#Vic fanfiction

[myveryownfanfiction]

18+ MINORS AND THOSE WITHOUT AGE IN BIO DNI

tags: @illiana-mystery, @iobsessoverfictionalmen, @lulusplaycorner, @psychokinetic-ectoplasm, @coffee-n-bagels-comic-universe

warnings: smut, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it kids), swearing

AN: happy new year!

I looked over at Vic as the clock chimed midnight. He smirked at me before wrapping an arm around my waist and kissing me deeply. I wrapped my arms around his neck and tugged on his hair. Vic growled into the kiss before he dipped me.

“gonna rile captain vic up huh sweetheart?” He whispered as he pulled away. With a glance at Romona, earl and Enid, Vic leaned down and threw me over his shoulder. With a smile and a nod he carried me back up the stairs into the room he had commandeered as his own. I giggled the whole way there, reaching down and grabbing a handful of Vic’s ass on the way. “Watch yourself there.” He laughed.

“What? You gonna tell me I can look but not touch?” I asked, pout clear in my voice. Vic tossed me on the bed with a smile.

“I can be cruel. But not that cruel.” He teased as he climbed over me. “Everyone knows you can’t resist a piece of captain Vic.” I giggled as he leaned down to kiss me. “Especially when I wear these tight. Red. Shorts.” Vic pecked my lips on each word, guiding my hands to his ass and making sure I squeezed. As I groped his ass, his hips thrust against mine weakly. “Captain Vic’s all ready for you. If you’re ready for me.” I nodded as he pushed my shirt over my head. I grabbed at the collar of his shirt and pulled it over his head. Vic shook the hair out of his face as he smiled at me, gold tooth glinting in the low light.

“Vic.” I moaned as he started kissing along my exposed chest. An occasional bite and mark was left along the flesh there as I tugged on his hair. “Please Vic.” He hummed against my collarbone as he shuffled around to get my pants pulled off. My hands slipped under the fabric of the shorts he wore. I giggled as I squeezed his bare ass. "Commando today captain Vic?" I asked as I shoved the shorts off. Vic chuckled as he looked down at me.

"I had an idea of where the night might go." He smirked at me. I smiled sweetly up at him. "Best way to ring in the new year no?"

"Best way I've ever done it with you." I responded. Vic playfully growled as he lined himself up. “Shit. Vic!” I cried as he snapped his hips forward. He snickered as he dropped his head to my shoulder, burying his face in my neck. He kissed and sucked at the skin there, waiting for me to adjust to his size. “Fuck Vic. If you don’t start moving…” I whimpered. Vic pressed a lingering kiss to my pulse point as he pulled out. “Vic.” I whined before he snapped his hips forward again. I moaned as he set a rapid pace.

“just like that.” Vic groaned as I weakly thrust my hips with his. I wrapped my arms around his neck and tangled my fingers in his hair. Vic hummed as he nipped at my neck, soothing the bite with his tongue. “How you feeling honey? How’s captain Vic doing?” He panted, pulling back to look at me. He smiled down at me, blue eyes blown wide and sweat beading on his brow.

“fuck Vic. So good. So good.” I whined as my other and slipped down to his ass. I gave him a squeeze, smiling at the way Vic’s face changed. He moaned at the action and hung his head. “Nearly there Vic. Please.” He nodded, head still hanging low as he watched himself disappear into me.

“just a little more babe.” He groaned. Vic leaned down to kiss me, deepening the kiss when I tugged on his hair.

“Take me there Vic.” I whispered when he pulled away. Vic nodded, licking a stripe up my neck and over my jawline before kissing me again. “Vic!” I screamed as I orgasmed. He chuckled darkly as he sped up, chasing his own orgasm as I arched under him.

“fuck.” He groaned, he thrown back as he came. “(Y/N).” His voice turned into a whine as he started to come down from his high. I wrapped my arms around him and pressed a kiss to his temple as he collapsed on me. “Sweet thing.” I smiled as he buried his face in my neck, letting me nose at his temple.

“Vic.” I whispered. “So good. You did so good Vic. Best way to ring in the new year.” I pressed another kiss to his cheek. He hummed as he kissed my neck. “I never want it to change. Best new years I’ve ever had in my life. Nothing compares to when I met you.” I felt Vic smile before he kissed my cheek, pulling back again before kissing me softly.

“best new years ever.” He whispered, holding me close as we listened to the fireworks shooting off in the neighborhood.

[netherfeildren]

10:05 PM

Pairing: Joel Miller x F!Reader

Summary: Joel is exhausted, you're there to make him feel better.

Rating: Explicit 18+

Content Warnings: Post Outbreak; QZ Joel Miller; Somnophilia; Established Relationship; Friends With Benefits, kinda; Free Use; PIV Sex; Unprotected Sex; Creampie; Kind of mean and uncaring Joel, but at least he makes you cum; Rough Sex; Somno may or may not have been previously discussed, but she's okay with it happening; He's in kind of in a hopeless and numb state of mind (likely thing for Joel Miller to be)

A/N: idk man whatever i might look into religion after this

Word Count: 1.4K

Read on AO3

Ko-fi

10:05 PM

He’s exhausted.

That sort of tiredness that takes you away from yourself. The sort that takes away rest and peace and the ability to let go. Like you’ve crossed over the edge of the world where sleep is no longer possible, and all you are is sore and dirty and beaten, and you don’t think you’ll ever rest again. It’s just the too hard day, and the too hot sun, and a night that won’t ever end.

 And Joel is tired. 

He knows if he falls into bed now, he won’t sleep. He’ll stare up at the water stained ceiling, the cracks in the plaster deeper than the cracks in his mind, and he’ll find no rest and no peace and no forget, and all he’ll do is remember. 

Pulling his shirt over his head as he goes, he toes one unlaced boot off and then the other, the sweat damp cotton sticking cold and tacky to his back, and it peels off slow, a little disgusting, the grime of his shift all along his skin, in his hair, between his toes and under his fingernails and looking at you, the slow rise and fall of your shoulder as you sleep so peacefully, he knows he shouldn’t touch you, have you, know you. 

He doesn’t really care.

The button of his jeans, sticky, warm summer night air against his already hardening cock, and he watches you. You’re wearing a little white tank, worn and frayed and old as a long past life, ratty panties, too hot to pull the sheet over yourself, nothing but a sheen of sweat for cover. You’re beautiful in the way things aren’t beautiful anymore. Beautiful in a way that makes him not want you. But you’re here, and you’re his, and you give him things he doesn’t deserve, yourself, and Joel is a selfish creature now, bad and bristled in the way this new world demands, so he takes. 

All the time Joel Miller takes things. 

He doesn’t love you because he can’t, because he doesn't have it in him. But there’s peace here, or comfort, or something easy and silent and freely given. Understanding, maybe, which is all anyone can ask for anymore. He shucks his grime covered jeans and crawls over you, and he shouldn’t touch you, never should have, but he does because, again, he’s selfish, he touches you because you let him, because he has nothing else but this to feel good and man about. 

Hooking his fingers beneath the edge of your panties he pulls them down, slow and steady, watching the rise and fall of your ribs, steady heart in the steady rhythm of your breath. You’re still asleep, and he’s going to have you because he can, because you’re his without commitment or ask or demand. Because it’s easy. 

He pushes a soft thigh up high, opening you to his gaze and pulls your cheeks apart gently, dragging a gentle thumb up the crease of your sex as he goes. You hadn’t waited up for him the way you did most nights, and he’s grateful for this, grateful for the fact that you’d spare him from conversation, questions, wants. All the things he can’t give you and doesn’t even really want to because he doesn’t have any of that in him anymore. 

Sometimes, and he’ll admit it because Joel isn’t a liar, honest to a fault, he’ll feel that faint whisper, dream pulse of desire, like a thing he knows exists somewhere in the world just not inside him that beats of  togetherness or commitment or love. Something that beats of all the things he knows you want but he can’t give. 

His thumb against your little clit, and he circles and circles against the warm, damp dryness. You’re not dreaming of him, no immediate well of slick desire, and through his haze, it makes him a little bothered, a little sad if he still had the ability to be sad. But he circles and circles, and you shift and whimper, and then finally, eventually, there’s that drip of want. Sticky and sweet and only for him because he might not love you, but he does possess you, and you’re only for him. 

You turn your face further into the pillow, hips hitching, cunt dripping, a deep sigh and his thumb presses in, tastes the well. You’re warm and hot and tight, and he slicks his thumb in and out of your cunt, fucking you slow and gentle, stretching you a little while you still refuse to wake for him. He wonders what it would be like to love you, to know you dream of him, to dream of you. He shoves your thigh higher, wet enough now, and lines his cock up. 

Joel is tired, but he has this, and it’s enough.

Cockhead notched at your entance, and one thing he does still love: the sight of his too wide head against your too small hole, the sound of wounded hurt you make when he shoves inside and makes you all his. And he keeps himself slow and gentle at first, he doesn’t want you awake, that’s not what this is, he only wants you his and for him, until he’s all the way pressed inside, deep enough for you to wake with hurt and you shift and wiggle and your hips arch like you want to escape or want more but it doesn’t really matter anyways because you’re caught and flayed now. 

“J– Joel?” Soft as a butterfly while your cunt flutters around him. “What’re you doing, Joel?” And if there wasn’t the moan of his own little whore in the sound of you, he’d think otherwise, but he knows you’re pleased to be woken so. You press and clench and stretch like a cat, spine long and lean and fluid, arms reaching for something he can’t and won’t ever give.

He swings his hips back, fucks in again, your cunt’s good and wet now, and the giving’s good as the take. “Don’t worry, baby. Just gotta come. You don’t gotta do anything.” He pulls back again, your pussy flutters and sucks at him, and you plant your hands against the apocalypse stained wall of this poor and sad room in a place that used to be called Boston and let him use you as he needs. Just gotta come in you, he tells you again.

And you might whisper that it’s okay, it doesn’t really matter if you do or don't’. He doesn’t need to know, he doesn’t need to care. Joel buries his face in your throat and loses himself in the wet of your cunt and the heat of your skin, the scent of your sweat, fingers clutching and twisting at your breast, and there's a sound of hurt or want coming from your throat. He doesn't care much about that either. Just take it, just take it, he says over and over. “Just lay there and take my cock.” The sound of your wet, sloshing cunt is the loudest thing in the whole dead world, and he loses himself in it. He counts his breaths, counts his not blessings, only you, and eventually, he fucks deep enough he hits your womb, that place he’s reckless and careless about, and you start to milk him deep. A moan of his name, Joel, sleep addled, love deluded, what else would excuse or allow treatment like this, and you come on his cock like you always do. Long pulls of a too easy, too delicious cunt, the contractions of your womb reverberating through every line of your muscles while you suck him deep and cry into the pillow. Joel swears and sweats worse than he did through his long twelve hour shift, grunting and panting above you. And when he anchors himself above you on locked, bulging arms to watch the drag of your red cunt around his cock, slicked with desperate want for something neither of you will ever have, the way your ass bounces and jiggles against his too rough thrusts, he comes too. Fills you deep and full to the brim, enjoys the spill of it around the place where he fills you, spills himself dry. And he doesn’t feel content, Joel, but he does feel satisfied, he does feel sated. And he tells you that you’ve been a good girl because he knows you like it and knows you deserve it. And if he presses a soft and gentle kiss to the wing of your naked and sweating shoulder, it isn't because he loves you, but because he needs you. 

Netherfeildren's Masterlist

Updates Blog

[lyntarts]

More scenes from ‘I Will Make of You’ !!!

I hope you like these @purplepeptobismol 🫶♥️

Previous // Next

[themotherofhorses]

his handmaid's tales (masterlist)

pairing: aemond targaryen x handmaid!reader

For his twentieth nameday, Queen Alicent had gifted her second son his very own handmaid. “He is the only of my children not to have one. I’d like for her to be sweet and devoted and quick on her feet, a girl who will swear her undying loyalty and service unto him and his needs,” she had declared. We’re to believe Prince Aemond graciously accepted this gift, much to the delight of the queen. But Queen Alicent herself never expected pure and true romance to blossom. So smitten was the prince with this girl, the pretty bastard daughter of a serving wench from Harrenhal (as Mushroom claimed). Towards the end of 130 AC, Prince Aemond had taken his handmaid as his bedmate, and later sired all three of her children. Any hour away from his dragon was spent in the company of his “sweet girl”, as he soon dubbed her. These are the tales of their love story.

"i am looking for a maid, preferably one of eight-and-ten...a young handmaid for my second son, aemond."

aemond realizes he’s fallen in love with his handmaid five months later as he stands outside his bedchamber.

“please,” aemond begs, keeping you flush against him as he nuzzles your breasts. “allow me to make love to you, sweet girl.”

“she is pregnant.” his queen mother’s palm slams heavily down on the dark council table, loud as a thunderclap. “she is pregnant! aemond!”

“she’s a bastard—‘innit the truth, mother?”

lucerys velaryon witnesses a moment he should've never laid eyes upon.

cassandra baratheon dreams of prince aemond. the same cannot be said for prince aemond himself.

intimate moments:

bath time

against his desk

practice

others:

flowers and courting

mother's day special

hair braiding

family picnic

sfw headcanons

handmaid!reader tag

[viccyfics]

Baby Engine

If someone had told Dinah a few years ago that she would be spending her afternoons running after a child rather than working or racing with Greaseball, she would have laughed in their face.

Wembley Greaseball is OLC Greaseball and Dinah's four-year-old daughter.

READ ON AO3 OR BELOW THE CUT

If someone had told Dinah a few years ago that she would be spending her afternoons running after a child rather than working or racing with Greaseball, she would have laughed in their face.

But here she was, racing around the entire yard after her daughter…who had not been named after her father by Dinah's choice.

"Greaseball please, Momma needs to stop, you must be tired by now," the Dining car panted, bending over to try and catch her breath, but the small Diesel ahead of her on the track refused to come closer, her hands on her hips and a frown on her face.

"Come catch me, Momma," the four-year-old taunted, "You're so slow,"

Dinah started to chuckle, "Don't let your dad hear you say that,"

Greaseball let out a small huff, "You need to be faster for when we race together."

"Oh, we're going to race together?" Dinah paused, "I'm not so sure if Dad is going to appreciate that."

Greaseball started to giggle, "I'm going to be faster than him, so he can't tell me not to race with you."

"Oh is that right?" the Dining car smiled, noticing her daughter was starting to slowly skate towards her.

"Yeah, and then he's gonna be the slowest, not me," the small Engine smirked, "So you need to get faster."

Before Greaseball had noticed how close she was getting to her mother, Dinah grabbed her, pulling her up onto her hip and making the girl giggle.

"Momma put me down, I can't race if I can't touch the floor," she spoke while laughing, her feet wiggling as she showed Dinah that her feet were a few feet off the ground as if Dinah couldn't tell.

"That's true," Dinah hummed, "and you can't race when it's meant to be nap time either,"

"But racers don't nap," Greaseball whined throwing her head back, "Dad doesn't nap."

Dinah shifted her daughter onto her hip more securely. "Oh Junior, you think your daddy doesn’t nap? He naps more than anyone I know."

Greaseball gasped, "No way!"

"Way," Dinah teased, "He might even be napping right now, so why don't we go back to the shed and check if he is,"

But that was nearly five hours ago, he had slept enough.

He had worked the night shift so Dinah knew for a fact he would still be sleeping, and it was the whole reason she had tried to get her daughter out of the shed as soon as she woke up.

Dinah knew Diesels were loud… but starlight, a Diesel preschooler was something else entirely, and it wouldn’t be fair to wake Greaseball up only a few hours after he came home exhausted.

"What do I get if you're wrong?" Greaseball asked taking hold of the collar of Dinah's dress with her tiny hands.

"What do you mean?"

"What’s my prize if you're wrong? It's called a bet," the Engine explained. I should get a prize!"

"A prize- remind me not to let CB babysit you anymore," Dinah muttered shaking her head, but she knew that it wouldn't last, somehow CB was the best babysitter for Greaseball, having her in bed before bedtime, and getting her to eat her greens without asking, it was like he was some kind of baby miracle worker.

It was also helpful that he would drop anything for the three of them.

"so I don't get a prize?" Greaseball asked after a moment with a pout on her face, "Uncle CB always gives me a prize if I'm right,"

"There's no prize June-bug, and Uncle CB needs to stop placing bets with you," Dinah sighed shaking her head.

Greaseball stared at her like she had left her daughter's fuel cap off and lost it. "It isn't just Uncle CB, Dad does it too, but he doesn't win a lot,"

It was lucky that their shed was now in view because Dinah was definitely waking up the older Greaseball now.

The sound of Greaseball's snoring hit them before they had even reached the bedroom, but as Dinah stood in the doorway with her daughter on her hip, she couldn't help but laugh. The four-year-old was staring shocked, her eyebrows almost reaching the top of her forehead.

"We'll come back to this conversation again soon baby girl, but right now I've got something to show you,"

Dinah spoke as she nudged the shed door open with her hip.

"You don't think Dad naps because you nap at the same time,"

Dinah who was now only a foot away from the bed wanted to yell for him to wake up but she was stopped by her daughter yawning, "Are you sleepy now, Junior?"

Greaseball hummed rubbing her eyes lazily, "cuddle?"

"We can cuddle my love," Dinah smiled, happily tucking the small engine next to her father before slipping in next to her, "Go to sleep sweetheart, we'll have lunch when you wake up."

Dinah couldn't help but yawn herself as she pulled the duvet scrunched up in Greaseball's arms to drape across them.

"You're lucky I said no betting," Dinah whispered pressing a kiss to the girl's temple, "Cause you owe me,"

[faikittyy]

req: Lucifer + missing MC (OG!S1)

-------

It’s quiet.

That’s the worst part. Lucifer was expecting it to be a relief once you were gone. He was expecting to feel like he could breathe freely again. You occupied so much of his time, running through his mind so often he was surprised you weren’t exhausted when he saw you. He had to watch out for you constantly—making sure you didn’t get yourself killed by a demon (again), keeping you and Belphegor and Satan from causing him too much frustration with your stupid “pranks,” generally trying to keep you out of trouble.

It was exhausting.

Then you kiss him.

Then you leave.

Then it’s quiet.

Lucifer's brothers miss you too. Leviathan holes himself up in his room and doesn’t emerge for almost a month. Mammon goes on a shopping spree so intense that the packages he’s ordered from Akuzon (all unopened, even weeks later—the objects less of a goal than the spending itself) flood his room and spill out into the hallway. Satan and Belphegor’s pranks take on a somewhat malicious nature, as if they’re silently asking Lucifer, “why didn’t you make them stay?”

(Lucifer asks himself that sometimes, too.)

Lucifer never once shows his brothers the depths of his grief for you (because that’s what it is, isn’t it?). He doesn’t hide the fact that he misses you; they’d never believe him even if he tried. But he only allows them to see the shallows, never letting them wade deeper for fear they’ll find him drowning. He doesn’t have time to drown anyway; he has to keep charge of the student council and make sure his brothers’ vices don’t destroy them.

Lucifer never slacks in his duties. Never acts upset.

But he misses you.

Lucifer was the first to meet you, and the last to form a pact with you. He was the last to kiss you. To spend the night with you. He still remembers that night, will always remember it, keeps the memory tucked close to his chest in your stead. He remembers the shape of your body pressed against him, your laugh as you teased him that his bed was far too big for one person, your steady breathing as you fell asleep in his arms just before dawn. He remembers you looked so very beautiful and so very fragile in the faint Devildom moonlight. He remembers you.

And he misses you fiercely.

Lucifer’s bed wasn’t too big for one person before you pointed it out. Now, it is far too big and far too empty. Some nights Lucifer wakes, wondering why he feels terribly alone in its huge expanse. Beside him, the screen of his D.D.D. glows in the darkness. He reaches for it. Opens Contacts. His finger hovers over your name.

Then stops.

It’s too early in the morning. He doesn’t want to wake you, as much as he aches to hear your voice (aches to have you back with him, truthfully, the pain of his desire so solid in his chest that it feels as if his sternum will split in two). He’ll talk to you tomorrow, he decides. He sets the device facedown and rolls over, gazing across his bed (too big, too big, too big) and closing his eyes.

It's quiet.

[purplepeptobismol]

I need more Kate content pls

You’re right. We absolutely do!

^Cooper in Chapter 9 be like </3

Coop & Emi: *literally just talking*

Tweek & Kate: “I know what you are.”

I actually LOVE Kate and Vic’s dynamic!! They’re so silly! 😫🫶💕

[reference]

[bantersnatch]

Hello again! Welcome back to the theory zone. Last time, we discussed the basic facts we know about Very Important People's Bianca (the original post is here, and here's a version with great additional analysis from @/alittlevillainy).

This time around, I want to focus in on specifically Bianca's relationship with their step-parent, Host!Vic -- the facts, the paradoxes, and even some hints we can pull from Vic (the human comedian's) past work.

So... here's what we know so far!

The Host is borderline obsessed with Bianca. They bring her up incessantly -- most episodes have at least one reference to Bianca, and repeat guests (so far, this means Anna and Jacob) have made comments about this apparent fixation (see: "I don't care about your boy"). One interpretation is that this is a status thing for them. Having a stepdaughter establishes them as someone with power over another person on set even when the cameras cut. This behavior (always "my stepdaughter", or "my stepdaughter, Bianca") also doubles as 'reminding' Bianca of the dynamic between the two of them and reestablishing their control over her.

The Host relies on Bianca. At the end of the Leighanna-Jean episode, when Leighanna is applying lipstick to the Host, we get the following interaction:

This is vulnerable! This is open! The Host is trying so hard and Bianca "will tell them the truth."

3. The Host feels bullied by Bianca and expresses a desire to be rid of her. In Jasper and Casper's interview, the Host talks about their longing to throw Bianca into the sea, like Jasper and Casper's children. In Martha Tops and Lucian Azathoth's episode, the Host seeks a solution to the "bullying" they face from Bianca. "She's so mean to me," they say; they are also ready to sacrifice her until they realize what that might entail ("planes that the mind cannot comfortably conceive" and so on), at which point they respond, "We'll keep her for now," with the implication that they are 'keeping her' as a favor to her father more than anything else.

4. When the Host mentions people they'd (like to?) "sit and talk with" to Jukebox, they specifically mention their mother and Bianca. Their mother seems to be a source of pain and abandonment (see the Zeke episode's "sometimes your mom hates you even when you're not rocks"). So what does this shared context imply about the Host's relationship with Bianca...? Well, I'm not quite sure, actually. But there's something there. To me this line implies that they feel like they should have a closer relationship with Bianca.

5. Bianca genuinely seems "done" with the Host in her brief on-screen appearance. This is valuable to note because of how biased the Host's account of their relationship is; I don't necessarily trust them when they describe Bianca as 'bullying' them, for example, because that would require a power dynamic between them that is opposite of what we see on set.

So there are a lot of gloriously, humanly contradictory notes in here.

As we just discussed, the Host views Bianca as a bully, despite the fact that they have power over her both in the home and the workplace, and despite the fact that Bianca is apparently genial enough to be well-liked by her coworkers.

The Host is fixated in some degree on Bianca -- whether that's personal or just related to her role as stepdaughter. So, is this obsession based on a desire to heal their relationship? According to the Martha Tops and Lucian Azathoth episode, nope.

The Host is like a pathetic wet bird with a broken wing who is constantly making cries for help. This is just true. They're also deeply off-putting and weird -- but still, when I put myself in Bianca's shoes I have trouble imagining why she wouldn't try in some way to "save them". So what gives? How has the Host hurt them -- or was their marriage to her dad enough to create this rift? (This one is a bit of a reach, admittedly, because it relies on Bianca being a normal and good person, but I think about it a lot.)

The Host trusts and relies upon Bianca despite everything else. Indeed, it seems like Bianca is the only person they trust and rely upon.

Where does this leave us? With a lot of questions and a messy, messy relationship. Below the cut I'm going to share something a little different that opens the way to new theories: a sketch written by Vic Michaelis (the human comedian) that has some hauntingly familiar elements.

This is where we get into the groundless speculation and entirely non-canonical realm of "fucked up if true". So, uh, proceed at your own risk? Nothing that follows is real, but I think it's fun!

Okay, buckle up! I've attached two videos here. They're different versions of the same sketch: a shorter version with higher audio quality (plus a Hot Bill Summer cameo that made me giggle enough that I couldn't stand to cut it out), and a longer version with lower audio quality. Pick your poison; if you aren't able to watch right now, don't worry, I'll break 'em down for us in a moment.

(content warnings for potential grooming; please be careful)

So, here we've got a bride on her wedding day speaking to her (offscreen) future stepdaughter, who is upset. We learn:

The stepdaughter and the bride are the same age (specifically born three months apart).

The stepdaughter and bride were childhood best friends.

The bride was previously engaged to her future stepson.

That's a familiar setup, right? The crucial difference between this sketch and VIP is that the sketch turns on the inherent weirdness of the childhood friends dynamic, while VIP has left the nature of the Vic-Bianca relationship mysterious. They've been very slow and deliberate with feeding us our Bianca scraps, from the same age reveal to the recent appearance in the flesh.

So -- are we seeing a slowburn reveal of the same setup from this sketch (which Vic knows is funny, to the point that they've included it in their character reel and have performed it across the years in different formats and to fit different lengths)? I mean, in all honesty, I'm... not sure.

The points against:

This sketch is dark! It just is! It's funny, don't get me wrong, but I don't know how well it would go over with the Dropout audience.

The Host having had a childhood best friend doesn't gel with our understanding of the character.

This setup rests on the "bride" character living in more or less the same place from the age of 12 to about 22; the Host moved around a lot as a child.

The points in favor:

It would explain so much of the weirdness and resentment between Bianca and the Host. The reliance, the longing, the obsession. If this was once a close relationship turned poisonous, suddenly things start to click into place.

Would That Be Fucked Up Or What.

Interested to hear what people make of this! Like I said, it's deeply non-canonical, but I think it's such a fun thing to think about.

("what are you doing. how did you find these. are you okay." fic research. i'm 18k deep don't talk to me it's FINE.)

[cindersnows]

hey guys. my high school au chatfic's out. go read it

[sequinsmile-x]

I had my annual full body MRI today so I was left in the machine for an hour with nothing but my thoughts....which naturally became unhinged.

Mommy issues incoming!

[sunflowersteves]

smut: ✰ requests: ✧

| 𝒐𝒏𝒆𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒕𝒔 |

never alone ✰

| 𝒃𝒍𝒖𝒓𝒃𝒔 |

logan with a yapper

cuddling logan

defending logan

[myveryownfanfiction]

18+ MINORS AND THOSE WITHOUT AGE IN BIO DNI

tags: @illiana-mystery, @iobsessoverfictionalmen, @psychokinetic-ectoplasm, @lulusplaycorner

warnings: smut, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it kiddos), swearing

“Vic.” I sniffled as he opened the door. He furrowed his eyebrows as he gently wrapped a hand around my arm and pulled me into the house. He hugged me tightly as I clutched at the back of his shirt.

“what’s wrong sweetheart?” He whispered, rocking us as he rubbed circles into my back. “Hmm? Tell me what’s wrong.”

“Vic…” I sobbed. He sighed as he kissed my head. Cupping my cheeks, Vic wiped away my tears and kissed my forehead.

“alright sweetie. I know.” He whispered. “I know. Vic’s here to make it all better. I got you.” I nodded as I sniffled again. Vic wiped my tears away before kissing me softly. “When you’re ready, I’m here.” Vic slowly moved his hands towards the hem of my shirt. “At any moment, you change your mind…say the word.” Vic assured me.

“Vic.” I breathed out as he pulled my shirt over his head. “Please Vic.” Vic leaned into kiss me again, gently cupping my cheeks as he backed me into the wall.

“Jump for me darling.” He whispered against my lips, catching me as I jumped up and wrapping my legs around his waist. Vic pressed his face into my neck, kissing and biting as he went. My hand came up to tug on his hair, drawing a moan out of him before he nipped at my neck.

“oh Vic.” I breathed out. Vic hummed against my skin before pulling away, returning to kissing me as he started to maneuver around his house to the bedroom. “Vic.”

“that’s it baby.” He whispered, sucking on my jawline. “Say my name. It’s all you’re going to remember by the end of the night.”

“oh shit.” I yelped as he tossed me on the bed. Vic chuckled as he pulled off his shirt. Grabbing my ankle, he tugged me to the edge of the bed before reaching for my zipper. “You really know how to show someone a good time huh Vic?” I teased as he pulled my pants and underwear off at the same time.

“no.” Vic said, smiling wolfishly at me. “Just you.” He kissed me deeply, arching into me as his tongue slid into my mouth. “Always just you. I love you baby.” Vic pulled his pants off before wrapping my legs around his waist again, taking ahold of his dick before running it against my entrance. “It’s just you for me. Til the end of time.”

“I love you too vic.” I said, my hands rubbing over his biceps. Vic sighed, head falling back with a smile on his face.

“again.” He breathed out.

“I love you Vic.” I said, gasping as he thrust into me.

“Again. Please baby doll. Again.” Vic groaned, head falling forward as I tugged him closer.

“Vic…I love you.” I breathed against his lips before kissing him deeply. “Now move.” Vic hummed, reconnecting our lips as he thrust into me. He hiked my leg further up his hip as he buried his face in my neck.

“so perfect. So gorgeous.” Vic murmured as he groped my chest. “And all mine. Mine to hold. Mine to fuck.” I moaned as he bit down on my shoulder, lapping at the mark with his tongue before pulling away. “Squeezing me so tight. So good for me.” Vic groaned, speeding up. “So good.” A growl ripped from his throat as I canted my hips to meet his thrusts, making him go deeper than before.

“Vic!” I cried, fingernails digging into the muscle on his arms. “Fuck. Oh fuck. Vic.” My head tilted back as he collapsed on top of me, thrusts turning weak for a moment before he found his rhythm again.

“come on pretty thing. Come on.” Vic panted, reaching up to brush my hair out of my face. His hair was matted to his forehead with sweat, tongue darting out to wet his lips. I moaned at the sight. “You can do it. Just a little more for me. Let captain Vic have it. Give it to me.” Vic kissed up my throat and over my chin before kissing me deeply, tongue licking a stripe up the roof of my mouth. My cry was swallowed by his mouth, making Vic groan in response as I came. Vic’s hips stuttered before he spilled in me. Breaking the kiss, Vic turned to nuzzle his nose against my cheek. “So good for me. So good.” He breathed out, pressing his forehead against my temple.

“Vic.” I breathed out, wrapping my arms around his shoulders.

“feeling better now?” Vic asked, pulling back slightly to look at me. His blue eyes scanned my face, looking for any indication I was going to start crying again. I hummed in response, a small sated smile on my face. Vic smiled softly, kissing my cheek in reply. Vic moved, escaping my grasp on him. I whined in response but he just kissed me before disappearing into the bathroom. I shuffled awkwardly back up the bed until my head hit the pillows. He returned with a towel and started cleaning me up. “Sometimes I think this is my favorite part.” Vic mused. “Takin care of you. Making sure you’re ok after everything. But then I get back between these legs, feeling you squeeze me for all I’m worth…” Vic shook his head with a smirk. “Oh baby.” I laughed as he tossed the towel over his shoulder, letting me pull him back onto the bed and into my arms.

“Such a romantic Vic.” I teased as he raised an eyebrow at me. He kissed me gently before pulling me into his arms, making sure I was comfortably situated against his chest before dropping at kiss to the top of my head.

“seriously though. I’m here if you want to talk about it.” He shrugged as I traced a pattern into his chest hair. “Or if you just want a quick fuck to forget about it. Either way. I’m your man.” I gazed lovingly up at him, noting the way he smiled and how the light hit his gold tooth. How his hair was still matted to his head and how his blue eyes softened when he looked at me.

“I know.” I said softly. “Right now I just need you to hold me.” I pressed a kiss to Vic’s chest as he squeezed me.

“that I can do.” He whispered as he rested his chin on my head.

[netherfeildren]

Evermore

Pairing: Joel Miller x F!Reader

Summary: Joel’s your older boyfriend who your parents had a hard time approving of, but you’re engaged now and spending your first Thanksgiving with your family, and well, it’s always fun doing things you know you shouldn’t do under the roof of your childhood home.

-OR-

The Thanksgiving AU

Rating: Explicit 18+

Content Warnings: No outbreak AU; Thanksgiving AU; Devoted Joel Miller; Established Relationship; Thanksgiving is the most boyfriend holiday and it needs to be discussed; Fucking in your childhood home shenanigans; Pretty soft and sweet; Needy behavior; Older man/Younger woman; Daddy kink; Size Difference; Unprotected PIV; Creampie; Breeding Kink; Oral sex; Fluff and Smut; Praise Kink; Come eating; PWP

A/N: Was thinking yesterday that Thanksgiving is the most boyfriendy holiday, and so this seemed entirely necessary after that epiphany. I’m sick as an old dog right now, and wrote this so quickly and just for fun. Any and all mistakes are property of my NyQuil induced high, apologies and enjoy and happy holidays :]

New Year’s Eve follow up

Word Count: 4.2K

Read on AO3

Ko-fi

“You’re doing so good.”

“You think so?”

“Yeah, baby. So, so good. It’s going so well.” You drag your nails slowly up the wide expanse of his strong back, feeling the divots and bumps of his spine, the thick padding of muscles that jump and shiver at your touch. He’d donned the nice green and red plaid button down you’d bought him for tonight, and he’s a little damp at the small of his back, giving away the nerves he’s trying to keep hidden from you, but you can tell anyways, sensed them as if they’d been your own fluttering within you. More attuned to another person than maybe is normal, perhaps, but you know this man, your man, your fiance now. You understand him. 

“You think he likes me?” And his voice goes a little gruff, sheepish, words lodging in his throat as he slowly soaps your mother’s special holiday china in the warm sink water. The two of you’d been relegated to clean up duty after you’d finished the beautiful Thanksgiving meal your mother had spent days readying in preparation for your first official visit with Joel as the man you’d soon marry. No longer just the older boyfriend who your father couldn’t stand to hear about, much less bear the sight of. And the come around had been slow going, undoubtedly, tireless work on yours and your mother’s parts trying to get him to relent, to accept the man who you’d chosen to spend the rest of your life with as a good man for his daughter. 

“Yes– yes. Absolutely. You made him laugh so many times. And he was so interested when you mentioned the house.”

You feel him suck in a shaky breath and move to wrap your arms around the strong breadth of his waist, resting your cheek against him, listening to the thud, thud of his beating heart. “Christ–” He gives a tremulous laugh that you follow suit warmly, palms splaying out over his belly. “He was, wasn’t he?” 

“So interested. Please, don’t worry anymore. My mom loves you, and dad’s on his way there too, I know he is, I promise.”

“He’s just protective,” he says, shutting off the water and pulling the plug on the drain. The both of you stand there in the silence together, listening to the little tornado of water suck away the remnants of the perfect dinner you’d just had with your parents and the man you were going to marry. It really had been perfect, and you’re telling him the truth when you say you really do think your father’s coming around. He’d been apprehensive at first, more than apprehensive, perhaps, with Joel being so much older than you, twenty years to be exact. And with a teenage daughter of his own, Sarah, who was spending the holiday with her mother. 

Your mother had always been the easy going one, and she’d taken one look at Joel, the dark, silver threaded curls, the thick shoulders and sparkly, hazel eyes, the too charming smile and had immediately understood. Your father had seen all those same things and seen nothing but trouble immediately deserving of mistrust. Things had been rocky for a time, but when Joel had gotten down on one knee and asked you to spend the rest of your life with him and Sarah, when he’d broken ground on the house he was building you with his bare hands from the dirt up out by the lake, well… your father hadn’t been able to withhold his approval for much longer after that was all said and done. 

“And for good reason,” he continues, reaching for the dish towel, drying off his hands before covering yours over his stomach with his wide palms, pulling your arms tighter around him. He brings one of your hands up to his face, cupping his own mouth with it to press a kiss to the tender cove. “The man should take me out back and drag me through the mud,” he mumbles, muffled into your skin, dragging his mouth slowly from side to side, tickling your palm with his whiskers. 

You press yourself harder against him, shoving him into the edge of the counter, dizzy with the feel of your heart beating so hard against your sternum it reverberates against the ribs in his back. “No, baby. Why? Never.” You press a kiss right over the slope of his spine. 

He gives a soft laugh at the feel of your wriggling against him, trying to find friction anywhere and anyway, not very inconspicuously rubbing your breasts against his back, and he turns slowly in the circle of your arms with that humming laugh still caught in his throat, bending slightly at the knees when he wraps his own arms around your waist to pull you up and into him so that your feet are left to dangle above his own heavy boots. He nuzzles at the warm, fragrant skin beneath the edge of your jaw, a small kiss to the tender spot behind your ear, where he whispers, “‘Cause all I could think about at the goddamn table, sittin’ next to your father, was how pretty your tits look in that dress you wore for me – how much I wish I could kiss that pretty pussy to sleep tonight.” 

You whine low, desperate, needy, wrapping your arms behind his neck to press his face tightly to your throat, breath hitching at the feel of his teeth, sharp at your pulse. “Joel–”

He shakes his head slowly, a long stream of sighing breath warm against your collarbone before he says, “I know– I know, baby. I’m telling ya– your father should kill me for the things I wanna do to his little girl. For the things I do to her already.”

The visit had so far been everything you could’ve wished for, and what you’d appreciated more than anything, more than your father’s very approval of your fiance, or your mother’s happiness for you, was that Joel had found the perfect balance between being respectful, ingratiating even, while still remaining uncowed by your father. Walking into your parents home with your hand in his, a deferential kiss to your mother’s cheek, and a strong, self assured handshake for your father while he’d handed him the bottle of his favorite fine aged whiskey and a demure, I’m glad we could make this work for our girl.

Our girl, he’d said, and it had made everything that lived inside of you with his name on it, everything that was perpetually soft and wet for him, go molten. You loved him. You belonged to him. And you’d chosen him for yourself, and he was sure as hell going to make sure everyone the two of you came across knew what that choice entailed, what it meant to him. Your father had been forced into capitulation, all with the whiskey and the self assurance in Joel’s eyes, your own unbridled elation, and your mother’s giggles and blushing smiles like every other woman who’s ever met this man, unable to resist the charm of that Southern twang and the too gorgeous smile, no other recourse had been left to your poor dad. 

You think of this as you make your way on silent tiptoes through your parent’s dark, quiet home. It had been the one concession you’d not garnered from your father, the sleeping arrangements. He’d absolutely refused to allow you and Joel to share a bed under his roof, no questions asked. And no matter how much you’d pleaded and your mother had cooed and cawed and threatened him, he’d not relented. At this point, you were worried he’d not let you sleep in the same bed as Joel even after the two of you’d been married. But what your father didn’t understand, what even you yourself barely understood sometimes was that you needed Joel. You need him. No one, no one except for Joel himself understood how desperately that ran inside of you. He understood you, he always has. 

You pause as you reach the closed door of his bedroom, splaying a palm against the fine grained wood to take a settling breath, your heart beating so fast you feel it in your throat, chock full of excitement, lust, desperate yearning. To have him here, in your childhood home, where you’d been a teenager, a girl, grown into a woman, you want him so, so badly, inside of you, around you, beneath you. You can never sleep without him anymore, no comfort to be found in the too small bed of your childhood – you turn the knob and slip inside. 

The blue darkness of the guest bedroom paints his form in shadows, big under the pretty quilt your mother has adorning the bed. You can see the heavy mass of his shoulder peeking from beneath the edge of the quilt, the ratty gray t-shirt you know has a faded longhorn stretched across the front; not able to sleep naked and wrapped only in you the way he usually does when under your parents roof. You turn the lock and step carefully on tipped toes, avoiding the creaky bits in the hardwood floor you’re so familiar with after a lifetime living in this house and lift the edge of the quilt to slip into the cocoon of warmth with him. Like a living furnace, you snake your arm over his flank slowly, enjoying the shiver and jerk of his muscles as you stroke him awake. Your palm, passing over thick ridged muscles and soft belly, digging beneath to feel the wispy scratch of hair there. 

He makes a deep sound, low in his chest, legs shifting as he comes to wakefulness, and then the gruff murmur of your name being whispered into the dark, his big, callused palm coming to wrap entirely around your fist beneath his t-shirt, keeping you from slipping it inside his sleep pants. “Baby, what’re you doin’?” He slurs, voice full of sleep and slow waking lust. 

You press your pelvis into his backside, hitching your knee up and over his hip to wrap yourself around him like vines. “I need you,” you mewl, baby voice trying to get ahead of his polite refusal before he’s able to get it out. He’d told you, before the two of you’d embarked on this weekend at your parents house, that there was to be no funny business on your part. As if he didn’t know that that was your favorite kind of business where he was concerned. You press a kiss above his scapula, then open your jaw to drag your teeth against the skin warmed cotton. You rub against him, clutching and pulling at his chest and stomach, biting and kissing as much of his back as you can reach, your foot somehow finding its way into his lap so that you can feel his quickly hardening cock against the sensitive arch of your foot. 

He groans roughly. “You’re gonna get us caught, sweet girl,” he tries to protest, but wraps his hand around the little foot in his lap anyways, pressing the arch of it into that half hard erection, rubbing against it. 

“I need you– I can’t sleep without you,” you whine, and he makes a frustrated sound, turning to face you, gripping your knee as he goes to open the cradle of your hips for himself, drawing your leg over his waist so that you’re suddenly chest to chest, sipping on each other’s warm breath. With a fist in your hair he gives you a hardly believable reprimand, little girl, and presses his lips briefly to yours, quick and damp, barely there, like he can’t help himself, like he knows that if he starts he won’t be able to stop, wandering hands already slipping up the hem of your nightgown, squeezing your panty clad ass. 

“Your parents…” he tries again, the roll of his hips against yours, coupled with a hitched whine, making his objections a little laughable.

“Don’t you miss me? Don’t you love me? Don’t you want me here with you?”

“Of course– of course I do–” You twist your fingers in his curls, the first real press of your mouths, his damp upper lip slotting between both of yours so that you can give it a little suck. Then the tip of his tongue touching yours, and you’re opening all the way for him, moaning wantonly into his mouth, letting him lick and taste behind the line of your teeth. “‘Course I want you here, baby.”

“I’ll be good. I’ll be quiet,” you promise. “Please, please, Joel. Please, just–” The hand squeezing your ass slides between your legs, finds the damp plaquet of panties. Fuckin’ soaked already, needy girl. “Please, just fuck me. I’ll be so quiet, I promise.”

“Baby…”

Please, please, please. He’s always had something about him that turns you into nothing more than a wet little girl desperate for the big, big man’s attention. The impropriety of your surroundings has no bearing on this, the desperation is as present as ever, heightened even, maybe, because of the wrongness of it, because you could be caught red handed at any second if you’re not careful, not quiet enough. 

“‘Course I love you so fuckin’ much. You even need to ask?” He rubs the flat of his palm over your pussy, the tip of his middle finger finding the nub of your clit covered by the soaked wet silk to press lightly on each pass forward.

“No, Daddy. I know,” you breathe soft and secret into his mouth, watch the slight widening of his eyes as you say it. You can picture the flush suffusing his cheeks at hearing you call him so, know the effect the sound of it has on him. 

“Fucking Christ,” he murmurs, pulling you tighter against him, tilting your head back by the grip he has on your hair so that he can deepen his kiss, taste you more thoroughly. “Better be quiet while I fuck you.” He pulls back, mock frown and a note of reprimand in his voice as his fingers dip beneath the silk of your panties to find the wet, swollen mess of you already. He moans into your open mouth, your name and I love you and wet fuckin’ pussy as he starts to pet at you slowly. His fingers swirling at your clit and then moving to your opening, dipping inside just a tiny bit, giving you almost nothing, forcing a frustrated whine up your throat. “I said quiet.”

“Please, Daddy. Please,” you beg, but he returns to your clit, ignoring your whining, pinching the bundle of nerves lightly before he’s back to teasing the mouth of your cunt, dipping the tip of a single finger in shallowly to pull your wetness from you and spread it over your mound, slicking you up for him. 

“We’re gonna go nice and slow. Gonna take my pretty cunt nice and slow, and you’re gonna be good for me, aren’t you? Gonna be quiet – not get us caught, right? Say yes.”

“Yes, Daddy,” you whisper, pressing kisses all along his face and jaw and throat, needy fingers twisting in his curls, scratching at the back of his neck and the hills of his shoulders. He make an approving groan of a sound, rolling the two of you over so that you’re on your back, splayed out beneath him, and he pulls the vee of your nightgown down, bearing your breasts to him, sucking on each nipple, first hard then soft, then with teeth and tongue, slicking you in his spit, and you try and stay quiet, you really, really do, but it’s so hard not to cry out at the sight of his jaw hinging wide, seemingly trying to take the whole heavy weight of your breast into his mouth in one go. 

He always has you like he wants you more than anything else in the whole world, like he’s never wanted anything else in his whole life more than he wants you, and nothing feels better than that, nothing makes you crazier for him than the way he wants you so desperately. 

He makes his way down the length of you with kisses to your breasts, your ribs, your belly, the mound of your pelvic bone, before he’s gathering your knees together and bending them to press against your chest, pulling the lace and silk of your panties over the curve of your bottom and diving nose first into your wet cunt, taking in a deep drag of your scent and then dragging the broad, flat of his tongue from your asshole to your clit in one long, slow swipe. The groan he ends on has you almost coming on his tongue just like that, the sound so hungry it would scare someone who doesn’t want to be wanted as badly by this man as you do. And he eats your cunt like he’s angry, like he’s in love with you, like he doesn’t care if you get caught or not. Tongue plunging into your pussy, sucking on your clit, shaking his head, quick and hard, from side to side so that the obscene sound of your wetness against his mouth is all you can hear over the cacophony sounding in your ears right before you gush for him all wet and sweet and sticky, covering his tongue and beard. His lips wrap around your swollen clit again while it still pulses for him, and you have to shove your fist into your mouth, drooling around it to stifle the sound of your cries for his cock while he sucks you into a second painfully fluttery orgasm, your womb cramping hard and tight around nothing, your cunt clutching desperately at air for the cock it’s about to gladly take. The hum of his movements, of his whines and moans, don’t match his promise for nice and slow. They tell you this is going to be hard and deep and might even hurt, and that you’ll like it all the more for that. This is, after all, what you’d snuck in here for, just exactly this. 

He pulls away from your cunt with a loud, wet suck, popping your clit from his puckered mouth like a piece of too ripe, too sweet fruit, before crawling up the length of you, pulling your soaked panties and your nightgown from your body as he goes, shucking his own sweat soaked shirt over his head and kicking his pajama bottoms away. When he takes your mouth again, his face and beard are wet and sticky with your slick, all sweet sugared musk and the angry thrust of his tongue, his fingers, too hard and too tight wrapping around your jaw, grunting into your mouth as he sucks on your tongue. His burning hot cock thrusts between your wet cleft, the sound of your leaking pussy loud enough to be heard over the sound of your mingled panting breaths. You feel him grip himself, stroking once, twice, wide, blunt head bumping against slick soaked skin, before he’s notching at your cunt and shoving in, hard and fast. Not giving you a chance to think about it before he’s bumping at the mouth of your womb, a muted bruise you never tire of; his too big cock that still pinches every time, that presses in just on this side of too deep to always be comfortable, but you don’t care. The proof is in the hurt, and you need constant reminding that he’s real, that this is real. It’s your greatest pleasure, after all, the reassurance of him, of the two of you, and he never tires of giving it to you. You know that giving you the things you need and want from him, turns Joel on more than anything else.

He groans long and low into the crook of your shoulder when he bottoms out and holds there for several drawn out moments, both of you enjoying the pulse and throb of your connection. He’s so deep and you’re so wet for him, taking him so, so well, like he always tells you that you do. You’d felt, from the first moment that you’d laid eyes on him, like you’d been made for him. Put on this earth just for him to find and keep, and doing this, having each other like this, even after all the times you’ve done it, always feels like further proof of it. He grinds against you, hips shifting from side to side, tip bumping against the deepest part of you, before he’s clutching at your ass and flipping the both of you over suddenly, cock never slipping from your tight clutch when he settles you on top of him, buried to the hilt. You feel him in your stomach like this, and you tell him so, little hand coming to rest low on your belly where you’re holding him inside of you, pressing down so that the both of you can feel your connection from the inside out, groaning in tandem all wide and sparkly eyed as you look at each other. And he’s nodding his head at you as you start to shift your hips slowly, feeling the wet slide of his length, the grind of your clit against his pelvis, one hand pressing down on your belly, the other anchoring yourself on his own stomach so that you can rock yourself on him. 

He pulls one of your knees up, resting your foot flat on the bed to open you to his gaze, so that he can watch the way the thick root of his cock splits your cunt open for him to fuck up into. The two of you find your rhythm, you rolling your hips down on his upthrust, and he’s still nodding his head at you, mouthing words made of only air at you while you gasp and gulp for breath, I love you and you’re so pretty and yeah, ride that cock, baby. All you can do in return is mumble his name at him over and over again, Joel, Joel, Joel, nonsensical. Your brain doesn't work when he’s got his cock wedged this deep inside of you, it just doesn’t.

There's sweat pooling in the divots of his collarbones, the sun grizzled notch of his throat, and you fold over forward, changing the angle, deepening it, to lick up those little pools of salt, sucking on his neck until he’ll surely have incriminating bruises tomorrow. You don’t care, not even a little bit. He’s so yours in this moment, always really, but right now, Joel feels so, so incredibly yours, and you love him so much, and he’s going to be your husband one day soon and nothing else really matters besides that. 

He wraps both arms around your back, squeezes you to himself tight and starts to fuck up into you, fast, brutal, again, nothing nice and slow about it like he’d promised, and you’re forced to dig your teeth into his shoulder so hard you’re scared for a moment you’ll taste blood on your tongue. You can feel your orgasm crawling up your spine, pooling like liquid heat in your pelvis while everything goes tight and fluttery inside of you. “How mad would he be if I knocked you up right now? If I fucked his baby girl full’a my baby under his roof?” He grunts into your ear, and there’s the dip in your restraint. As much as you want to hold off and wait for him, you clench down hard around him with a sharp cry, mouthful of his skin to muffle you only barely. “Huh? What’dya think he’d say?” He continues, changing the angle so that his pelvis bumps against your clit on every punch in, balls slapping wetly against the curve of your ass while he pets at the tight ring of muscle back there, tempting you with more than you think you can take right now. “If you go all pretty and round and soft for me before our wedding.” 

You can't speak, you’re nothing but air and sticky, sweet wet in the shape of a girl made just for him. Too tight grip in your hair, and he’s jerking your face towards him, grunting into your mouth as he starts to spill inside of you, burning hot come milked out of his cock and deep into you, and he tells you again how much he loves you, tells you that you’re his pretty little wife because it’s already felt like that for so long. A marrying of your very selves despite the lack of legal nothing that means so little to the both of you when you have all this between you already. Tells you that he can’t wait to see his baby all full of his baby. 

When he’s finished pumping you filled to the brim he turns you over again, pulls out slowly so that the both of you can appreciate the sound of his heavy cock slipping wetly from your well used pussy, and when he bends to eat your mingled come out of your puffy cunt, only to then wedge your mouth open so that he can spit your fluids onto your waiting tongue, all here, taste how good we are, the only words left when it comes to this man and this thing you have between the two of you is always simply thank you. 

New Year’s Eve follow up

Netherfeildren's Masterlist

Updates Blog!

[imaginesbymk]

RESERVOIR DOGS PREFERENCE

BEING UNCONVENTIONAL LOVERS

Pairing: Reader Insert x Mr. White (Larry), Mr. Orange (Freddy Newandyke), Mr. Blonde (Vic Vega), Mr Pink + “Nice Guy” Eddie 

Tags: crime, mention of cops, violence, weapons (i.e Tarantino film)

Taglist - @locke-writes @aryn-the-bearheart @littlemissvincentvega (for boost <3)

A/N: happy 2025! gifs were selected through the gif search feature, i do not own any of them. i am slowly coming back from hiatus ! this prompt was a bit off and i did the best i could writing for them in this scenario so enjoy and leave a like/reblog/feedback <33 ^.^

MR. PINK x OC FIC | COMMISSION ME

MR. WHITE ( LARRY ) —

You were paired up with Larry for a robbery back in another state. He questioned why he's paired with an "amateur" and gets pissed at his boss for recruiting him with you. But during training, he grew to respect your skills and your wits and soon, it was you two stealing a kiss in the getaway car. But as soon as the cheque came in, you two became strangers. He has only spoken of you once when Joe asked that one time, but he does not speak of you ever again after that. That doesn't mean the attachment is no longer there. He thinks of you every now and then, but he knows that parting ways is the step afterwards. That's just how it is. Your affair with Larry would put you and his job and safety at risk and he has too much blood on his hands dating back to year whatever. This was his life and he knew you were better than him. Larry can't help it. He blindly lets his humanity win. When you two reunite again at a job or a pit stop diner, you two pick up where you left off and get in a stolen car and flee to Vancouver.

MR. ORANGE ( FREDDY NEWANDYKE ) —

It's pretty obvious; he's a cop and you're a robber. You end up getting recruited by an LA crime boss named Joe Cabot and you meet the last man who was handpicked and not from the roster. Freddy is immediately drawn to you but he just acts casual in his "criminal" character. You're so smitten by this guy that you feel like there's something off. He's committed to the assignment given how bold he was to snag the opportunity to work undercover, but once his romantic/sexual attraction to you interferes with his double life, he starts to spiral at the wrong place and the wrong time. He feels guilty for deceiving you like this, and he starts to fear for his own safety. The dynamic between the two of you is similar to his relationship with Mr. White, where Larry grows to be protective over Mr. Orange, letting his emotions and humanity get in the way. With you, his romantic/sexual relationship with you is one-sided because you do not even realize you hooked up with an undercover cop - and he even knows your name.

MR. BLONDE ( VIC VEGA ) —

Unhinged and violent, Vic is what Mr. White described as a "fucking psycho." You know better than to mess with him, but the second he's fresh out of prison and enjoying whiskey at a bar for the first time in years... he sees you dancing by the jukebox and he's already onto you. You wondered why... you only worked a normal job, you weren't a private dancer or a thief. Vic carries himself so well and you loved the rush despite knowing the consequences. You expected movie dates or a trip to Vegas, and he grants them to you, unless he laughs and says no because he doesn't feel like it. Though he showers you with the high life and adores you more than anything, he was given too much privilege and safe passage in his life before and after going criminal to fully understand the damage he causes for sport and power. The lifestyle often blinds you, so you look for a sign that you're not like Vic and that there's a chance to build a normal life with him... but that's extremely unrealistic.

MR. PINK —

Pink can't date someone who is sheltered and naively does not grasp the harsh realities of the world, nor can it be a current career criminal who chooses to leave the life of crime. It doesn't matter how careful you are and the clean slate you earn, you're still leaving breadcrumbs behind. As much as he tries to live a "normal" life with you, he can't stay in one spot for a long time. He has to constantly move to avoid detection and avoid red zones where he risks getting caught by cops or a rival gang. Plus, he's mainly looking out for himself, which deems him selfish in a way. When you won't go away, he blames you for falling in love with him in the first place, while also blaming himself for letting his emotions slip for one person and putting his job and security on the line. When he painfully succumbs to it, he ultimately pays the price.

"NICE GUY" EDDIE CABOT —

You're an overworked nurse and you fall in love with an underboss and co-leader of a crime family in Los Angeles. Eddie represents a shadow and treats the Cabot criminal business as an empire, so of course he is fiercely loyal and assertive to his Dad, especially when they conspire and recruit the men to rob the jewelry store. You already know what would likely happen if he was held at gunpoint and was forced to choose between you and the family business. He's also aware that he's putting you at risk if he is romantically or sexually involved with you. In most cases, he can't help but call you to help treat wounded or injured criminals on-site. Just finding excuse after excuse to bring you along with him because he trusts you and believes in your skills. When you've seen too much, you question how he has become so desensitized and asks if he would ever consider stepping down and settling down with you. You then remind yourself that Eddie is loyal and will never leave his Dad's shadow. He's not going anywhere.

[themotherofhorses]

pairing: aemond targaryen x handmaid!reader

summary: “she is pregnant.” his queen mother’s palm slams heavily down on the dark council table, loud as a thunderclap. “she is pregnant! aemond!”

warnings: explicit language. angst. protective!aemond being a hot hypocrite and defending his bastard. fluff towards the end. i can't make alicent a villain in this, i just can't (sorry not sorry).

notes: a lot of ppl requested alicent's reaction to handmaid getting pregnant, so here it is.

his handmaid's tales | main masterlist

“She is pregnant.”

His queen mother’s palm slams heavily down on the dark council table, loud as a thunderclap. “She is pregnant! Aemond!” and her voice only loudens, “I brought her for you to have as your handmaid, not your bedmate! Seven hells, Aemond! She was not meant to be your personal whore to toy around with whenever you felt bored!”

Aemond feels his lips slightly twitch at her words. “She is not a whore, mother, nor will I stand here and allow for you to insult her.”

“AEMOND!”

The other councilors remain silent, doing their finest in pretending that they were somewhere else. Aemond knows he would have none of their support or backing in this- he is alone in defending his beloved handmaid and their child. Gods give me peace. Two moons back, Lord Tyland Lannister offered up his niece as a wife. Now he sits with his hands wringed together, shaking his head and sneaking him a scowl. He could only imagine the lord’s thoughts of him.

No doubt they’d all be ill-pleasant.

His mother sighs. “Might it be too late to sneak her the moon tea, Grand Maester?” she asks.

“I would say so, your Grace.” Grand Maester Orwyle clears his throat. “The handmaid, she is already a month or so pregnant, mayhap even two. You could give her the tea, but it might risk harm on both the mother and babe, perhaps even an unsavory death…”

“Death...?” Aemond repeats, aghast.

Her face falls into her hands, and she heaves a deep breath before glancing around the council table. The men all shift uncomfortably.

“Might you consider sending her away, my Queen?” Lord Tyland proposes with a sly smile. “Perhaps back home?”

Aemond’s head quickly snaps to Lord Tyland, violet eye narrowing. His fist clenches tightly at his side, near the dagger sheathed on his belt, at his waistline. “You would not dare separate them from me,” he tells him coldly. “She now carries my babe, my heir, and I will not allow her to leave my side!”

“She carries your bastard in her belly, Aemond,” Otto begins, slowly, carefully. He lays a soft hand on Aemond’s sleeve, giving him a pitiful smile. “There is quite a difference between a realm’s legitimate heir and a bastard. I understand you are taken with the girl, my prince, and that she is good and kind to you. But, at the end of the day, you remain a Targaryen prince, who will wed when the time comes. How might your lady wife feel if she were to learn your servant mothered your bastards?”

Aemond shrugs. “Then I shall take her as my wife.”

“You cannot wed her, Aemond!” His mother shakes her head, as if he is some absentminded child. She looks much older too, as if the news aged her a good ten years in one night. He suddenly feels a tad guilty. “How many times must we discuss this! Your father will not allow nor bless this union, and neither will I! Damn you, Aemond! She is a baseborn girl- your damn handmaid! Her duty is to serve you as a servant, not a wife.”

“And yet-“ Aemond replies, trying to keep the scorn out of his voice, “-she treats me far better than everyone in this very room.” At that, his mother has enough shame to blush red. He continues, “I love her, and she loves me. Is that not enough? Does that not make you happy? My entire life, mother, I’ve done everything that was expected of me. I’ve studied and trained and fulfilled every princely obligation of mine while your firstborn flouts to do as he pleases! Aegon shames Helaena every night with an empty bed yet you refuse to acknowledge such! And yet, when I find love and happiness, you’re ready to punish me.”

He levels his bright purple eye to his mother’s face. “I love you, mother, but I love her as well, and I will not live a life without her.” And Aemond’s all but ready to collapse to his knees, to beg and plead her acceptance. It is the only one that truly matters amongst everyone else's.

Afterward, his mother sits in silence, staring down at her hands. The skin stretched around her nailbeds are both red and tender, and she wears only her wedding ring on the right. She turns to face her king husband’s Hand. “Well, there it is, father.”

“It makes little difference, my Queen.” Lord Wylde and Lord Tyland murmured in agreement.

“But would it truly be wise to separate father from child, Lord Hand?” Lord Beesbury asks, pointing at the Hand, white eyebrows arched high. Otto Hightower raises his own eyebrow in return. “She is lowborn, yes, but a royal babe still sleeps in her womb.”

"A bastard, Lord Beesbury, mothered by the daughter of a milk cow."

A milk cow? Aemond blinks, momentarily confused. But before he could say anything further, his mother makes her final judgment on the matter.

The queen slowly rests her elbow on the table before plopping her chin atop her palm. “My son’s to be a father,” she says, a faint smile twisting on her lips. She repeats it again, almost like she doesn’t believe it. “A father…” Aemond feels a bit of hope blossoming inside his chest. “Pray tell, would you rather me separate him from his trueborn child? The child that is still his child, his own blood, bastard or not. We can argue on this matter till we are purple in the face, my lords, but the truth still remains,” she declares, before taking Aemond’s hand in hers, thin fingers laced with his.

“Take me to see her, son.”

At once, multiple voices arise in protest. His grandsire calls his mother’s name, but she ignores him as she stands to her feet. “I do beg your pardon, my lords, but I must see my grandchild.” Aemond bows, victorious, and turns on his heel without another word, feeling all eyes on his back as he strolls from the council chambers with his mother, her hand still in his. The doors closing shut behind them silences all the lords, and his mother sighs.

“My sincerest apologies, my dear Aemond, for referring to her as a whore,” she says, earnestly. “I know she is far from that, and I must say I’m rather fond of her.”

Outside, Ser Criston Cole was stationed, wearing his long white cloak of the Kingsguard. He gives the two a curious look but remains silent and still, straightening his shoulders when they pass by him. Aemond wonders if he overheard the small council’s session, and whether he agrees more with his mother or grandsire.

It does not matter, Aemond decides, pressing a soft kiss to his mother’s knuckles, in a show of forgiveness that makes her smile. He loves her too much to remain irate and frustrated with her, especially once she mentioned her soft spot for his girl. His queen mother- good and fair to the smallfolk- is the same with his handmaid. And his future children as well, he hopes.

“You’ll be a wonderful father,” she tells him, tucking a long strand of silver hair behind his ear. “And I mean it.”

He brings her to his bedchamber, where his handmaid sits on the settee, dutifully sewing up one of his tunics. When they arrive at his doors, she’s quick to bolt onto her feet, falling into a small courtesy. She wears a thick and ugly serving dress that hides her swelling belly underneath but does little to dull her beauty.

“My queen! My prince…”

Aemond takes her arm, pulling her alongside him. “My mother wishes to speak to you, my love,” he explains, gazing down into her eyes. His thumb strokes her cheekbone before he takes a step back, and his mother takes his place.

Before her, his love trembles, and he knows she’s awfully scared. It breaks his heart a little. He forewarned her of the small council’s gathering this morning, and how the maester told the queen of her pregnancy and the decision that would likely be made. She cried that entire night he held her, and neither got a wink of sleep.

“Your Grace…!” she sputters in a quavering voice, hand dropping to her tummy. “I beg of you…”

But his mother says nothing, instead cradling his sweet girl’s pretty face within her hands before leaning to kiss her temple. When she pulls back, her big brown eyes are soft and kind. “You’ll make a lovely mother, my dear,” she mumbles, and it is enough for his handmaid to break into a sob, falling limp as Queen Alicent holds her close, running a hand up and down her back.

“Thank you!” she cries through jagged gasps and wheezes. “I was so scared. I- thank you, my Queen, thank you. Thank you!”

His mother gently lifts her face upwards, wiping away the fat tears streaking down her cheeks. “Shhh, there was little to worry about, sweetling,” she coos. “Aemond wouldn’t have let anything happen to you, believe me. A man in love, with everything to lose, is perhaps the fiercest warrior to be found on the battlefield.”

Perhaps?

Aemond watches as his mother comforts his handmaid, mouthing small praises and pleasantries while stroking her hair back, doing her best in calming her down until her eyes are dry. Several minutes later, the two women are discussing the babe, with Queen Alicent sharing memories of the early days of her own pregnancies. The sight before him makes his heart swell in his breast, and he then recalls the words exchanged back in the council chambers.

I’m to be a father, and hopefully a husband soon.

He crosses his hands behind his back, smiling..

It seems to be true, he thinks, that there is indeed no more beautiful sight than your woman swelling with your baby.

But no one spoke of the beauty that follows when your mother accepts her grandchild for the first time, and the blinding glow that brightens your woman’s face when she realizes such has happened.

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[viccyfics]

From my current WIP

Baby engine

Greaseball (Wembley 2024) is the daughter of OLC Greaseball and Dinah

If someone had told Dinah a few years ago that she would be spending her afternoons running after a child rather than working or racing with Greaseball, she would have laughed in their face.

But here she was, racing around the entire yard after her daughter…who had not been named after her father by Dinah's choice.

"Greaseball please, Momma needs to stop, you must be tired by now," the Dining car panted, bending over to try and catch her breath, but the small Diesel ahead of her on the track refused to come closer, her hands on her hips and a frown on her face.

"Come catch me, Momma," the four-year-old taunted, "you're so slow,"

Dinah started to chuckle, "Don't let your dad hear you say that,"

Greaseball let out a small huff, "You need to be faster for when we race together."

"Oh, we're going to race together?" Dinah paused, "I'm not so sure if Dad is going to appreciate that."

Greaseball started to giggle, "I'm going to be faster than him, so he can't tell me not to race with you."

"Oh is that right?" the Dining car smiled, noticing her daughter was starting to slowly skate towards her.

"Yeah, and then he's gonna be the slowest, not me," The small engine smirked, "So you need to get faster,"