sweeter, even as Eddie works past Steve's soft palate to bump into his throat.

It’s like floating underwater, a mermaid guiding their mouths together in a life-saving kiss; he's drowning, but not really, even if he can't breathe like this.

Eddie hisses, his hips pushing until Steve feels his pubes against his face. He could die happy with Eddie's fingers rubbing absently through his hair, with his dick resting so deeply.

"Getting close, you doing okay?" Eddie asks in a hazy mumble.

Steve gives him a thumbs up. He needs to breathe, but all he wants is to kneel here and feel Eddie's heartbeat inside of himself. He pulls back and Eddie slides out of his mouth.

"Gotta breathe," he says, palms on Eddie's thighs. "Then you can come in me."

Eddie’s eyes shut as if watching Steve is unbearable. He wonders if he looks as messy as he feels; tears, spit, deeply flushed.

"How are you so good at this?" Eddie asks, almost complaining about it. “Insane.”

"Hotdog eating contests," he jokes, and settles in as Eddie laughs. "I'm ready."

Eddie cups his jaw and guides his dick to Steve’s mouth, making hot eye contact as he pushes in. He's gentle; Steve notices how hard he’s holding back, so he shoves forward until he's stuffed full again. Eddie chokes and shudders and he starts thrusting, shaky and uncoordinated, grinding up against Steve’s face until he’s coming down his throat.

Steve melts while he drowns in it.

[fayes-fics]

When The World Is Free: Chapter 13 - С'est Lui Que Mon Cœur A Choisi

MASTERPOST PREV | NEXT

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader, WW2 AU.

Warnings: Teen-rated… non-graphic references to sex/sexual situations. ANGST!!!

Word Count: 2.6k

Author’s Note: Multi-chapter fic based on a request by the lovely @amillcitygirl. Please see the masterpost for a synopsis of this story. Beware, this has been coming; things have come to a head with the reader's family and Eloise. Thanks as always to @colettebronte for beta reading. Enjoy!

Aubrey Hall, UK, October 1939

It's a dreary Friday afternoon the following week when the phone rings in the hallway.

After a brief exchange, it appears the call is for you, much to your confusion - no one knows you are here. As you tentatively pick up the receiver from the family butler, the familiar tones of Solène ring out down a crackling line.

“Mon Cherie! Have you quite lost your mind!” her opening is quite abrupt.

“And hello to you too, Solène; I have missed you,” you chuckle.

“Yes, yes…” you can almost hear her dismissive hand wave. “Why did you not yet contact your famille?” 

Your stomach plunges. 

“I- I forgot?” you squeak the truth. 

The past few weeks have been a whirlwind with Benedict; it has honestly felt detached from reality. A parallel universe. And this is you landing back on earth with a resounding bump.

“Well, please call them. I have had too many telegrams and now two phone calls,” she explains. “They are quite worried about you! I had guessed you may be chez les Bridgertons but did not want to say. I’m sure you have beaucoup news to tell them that they need to hear from you pas moi.”

“I will call them,” you promise, even as you feel a pit of dread low in your stomach.

“Please do… now, how is married life?” she teases, and after deflecting with a joke, you spend time catching up. The knot inside you loosens as you exchange pleasantries, handing the phone over to Eloise when she appears at your side, eager to reconnect with her Parisian friend.

—

“I have to call my parents,” you profess a few hours later, watching water streak in rivulets down the French doors, the lake beyond a blur, the pitter-patter sound on the roof above you.

His lips pause on your clavicle, and his hands - warm through your cool silk slip - flex around your waist, but he says nothing.

“Just to let them know I am safe. Solène called earlier; they have been trying to get hold of me,” you explain, burrowing your fingers into his hair, delicately scratching your nails over his scalp.

“What will you tell them?” his question hushed and tentative.

“That part I haven’t decided,” you confess with a sigh. “There is so much to say; I don’t know where to begin…”

“I will be there with you,” he replies emphatically, pushing up to gaze down upon you. “Whatever you decide, I will be there, in support, silent or otherwise.”

His generous sincerity makes your chest bloom, devotion evident in his words.

“Thank you,” you whisper, staring into his hazy eyes, again your confession of love on the tip of your tongue. 

He cups your jaw, and you feel the cool metal of his wedding ring, which he has never once taken off in the four weeks since your marriage. “No need to thank me. You are my wife; it is what I must do.” His use of that word makes your heart leap.

“I hope it isn't only out of duty…” you can't help your insecurity from crossing your lips.

“Of course not,” he assures, eyes soft.

“Thank you, husband,” you whisper back, and something flares on his face, a change rippling over his handsome features. His fingers sink between yours, caging your hands onto the towel underneath you.

“Call me that again,” his voice taking on an odd, gravelly quality.

“H-husband?” you falter, a knit of confusion over your brow.

He growls and surges his hips roughly between your legs, igniting that fire you always feel inside for him.

Oh.

“Husband,” you repeat bolder this time, treating it like a jewel dripping on your tongue.

His lips are hot and insistent on yours, his tongue almost punishing, ravaging your mouth. Before you know it, your clothing is ripped from your body, and you are crying his name, fingers digging into flesh. His hold is possessive, almost feral in the way he takes you, swearing that you hear him grunt the word mine into your neck as you both reach completion.

—

You wait until Eloise visits a local friend the next day to make the dreaded call. It’s a Saturday lunchtime, early morning on the American East Coast, when you pluck up the courage, knowing your parents should be home then. 

The handset feels heavy in your palm as you raise it and dial the operator, giving your parents' number. Benedict hovers beside you, a reassuring presence you want to lean into as each ring echoes heavily in your ear.

“Hello?” 

Just the sound of your mother’s voice causes a flood of emotion through you; you slump onto the hallway bench, Benedict bobbing down to crouch before you, his expression concerned but silent, touching your knee delicately. 

“Hello Mom…” it's probably barely audible.

“My love!!!!!” she exclaims, and you can hear the wash of relief in her voice, the knowledge that her child is safe after weeks of uncertainty. It makes guilt burn even harder behind your ribs. “I'm so happy to hear from you! To hear your voice! Are you safe? Please tell me you are safe!” Parental concern colouring her every word.

“Yes, Mom, I'm safe,” you begin, a tremulant quality to your voice that you are unsuccessfully trying to wish away. “It's… it's a long story, but I ended up in England with Eloise. I'm sure Uncle Robert told you all about her.”

“Indeed he did. Well, I'm so happy you escaped France! I hear an invasion could well be imminent. I was so worried! Let me call your father...” Before you can protest, she is holding the receiver away from her mouth and calling out your Dad’s name. “Oh, and Stanley will be so pleased to hear the good news!!! We must tell him right away! He has been concerned too…”

The mention of your ex-fiance's name raises bile in your throat, and you instinctively reach for Benedict. Lace your hand with his upon your knee—an anchor you need. You don't know what to say about your ex, so you don't respond, hoping your mother will move on quickly in her relief, which, thankfully, she does.

You hear your dad’s familiar voice in the background and bite your lip, nervous that both will be listening.

“So when are you coming home, darling?” She continues after giving your dad an economic explanation. 

“I… I don't know that I can,” you stumble, knowing your lip is darkening under the worry of your incisor tooth.

“Whyever not? Just move up your ticket!” Your dad chimes in.

“I tried that while still in France; unfortunately, the company scammed me. I could not get a ticket to any sailings to America, so, for safety, I came to England with Eloise.”

“You got scammed!” your dad’s huff is indignant.

“Let's focus on what is important, Ron. She is safe,” your mother lectures, placating his ire as you mumble an apology. 

Your downcast eyes lift to meet Benedict’s as they seem to remonstrate between themselves on the other end of the line. His mien is benevolent, his finger swiping rhythmically across the back of your knuckles in a comforting gesture. You know he can hear the voices leaking out of the receiver jammed to your ear, if not the words, then the general tone.

“Well, I'm glad you were able to enter England with a visitor visa. I thought they had been suspended since the war was declared. Your Uncle thought he was among the last to be let in with one…” your dad comments, immediately honing in on what you have been dreading the most.

“I am not here on a tourist visa. Thanks to a wonderful member of Eloise’s family, I have been able to secure residency.” Your fingers grip Benedict hard now.

“What do you mean?” your Dad queries, sounding suspicious.

“In order to escape - which I know, Dad, is the most important thing - I had to make a rather drastic choice…” you try to emphasise the jeopardy before your confession.

“What kind of drastic choice?” he echoes your words slowly, and you can feel their suspicion down the crackling line.

“I had to get married…” your voice is so tiny you almost hope they do not hear. Benedict's other hand lands on top of yours, enveloping yours in his warmth, which makes you look at him so grateful, a glassiness to your eyes. 

There is a moment of shocked silence and then an explosion of indignant words and noises, to the point that you have to pull the handset away from your ear. 

It's alright, it will be alright, Benedict mouths silently, and you can't help but pitch forward and rest your forehead on his. One of his hands touches your cheek gently as you close your eyes, a tear swelling on your lashes.

“I did not plan for this, Mom, Dad,” you cut in, sitting back upright. “But it has happened, and now… I… I need time.”

“Need time for what? You get that marriage annulled right away, young lady, and get yourself back here to marry the man you are promised to!” your mother’s voice shrill and didactic. “You had better hope Stanley understands and forgives this transgression….”

Something about her choice of words lights a fire of outrage inside you. As if your life choices are not your own.

“Transgression?!” you spit back. “I was caught up in a country where war was imminent. I did what I had to to escape to safety. What would you want me to do!? Remain in a possible war zone?”

“How about not flit off to Europe on some ridiculous jaunt in the first place!” she yells back. And in that very moment, you realise how little they ever supported your trip, a plunging sense of familial support being ripped from under you. “We only agreed to this reluctantly as you were so insistent. And now look what you have done?! Possibly ruined your future by marrying god knows who instead of the man you have been due to marry since you were a child, y/n….”

“I married a wonderful man,” you defend instinctively. “He is twenty times the man Stanley could ever be!!” You practically roar, “and I do not regret a single thing. I wish to remain here. With him.” You huff, drawing ragged breaths as finally you look at Benedict again and see the desire writ large on his face. It makes you want to kiss him so much your lips tingle.

Down the phone, your parents are stunned into silence. You knew this news would upset them and how awkward this could be, your family being so intertwined with Stanley’s family, being the son of your father’s business partner. But also, you know you cannot lie and return to life there, even if things with Benedict do not work out. 

“I only knew one way my life could go,” you press on, a frenzy of bubbling emotions bursting from within like hot lava. “Well, I have seen something of the world beyond Long Island, and it has things to offer me that Stanely and Long Island could never. I'm sorry to disappoint you, but I am not that girl, and even if I were to annul this marriage, I would not wish to marry Stanley. Ever.”

By the end of your somewhat dramatic speech, you are heaving breaths and clinging to Benedict like a liferaft in a tsunami, your whole life as you knew it crumbling around you. But that fire in your belly that you are finally recognising and standing up for what you want, pursuing what you want, not what is expected of you, gives you the strength of your convictions, painful as this moment may be. That and the man kneeling before you—he is a choice you know you would make over and over again. 

“Well, if that is your decision, then I am not sure what else there is to say,” your father intones icily. “Perhaps call us back when you have come to your senses….”

And with that, the line goes dead, and you collapse into Benedict’s arms, weeping bitterly.

—

Something changes after that phone call. Benedict doesn't leave your side, always seeking you out. Perhaps to check on you, somewhat deflated after the emotions had been wrung out of you, but apparently also to spend time together without intimacy. Just to be in your company. You only realise it when you are curled up reading on the sofa, and wordlessly, he takes a seat next to you, pulling your feet into his lap, opening his book with a soft smile. His hands swirl idle patterns over your ankle bone through your stockings as you both sit in quiet relaxation.

At one point, you brush his shoulder gently, almost unable to stop your need to touch him. Then he curls into you, resting on your chest. He chuckles as you rest your book on the back of his head and keep reading. There is no denying it has all the hallmarks of a couple in love, and yet you don’t comment; just accept it with a lightness inside that feels bubbling. 

However, his warmth and weight soon make you drowsy; you are not sure when, but you fall asleep. You suspect he does, too, based on the rude awakening you receive shortly after.

“WHAT THE FUCK?!?”

You startle awake, your book sliding off with a thump to the floor as Benedict seems to do the same, his head rising in shock.

Eloise is standing before you. Mouth hanging open, an utterly stricken and horrified look on her face.

You want to curl up and die. There is no way to deny what has transpired. Your arms are wrapped around his, his head on your breasts. There is no way this pose is anything but intimate - not one either of you might have accidentally slumped into.

“I can explain…” you being, your voice a rough croak from sleep.

But Eloise does not stay around to hear it. She storms out of the room, the door slamming so loud behind her that a row of framed photos rattles against the picture rail. You curse ruefully, kicking yourself for being so cavalier today after weeks of being so careful. The call earlier really throwing you for a loop. Benedict twists to sit up, head slumping into his hands, wiping his palms down his face with a harried expression.

“I suppose it was bound to happen eventually,” he monotones after a pause, but his knee bounces with nervous energy. “She’s going to tell Mother…” he adds, sounding defeated, almost scared. 

And you know you can wait no longer to divulge it.

“Your mother already knows,” you admit quietly, pulling yourself upright to sit beside him.

He swivels with almost comedic speed, his face a picture.

“She approached me a few weeks ago,” you shrug. “I could hardly lie; I’m a terrible liar,” you remind him delicately.

“Mum knows….” his tone disbelieving, mouth agape.

“She said you, her children, are all terrible at hiding things from her,” you elucidate. “And….” You tremble as the words form on your tongue but feel powerless to stop them from spilling out, “… she said she knows when you are in love.”

Again, his head whips to you, and he looks panicked. “She said that?!?”

“Yes…” you look down at your hands wringing nervously in your lap, the ring on your left hand feeling like a weight.

“I… I…” he stumbles, seeming at odds.

And before you know it, he is on his feet, too and has swept out of the room in an apparent hurry.

As the door clicks shut behind him, a dread fills every nook and cranny of your being, suddenly terrified that everything you have come to treasure in the last few weeks has just been ripped violently from under you. 

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[geesecanon]

Fog

read on ao3 Rating: Explicit Type: One-shot, PWP Words: 5,240 Tags: Ford Pines/Reader; Vaginal Sex; Vaginal Fingering; Creampie; Overstimulation; AFAB reader (but no pronouns are used); Library Sex; Strangers to Friends (?) to Lovers Summary: ""It's a stone King classic," you had defended, and began counting off on your fingers. "It's got weird creatures; it's got a small boy; it's got an old woman who's a religious fanatic; it's got two characters unnecessarily having sex right in the middle of it — although, now, I kinda get it. What else is there to even do?" You had said it as a joke. Obviously. But then you had caught Ford's eye and you both stared at each other a few seconds too long. And then he had you up against the wall."

Dizzily, you try to remember how you ended up here: pressed against the wall, a hand that is not yours cupping your ass, the other getting rather adventurous under your shirt, with Stanford Pines groaning into your neck and grinding you against him.

It had been one of those inexplicable situations where you were the only two left in the library, no staff to be found, almost certainly after hours, and definitely alone. Oh, and the ominous fog. That is also a key factor as to why you had not left as soon as you realized you had overstayed your welcome.

With your hand on the door handle, Ford had grabbed you by the arm and said nervously, “I… wouldn’t go out there, if I were you.”

Right, so, if the expert on the strange and unusual was telling you to avoid something, you would heed his advice to the fucking letter.

And then, uh…

You gasp, sharp and breathy, head thunking back against the wall as he wedges a knee between your thighs and presses up. “Ford — shit —” Both your hands in his hair tighten as your entire body tries to curl in on itself with the sudden spike between your legs, almost completely involuntarily as the arousal shoots through you.

It has the interesting reaction of getting a low rumble from the back of his throat, as he uses his hand on your ass to grind you against him further, harder, almost bruising — the heat in you only boils hotter at the combination. There is something just so appealing about getting a man usually so composed into a panting mess. Well, at least to you.

Right, but again, what had happened between noticing the ominous fog and humping each other in the back of the library like horny teens? You and Ford are — well, you are friends, probably, in the way that two people who exist in the same place at the same time with enough occurrences eventually become friends. Both of you were known to haunt the science fiction section of Gravity Falls’s library with disturbing frequency, as your life and job had been in a lull, and Ford had been… doing whatever he does.

After enough awkwardly stepping around each other in the aisles, you caught him frowning at the back of The Tommyknockers one afternoon.

“Not to spoil it,” you had said quietly, sidling up to him and clearly spooking him with your interruption. He looked at you with wide, brown eyes behind slightly cracked glasses, before the expression shifted into one of vague recognition. “But, it’s an addiction metaphor.”

“…It is?”

You nodded. “Not that it makes it bad. It’s a good book. But, not for everyone.”

“So, you just saw fit to warn me?” he asked, amusement twinkling in his eyes.

“You just looked so confused by the blurb,” you shrugged. “I thought I’d save you the hassle. It is kind of a doorstop.”

He had checked out the book that day. You had not gotten his name then.

In the present, Ford decides he is done attacking your neck like a fucking vampire and migrates the adventuring hand from under your shirt to tangling at the hair at the back of your neck, using the grip to angle you better for a kiss that makes you weak at the knees. He is a staggeringly good kisser — or maybe you are just desperate for it, his glasses are pressed between you which is kind of annoying — which you never would have quite guessed from the zealous professor vibes he had going on, always in knit turtlenecks and high-collared shirts.

Instead, his tongue counts your teeth, meeting yours, and you are left panting into his mouth.

After a few minutes of this, and after one particularly hard thrust against you, he breaks the kiss and presses his forehead hard against yours. “Ford…” you whine as you desperately try not to hump his thigh too vigorously, at least attempting to retain some composure. He chuckles, breath hot against your face, and you open your eyes to see his screwed shut, mouth slightly hanging open. Your hands travel down his sides and you tug at the hem of his sweater with some urgency. “Stop, hnngg, stop teasing.”

He rumbles a noise that you feel more than you hear, and he tilts his head down to murmur in your ear, “Needy, are we?”

It just makes you burn hotter; your eyes slip closed. “Come on.” It is hard to sound threatening when you are caught so breathless. For all his posturing, you know Ford is equally as ruffled as you are; you can feel the hard line of his dick in his jeans every time he grinds you against him. Your cunt has a heartbeat and the man seems stuck in some kind of feedback loop of, again, necking like horny teenagers. You could definitely come just from the dry humping, but you’d much rather —

Abruptly, his hands leaves you entirely, lifting his head… only to wrap both hands under your thighs and hoist you into the air, pressing you even harder against the wall. You gasp, “Jesus,” at the shock all the breath being crushed from your lungs and your feet no longer being on the ground, and instinctively you wrap both legs tight around his waist. Your eyes fly open to catch a front row view of his jaw clenched, an extremely dark and concentrated expression across his face. You are both extremely amused and extremely turned on by this.

Ford readjusts his grip, fingers digging painfully into the fleshy undersides of your glutes, before he steps back and actually carries you with him. You yelp, leaning your weight further against him, face buried in his shoulder and arms now tight around his neck for stability. The few steps from the wall to a nearby table seem to take a not insignificant amount of effort. But he still manages it.

“I could have — walked,” you complain as he functionally drops you on the edge of the table.

He pulls back, breathing a little heavier, and runs a quick hand through his hair to push it back. He grins down rakishly at you, clearly delighted by how flushed you are. “Too difficult.”

“Too — too difficult?” you laugh.

He hums an affirmative, smoothing some flyaway hairs from your face before leaning in and kissing you much more sweetly than before. You make yourself more comfortable on your perch and raise yourself up into it, wrapping an ankle around the back of his knee while one of his hands cups your jaw. It is an unexpected change of pace, but not an unpleasant one.

Anyway, it had taken roughly three or four more brief asides in the sci-fi aisles before coincidence brought you to the check-out counter together, while idly discussing the Catholic dogma in Book of the New Sun, when the librarian behind the counter said, “Find everything okay, Dr. Pines?”

“Yes, Mildred, thank you,” he said breezily, setting down his stack of books for her to begin scanning, then rifling through his pockets.

“Doctor?” you repeated.

In lieu of a response, he finally pulled out his library card and had flipped it up for you to read — Gravity Falls Public Library: Stanford Pines — then put it atop the stack to be scanned as well. “I suppose it is ill-mannered of me to not have asked your name already.” The line sounded smooth, especially in the low timbre of his voice, but the light pink tint to his ears gave him away.

When you realized you recognize the name, you ignored the expected polite reply of telling him your name in turn, and instead asked, “Are you that guy who lives in the woods? Er… or that guy who ran the Mystery Shack…?” You faltered, as you consistently got them mixed up in your mind, and were not entirely convinced they were two separate individuals.

“That would be my brother,” he said with a hint of snide disdain, “Stanley.”

“God, did your parents like, hate you or something?” you said without thinking.

“Or something,” he replied with a wry smile.

“Sorry, that was —” What the hell came over you to say that to a complete stranger? You readjusted your own stack under your arm, and held out a hand, introducing yourself by name. Thankfully, he shook it; your name sounded much nicer in his voice than it ever did in yours.

“You’re all set, Dr. Pines.” The librarian pushed his stack of books back to him.

You expected him to grab his books and bid you a polite goodbye, as you hoisted your own stack upon the counter. But he lingered and asked, “You’re new to town?”

“Ish,” you said, steadying your elbow on the counter to lean your weight there. “It’s been a year or so. Is it that obvious I’m a transplant?” you joked.

“No,” he reassured you with a bit of a smile. “Only in that you didn’t know who I was.”

You slid your library card across the counter as well, heard the beep of the scan, then grabbed your own stack. “If it helps, I’ve heard the name.”

“What else do you hear?” The amused twinkle was back, tone playful and — oh my god was he flirting with you?

Behind you both, the next person in line cleared their throat at a pointedly loud volume, and you scampered away, face burning. Ford held the door open for you as you slunk out them — how gentlemanly — and you waited for them to shut behind both of you.

Ford turned back to you, expectant of an answer. “Only weird things,” you had told him with a smile. “Promise.”

He had blinked, smiled again, much more genuine than it was flirty, then bid you a quick and polite goodbye.

Currently, your hands run up under his sweater, palms gentle over the surprising amount of muscle — or, maybe not surprising, since he had literally just picked you up off the ground. His stomach tenses under your touch. Is he ticklish? “Are you, like, secretly jacked or something?” you mumble against his lips.

He rears back with a bemused expression. “Secretly jacked?” he repeats, the words sounding extremely foreign in his mouth.

“You are hiding an unsuspecting amount of muscle under these dorky sweaters,” you tell him, settling both hands just above his hips.

He huffs, one hand steadying himself against the table, the other pressing his thumb gently against the underside of your jaw as he cups your face. “They are not dorky.”

“It’s fine that they’re dorky,” you laugh at his attitude. “If you had been showing up to the library in muscle shirts, then…”

“Who in the world is showing up to libraries in muscle shirts?” he asks, incredulous at the mere idea, and the hand not on your neck slides up your side, also under your shirt, rucking it up. His palm is large, spanning around your ribs.

“You’ve lost the plot,” you say, removing your hands to begin undoing his belt buckle. “It was a compliment.”

“The dorky sweaters or the secret muscles?”

“Either,” you reply, a little distracted as you try to keep eye contact while shoving his pants over his hips and slightly down his thighs. “Both.” You cup his dick through his briefs, feeling him hard and heavy through the fabric.

That, at least, distracts him too; Ford says something truly unintelligible that you take to be a swear and leans into your touch. Jesus, he feels — he feels big. You bite your tongue against that compliment, as he presses his forehead against yours again and puffs a hot breath across your face. You run your hand from the thick base to the head, the fabric there slightly damp.

“Stop — stop distracted me,” he huffs, and then his hands are also going for the button on your jeans, a little awkward around the angle of your hand still down his pants. You get with the program and remove it to instead help him get your pants off, kicking them off and to the floor. For a moment, you consider continuing the dry humping him here, you are getting desperate, but he tugs you even closer to the edge of the table. You have to lean your weight back on your hands as you just barely balance there, as he presses two fingers against the very clear damp spot in your own underwear, rubbing roughly against your clit.

You swear as well, but definitely in English.

For all that was good — how had you ended up with your pants off in the library, panting with sheer anticipation?

After several more months of only seeing each other in the stacks, catching up over recent reads, opinions on the subject matter and, yes, definitely flirting, you had started to consider Ford a friend. You even tried to keep a regular attendance schedule just to catch him on a consistent basis, since neither of you seemed to progress it further past the walls of the library.

Okay, so maybe you had developed a bit of a crush, also. So what if he was, at minimum, at least two decades your senior? The silver fox thing worked well on him, and you never saw him outside the library. It was harmless.

Which all led to today, when you spent longer than necessary chatting, not paying attention to the time until you realized that you two were the only ones left. Mildred wouldn’t just leave you locked in the library overnight, would she? Or maybe she was just tired of how you two kept holding up the checkout line on a biweekly basis.

Still, when you saw the fog, and then were warned not to go out in the fog, you had thought, well, fuck, what is this, The Mist? Considering some of the stories you heard from the locals, it might just be. Somewhat frustrated, somewhat fearful, you had said aloud, “What is this, The Mist?”

“The what?”

“You know, The Mist.” You led him farther into the library, where the desks and tables and chairs and beanbags resided. Turning to him and crossing your arms, you said, “I’m pretty sure I literally handed you Nightmares & Dreamscapes like, a month ago.”

Ford wrinkled his nose. “I didn’t quite care for that one.”

You laughed. “I know, you said The Jaunt was too unrealistic for long-distance teleportation.”

He huffed, apparently annoyed at the reminder. “Because it was. But, The Mist wasn’t that good, either.”

“It’s a stone cold King classic,” you had defended, and began counting off on your fingers. “It’s got weird creatures; it’s got a small boy; it’s got an old woman who’s a religious fanatic; it’s got two characters unnecessarily having sex right in the middle of it — although, now, I kinda get it. What else is there to even do?”

You had said it as a joke. Obviously. But then you had caught Ford’s eye and you both stared at each other a few seconds too long.

And then he had you up against the wall.

You whine again, a truly undignified sound, when he pushes the fabric of your underwear aside to slide one thick finger into you. “Oh, my god,” you mutter, as you realize this is actually happening to you, right here, right now.

Ford looms over you, leans in, so you are forced to lean back as well, until your back hits the table. His stare is extremely intent and heated.

…And he is just keeping his finger completely still, and you squirm against it, trying to — “Can you at least move?"

The intensity breaks as he grins coquettishly and draws it out slowly, before pushing two fingers back in. The stretch of it burns in the best way possible, and your eyes slip closed. “Needy,” he reiterates the sentiment from earlier, this time almost lightly scolding you. Which should not be as hot as it is, while he sets a slow pace. “You, my dear, are extremely impatient.”

You groan out half a laugh, clasping one hand tight around his bicep, feeling it flex under the knit fabric; on the out stroke, he curls his fingers, and your hips lift off the table as he drags over that particular spot. His unoccupied hand lands on your hip, pinning you there.

“You are doing this on purpose,” you accuse, heart positively hammering.

“Doing what?”

You open your eyes just to be able to roll them at him, and instead of verbally answering, you use your other hand to wrap around the back of his neck and drag him down into a heated kiss. Ford smiles against your lips, positively lecherous, as his pace speeds up. Your kissing loses its coordination as you get closer to the edge, turned on by the fact you can hear yourself get wetter and wetter, twitching around his fingers as the coil tightens and tightens in your stomach. Just when you are becoming accustomed to two fingers, he pushes three in without warning.

“Fuck,” you gasp, hand tight in his hair, struggling against his grip as you are unable to stay still. Your thighs tremble at the strain of trying to chase the sensation as he stretches you further, your feet kicking uselessly in the air at particularly rough strokes. He leans in more and puts one knee atop the table, steadying himself and keeping it from rocking so much. “Fuck, I, ah, Ford!”

He lifts his head to watch your face contort in pleasure. “Tell me what you want, darling.” He is drinking in every noise and involuntary motion you make, expression eager.

How is he this debonair? It feels wildly unfair how much this is turning you on — isn’t he supposed to be a shy nerd? “I — shit — please, I need, I need —!”

“You need,” he repeats, sounding close to deprecating, amused and acting utterly unruffled by the fact you are swiftly coming apart on his fingers alone. But there is a hunger in his eyes that gives him away. Then, he shoves all three fingers in as deep as possible, while grinding the heel of his palm against your clit.

“You are such,” you say through gritted teeth as your cunt clenches around him, “a fucking bastard.”

You get the most shit-eating grin in response. “Well, if that’s what you think…” he tuts, drawing his fingers out, slowly, slowly.

“No!” Your hand shoots out and grasps his wrist, the other tightening in his hair to keep him there. He wants to see you desperate? Fine, you can play along. “Please,” you plead, absolutely wrecked, and you should probably be feeling embarrassed at how quickly this man got you to beg. Usually you like to stretch it out longer, but — “Please, make me come, please, I —”

Looking satisfied, his speed picks up again, pressing roughly on your clit, and you are so, fucking, close, you are chanting his name in time with each thrust, and, and…!

Ford kisses you again as you peak, swallowing your moan as the pressure breaks and you come on his fingers, still grinding his hand against your clit as your hips buck against him. It is almost painfully tight, but he readily takes it, slowly dragging his fingers against the walls of your cunt and drawing it out.

Eventually, the intensity of the moment gently subsides, and you squirm against the overstimulation. “That’s — hah — that’s enough,” you gasp for breath, and open your eyes — when had they closed? — to see him smirking down at you again, this time with a sort of self-satisfied pride. Cheeky bastard.

You take a few seconds to catch your breath as he draws all three fingers out of you, which makes an obscene noise, and then you are pushing back on his shoulder so you can sit upright. Instantly, you are pulling him out of his briefs, and your mouth positively waters as you take in how thick his cock is. The tip is flushed pink, pre-come already beading there, and it twitches when you take him in hand.

You wrap your fist around him and stroke slowly from root to tip, then get the gut reaction of pure trepidation as you think, is this thing actually going to fit? His hips jerk at your drawn-out touch, and his hand that had just been inside you closes around yours to make your grip even tighter. It is definitely a little gross that you are getting your own arousal all over your hand, but it is also getting all over his dick, and it smooths out the process as you continue to stroke him.

“Fuck,” Ford mutters, staring down at you jacking him off, almost completely slack-jawed. A kind of headiness fills you — you understand his smug little looks now.

“Please fuck me, Dr. Pines,” you practically purr, and he positively shudders when you call him that. You smile, delighted, and the headiness only grows. “Please fill me up, make me…”

Ford chokes out something halfway between a laugh and a groan at your saccharine tone. You chortle as well, the act completely broken, as he closes the space between you two; you let go to steady yourself back on both hands. His belt jangles as he hastily pushes his pants and briefs farther down his thighs, then hooks his fingers into your underwear to pull it off. Gripping the base of his cock to line it up, he rubs the tip against you a few times, catching once or twice on your hole. Your cunt twitches at the anticipation. “You are such a menace,” he tells you, sounding almost disbelieving, still looking down.

“I’m a menace?” you can’t help but laugh. Trying to aim for the same tone as before, you coo, “Why, Dr. Pines, is it too mu— ahh…” but cut yourself off with a moan as he finally begins pushing inside you.

He grits his teeth, pulls out a little, then pushes in again, further this time. He continues to work you open with small thrusts, as you stretch to accommodate him, and no amount of preparation could have primed you for this particular feeling. All twelve fingers dig into your hips to keep you steady, and you slide onto your back again, hands gripping the edges of the table on either side of you as you focus on your breathing. Fucking Christ.

When he is fully seated, hips flush to yours, he lets out a low rumble from the back of his throat. The noise goes straight to your cunt. You are loose and wet from your earlier orgasm, but — “Fuck, you’re tight,” he mutters, hunching forward as he steadies both hands on either side of your torso. He hangs his head between his shoulders to look at where you are connected, practically hypnotized by the sight alone.

The complete stillness is killer, and you try not to squirm against him. He glances up at you, his glasses sunk well down his nose but sturdily hooked there. Some stray curls fall across his forehead, which you indulge yourself to gently comb them back with your fingertips. The disheveled look really does work on him, you think, as he closes his eyes and hums at the touch. Well, frankly, all looks seem to work on him for you.

“If you don’t move, I’m going to die,” you announce, breaking the tender reverie.

He snorts, then looks back down, draws out halfway, and slides back in smoothly. Somehow, it feels like he gets even deeper this time. You are definitely going to die just from this. Good way to go, you decide as you wrap your ankles around the back of his thighs.

Ford sets a leisurely pace, gliding in and out with measured thrusts that go from just the tip being settled in you to grinding his dick as deep as it can possibly go, like he is savoring the feel of you. It is not nearly enough, as he pushes up your shirt to press a wet kiss to the very base of your sternum. You fist the collar on the back of his shirt, enjoying the sensation of being filled, but…

“Please,” you beg, “please go faster.”

Without warning, the next thrust is so sharp, you let out a surprised, “Ah!” as even the table wobbles a little.

He somehow presses even farther into you — fucking hell you can practically feel him in your stomach — as he looms over you, staring down with a flushed expression, and yes, now you feel like you are on a level playing field. He looks completely wrecked just from being inside you. “Insatiable,” he breaths with a kind of reverence. “Utterly insatiable.”

Definitely the kind of guy to use ten-cent words while being inside someone. As established, it works, though. “Yeah, yeah,” you say blithely, trying to use your heels to press him in closer. “That’s me.”

He foregoes kissing entirely in favor of ramping up speed, panting hotly against your neck, and you wonder if his glasses are fogging up. Except, as you try to keep control of your moaning as pressure builds in you again, his thrusts are slowly pushing you up the table. So, he stands up straight again with a sore kind of groan, drags you back down by your thighs — fuck, that was hot — and then grips both large hands at your hips to hold you still. The sight of his concentrated expression at where you are connected as he absolutely rails you is enough to put you close to the edge; still sensitive, your pussy clenches around him uncontrollably. It just spurns him on, rocking your whole body with each thrust.

Desperate for the feeling of coming on his dick, you reach down and begin furiously rubbing at your clit, your wetness smoothing the entire way. Every so often your fingers overshoot, and you feel him entering you over, and over, and over —

You come again without much warning, just a gasp and an arch of your back off the table as you grasp blindly for anything to anchor you. Ford practically doubles over as your cunt squeezes around him. “Fuck,” he grits out, eyes glued to your face as you come, pounding into you faster and faster as he chases his own release. “Fuck — fuck — I’m not —”

“Ford,” you whine breathlessly, as the waves wash over you, your thighs twitching with oversensitivity as he somehow rams into you harder. “Please come in me, just —!”

His thrusts become uneven, sacrificing any coordination for the sheer attempt to drive deeper and deeper into you, punching staccato’ed breaths out of you with each thrust as your orgasm finally subsides. He moans your name, then bites out another string of unintelligible curses.

Finally, when it is almost too much, he presses his hips hard against you, hilting himself entirely as you feel his cock twitch in you; he moans, low and deep, as he comes. Ford’s eyes fall closed as he does a few more short, uncontrolled abortive jerks in to you, clenching his jaw so hard you can see a vein popping in his column of his neck when his head tilts back. When he has filled you, the tension in his body unravels all at once as he lets go of your hips and slams both palms on either side of your torso as he falls forward. Spent, he breaths heavily, head hanging between his shoulders.

Both of you take a few more seconds to come down from your respective highs, as your cunt continues to throb, and you reach down to card your fingers gently through his curls. As before, he leans into the touch and lowers himself to settle his forehead against your collarbone, breath slowly evening out. You relax your legs so he can pull out, and you feel his come drizzling out of you. Jesus fucking Christ.

Then, he chuckles, still resting his forehead against you. “I don’t think I have ever considered doing that before in my life.” Somehow, his voice is even deeper from all the exertion.

“What, really?” Surprised, you press your chin to your chest to peer down at him, and he raises his eyes to you as well. “No raunchy library fantasies?”

“Not for at least forty years.”

You laugh lightly, somehow feeling honored. Desperate we-could-die-any-moment fucks do that for a man, you suppose.

You both spend the next few minutes cleaning up in the bathroom, not really keen on being so tacky and sweaty if you have an undetermined amount of time left in the library. Ford emerges to find you sprawled out on a few bean bag chairs you have pushed together, as you feel extremely loose and well-fucked out.

He sits next to you on the edge of one, gingerly. The hesitancy is cute, but unnecessary since he literally just came inside you, and you tug at the back of his sweater until he gets the hint and lays down, too. Thankfully, he takes this as permission to wrap you in an embrace, which you settle comfortably into. Eventually you start to doze with your head on his chest, legs tangled, and a hand settled on his side. He has an arm curled around you, and his hand strokes gently where your shirt has rucked up, warm on your skin.

Not a bad way to die, all things considered.

“So, what’s in the fog?” you ask drowsily.

“Hmm?”

Dragging yourself out of the place where you had been floating, between part and meet, you elaborate, “The mysterious and deadly fog, that we can’t go out in.”

“Oh.” His hand stops its stroking. “There’s nothing special about the fog.”

You open your eyes, blink twice, then steady yourself on a hand to raise yourself to look down at him with a truly bewildered expression. “What?”

“The fog isn’t deadly,” Ford reiterates, with raised brows.

“You said not to go out there!” you argue.

“Right,” he confirms, “it just looked too thick to drive through.”

Is he serious right now? You had been under the assumption this had been an urgent, final fuck sort of deal — not that you were complaining about the extremely good lay, but — wait, does that mean he wanted you that much, that he was just willing to fuck you silly in a library without thinking there was death imminent in his future?

It’s kind of flattering, all in all.

Ford looks more nervous the longer you are silently staring down at him, as your brain puzzles this out, and he tries to reason, “Well, I suppose the fog could be a symptom of something more dangerous…”

“It — it’s fine,” you try to reassure him quickly. “Thank you for… being so concerned about my safety behind the wheel.” It is such a weird thing to say to a man who was railing you fifteen minutes ago. With that, you press a quick kiss to the corner of his mouth, downturned in a befuddled expression, before snuggling back in atop him.

He seems to breathe a sigh of relief. “Did you really think the fog was dangerous?”

“Yes,” you complain, closing your eyes again, enjoying the rumbling in his chest when he speaks. “I thought it was like The Mist.”

His hand resumes its stroking. “You, my dear, read too much.”

[captain039]

The predator grounds (old man Logan)

Old man!Alpha! Logan x reader

Warnings: prey/predator, forced heats and ruts, sexual, smut, angst, age gap, claiming, swearing, nicknames, logan lets his feral side out, chubby reader, Logan’s a strong man babes he can throw you around 🫶🏻

I need help xD

It’s too hot when you wake up. The old smelting plant shed is usually cold and unable to hold heat during the cooler days. You also notice your bed is rather uncomfortable and there are sticks or stones digging in your back. You shoot up, eyes wide as you look around the forest. You’re not in your bed, you’re not at the smelting plant with Logan, Caliban or Charles. Where the fuck are you?!

You try not to panic, but it fails. Your heart rate picks up sweat rolls down your temples. It’s so hot out here. You gulp softly standing up on shaky legs and that’s when you feel it, the embarrassing wetness sliding between your thighs. You go bright red pressing your thighs together more to stop the slick going down your thigh. You figure this is some sick joke or maybe Charles finally lost it and his powers are going haywire. This feels all too real and why the hell would the old telepath make you in heat? You jolt looking to the left then right, you’re not alone. There’s heavy breathing nearby and your flight or fright senses are in freeze mode before you hear an angered cry and the slice of blades. You know that noise to well and relief floods you as you head over to the noise. Logan’s kneeling over the man’s corpse panting heavily claws still in the man’s chest. You approach carefully but freeze when you smell it, he’s in rut. He was an old alpha so you figured you wouldn’t have to deal with that anymore but fucking hell he smells so good. It’s old, woodsy, cigar smoke, leather and that whiskey he drinks all the time. It’s not something you usually like but on him, it smells like fucking sex and heaven. You’re afraid to make yourself known, he’s your sworn protector swore to your father that’d he’d never let anything happen to you and nothing has happened till now. You knew him since you were a younger teen, growing up around during those awkward years wasn’t exactly fun till you hit twenty’s and calmed down a bit till your father died and you lived with him. His alpha scent was always uniquely him, despite being dull from age you still caught it every time you went past him.

“Logan” you call softly and he growls turning back teeth bared like an animal as he stares at you for a moment before recognition kicks in. His claws retract his hands blooded as he stands off the corpse and goes to approach. He stops though his nose flaring eyes pinned on you, boots rooted to the forest floor under him.

“Somethings- something happened I don’t know I woke up a few moments ago” you explain but you’re finding it increasingly hard to focus. He smells too good it makes you want to submit, neck bared and presenting to him so he can fuck you, give you what you need. You glance down regretting it when you see the hard outline in his jeans and gulp. He doesn’t speak and you start to worry, you’ve known Logan to be more animalistic during his attack mode. You jolt though hearing a noise and smelling another alpha in rut nearby. Logan growls fucking growls loudly at whoever’s approaching and suddenly he’s at your back strong arm around your waist. He’s panting heavily and he’s so warm against you. He makes sure not to press his lower half into you and it makes you want to whine and press your ass back just to feel it. You see another man, another alpha in heat with a crazed look in his eyes before he sees Logan and backs away. You figured Logan would be seen as a powerful alpha, not one to trifle with but watching it happen makes you even more wet. Logan pulls away abruptly though like you’ve burnt him or something and you frown turning back to him.

“What is this?” You ask as he looks around with a clenched jaw.

“One happened years ago, when I was at the school, all the alphas and omegas of legal age were forced into rut and heat. Woke up in the forest, like some sort of fucking mating grounds for humans” he growls and you freeze he’s been here before?

“You’ve been here before?” You ask and he looks grimly.

“No, but I killed the son of a bitch who started it. Saved the few mutants and humans” he shrugs tensely.

“Ok, so-“ you trail body shuddering as you feel a wave of want go over you.

“Fuck” you mutter moving to the closest tree and putting your hand on it to steady yourself. You haven’t had a heat in a few years, due to living with Logan.

“What’s wrong?” He says gravely but doesn’t make a move to go over.

“The fuck you think is wrong!” You growl at him before apologising and turning so your backs facing him. You need to get a grip, your legs are shaking and you desperately, desperately feel the urge to jump the older alphas bones.

“We need to get out of the open” He states and you nod idly.

“Ok” you say simply and he grunts before he starts walking apparently having better self control than you ever will.

You follow him for a while your vision dances on clear and blurry, your whole body shakes with need and you’re thinking about just lying on the forest floor curling in a ball and hoping the earth will swallow you. You feel so desperate to touch yourself, bring yourself an orgasm so you feel some form of release. Then your mind wanders, Logan’s hand over you, his beard scratching you deliciously his cock-

“Here” you frown focusing as you see him head inside a cave. How the hell did he even find that? He heads inside, grunts, waves you in and you go inside collapsing against the cool rock and groaning. Your legs hurt, your whole body hurts, you feel overly needy.

“Fuckers” he growls and you frown seeing him going through a crate. He pulls out water and rations and you glare at them, fuckers indeed.

“Here” he walks over holds the bottle to you and you breathe him in as you take the bottle your fingers brushing his. It sends a jolt through your body and his eyes stare at you a haze going over them before he shakes his head and stalks away.

“I think, I officially wanna die” you say jokingly, sort of, after some silence sipping on the water occasionally. Logan growls lowly in a warning tone that you’ve never heard and look to him.

“Don’t say that” he snaps and you frown at him. He’s tense, tenser than normal, his eyes are staring at the entrance and he’s got a layer of sweat covering him. You wanna go over there let your omega scent flood his senses so he calms down and clings to you, his nose buried in your neck. You whine at the thought not realising you whined out loud till Logan’s head snaps to look at you and you feel yourself turn ten shades redder and hold your breath.

“Cramp” you lie and he nods stiffly and looks away. You let out your breath with a small huff and press yourself against the cold rock some more.

“What do we do?” You ask not bothering to look at him. He doesn’t answer though and you look at him seeing his grim face as he studies the ground, he doesn’t know, he hasn’t got a clue and neither do you.

next part ->

[kitchenisking]

September Fic Rec

History in these Streets by orphan_account - (Rating: Not Rated, Words: 3,988, sterek)

Its Derek's birthday and now that Stiles doesn't have Malia, he misses Derek even more than before. Fortunately Braeden is back and gives him a way to contact Derek. In doing so however, old emotions resurface and grow as the two talk on the phone almost everyday. Derek says he probably won't come back though, and that hurts Stiles more than anything.

Or Stiles misses Derek so they talk on the phone but will Derek come home for him?

(We both failed each other in a way) by hellodickspeight - (Rating: T, Words: 742, sterek)

"Why are you laughing ?" he asks through his teeth.

"Are you actually hearing yourself ? Me, cheating on you ? That's like reverse day. If someone did the cheating, it would be you--""

In which Derek thinks Stiles is cheating on him.

Say You Love Me by sunnydalewerewolf - (Rating: Explicit, Words: 1,540, sterek)

“Say it,” Stiles repeats, kissing him on the lips again.

“If I say it too much it might lose its meaning,” Derek jokes.

“If you never say it at all it will definitely lose its meaning.”

Derek sighs. “Why don’t you say it?”

“I asked you first.” 

AKA: Stiles and Derek have sex and say I love you a bunch of times.

Bravery is a Loaded Gun by DefNotForWork - (Rating: Explicit, Words: 17,389, sterek)

“No, I’m not asexual, Stiles,” Derek said shortly.

The teen’s heart sank in his chest, his palms going clammy and his neck prickling with the familiar feeling of rejection.

“So then it’s,” Stiles swallowed, throat clogging, unable to give voice to the facts he would much rather ignore. The silence grew between them, growing tense the longer it was left. For the first time in years, Stiles couldn’t speak. The weight of inadequacy held down his typical stream of useless banter. What does one say in this sort of situation? ‘I’m sorry you don’t find me attractive?’

In which the boys speak in half sentences and have two totally different conversations. What they can agree on, eventually, is that they love each other. And that Derek should jerk off more.

No Stones in Heaven by DothTheRaven - (Rating: Not Rated, Words: 9,652, sterek)

Derek knows the moment he meets eleven year-old Stiles that he’s found his mate. Of course he doesn’t tell the boy this, because he knows that would be creepy and would probably get him arrested. So he bides his time, and befriends the boy and falls in love and waits for the day when Stiles can be a part of his life, forever.

And really, in the end, it’s all Derek’s fault.

Stiles will become a more permanent part of Derek’s life, just not in the capacity he’s been hoping for. Not in the capacity he needs.

It’s because Derek wanted his privacy. It’s because Derek lied to his family. It’s because he wasn’t paying close enough attention.

It’s about happiness and sacrifices and loving your family and doing what’s right, even when it feels like the worst decision of your life.

The Same Old Blood Rush (With A New Touch) by rainsoakedshoes - (Rating: Explicit, Words: 29,564, sterek)

“Friends with benefits,” Derek stated. “I just happen to be in a position to provide a few more benefits than your usual hook ups.”

***

Derek was an Alpha with a pack and a multi-billion dollar company to take care of. Stiles was a college kid with assignments and student debt to worry about. Neither of them were looking a serious relationship. A one night stand turned into an easy no-strings-attached arrangement. Although nothing is ever as easy or as simple as it first seems.

Cause I Built a Home (For You, For Me) by noneedforhystereks - (Rating: Explicit, Words: 59,719, sterek)

Mechanic!Derek and Daddy!Stiles

Derek Hale is a mechanic in the sleepy town of Beacon Hills, where he has lived all of his life. He spends his day in a simple routine: wake up, fix cars, go home, sleep. It's what he's good at, and it keeps things simple and uncomplicated. Derek doesn't let people in and remains emotionally distant from everyone except his sister, Laura, and her daughter. This all changes when Boyd tows in an old blue Jeep that needs a lot of work and Derek meets the owner of said Jeep.

Because once Derek meets Stiles and his kids, he can't stop himself from caring. And he doesn't want to stop.

my wings a hurricane by kellifer_fic  - (Rating: T, Words: 20,322, sterek)

Stiles had been like any other kid growing up in the era of dragons. He'd watched the cartoons, the news stories, had the lunch box. When his screening at Beacon Hills High had come up negative, he'd been disappointed but unsurprised. His positive results were returned three years too late for it to be in any way convenient or cool.

Or, the one where they ride dragons.

Becoming Yours by dbeaux - (Rating: Explicit, Words: 46,688, sterek)

As a dom and owner of Stockholm Syndrome, Stiles takes pride in providing a safe place for people to scene. After a bad breakup, he's not looking for a sub, isn't sure he wants a full time sub again.

College student and curious sub Derek needs a full time dom but hasn't found anyone willing to take him on so he spends as much time at Stockholm Syndrome as he can, pairing up with various doms willing to take him on for an evening.

When their worlds collide, can they find what they need in each other?

Beacon Hell by alikatastic - (Rating: Explicit, Words: 4,693, sterek)

It had been easier than he thought to talk himself into the field to save Derek's furry ass. The raid was over, and, hell, he couldn’t believe it went as well as it did. Stiles had lost his job, but they hadn’t sent him to some supernatural jail, so he would take his wins where he could. Except, Stiles wasn’t ready to go home. He’d just gotten away; he was free.

[songmingisthighs]

Maudit

introduction pt. i | pt. ii | pt. iii

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ch. xxxv - BLATANT LIE

cursed!jongho × reader

genre : mythology!au, smau

rating : mature; crude jokes and filthy language

buy me coffee ?

tw : old views, name-calling, slight stereotyping, mentions of how things were in the past, reminiscing the past

wc : 1.6 k

so long i've been here, so long are the stories i've written. of what i gathered and lost, loneliness becomes me and pain refuse to depart from me. i've embraced that which ate me away so when you came along, i had no part of me left to give.

Lately, whenever you came back home from work, rather than fatigued, you simply felt giddy. Work had become less of a responsibility and more like a friend hang-out you were paid to do. It was even comparable to the study sessions you and your friends usually have where you did have responsibilities to tend to but you had so much fun doing it.

Maybe Hyunjin was right. Maybe Jongho WAS your sugar daddy.

What kind of a boss would just instinctively take his car keys, grab your bag, and ask "We're trying that new sushi restaurant you talked about yesterday, right?" the moment your working hour ended. Not to mention the fact that Jongho had been driving you home every single day which may or may not have caused Mingi to turn into such a big baby, showing up at your place at 10 pm in his PJs with a deep frown on his face and stated that since you have replaced him with your boss, he now has the right to claim roommateship so he can get his fill of his best friend which caused you to sit him down with some milk and cookies and explain that your boss was not in the best headspace and you wanted to help him just like how you helped Mingi when he lost the ticketing war to his anime convention thing, like a toddler.

So even now, after spending yet another evening out having dinner with Jongho, distracting him from the pit that was his anxiety, you felt a sense of fulfilment.

"Hey pops, I'm home!" you called out the moment you got inside the house. Upon locking the front door, you heard sounds from the living room and you realized that must mean your grand uncle had spent time watching the tv with the caretaker before he went home. So you went over and just as you had suspected, your grand uncle sat bundled up in a blanket and his pyjamas on his wheelchair, watching some old movie about the war with his gaze seemingly zoning. You couldn't help but chuckle as you went over to sit down on the couch near him. "Are you even watching the movie, gramps?" you teased. Your grand uncle slowly turned his head and scoffed, "Watching? I lived through that war, you damn brat! I was barely a teen when I was dragged out of my father's rice paddy and shipped off to capital to defend my country! I was so green, I farted out grass! But even then, I managed-" "You managed to grab a general by the balls and knock his sorry ass to the ground, I remember the bedtime stories you old fart," you smirked which made him chuckle.

That was the relationship you had with your grand uncle. He was a no-nonsense guy who had proudly built a life for himself so even when you were merely five years old, he would not adhere to your temper tantrums when he wouldn't let you eat chocolate after 8 pm. He was not built to be a parent, that was obvious to everyone which was why he never did got married and he never had children. You were sure he was asexual or was just wound up to tight to actually understand what sex is or perhaps his scary demeanour scared any and every girl he tried to approach. But still, he raised you as best as he could with no complaints and that was something you will always be thankful to him for.

"Did you have a good day today?" You asked. He raised an eyebrow at you and frowned, "The little fruitcake you forced as my caretaker almost dropped me in the bathtub today, how do you think my day was?" You couldn't help but roll your eyes at the way he addressed the quirky Gen Z caretaker who matched his freak, "Gramps, that's offensive. You can't just say the word fruitcake so casually to address people behind their backs!" you scolded. Your grand uncle let out a sound of discontent as he waved his hands, "I call him fruitcake to his face and he called me a turtle ballsack to my face, it's all good fun! You people are so soft nowadays with your feelings and pushing your dislikes onto people and making them feel bad for the feelings you have, I have to wonder how do you communicate? Back then, we mocked each other's ancestors and wished the other would get cursed and by the evening, we pretended like nothing happened and we move on. That is how people should have kept being. Not these... Emotional cushions to avoid facing reality just because you don't like them," he scoffed.

You were about to retaliate when his words dawned on him, and then as you gazed at his face, facts started dawning on you as well. A long pause caused your question to hang in the air but the more you looked at him, the more you couldn't help but think of a certain someone who was also an old soul.

So, you blurted out, "What was it like?" "What was what like?" "What was the past like?" Your grand uncle narrowed his eyes at you and poked you on the knee with his bony finger, "Are you asking me to mock me, girl? I could have you investigated for elder abuse!" You scoffed and lightly tapped his wheelchair armrest, sending a vibration to him, "I'm serious gramps, I wanna know how it was back then! Particularly compared to now, is it... Hard for you to adjust to time? Did you... ever worry? Did you miss what you had back then?"

Sensing your genuine curiosity, your grand unlce exhaled slowly and leaned his body back on his wheelchair, joining his hands together in the middle as his elbows rested on the armrests. "The short answer is, it was the me that I lost," he stated confidently. You remained silent but kept your whole focus on him, urging him wordlessly to explain himself. "The past... Back then... I was a different person, obviously. I was abrasive, I was a shark, and I was unforgiving. I was a power to be reckoned with and you can see that with how people have often come to me to kiss my ass to get me to help them which was fine but I find that time mellowed me down a lot. When you were young, time moved slowly but as you grow older, time suddenly moves at a pace where you can't keep up so I feel... I feel that time has forced me to be slow without my consent." "Do you hate it?" "Do I hate time? I resent it. I resent time for allowing me to age to this point, a point where I can't even go to the bathroom by myself. But in a sense, I had to thank it for everything it had given me for without it, I would not have developed the character I needed to take you in and dear girl, while you can be a headache to handle when you were still growing up," a scoff from your lips cut his words but he smiled as he took notice of the small smile blooming in your face, "I will never resent it for bringing you to me."

By the end of his words, you were tearing up and thankfully your grand uncle took notice as he took your hand in his and patted your skin gently. His words struck deep because while you knew he was thankful to have you, the circumstance that brought you to him was unfair, bordering on cruel. "Why would you thank time for me? Why would you thank time for cutting my parents' life so short? Why couldn't have time let me be with my parents longer? You were allowed to have vast memories about the past when I can't even remember my parents. I hate it, I hate that I was too young to remember them," you shakily said as tears poured down your face slowly. Your grand uncle furrowed his eyebrows, "Time did not take your parents, girl, the gods did. Time is not cruel as it has no whims, it has no intention, its flow allows us to move forward instead of being torn between the past and the future. Time, as cruel as it seem to us and as much as we, I, resent it, I don't blame it and neither should you. You studied history so you should know better than others that the gods... They like to play with us mortals, they like to impose themselves on us and so, don't you blame time for your parents, you hear me? You may, however, blame it for my bad back because back then I could spend an entire afternoon catching tadpoles and insects but now I can't even bend down to put my sock on." You couldn't help but chuckle at his attempt of making you feel better and while you wanted to retaliate, you wanted to tell him how you know some of the gods he was talking about and they weren't half as bad, you figured it wasn't the time and also that he probably wouldn't believe you either. So you kept your mouth shut and nodded.

It was a known fact that your grand uncle hated seeing people crying but for you, he was okay with it. Or perhaps he had gotten used to it so much so that he was desensitized to it. But anyway, he waited until you calmed down for a bit before he patted your hand again, "You should get cleaned up, girl. Wash the stink of the day off of you because it's burning my eyes. No wonder no man has taken claim of you yet." And there he was. Almost automatically, your tears dried up as your eyes rolled, "Better my stench of hard work than yours. What is that, despair and misery eau de toilette by death?" you poked back as you stood up. "Try parfum you brat, I have the money to get the top-shelf shit, not the watered-down piss your giant twink often parades in my house," he snickered.

Even with the name-calling, no matter how seemingly harsh they were, you knew he loved you and he tolerated Mingi. He was just so allergic to positive emotions that he had to resort to his natural instinct to cancel them all out. He was a sad man before you came, alone and stuck dealing with people trying to exploit him so you learnt to navigate through that. Just like another man you knew.

With a hug, you bid good night to your grand uncle, offering to wheel him out to his room (or out his driveway to be taken by the garbage truck in the morning) but he denied, saying he wanted to give his caretaker something to shriek about in the morning, letting you know that a bit of fun would be interesting. You simply chuckle and agreed because from your experience with him, you knew he was right.

network :

@cultofdionysus @sandsofire @kflixnet @pirateeznet

taglist :

@dinossaurz @redzie02 @stayatinykatsy @tinyelfperson @allisonleannn @yukichan67 @phenomenalgirl9 @dawn-iscozy @aestheticsluut @krustycangrejo @teenyfinds @kirbrary @thedistractedwriter @gxlden-bxbyy @huachengsbestie01 @charreddonuts @that-irrelevant-ricecakeaddict @velvetskize @do-you-remember-summer-127 @borahae-reads @domfikeluva @hwalighters @akunoeyebrows

@roronoas-wife

[orangez3st]

Roomie Advantages

ARC Trooper Fives × F!Platonic!Reader 

Summary: You're dead exhausted after a family event. Luckily your roommate Fives is a domestic life kinda guy in training. Rating: Teen and Up - 16+ for (casual) sex related talks Tags: roommate au, platonic relationship, brief talk about sex, quality time, silly roommate dynamics, this one is less feely and immersive from usual bcs i too am exhausted irl, the war is over and everything's good but the details are vague au Word Count: 2.1k A/N: Ah a surprise x reader drop! Less immersive this time, more like for self indulgence purposes. I didn't quadruple check this, but enjoy all the same you guys. Guess who just got home from a Lunar New Year gathering and whipped up a self indulgence platonic fic instead of working on another priority WIP and/or sleeping? Also I wrote this half awake. Inspired by @/hellfiresky's Fox platonic fic (vod it's crazy good I'm obsessed).

divider by me

Fives takes his headphone off – the upbeat music fading away and still ringing through the cushions thanks to its blatantly loud volume – and that's when he catches the shower running. 

Oh good, you're home. You were gone for an annual family gathering today, leaving him alone to look after your apartment and its shared spaces. It's nearing midnight, and he was just getting worried if you were kidnapped on the way home or something.

As your roommate, of course he cares. And that he's not a mean person too.

That's what you said in your first meeting with the ARC trooper. It was in one of the clone friendly places below the surface – a Corellian buckwheat noodle shop whose owner is a pro-clone and gives 70% off for clones – that you happened to haunt as well. He went in with his brothers, got a few spiked soda themselves, and you both met.

“What, you think I look so big and mean with all these pauldrons and extra plates?” he joked, flexing his already beefy arms at you.

You laughed heartily. “Kinda. But I don't think you're mean, Lieutenant.”

That was during the War. And now it's over. The Separatists lost, the former Chancellor was a Sith lord (apparently that means evil Jedi somewhat), and the political movement in the Senate hurriedly circled around oh no there are 6 millions excess of these copy paste expendable dudes because the war is over they're jobless whatever shall we do and of course of course, some rallied to fight for their rights.

And honestly, you're happy for the outcome too.

You've grown soft for these clones, especially Fives and his band of brothers. Thanks to them you're up to date with news around the Grand Army of the Republic. It makes you a little prouder that you're all knowing with all these restricted tea.

The Senate is still working on the bills part by part. The troops get nice things that you can't count but you're grateful enough, but one thing you know is that they aren't allowed to purchase or own their own dwelling under their name yet. So you offer your interest in a roommate to share the rent. Fives is giddy to take it. And with their limited stipend, you volunteer to take on the larger cut.

Fives strides out of his room, clad in hoodie, shorts and socks, and raps on the refresher door.

“Yeah hi,” you reply from the inside as you're lathering your body up with soap. Fives' body wash (a mid branded one just so he's happy for not using GAR bar soap) is just next to yours. “What is it?”

“Need to number one,” Fives says plainly.

“You're kidding me,” you deadpan, slumping, almost wanting to shout and just do it over the sink in the kitchen.

“Yeah I'm kidding.” His mouth splits into his signature shit eating grin. “It's so late though. You want anything?”

You're always touched at the way he always asks about you. He just knows you're tired. He probably can hear how tired you are from behind the door.

But you're smiling, eager to know as you ask back, “Ya making something?”

“I dunno,” he replies, and you hear a little scratching as if he's rubbing the back of his head to release his sheer awkwardness. “Probably not. But offer still stands. You want anything?”

You lift an eyebrow as you think. “I dunno. Water I guess?”

“Hot chocolate?” he offers instead.

You reel your head back slightly at the better suggestion. “Yeah actually that sounds good.”

“Okay.”

Then he's gone.

By the time you complete your shower and put your clothes on (in a similar fashion to Fives' hoodie shorts socks combo because the Coruscanti artificial weather's a bit chilly lately), Fives is already pouring the hot chocolate into two mugs.

“Nice,” you grin, “If you didn't make one for yourself I'm turning on the stove again.”

Fives scoffs, slamming into your shoulder playfully on his way to the sink. “Bold of you to assume I'm doin’ that.” You watch him swirl some water in the used pot. He turns to you again, leaning back against the counter this time. “So? Is the family gathering shit this year?”

You roll your eyes at his pleased and hopeful grin. Ass. “To be honest it's less festive than usual – I have no idea why. Maybe because it's a little later than usual because you just don't expect the annual gathering to start at 1500, do you?’

“I don't have a family to hold an annual gathering with like you but I get your point.”

“Procrastinating, am I right?” you sigh, and your glance still finds Fives listening to you with a surprising amount of attention. A complaint jumps out of your mouth as you continue, a tinge of sadness latches onto your tone, “And they didn't clear out the table for sabacc. I prepped chips for nothing.”

“Aw, poor you,” Fives coos, walking over to your spot, “So you were… what, just talking?”

You sit at one of the high chairs. Fives moves the hot chocolate mugs over. “The house we're at got Spintendo Spwitch installed to the holoscreen. Played SpustDance the whole day, my muscles are all strained.”

Fives snorts as he watches you stretch your arms and roll your shoulders. “How many songs did you play?”

“I think ten or twelve.”

“Dude,” he looks at you, “You don't even dance.”

“Hey there were instructions.”

“I'm expecting high scores.”

“Oh you bet.”

Fives reaches to pat the top of your head in appreciation but you swat his arms away, the ache in your shoulders only worsening. “Ow, Fives you little shit–”

“Oh now you're blaming me.” Stars you just wanna flick that stupid number tattoo out of his skin.

You kick his thigh. He doesn't even flinch. It leaves you a little disappointed as you mumble your complaints into your hot chocolate.

Fives still reaches out to pat you. You don't stop him this time. As you're sipping your drink slowly, mug clutched with sweater paws, you meet his sincere amber brown gaze as you nod your head following his pats – repeatedly, appreciatively. Fives is a handsome guy. Anyone would be lucky to have him, but you're settling comfortably enough having him as a roommate. He helps around a lot.

“You want a massage or something?” he offers, proving your point straight in your face.

You raise your eyebrows.

“Not an expert, but I can relieve some of that tension?” His hand slides down to the back of your shoulders and tries to clutch it, and you feel kinda numb (it hurts everywhere). The frown between Fives' eyebrows has never been that deep so far within the week. “Stars, you're stiff.” He grins teasingly. “Your little gremlin nephews givin’ you trouble? You were really working on those high scores, weren't you? Come on.”

You wait until he turns around to move to the couch before you swat his butt.

“HEY!”

You jump off the chair and follows him to the living room couch with your mug (properly clutched with your fingers instead of your slippery sweater paws). “That massage. Better be good as an apology.”

“Psshh don't worry. It's gonna be good for all you know.” You can hear the smile, so energetic, spilling out of his mouth. He plops down on the couch and pats at his thighs, his gaze silently expectant of you to just follow.

You sprawl across his lap stomach down.

Fives clicks his tongue annoyingly. “Not like that you idiot.”

His beefy thighs meet your exhaling breath before you bite down, drawing a very unmanly surprised yelp out of the ARC.

You look up at him seriously as you complain, “From your position it's not even how those people do it!”

Fives rolls his eyes exaggeratedly. “Fiiineee you're right.”

He very easily lifts you off his lap before he twists his body around and lands on the rug next to the couch on his knees. “Where do you want me?”

“Backside,” you mumble into the soft cushions of your couch, “Kidding. My arm.”

“I mean I wouldn't refuse.”

You successfully shove a hand into his face and with your palm pressed ingloriously against his lips, his mouth opens and his tongue sweeps across your hand.

“EW GROSS!” you squeal, retracting your hand as if you're touching a burning hot pan. As the little shit throws his head back in satisfied laughter, you can't hold your stupid smile either. You wipe your hand on his blue hoodie. “And you're disgusting.”

Fives lets loose the last of his chuckle as he starts to take your arm, his thumbs pressing and gliding against your tense muscles.

“Oh okay that does feel good,” you mutter as you sink deeper into the couch. Though your position on the couch is shit and probably giving him a little hard time on the angle of approach, plus the pressure is muffled by your hoodie, it still feels nice all the same. You're feeling spoiled and man isn't that just good after an exhausting day acting not being an ass.

“You definitely overdid your SpustDance game today,” complains your roommate again. “If this doesn't work you’ll need a huge orgasm to–” he pats your stiff shoulder “–loosen all these.”

You don't open your eyes. Harmless sex jokes are regulars in your shared space. “Not feeling it this week.”

“Really?” He's surprised. “You're a weirdo.”

“Hey if y'all wanna hit me, do it a week after my period. Promise I'll go feral.”

He scoffs under his breath. “Bet, roomie. Bet.”

It's just weird neither of you has made the move to be steamy. Fives has probably walked in on you changing a handful of times, but he treats it as casually as backing away and muttering sorry loud enough for you to hear. You appreciate that, and you appreciate and bask in the whole lot of friendly comfort he seems to exude all around him. He's one of those disciplined and respected men in the army (you're surprised considering how much of a little shit he is in real life) and you keep up with that.

You cherish this friendship. So much that if he finally earns his rights to get his own place, you don't even want him to move out. Or that it'll take a long time for you to come around the fact. You don't mind his presence, and honestly you just hate how lonely your apartment's gonna be.

What you don't know is that he's feeling the same. Fives is forever grateful that you even wanted to take him in, when many other civilians don't, and he cherishes your friendship just as much, probably a pinch more. He does his shared chores out of duty, treating your apartment as not only merely shared space but his home.

Your presence grounds him in this new life. You guide him the domestic basics; grocery run, laundering his own clothes, cooking, and many others that are relatively new to his skill set list. Fives can't be grateful enough, he thinks, and you're just… there, helping him without expecting so much from him. That's all he needs.

And that he feels the need to just annoy you out of nowhere – out of his fondness and cuteness aggression, really – by climbing onto your back and just flop down on your body.

You wheeze. “KRIFF FIVES YOU'RE HEAVY– GEROFF–”

Fives smiles into your hoodie. “Nah I'm good.”

You relax your body after an attempted squirm to get him off. Oh he's not that heavy. It's actually nice. “Whatever,” you mumble into the couch, total exhaustion and sleep creeping into your now relaxed muscles.

“Yeah?” he asks aloud.

“Uh huh,” you sigh, “Okay bye night I'm dozing off.”

For once he doesn't even protest as if he's the one suffering. You wonder if he's comfy in this position too. “Sweet dreams, roomie,” he plays along, probably playing on his sleepy tone of voice too.

And you know that he's just gonna carry you to your bedroom later. Because he too is a gentleman like that.

Taglist: @yoursrosie @hellfiresky @msmeredithrose

A/N: You can request for x reader in my askbox! If you're interested in my clone x reader oneshots you can sign up as well to be tagged of future works. (Link provided)

[aziraphales-library]

hi! i don't know if this ask has been done before but do you have any comedy fic recs? i've had enough of angst for a bit and i just want to read aziracrow bicker and laugh out loud :))

Hey. We have #humour, #humor, #crack, and #bickering tags, for all your laughing needs. Here are more to add...

Seamstress of Soho by GayDemonicDisaster (M)

Season 2 spoilers! When Mrs. Sandwich spots a suspicious new guy apparently lurking on her turf, the misunderstanding leads to an unlikely friendship between the ‘seamstress’ and a demon. So in episode 6 we see that Mrs. Sandwich is clearly at ease with Crowley and he with her, enough to share a joke together. Combine that with the curious sign on her door which might just be referring to Crowley, and we have a little buddy comedy in the making. I decided to explore the backstory of how they came to know one another between season 1 and the beginning of season 2. While this little comedy is about sex workers, there is NO sex in it, and rated M solely for oblique references to things like contraceptive devices and so on - honestly it could get away with a “teen and up” rating but I like to err on the side of caution.

Pass the Remote, Angel by Mrs_Cake_Is_Here (M)

Aziraphale has returned to Heaven, leaving Crowley a tv binge-watching wreck. However, healing can come from the most unlikeliest of places. While Muriel has been instructed to provide daily reports of the demon’s emotional state, they find that sharing time together, even by watching a scary show, can be the catalyst that builds friendships. And they’d probably both be couch potatoes by now if the Supreme Archangel hadn’t just gone missing.

Christmas Lights by FuzzyGoblin (T)

Christmas Lights is on the agenda at the monthly meeting of the Whickber Street Shopkeepers and Traders Association, but it's not the only thing on Mr Brown's, of Brown's World of Carpets, mind. As he pines for the mysterious bookseller, his efforts are thwarted by the tall ginger goth.

The Book Thieves by ThingsJustHappenSometimes (T)

“Did they steal it? Professional book thieves, probably going around in their car stealing books.” Be careful what you tell an adolescent antichrist who has the ability to warp reality, he might just make things real. - - - Featuring: A confused ineffable duo in ridiculous costumes, a presumed relationship, overpowered magical books, meddling humans, multiple chase scenes, and a generally all around silly action-packed time. - - - [If you like 1920s Costumes, Indiana Jones, Isekai Vibes, and/or That-One-Auction-Heist-Scene from Uncharted 4, you’ll like this story.]

Rattle Those Pots & Pans by Mackaley (M)

“My instructions…” He parted his mouth as he searched for a word. “Instruct that I just get right into it. You all have been brought here tonight because you have one thing in common: you’re all being blackmailed.” A tense hush fell through the room. “You’re all paying what you can afford - in some cases I’m sure more than you can afford - to prevent your secrets from being exposed. And none of you know who is currently blackmailing you.” Gabriel scoffed. “This is ridiculous. I’m an upstanding member of the international finance community - what could I possibly have done to be blackmailed about?” “You’re a member of the international finance community,” Crowley drawled. ----- A Good Omens Clue (1985) AU

through the tides by viperinz (T)

With that thought, Aziraphale takes to asking experts if his feelings are something more or just love for his dearest, most sweetest friend. If he wasn’t sure himself, then surely the experts on the internet will have something for him. Which brings him to the front of his computer, ready to search something up on the search engine he has pulled up. He’s not one to ask too many questions, but he supposes it won’t hurt. He starts typing, and is satisfied with his search of "Am I in love with my best friend?" Straight to the point, and very concise. Aziraphale has no doubt he’ll find what he’s looking for. He presses enter on the keyboard, and a bunch of results flood in. “Oh, dear,” he gasps at the mass amount of answers. Where is he supposed to start?

Aziraphale discovers the wonderful world of online love quizzes and WikiHow, all in the process of wooing and confessing his love to Crowley.

- Mod D

[destieltropecollection]

Destiel Trope Collection 2024 | Day 10: Wing Fic

After the Storm (The Meaning of Flying) | @cassiecasyl Rating: General Word Count: 1,132 Main Tags/Warnings: Canon Universe, Canon Related, Angel Wings, Flying, Angel Castiel (Supernatural), Fluff, Feelings, Dean Winchester is Bad at Feelings, can be seen platonic, actually this is platonic, but definitely leading up to something, Dean Winchester Has Abandonment Issues, Castiel Loves Dean Winchester, Home Summary: The storm has ended and finally allows Castiel to fly again. The only shadow over his happiness is Dean fearing he might not come back.

After the Flight (The Meaning of Home) | @cassiecasyl Rating: General Word Count: 1,438 Main Tags/Warnings: Canon Universe, Canon Related, Feels, Storm, Angel Wings, Angel Castiel (Supernatural), Dean Winchester Has Abandonment Issues, Home, Castiel Loves Dean Winchester, Dean Winchester Loves Castiel, Poetic, Massage, Fluff, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Dean Winchester is Castiel's Home, Dean Winchester is Bad at Feelings, Promises, Castiel Won't Leave Summary: Castiel's shoulders are tense after his first flight and Dean helps him out with a massage. Confessions and promises are made.

Hold Me in Your Wings | @tami-ryver Rating: General Word Count: 1,670 Main Tags/Warnings: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Cursed Dean Winchester, Winged Dean Winchester, Angel Wings, Wings, Sentient wings, Human Castiel (Supernatural), Human Castiel in the Men of Letters Bunker (Supernatural), Alternate Angel Lore (Supernatural), HugsFluff Summary: Dean can see Sam stretch his hand forward as if he wants to touch. As he is about to allow it, his wings stiffen and pull away from Sam' hand. Dean looks at them, then at Sam. ,,I didn't do that."

Flower in Bloom | @tami-ryver Rating: General Word Count: 1,679 Main Tags/Warnings: Wingfic, Winged Castiel (Supernatural), Seraph Castiel (Supernatural), Angel Wings, Wing Grooming, Molting Castiel (Supernatural), Wing Hugs, Pining Castiel (Supernatural), Pining Dean Winchester, Castiel/Dean Winchester Mutual Pining, Mutual Pining, Dean Winchester Takes Care of Castiel, Dean Winchester Can See Castiel's Wings, Dean Winchester Has Self-Worth Issues, Fluff, SO MUCH FLUFF, Light Angst, First Kiss, Castiel/Dean Winchester First Kiss Summary: Dean gasps, as now he can see them more closely. They are not only black, but they seem to shift colors from deep blue to black and dark purple. They open even more, and Dean stills when one of them comes closer to him, almost touching him. Dean inhales sharply when the soft feeling of feathers registers in his mind. They are so soft, but also so strong.

Like Flying | @Cmccle01 Rating: General Word Count: 2,355 Main Tags/Warnings: Dean, Sam, Castiel, Amara, Gabriel, Balthazar, Jack. (No warnings. It is a pretty clean story) Summary: Dean and Cas get what they deserve. and Jack smiles

Be Not Afraid | @envydean Rating: Explicit Word Count: 3,075 Main Tags/Warnings: angel!cas, human!dean,Alternate Universe, angels as different species, Xenophilia, bottom!Dean, Top!Cas, Wings, Outdoor Sex, Anal Sex, Fluff and Smut, previous childhood meeting, Artist!Dean, dean is obsessive about angels Summary: Dean saw his first angel when he was ten years old. Ever since then, he's been on a self-serving mission to see one again. Sixteen years later, by luck — and lust — he finds the same angel again during mating season.

dressing down | @hornystiel Rating: Explicit Word Count: 3,971 Main Tags/Warnings: Sharing Clothes, Possessive Behavior, Wing Kink, Wing Oil, Dick Jokes, D/s elements, Scents & Smells Summary: “Pick something and it’s yours.” Cas hesitantly touches each item, reverently rubbing the material between his long fingers. He trails the patterns, the band names, the sparkles. Dean follows his hands like they’ll show him all the secrets of the world.

The Hounds Of Love Are Hunting | @melancholictearz Rating: Teen & Up Word Count: 4,275 Main Tags/Warnings: AU - Ancient Greece, Fallen Deity!Castiel, Artemis Worshipper Priest!Dean, Prophecy, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Injured Cas, Dean Takes Care of Cas Summary: IS A STRANGER WORTH THE WRATH OF OLYMPUS? It is said that an experienced hunter shall meet the path of a fallen god. The mortal’s faith in the Goddess he worships must decide whether he kills his prey or shows mercy, and the Fates shall write the future accordingly; the divine entity will either die to the wounds of his fall or will perish as mortal. Dean worshipped the Goddess of Hunt, Artemis, for as long as he could remember. But when the prey that the Fates have chosen for him crashes into the field of the Artemis temple under his care, he doesn’t draw the feathery arrows from his quiver.

Falling Never Felt So Good | @verobatto Rating: Explicit Word Count: 15,066 Main Tags/Warnings: Season 5, canon divergence, wing kink, winged Castiel, touch starving, shower sex Summary: Castiel is alive! After saving Dean and Sam from Zachary, Castiel reveals he's now a fallen angel and he should serve Dean as his loyal servant. But thinking about having an angel watching over you because he fell for you isn't worse than the consequences… Lucifer is out there trying to break mundane seals to get stronger, and the only way to stop him is through fallen angel and human bonds. If only strengthening Dean's bond with Castiel didn't include touching and kissing, things would be easier...

Say Yes | @verobatto Rating: Explicit Word Count: 21,843 Main Tags/Warnings: Winged!Castiel, BAMF!Castiel, mutual pining, fluff, miscommunication, angst, wing kink, angelic grace kink, touch starving Summary: After evading the apocalypse, Heaven faces a new crisis. Without archangels and with an absent God, the angels will appeal to their last hope: to achieve a perfect bond between two of their own and thus generate the necessary energy to save Heaven. But when the first attempts fail, and everyone begins to lose hope, it's then that Castiel admits that he may have "accidentally" started a bonding ritual with Dean Winchester by bringing him out of Hell, and now the restoration of Heaven depends on a brave hunter agreeing to complete the bond with Castiel, a ritual full of enigmas and sensuality that will confront the angel and the human with their most hidden feelings.