#been hoarding these photos for months and months

[dear-ao3]

while i have you all pissed off about how to pronounce capri sun, now seems like as good a time as any to make my Things In Gas Stations And Grocery Stores That Would Send Non Americans Into A Coma post

[derelictheretic]

went to the alphonse mucha exhibition yesterday and god it was better than I imagined, getting to see some of his sketches and his references with grids etc. uaghhh I need to do studies of his art again it's just so fluid and detailed and makes me want to eat my hands

[synchlora]

something to be said abt a foster pleading for anyone to adopt their extremely sweet and playful disabled tabby cat for over a year with absolute Crickets in response vs us making one post at 8pm with a frankly very poorly taken photo of a cute no-personality fluffy white kitten we have (who's not even been here 3 days!) and we have 45 comments within the hour and three of our adoption people with their phones blowing up

[jamminvroomvroom]

let’s go ride.

LN x fem!reader

in which lando keeps getting frustrated and you wanna know why…

hiiiiii here u go! belated love day fic from me to you 💝 love u all, tysm for the love on my last few fics, i’ve had a lot going on lately so i’ve not had very much time to write but when the inspo hits….. shoutout to miss mcrae for dropping lando-coded bangers bc i literally cannot resist. might make a part 2 of all the times they get freaky in a car lmao, lemme know if you want that! likes, comments and reblogs are sooooo appreciated so lemme know what u think xoxox

proofed by my own personal goat @lavenderlando 💖

songs to set the vibes: sports car by tate mcrae, bad guy by billie eilish

warnings: 18+!! minors begone! smut, language, fluff, bit of angst bc lando’s in a mood, friends to lovers, p in v, porn without plot but there is a little bit of plot, bitchy lando

4.2k words

you sit in silence, opening spotify and preparing to fiddle with the bluetooth as he slips into the drivers seat beside you. the car door slams shut and he huffs, jawline taut with annoyance. the hood of his car is surrounded, a million and one cameras pointed at you both as he tries to relax into his chair. the engine roars to life and you side eye him.

“when are you gonna learn, hm?” you try and sound playful, teasing, but it comes out laced with a twang of scolding. lando tenses up even further, turning to glare at you.

“god forbid i go outside.” he snaps.

“give over.” you roll your eyes. “poor me, i’m famous! lando, you can’t get angry when you park in the most high profile spot on the fucking planet and your fans want to worship you.”

“you don’t know what you’re talking about.” he sighs, white knuckles wrapping tighter around the steering wheel.

“don’t i? this has been happening a lot lately.” your voice softens, ever so slightly. “every time i’m seen with you, you lash out.”

“because i don’t want people harassing you, looking at you like some fucking commodity.” lando snarls, steely eyes locked on the supposed car enthusiasts that are slowly backing away from his parking space.

“lando, we’re friends. this has always been a thing. why is it bothering you so much now?”

you wonder if it bothers him for the same reason it bothers you.

he shuts his eyes, collecting himself for a moment. he puts the car in drive and smoothly pulls out of the space, ignores your question. you scowl at him, at this sudden childishness that has overtaken his easygoing manner in the last few months.

“fine. whatever.” you mutter, slumping defeatedly into your seat. you give up on playing music, leaving him to bask in the silence, something he loathed.

lando had switched from his usual self to this stony, irate version of him that you rarely had the displeasure of seeing, from the second you walked out of the restaurant where you’d had lunch. he was reluctant to pose for photos and sign hats, something he usually revelled in, grateful that people even wanted to see him. the swathes of fans that had gathered had irked him for once, but what really boiled his blood was the photographers that seemed to find him no matter where he chose to spend him time. so much for monaco’s privacy laws.

it wasn’t like he cared about himself, either. it was you. the way they leered, leaned close to you while he was distracted with pens being shoved in his face. it was the way their eyes dipped low, whether you were in a tank top or a baggy hoodie. it was the way they spread the false, painful narrative all over the internet that you and lando were together, which drove hoards of losers into your comment section and your DMs just to call you names.

you were not together. as much as it pained him, you were just friends.

he couldn’t exactly explain his overprotectiveness to you without getting himself into a big, tangled mess. you, being the resilient, cool as a cucumber stoic that you were didn’t care what fourteen year olds on the internet thought about you. you weren’t about to let faceless, jobless trolls ruin the friendship that you’d nurtured for years, through ups and downs, thick and thin, race wins and huge losses. but lando, god, it killed him, tore him up inside every time someone so much as looked at you wrong.

“you really don’t get it.” he says, hushed, like he’s telling a secret. you turn to look at him, tearing your eyes away from the glistening view of the marina.

“lando, tell me then. make it make sense because i’ve never seen you behave like this. they love you! least you can do is lose the attitude over some harmless pictures.”

“jesus christ, it’s not the fans! it’s not the ‘harmless pictures’! it’s these fucking creeps that follow us around just to make some money off of my own personal hell. you really don’t get it, because if you did, you’d know that it breaks my fucking heart to see the way people talk about you online, just for being seen with me. it’s my fault that you get harassed, that paps are basically stalking you now.”

he signs of his rant with a sharp inhale, one that seems to suck all of the life out of the car. you melt.

“but lando, it doesn’t bother me. i just wanna be here with you, i don’t care about the rest of it.” you coo softly, reaching over the centre console to grip his forearm.

“and i want you here. i want you with me every fucking second of the day, but i can’t cope. can’t help thinking that one day it’ll all just be too much and you’ll leave me.” he whispers.

“never. never ever ever.” you promise. your belly swirls with emotions, tickled from the inside out by butterflies that threaten to swarm.

lando breathes shakily, warmed through by the hand that rests on his arm as he manoeuvres through the twisty lanes. as he hits traffic and slows, he clocks another photographer looming on the pavement, lens aimed at his windshield. already too annoyed, he aggressively smacks his sun visor down, leaning over the console to reach yours too, pulling it down. he prays it’s enough.

“you need to relax, lan. i’m fine, we’re fine. i promise.” you reassure, but he’s breathing heavily now. “you don’t worry this much when it’s max.” you trail off.

he doesn’t know what comes over him. he spins the car into a sharp u-turn, positively speeding back in the direction you’d just come from. any mention of you and him as a ‘we’ makes him crazy, makes him utterly lose his mind, but something about your sweet, earnest voice bringing him back to reality has left him completely shaken. the sun is setting now, most people clearing out of the underground car park he pulls into to head back to their homes. he has other intentions. you don’t say another word until he pulls into a space at the back of the lot, tucked neatly into a corner.

“what are we doing?”

“need a minute.” lando rasps, forehead resting on his steering wheel, the matte leather pushing his sharp curls back. you trail your eyes over him, the way his chest rises and falls under the sweatshirt he’s wearing, the way his thick fingers curl as his grip continues to tighten.

“i’m jealous. and i’m selfish. and i’m a complete fucking idiot.” lando says, steadily, like he’s reading the news.

“you’re… you’re jealous? of what?” you’re like a deer in headlights.

“of any other person that gets to lay their fucking eyes on you.”

“what are you saying?” you whisper. the air in the car goes still, frozen. you can’t breathe.

“i’m saying… that you’re mine. and i should have made that a known fact a long time ago.” ever so slowly he looks up at you, and you gasp at the intensity of his stare. he’s gazing at you with complete conviction in his eyes, a whole lot of vulnerability mixed in with the sincerity of his words. “i don’t want anyone else anywhere near you. lose my fucking mind watching the way they look at you.”

“lando…” you trail off, eyes as wide as saucers. is he really saying what you think he’s saying?

“i know this is terrible of me, to do this now, here - to do this at all, to be honest. i know that i have no right to stake some kind of claim on you, and i know that you probably don’t feel the same, but god, i just needed you to know. if you want me to shut the fuck up or leave you alone forever then i totally get it but-“

“oh my god, are you stupid?” you shake your head, still stuck in your state of disbelief, but you muster the coherency to grip the collar of his crewneck, tug him close.

your lips meet hastily, urgently, and every ounce to tension seems to seep out of the car. he moans at the very sensation of you against him, breath caught in his throat when you lace your finger through his hair like you want to mould your faces together, never stop. his brain finally catches up, awestruck as he is, and you trade passion and saliva, bumping noses as you clash chaotically.

“i think we’re both stupid.” he mumbles into your lips. you shut him up with another kiss, fiery and needy, and his hands begin to wander. he smoothes over the back of your jumper until he finds your waist, awkward in the limited space of the front of the car, and skims his hands up until he’s made his way beneath the material and he’s gripping your bare skin.

“too forward of me to ask you to get in the back?” lando pants with a cheeky smile.

“you literally just marked your territory on me, and nearly bit a photographer. i think we’re past ‘forward’.” you deadpan.

“then get in the fucking back.” he grins, devilish and commanding. you do as you’re told, wriggling between the leather until you’re propped up against the backseat. lando follows, sitting beside you, tugs you into his lap like you’re weightless.

you can feel him beneath you, hard and wanting, and you mewl, keen into him. your breaths mingle in the nonexistent space, lips brushing gently.

“this okay?” lando’s lips ghost over yours and you lean forward, just enough to reach him. he pulls back, eyes hooded, teasing, and tuts. “use your words.”

“who knew you were such a bossy boots.” you smirk. “more than okay.”

his eyes glaze over once he has your permission, and he kisses you like you’re the last supply of oxygen on earth. he licks into your mouth, wet and desperate and you whimper as he grazes over the crease of your thigh, toying with the hem of your skirt where it’s ridden up.

“can feel you.” lando groans, pulling away to look between your bodies. “so warm for me, you like seeing me all riled up?”

you nod coyly, lip caught between your teeth, and you swear you see his eyelashes flutter.

“what did i say about words?” lando composes himself enough to tease. you roll your eyes, but you can’t ignore the way heat rolls through your body.

“like when you get all bitchy.” you reply, rolling your hips once.

“bitchy?”

“mhm. always been so easy to toy with.” you whisper, leaning in to nose along the thickness of his neck. you drag your tongue up the vein there, feeling it pulse under your tongue. he smells like his cologne, so him, and it makes you even hotter.

“oh, so you’ve been playing with me?” he chokes out, eyes rolling back in his head at the marks you’re leaving.

“maybe a little.” you hum.

“you liked watching me get angry? pretending to be all sweet and clueless?” lando whispers, the words hanging heavy in the space between you. all you can manage in response is a mischievous smile that twists his tummy.

your hands trail under his sweatshirt, skating over the muscled ripples of his belly, ever so slightly dipping into the band of his sweats. his head lulls back, blindly holding you close while you worship him. he lets you, lets himself have this moment, thinking for so long that it would never come.

“waited so long,” your lips brush over the shell of his ear, tongue grazing the lobe. he descends into a mess of shivers. “needed you to break first. i knew you would.” you croon.

“you’ve been loving this, haven’t you?” lando starts, low and calculating. “bet you’ve been getting off on dressing like a whore for the cameras, watching me suffer.” he pieces together. your resolve cracks. “bad girl.”

the sense of control you’d briefly maintained shatters, a hand around your neck forcing you away from him, preventing your sweet torture. his fingers flex, just above your collarbone, and you swallow at the smirk that seems to engulf his entire face. he looks animalistic, crazed with a feral adoration that leaves you certain that you’re dripping all over his lap.

“i think you’ve had your fun, baby, it’s my turn.”

you whine when he drags you across his lap, back and forth until you’re squirming. his hips rut up into yours, fuelling your desire for every single inch of him.

“please, lando.” you breathe, reaching out to lace your fingers into the curls at the nape of his neck.

“let me look at you.” he demands, shutting down your intentions for more. “i’ve waited long enough for this, don’t you think?”

“so have i.” you beg him with your eyes, but give in to him nonetheless. you’re staining his lap, grey sweats darkening as your wetness pools there and he can’t help but buck up into your warmth.

“wanna play with you, baby, see how you like it.” he taunts, bringing two fingers between your legs.

he brushes his knuckles over the obvious damp patch at the crotch of your panties, lip caught between his teeth at what he finds. your soaked through, and he pinches your bundle of nerves just to watch you thrash in his grip.

“i hate you right now.” you spit through gritted teeth, but your hips can’t help but chase his hand.

“doesn’t feel like it.” he kisses you quick, loving the way you lean in for more, but he relaxes against the seat and dips slowly beneath your underwear. “fuck.”

he doesn’t have to work too hard to spread your wetness around, you’re already lathered in it, but he continues to tease, fingers gliding over your clit and through your folds.

“please.” you beg, leaning back to give him as much access as possible.

“what do you want, baby? tell me.” he urges, drawing circles on the swollen bundle of nerves.

“your fingers.”

“you have them.” he barks out a condescending laugh, applying more pressure just to prove his point.

“need them inside of me.” you pant, eyes squeezing shut at his sadistic game between your thighs.

“that’s my girl.” he praises, and you curse, clamping down around him before he even gets the first knuckle inside of you.

“how are you doing this to me?” you think aloud, tears in your waterline already. it all feels far too good for a first time.

“because i know you better than you think i do.” he coos.

lando pulls you flush against him, grinding his fingers deep so that they curl deliciously against your sweet spot. his palm bumps your clit with every twist of digits and he nips over your collarbone. his tongue laves over your skin, tasting the perspiration that gathers as the car steams up around you. you’re suddenly hyper aware of your surroundings, huddled together in the back of his urus in a dimly lit car park. thank god you’d lost the photographers.

“can’t believe we’re doing this.” you gasp, feeling your tummy tighten at the thrill of it all, of feeling your best friend work to please you.

“i knew it would happen. knew that someday i’d get to see you like this, all for me.”

“all for you.” you repeat, drunk on him as you rode his fingers. “feels so good.”

“want you to come for me like this.” lando orders, replacing the heel of his hand with his thumb against your clit. his ministrations are more controlled like this, precise, and you throw your head back in pleasure. his teeth sink in to the base of your neck, sucking softly over the bruising skin, lapping at the mark to soothe it.

“i’m so close, lan.”* you choke, riding his fingers as you near your release.

“c’mon baby, make a mess for me.” he urges, eyes locked intensely on yours. you’re enticed by the sea green storm that swirls in his irises, shrinking as his pupils blow with lust. you can’t help it, can’t delay the inevitable, and you thrash in his arms, wildly bucking your hips against his as you fall apart.

you gush all over his lap, further ruining his sweatpants but he doesn’t bat an eyelid, working you through your orgasm until you’re spent. he’s transfixed by the way your thighs glisten, by the way your release seeps through the material covering his crotch and it makes him throb.

“that’s it baby.” he murmurs, voice low and smooth. you pant, collapsing forwards onto him.

“thank you.” you whisper into his neck, and he laughs softly.

“don’t thank me, silly girl.” he coos into your ear. you pull back just enough to kiss him, taking it slow, giving you a moment to come down from your devastatingly intense high. you’re exhausted, eyes fluttering shut from the exertion, and he tucks sweaty strands of your hair behind your ears. his fingers graze your warmed cheeks, noses bumping and you take him in, carefully studying the lines of his face, the sharp slope of his nose, the flutter of his eyelashes against those ridiculously high cheekbones.

“you’re so pretty.” your voice floats over him like a delicate caress, makes him shiver. he grins at you, enamoured.

“didn’t think our first time would be in the back of my car but i don’t think i can’t wait to get you home.”

“you’ve thought about this?” you ask, bashful. he gazes up at you sheepishly.

“every night before bed.” he jokes, and you shift your hips.

you’re overstimulated, but it does the trick, the playful haze shattering, replaced by thick, charged tension.

“you gonna make that fantasy a reality?”

“yeah. yeah, i am.” he mumbles.

his hands skim your waist, pushing your jumper up as he goes higher and higher, until it’s off, chucked into the footwell. you tear at his sweatshirt until it joins your discarded clothing and explore the bronzed planes of his chest, extra sun-kissed by the trip you’d taken to dubai just a few weeks before. if only you’d known then…

“hurry.” you plead, and he scoffs, adjusting you on his lap just enough to free himself from his sweatpants and boxers, and you gawk down at what’s revealed to you.

it’s big, thick, and you sigh in relief that he’d so thoroughly stretched you out, got you nice and slick for him already.

“gonna take it all for me?” lando taunts, catching your hanging jaw between two firm fingers, forcing you to look at him.

“gonna try.” you reason, breathing shakily as you rise up on your knees. you feel the head of his cock prodding your clit, the sodden tip running along your folds until it catches on your entrance. you both hiss as the contact, his hands steadying your hips.

“you can do it, baby.” lando promises, helps you begin your descent.

“oh my god.” you gasp, sinking down slowly. “dunno if i can take it, lan, you’re so- so…” you trail off, head thrown back far enough that you miss the way he’s smirking up at you.

“c’mon baby, being such a good girl for me, i know you can take it. just a little more.” he goads, pressing each button of your apparent praise kink, and you whine, soft moans tumbling from your lips. a sense of determination becomes you, and you’re aching to take him all the way.

you cry out his name when you’re pressed flush against him, and he soothes circles into your hips, holding you close against his chest. one hand smoothes through your hair, the lace of your bra scratching against his chest as you breathe rapidly.

“well done, baby, knew you could do it.” lando praises, trailing kisses over your face. you quiver in his hold, hips wiggling ever so slightly, and he takes that as a sign. “want me to do the work, hmm? make you feel so good?”

you nod lazily, looking up at him from where your face is smushed against his shoulder, and he lets you break his rule of “words”, softened by how beautiful you look, vulnerable in his strong arms. he starts to move, fucking up into you slowly, feeling you out. you can feel him twitch inside of you, his breath catching in his throat at the feeling of you, tight and warm, enveloped all around him. you roll your hips languidly, meeting his thrusts and you both moan out as the explosion of sensations unfolds between you.

“harder, lando. can take it.” you mumble, glazed over doe eyes looking into his. he tenses up, shaken to the very core by the emotional tether between you, feeling the way it grows even stronger. the one woman he’d wanted since he’d laid eyes on you, the one women he never thought he could have; his heart pounds violently in his chest.

he readjusts your hips, pushing you back so that you’re upright once more, eyes raking hungrily over your flushed body. your skirt is bunched around your waist, panties tugged to the side, cups of your bra barely covering anything anymore. he tweaks a nipple through the lace, paws at your tits until you’re fluttering around him. the cups of your bra are tugged down, resting below your breasts and he swallows hard.

“fuck me, you’re so beautiful.” lando rasps, leaning you back further to perfect the angle.

once he’s satisfied, he bounces you against him, meeting your hips with harsh thrusts, his pace unrelenting. he can see the way you pool around his base, dampening the thatching of hair that decorates his pelvic bone. you seem to chase the friction there, rutting your clit against him. sweet puffs of breath fill his ears, melodic combined with a symphony of your needy whines, continuously intensifying as he fucks you deeper and deeper.

“it’s so good.” you slur, mouth hanging open, totally unhinged from the raw pleasure that he courses through your veins.

“you’re doing so good for me, baby.” he wants to say more, but then he sees it, the way your lower belly seems to protrude with every roll of his hips. “oh, fuck.” he cries out.

“do you see that, baby? see how deep i am?” lando growls, voice rippling through your connected bodies. you glance down, and the first tears start to fall.

“oh my god.” you repeat, nothing else to say, totally braindead at the sight. your cheeks are wet with tear tracks, utterly overwhelmed by the way he’s taking you, so blissful that it hurts.

“you crying for me, baby? do i feel that good?” lando mocks, reinvigorated by the way your tears gather at your collarbone. his hand swipes messily against your throat, swiping them away, but you catch his hand, keeping it there. your eyes lock as your hand squeezes around his, a silent plea. he rocks up into you even harder, hand clamping around you neck slowly, leaving your breathless, liquid heat shooting down your spine. you can’t stop it from hitting you like a ton of bricks, can’t hold back, not when he’s making it hurt so fucking good.

“lando, i can’t- i’m gonna- fuck.” you bellow, falling to pieces around him. he keeps you propped up through your orgasm, plowing into your limp body until you’re so tight around him that he quite literally can’t keep going. he shudders, repeating your name like a godforsaken prayer as his abs flex beneath your shaky hands. you feel him filling you up, shots of warmth painting your insides.

lando lets you collapse into his arms, holding you tight as you both tremble in the silence of the car. condensation rolls down the windows, giving away your frenzied desires. if anyone caught sight of his car, it wouldn’t be hard to do the math.

“gonna let me take you home so we can do that again?” lando laughs, breathing you in. he can feel the way your chest rumbles softly in response, hears your angelic, raspy laugh.

“gimme a sec, don’t think i can move ever again.” you groan, sighing into his chest.

you stay there for a while, basking in it, coming down. he traces shapes into the bare skin of your back; you absentmindedly trace a heart into the window fog.

when you finally manage to redress, it’s dark outside, bright lights casting patterns into the calm midnight of the marina. he holds your hand as he drives up into the heights of monaco, and you stare at the way yours fits so perfectly with his, just like how your head tucked so perfectly into the crook of his neck. you smile out the window and lando smiles at you.

by the time bedtime rolls around, you’re both well and truly exhausted. when you try and wriggle out of his grip, ready to retreat back to the guest room like a wounded animal, lando pouts - pouts! - and holds you even tighter.

“silly girl.” he kisses the words into your hairline, and drifts off to sleep.

-

hehe

-

taglist

lemme know if you wanna be added or removed! any tags that don’t work will be removed xo

@boysthatgovroomvroom @welld0nebaku @thegirlinthefandoms @mcmuppet @japanesekel @vinvantae @ggaslyp1 @dr3lover @smiithys @rachstash @infinitebells @fizzpopsnap101 @gaily19 @icecoldtires @mysticalnightenthusiast @thatchickwiththecamera @oyesmendes @disneydaydreameralways @canyouseethesainz @ferrarifwendvale @fcbformulaeri @tony-stank3 @maih23 @soleilgrec @carolineworld @anthonykatebridgerton @allywthsr @iamasimpingh0e @ophcelia @coffeehurricanes @jennx03 @blueflorals @sidcrosbyspuck @better-dead-than-smeg @buendiabebeta @pjofics @kovalcin @wintergilmore3 @for-writing-shit @youdontknowmeshh @im-an-overthinker @jule239 @darleneslane @jazzy722 @weasleyswizarding-wheezes @therealone4r @pleasecallmeunhinged @theonlyadrienne @formulaal

taglist cont. in reblogs. smooches

[rafeplay]

SOFTER, SOFTEST !

ft. curly x fem!reader

tags. piv, body worship sort of, rimming, big dick, tit job for like 2 seconds, creampie, size kink, scent kink, balls…

note. hai.. will get back to leon soon and I think mw fandom is lacking noncon and incest fics severely.. so i will get on that with jimmy. don’t know how to characterise him yet so ooc .. just infatuated with his breasts tbh i don’t know anything works in this universe LMFAO like idk just take this with a grain of salt.. please ignore typos !! unedited :3

You miss Curly.

You miss him more than you did yesterday, more than an idiot misses the point, like a dick misses a wet pussy–You just miss him.

It has been four months. Twenty-one weeks. One-hundred and forty days. Three-thousand, five-hundred and twenty hours. Too many minutes, a hell of a lot more seconds, the closer he gets the further he seems to be.

Big numbers make it feel like you’re getting nowhere so you cut those twenty-fours into one day. One day and he’ll be home. One day and you’ll be in bed with his stomach crushed against yours, the warmth of his flesh searing yours, fucking him into next year, until he loses his halo.

Videos aren’t enough, photos don’t do him justice, toys don’t live up to the feel of a real dick. You miss that face he makes when he cums - it’s a block away from his crying face. You miss him face down, ass up, punching holes into his dignity one thrust at a time. God, you miss that dick, how he goes red all over, him in nothing but that stupid fucking smile.

One day, you tell yourself in the mirror that morning. One day, you tell yourself when you take your lunch break. One day, one more microwaved meal for one, one more lonely night.

It used to be a big deal, you think. The whole going to space thing. Curly says it’s no big deal, but you’re pretty sure that in your great-grandpa’s heyday it was impressive. You’ve seen videos of hoards gathering to watch a ship take off, to greet crews when they landed. Today, it’s you and a plump, older woman in her bathrobe waiting in the cold.

You could spot him in any crowd, glowing like a ray of light, mostly because he’s tall, partly because everything fades into abstraction when you notice how tight his uniform is. Good god. Did he get bigger? You’re starting to sweat, it’s hard to focus when your boyfriend is making a long-sleeved jumpsuit look naughty.

Curly’s hair is a little longer, blond curls licking the nape of his neck, falling onto his forehead, his eyes are so bright and his smile is white. He looks like a policeman’s emotional support dog. A really busty support dog. He scans the sad scattering of friends, family and drivers. You’re so taken off guard by the sight of his buttons popping you almost forget to wave at him.

He beams when you spot him, suitcase dragging behind him as he jogs over. Everything is in slow motion. Like that old movie - Baywatch. He’s so excited to see you, taking you into his big arms, shoving your face in his chest like he knows just where you’d like to be. You’re disappointed in your lungs when they beg for air, lifting your head and placing it on his shoulder instead. He smells like sweat, hotel shampoo and something metallic.

“Oh.” You open your eyes and spot Jimmy skulking behind him, an unlit cigarette between his lips. You narrow your eyes at him, and Jimmy does the same. Real shady guy, the type you’d cross the street to avoid. He’s always trailing after Curly like a bad omen. “He can’t come home with us, honey,” you tell him gently, not wanting to sound like a bitch.

Which you are.

You don’t want him smoking in your car, you don’t want Curly to invite him over for takeout because that means it’ll go on for hours and you won’t get your mouth on his big, stupid dick for another day.

“Hm? Why not?” Curly asks, pressing a kiss into your hairline, the tip of his nose bumping yours tenderly.

“I don’t have space in my car for both of you and the luggage, she’s small. What if she tips over? You’re heavy enough as it is.” You smile at him, cheekily, giving his newfound hips a squeeze. They’ve always been there, but now they’re like wow. It’s only been four months, is he on steroids? Did he get pregnant? He is glowing… God knows what’s up there in the atmosphere, some cosmic horror waiting to knock up your poor boyfriend.

Curly shrugs, offering an apologetic smile to his friend. “You heard the lady.”

Jimmy’s permanent scowl seems to deepen, cementing itself in his dermal layer. “Whatever, man.” He shoves his hands into his pockets, shoulders slumped as he makes a beeline for the phonebox.

He lifts his suitcase and loads it into your car and you watch his biceps flex. You see through his clothes, you remember every freckle on his back, mapping them out like stars, leading to those dimples low on his back, the perfect resting spot for your thumbs when you grab his ass. His body is so convenient. Like he was made to be fucked every which way.

“I missed you, I thought about you everyday,” he says against your lips, leaning in to kiss you over the gearshift. “I put your picture in the cockpit actually, Jim didn’t like it, but it kept me going.”

Always so earnest. You almost feel bad for missing his body more than him.

“Aww, Curly, honey,” you coo, pinching his cheek and cupping the other, “I missed you even more.” He nuzzles into your hand, eyes closed as you comb your fingers through his messy hair.

As much as you would like to indulge his sentimentality, you have no patience to spare. If you sit here any longer, you’re going to soak through your jeans and onto your leather seat.

You put the car in drive—

“Captain? Open up!” There’s a younger man knocking on the window, leaving his grubby handprints behind. “I wanted you to meet my mom!” His voice is muffled through the glass.

You lock the windows.

“Did you lock the windows?” Curly asks, lips downturned like he’s about to pout.

You unlock the windows.

“Of course not, baby.” You pat his head and grit your teeth.

They talk for fifteen whole minutes.

Thank you for taking care of him, he can be such a handful—Oh no, not at all, he was a joy to have—I’m glad he came back in one piece—He’s a good kid—Oh, I don’t know about that—Mooom—I’d be happy to have him back for our next long haul—Seriously, Captain?—

You squirm in place, shifting from side to side, thighs pressed together as your panties stick to your core. When Curly introduces you to his crew mate, you offer a strained smile and nothing more.

The window whirs shut. You make it home in record breaking time with four tickets and only a few points taken off your license. It doesn’t matter. You’re home, inside with the curtains drawn and Curly still has clothes on.

That’s not right.

“Take it off.”

“Huh?” Curly pushes his luggage into the corner, the top few buttons of his jumpsuit have come undone and you see the tuft of blond hair on his chest.

“Take it off, please?”

“My clothes?”

“No, your wig, baby.”

He laughs, good-natured, mild-mannered, and so fucking hot.

If he won’t do it then you will.

“I haven’t even showered—“ He starts, but you shush him with a kiss, murmuring a ‘good’ against his pink mouth.

When you part, spit keeps your lips connected, the string of fate or whatever. You go in for another, hands fisting the fabric of his collar, forcing him down towards you. Curly lets out a keening noise somewhere in the back of his throat like a dog scratching at the bathroom door.

“I know, my baby, I’ll give it to you.” You pout at him, thumbing his kiss-swollen lips and watching his eyes droop. “Oh no…” The buttons on his uniform when you try to open them.

“It’s okay,” he mumbles through a mouthful of his own spit, “cheap stuff.”

“I know, but you looked so good in it.” It’s a shame, but you need to see him bare, sweat as his only accessory.

“You think?” He near bats his lashes at you, stepping out of his uniform, and you swoon.

“God, yeah.” You push him down on the couch, Curly falls back with a soft grunt. It’s not very big, especially for a man of his size, but it’ll do for now.

His cock swells in his boxers, you feel it beneath you as you sit atop him, admiring the view below. The wide expanse of his chest, the sweat pooling in his collarbones, those tits. You don’t know what else they could be.

“Wow.” You take a handful of his chest, plucking his puffy pink nipple. “Look at these, I might have some competition.”

“Shut it,” he huffs out a laugh through his nose, and the tips of ears redden.

“I’m serious, baby, you’re, like, huge.” You can’t tear your eyes away from his soft flesh, moulding beneath your fingertips like dough, you could fuck them if you really wanted. “What happened out there?”

“Had a lot of spare time, I guess.” Curly smiles sheepishly, expression contorting when you bend your neck to suck his nipple into your mouth with a wet pop! His jaw slackens, and his cock jumps like it’s been given quite the fright.

You only have one complaint. His tan lines have faded. Floating through the galaxy for months on end can do that to you. You miss them, but you missed Curly more, so you’ll make do with what you have.

And you have more than enough. More than you can handle really. You can’t even get a grasp on his bicep, he’s stupidly big and your hand is on the smaller side.

You shift backwards, wet cunt dragging over his impossibly big bulge where only his underwear keeps you from him - you kind of admire your pussy for being able to take it. Your mouth moves on, hands still groping as much as you can of his chest as you lick the ridges of his stomach, it’s like he’s forged out of marble.

Softly, Curly rubs the back of your head, trying his very best to keep his eyes on you and not let them fall shut. You feel his stomach muscles rippling under your tongue. They contract when you trace around his navel, placing a sloppy kiss just below it, where a patch of curly hair leads to his wet cock.

His cock is drooling through the white fabric of his boxers, they’re soaked enough to be see-through, you spot the fat, pink head that has been missing your kisses. “You’re so wet, baby, is it all for me?”

With a pitiful noise, he tosses his head back and nods sadly. It’s funny to hear a man of his stature whine, but it suits Curly so well.

Your fingers hook in the waistband, tugging his underwear downwards until his fat cock springs out, it’s so fucking fat it weighs itself down. The leaky head twitches, pre dripping down his thick shaft, leaving a moonlit trail to his heavy balls. So full of seed they might burst.

“Oh… Poor baby.” You give them a gentle squeeze, and Curly’s eyes roll back into his skull, hips jolting upwards.

The urge to take it into your mouth right then and there is tempting, you hold back, you want to take your time with him. Make him feel special. You seat yourself between his thighs, one leg thrown over your shoulder so it’s easier to fit on the sofa. Your thumb runs along his pink slit, dribbling out pearly strands of pre that web between your fingers. Curly whimpers, biting down on his fist.

“These are cute.” You take note of his meaty thighs, how they’ve only gotten bigger, a comfier place to sit. The stretch marks don’t go unnoticed, streaking purple and pink along the milky flesh of his inner thighs like faded brushstrokes.

“Mmmph.” He blinks at you, pouty, lashes wet with impatient tears.

“Yeah, mmmph, I know, baby, be patient.” You’re a big, fat hypocrite.

His scent is stronger down here, clean and soapy, but the tang of sweat prospers, and the underlying smell of him. The smell of his pillow, the smell of his few-days old clothes, the smell of his towel after he works out.

A few more kisses here and there, using the flat of your tongue to lave over strips of his sinewy skin, leaving him spit-slicked and breathless and flushed. You hoist his other leg over your shoulder, he’s heavy, but you’re horny and it’s given you a sudden burst of vitality.

“Fuck,” he gasps out, gripping the top of the couch, one arm over his face as you lick up the seam of his balls, mouth latching to the swollen underside, where they feel heaviest.

Curly’s cock leaks into your hair, the weight brings it down to rest on your face, tip pressed into your hairline, dripping down the bridge of your nose like sweat while you make a mess of his balls. Stuffing them into your mouth one at a time, using your hand to give the lonelier one a squeeze when your lips are kissing up on another.

The kiss to his perineum is enough to make him moan. Curly knows what’s coming. You go lower, nose nestled into his balls, breathing him while your hands spread his ass cheeks apart to get to the spot you love most.

Curly’s hole is darker than the rest of him, not quite pink like his cock, ruddier. He’s tight and he smells good. So good. You’ve never minded the hair, you think it’s pretty cute. Curtains match the drapes.

Affectionately, you kiss his puffy rim, and it throbs.

He lets out a groan that is half mortified and half ready-to-blow-his-load.

“Sure,” Curly says, voice breaking as you circle his hole with the tip of your tongue. He tastes like him, musky and sweet and coppery. Curly is home and your tongue is in his ass where it belongs, wriggling its way past his pulsing rim, hopefully all the way up into his heart.

Your thumb and middle finger stretch to meet around the girth of his cock, stroking him slowly as you work open his asshole, tongue pushing back in when he pushes you out. Once you deem him wet enough, you push a single finger knuckle-deep and he cries out, hips bucking up off the couch.

Much to his dismay, which he shows in the form of a pained whimper, your hand leaves his cock to splay over his stomach and hold him down to the best of your abilities. “You have to stay still, honey.”

You feed a second finger into him, his hole squelching as you curl them inside of him. Curly clenches tight enough to cut off your blood circulation, sucking you back in when you ultimately pull them out with a lewd noise. He opens his mouth on instinct, pupils so blown out his light eyes seem dark, you push your fingers down his throat and he sucks.

“You’re so cute,” you mumble, watching him intently, he’s like a pin-up model of some sort. An X-rated action figure. “Taste good?”

“Not really,” Curly says. He’s so honest it makes you laugh. He shuffles back to rest his head on the arm of the couch, cock bobbing, still leaking like nobody’s business, leaving little droplets of wet in its wake.

It’s ready to burst, but you’re not done with him yet. You haven’t had your fill. When you spend half your time with your head between his thighs, you miss out on all the faces he pulls. So you spit on your tits to get them wet, his cock is slick enough, nothing should chafe when you squeeze his cock between them.

“Christ,” Curly grits out, brows knitting together, the second coming and he hasn’t even had his first.

“You wanna cum like this?” You ask, kneading your tits on either side of his cock, each time the tip pops up past your cleavage, it bumps your chin and leaves it slick.

“No…” He shakes his head, curls bouncing, sticking to his forehead, the hair near his nose is curlier with the added sweat. “Inside.”

“I can do that for you, babe.” You smile at him, acting like that wasn’t your plan in the first place, like you haven’t been dying for a warm creampie since he landed back on earth. You give the fat head of his dick one sloppy kiss, making sure to tongue his slit before you clamber on top of him.

It should be an easy task to get him inside, you’ve been wet for the last twenty-four hours, your pussy is throbbing like it’s got a heartbeat. Slick dries on your inner thighs and your clit is buzzing, a rush of arousal passes over you like a cold wave when you lift your hips to guide his dick into you.

Oh. Wow. That’s a stretch. 

In theory, you know big Curly’s dick is. It’s a fucking horsecock, and you have eyes bigger than your stomach. You always overestimate yourself. You think you’re gonna be just fine, then his fat tip breaches your little hole, no matter how wet, and you lose it, scrambling to grasp his shoulders as your body is racked with shivers.

Curly’s kind enough to steady you, big hands finding purchase on your hips. His needy noises get through to you, and you push on, sliding down and taking him to the hilt. His dick curves upwards into your cervix, rubbing the fleshy opening as you adjust to his dick after four whole months of nothing worthwhile.

He’s so big. You’re so wet, slippery pussy slicking up his cock, and making things easier for the both of you.

“I love you.” Curly shudders, looking right into your eyes like he’s afraid to blink and miss a single thing.

“I love you too,” you tell him, eyes on his tits.

He’s so deep, feet planted on the couch as he fucks into you, unable to help himself. You get it. You’re tight, warm, and wet. Better than his fist. Your pussy is noisy, squelching each time you bottom you, grinding your clit into his pelvis, feeling his cock twitch each time you tighten around him. The plap of his balls hitting your ass when enough momentum is built up.

Curly’s helpful, when he sees you tense up, throwing your head back and rolling your hips over and over, you want him deeper and deeper, he wets his fingers with your slick and rubs figure eights into your clit.

It’s just enough to make your toes curl—Oh, who are you kidding? You near blackout when you cum, moaning so loud you scare yourself. You see black. Like someone’s drawn the curtains in your mind, ending the show. Your nails dig into his skin, but he’s always put up with that like a champ.

“Holy fuck.” Shaking still, you blink to clear your vision, you’ve wet his navel and his tummy and the couch might be ruined. You don’t even remember when he came inside you. What a shame. Feels good though, still warm. Sighing, you lay against his chest, Curly’s soft cock slips out of your hole, resting on his thigh. “Welcome home, Captain.”

[midsummermoon20]

Small changes in the Cul-de-sac

(Btw, if you're wondering about the trees in this photo, they are cc recolours I've been hoarding/ tweaking for a while, hopefully I can get to organizing everything to upload sometime this month!)

[kuntprodukt]

PINK CELLPHONE

Incel Leon S. Kennedy x OnlyFans reader | 18+ MDNI. DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT, INCEST, smut, female reader, reader is a little bit mean, creampie, unprotected sex, vaginal sex, teasing, Leon is submissive, nipple play, tits sucking.

notes: uhm, i didnt proofread this so... i want to remind you that english isnt my first language :3 also i imagined re2 og Leon, but whatever! also reblogs and any kind of feedback is really appreciated

tags: @withonly-sweetheart

There was something fundamentally wrong with Leon in female’s gaze.

Maybe he is unlucky or those girls are blind. Really hoping it is the latter, cause it is not flattering when guys with migrated hairline can get cute girls, while he can’t. And 4chan doesn’t help either, those advices aren’t useful when he can’t even talk to a real girl.

Yes, they are blind. He is going to set on that.

So after many years of solitude, his only company has become the blue gleam which most night was the only source of light in the room, while air was full with low noises coming from the old, poor laptop. Trying to survive after years of not being turned off correctly. Multiple tabs on his laptop’s screen, he doesn’t bother to close them anymore, hoarding them like some kind of treasure - Leon doesn’t give a shit anymore.

This century is perfect for a man like Leon, internet may be the second Library of Alexandria. A real paradise, so much colorful and vibrant sites with cute girls showing their bodies if he pays for that content.

Thank god Onlyfans exists. And he is a nice guy, supporting cute and sexy girls.

Paying for limited content can be considered as supporting women, right? Even if he was motivated due to his selfish reasons - to get attention and limited content. Something special for him. It was embarrassing how long he could browse a fair share of accounts and get or even interact with some girls without being rejected and they would not know him. There are a lot of them, all cute and nice, and they acted even better when he tipped them, so they would interact more with him, calling him a ‘pretty boy’. At least it made him feel special for a while. Still, not his fault that their, too perfect, videos or photos led him to lose his interest - their content felt lifeless, without passion or love put in it. Boring. It has become a routine already, finding an account - jerking off until he loses his interest and the cycle returns to browsing the site for someone new to obsess over.

Your account was like a treasure when he found it. Leon got attracted to it like a magnet, comparable to find a needle in the haystack. Sweet thing, really sweet, if he was ever to interact with you he wouldn’t be able to hide his grimace. But that was attracting, he doesn’t know how much money he has spent on your content. Your face was always hidden or cut out by the position of your camera, but there was no need to see your face when people paid to jerk off.

It was nice while it lasted.

Pink cellphone. The little pink cellphone he got his sister, after she nagged him about wanting it, that ended up left alone and not used. You have this pink cellphone, the furniture and a lot of things were identical to his little sister’s room; posters of her favorite bands or that specific blanket she had all her life, but this was quickly brushed off at first, almost all girls like cute stuff and this could be a coincidence. Also that not the first thing a guy notices when he is ready to jerk off. Leon isn’t sure why after seeing that pink cellphone it clicked so quickly, the guilt and shame fill him to the brim, coiling around his neck like a loose invisible tie knot.

This is wrong, wrong like touching his sister’s breast. Your breast. Instead, he was jerking off to your boobs for months. Imagining how they would fill his palms nicely.

The room is the same as before, but now it hits different to be here after discovering what you have been doing here all this time. It has the same smell as always, sweet and too much like you, tightening the invisible knot around his neck. He wants to throw himself out of the window, this is sick and he doesn’t understand why his legs brought him here after work, still wearing his uniform. There are plenty of almost empty and few full bottles of perfume he had bought you during one of shopping trips, while you were nagging him and begging for them. He eyes such little and useless items that in any other situations he wouldn’t notice, avoiding to look at you. His efforts were useless, he is a weak man after all and there is nothing to do other than to stare at your frame; sitting on the bed, confused at his behavior and expecting something - a reason to explain why he is acting like that, staring at you, almost fucking you with his eyes. He doesn’t need Freud to tell him that he wants to fuck his own sister. Were you preparing to do new content for your followers? The thought made his pants tighter, wanting to pull at the fabric to ease it but this would only bring your attention, wouldn’t it? Maybe he wants it.

“You look like shit.”

“Excuse me?” Did he hear that right?

“You look like shit, Leon” you repeat before raising an eyebrow “stop staring, you are going to dig holes into my face. What do you want?”

What a bitch, he would say, but,

“Uhm…” is the only sound he was able to let out, getting closer to your bed and sitting down on the edge. You scoot closer to him as you always do. A sweet habit he always liked, sometimes you even hug him. “Not lady-like, sweetheart. I wanted to talk”

You roll your eyes. “About what?”

“A friend of mine, he sent me a link of a girl, doing porn” his lies flow so fast and easily from his mouth, trying to shift this to someone non existent. “Her face isn’t visible but… her room and she had a pink cellphone, identical to yours… so I was wondering—“

“Maybe you are imagining things. Many girls have similar room to mine” you cut him, your hand lays on his shoulder. Perhaps this is hell, hell would feel like you mock him by pretending that account isn’t you, like those moans he heard weren’t yours while a guy or a dildo was pleasing you, making Leon envious and sour - why not him? The corners of your lips tug up, something good got into your head. “So you are paying for that stuff, huh? Jerking off to a girl similar to your little sister, you are so weird”

“Huh? No, I am not” Yes, he is, that’s actually his favorite hobby.

“Cut the crap, Leon. There is no friend. You probably imagined me, yeah?” He did, he won’t deny this - it would be a lie leading to another rejection, this time by his sister - and he is man, a desperate one. Also poker has never been his strong point nor he can lie well with his hard on. “Nasty, nasty boy”

His blue eyes linger on your mouth as you spoke, watching your tongue rolled sensually and slowly. Your tongue clicks, before applying more pressure on his shoulder with your hand, pushing him down. He is like a rag doll under your touch - his back hits the softness of your bed and now all he can see is your face looking down at Leon before finally sliding on his lap. Your legs straddle his hips, so nicely pressing down on his crotch and making this much harder than it should be. His cock is already painfully hard, straining against the warmth of your pussy which can be felt through thin fabric of your shorts. God bless them. He bucks up his hips, as his hands reach to hold your hips and press them harder against his aching cock while he tries to dryhump you needy - too bad that’s not on your list, slapping away his hands like it is a disturbance which makes him frown.

“Ah-ah, big bro. Don’t touch me” you purr as your head dips lower to press hot heated kiss on the skin of his neck, leaving soft bites and wet trail behind whilst your tongue traces around those bites, like a soothing touch before it starts going up down and up in torturous motions. Until you stop on his Adam’s apple to bite it softly to leave a red spot, your hands dive under his shirt, pushing it up to expose his stomach and making it easier to reach his chest - fingertips brush against his nipples, before rolling and pinch them to force more moans from him. A grown man getting already painfully hot and bothered over little touches and kisses there and then, this causes you to chuckle under your breath - don’t want to hear him complain how you hurt his ego. Man’s ego is more fragile than soap bubbles or the glass, one poke and he would not shut up and fuck your brain instead of your pussy. That won’t do. Your eyes dart up to look into his face - to see that sweet and needy expression, begging more than just teasing caresses from you. Your hips sit so well against his, sometimes creating some friction when one of you move and it feels like he is going to die if his dick won’t be buried in your pussy any time soon.

“I don’t like dirty hands on me” you add eventually with the same purring voice. What can be better than a man being submissive and shattering over nothing?

“Can you just… oh shit!” his sentence gets cut abruptly, when your lips reach to his earlobe, nibbling playfully and it would be really humiliating if he cum here cause of how his ears are sensible. Deep inhale, before speaking again, trying to keep himself at check and not to be so meek while you keep rolling his sensitive nipples in between your fingers. His next words are breathless and voice is shaky, almost at the edge to sound pathetically. Not really manly, but still your clit throbs, only now noticing how your panties are soaked now, uncomfortably clinging to your pussy lips. “…fuck me?”

You stop your assault over the skin of his neck to look down at him better, your hips press against his hard dick forcing a breathless whimper to escape. This little plea, he begs. Your clit throbs again, so uncomfortably wet, you want to dryhump him until he cum in his jeans like a virgin. Instead, he is one. If he was any other men you wouldn’t consider this good enough to comply but the sight in front of you is too much to ignore.

“Fuck.. you?” You echo his words, feigning a confusion, your eyes widen to emphasize the act. A cheap one, cause your hand already tugged down your shorts, leaving you in panties, he has seen them so many time on those videos and photos, his hips buck to press himself to your, still, clothed pussy. His attempt isn’t really successful, your hand unzips his jeans to free his cock. And finally to look at it. “you are so weird… I dunno, to ask that from me, don’t you have any shame in this body of yours, huh?”

“I don’t give a shit, just fuck me” he groans, looking down as you palm his cock, it twitches in your hand, already leaking with pre-cum and you can even notice a little stain on his boxers.

A light urge to roll your eyes arises deep down when you looked down, but it was quickly put down. Rather disappointing as a size, if someone would have asked you, but not everyone can have porno dick or customized one. You can still fuck with that. Leon swallows hard, taking a deep breath in again as he looked at you briefly - your tits are more interesting right now. He hopes you let him to suck on them. His fingers twitch, wanting to reach for your panties and tug to the side, to fuck you, but he is a gentleman. A nice guy.

Your hand pumps his dick, smearing his pre-cum along the flesh before tugging your panties to the side, your glistening pussy is fully exposed to his gaze and Leon almost choked on his saliva when you pressed your slick cunt on his cock. It is a torturous game, feeling you rub slowly along his aching length leading to drip more of pre-cum. You are so wet and warm, your slick coats his dick with every stroke of your pussy against it. This makes his eyes widen briefly at the sensation, he isn’t sure if he would be able to last long inside you. If it ever gets to that, of course.

“Please..?” Leon groans, bucking his hips to get more and press himself tighter for more friction than it is even possible right now. His sounds only encourage you to mess with him.

“What? I don’t understand” you taunt him with a light pout, another long and slow stroke, his cock’s tip was so close to slide into you. “Use your big-big words, Leon”

Your pussy kept grinding, enjoying the way his cock head bumps against your clit and making you wetter, forcing some noises from you too. Your fingers tug on his lower lip playfully - just to tease and annoy him. But he doesn’t let you withdraw your hand by grabbing hold of it. His lips catch your finger, sucking and nipping on it.

“Use me… please” like one of yours sex toys, Leon wanted to add, but, alas his dignity was still in tact, holding barely together by the tiniest thread. And as much as you want him to cum without even a penetration, to embarrass him, your own selfish urge to fuck him is much stronger.

“What a pretty face you have, right, big bro?” Also it is hard to ignore such sight in front of you, with blushed cheeks, his chest raises heavily as he let out breathless groans. “Pretty and pathetic, you would be a perfect sex doll”

Your wet slit kept rubbing, but this time savoring with the last stroke, before finally hovering over his cock - feeling his leaky tip nudging against your slick hole, begging to sink down, before his cock finally slides into you. He watched how your pussy swallowed his cock slowly inch by inch, before Leon thrusts up to meet your downward movement, forcing yours to slam against his, quickly burying himself as deep as he can right now. You moan at the rough motion, now ignoring how his hands reach to grip tightly your waist, not really caring anymore and now nothing stops him by touching you. Your slick inner walls wrap around his cock nicely, tightly clenching and he doesn’t think twice before bucking his hips again as yours started to roll against his - driving him deeper into your soaked hole. His dick hits the g-spot so sweetly, making you gasp and moan with him. His teeth catch the fabric of your shirt, trying to tug it down and expose your boobs to him - and you are nice enough to help him by pulling it aside, a clear permission to bury his face in between them. Sloppily kissing and biting on the flesh of your tits, while you are bouncing on his dick. His lips repeat your name as a prayer, catching a hard nipple into his mouth, his tongue brushes and rolls against the sensitive nub - sucking at it, nibbling messily and leaving wet marks before darting to give attention to another nipple, causing your pussy to flutter around his dick more, tightly engulfing deeper into the slick walls as the wet sounds mix with the skin slapping ones every time your hips meet after every deep and quick stroke that his cock drag against your walls.

“I-I want to fill you with my cum, please”his voice is breathless at the edge of whine even though he tries his best to not appear so desperate, but the plea behind his words is clear. His grip gets tighter, his fingers knead your ass as he grinds his dick against your cervix to intensify the pleasure for himself while his pelvis rubs against your clit as a nice touch. He really hopes you wouldn’t try to be a bitch and let him cum, if not then he is probably going to cry. “Please, please, let me cum… I need this, sis”

“You sound so fucking ridiculous” your voice is breathless too, but seeing him so needy and desperate for his release making this even better. Your hand tugs his hair, pulling away from your tits to look at his face even better - his lips are glistening with his own saliva and parted. Your clit throbs even more, aching for attention, velvety walls clench around him when you reach down to press your fingers on your clit, rubbing rough circles. “Come on, fill your little sister if you need this so much”

He whimpers disappointedly when he was pulled away from your sensitive and abused tits, but it was quickly changed into a moan when your pussy to wrap him tighter after adding your fingers in action. Your hips roll harder to meet his thrusts and wanting to see more of his stupid faces. Leon grinds up against sweet spot at every opportunity and every time it gets messier and messier as his balls tightens. His eyes slide shut briefly, now wetly meeting yours and looking more pathetic. What a freak, not like you are better than him.

Your orgasm approaches quickly as you kept rubbing your clit in rough circle motions, making your walls wrap harder around his cock. You arch as the flowing pleasure hits your body hard, having harder time to use your fingers to prolong your orgasm. Your pussy flutters at every erratic and messy thrust he kept making as he chase his own orgasm. It didn’t last long for him either, already a wonder he didn’t cum after sliding into you.

“Fuck- fuck” he slammed in to the hilt one final time, burying it deep and rubbing against your cervix before finally erupting deep inside you. Thick ropes of cum painted your insides in white, as your dripping cunt was milking his cock. Your body fell down against his chest, breathing heavily together and shivering.

“You stink like a wet dog, get out” you complain weakly, trying to push yourself away from him but it is effortless - he buries his head in the crook of your neck, again. His soft cock is still inside you, he won’t let you go. “and unsubscribe from my OnlyFans, creep”

“Later” Leon mumbles absently.

No, he is not even going to unsubscribe. In another life.

[nervoussystemss]

Bloodlust - Homelander x F Reader (18+)

A/N: Current obsession is Homelander. Somewhat fluffy fic, somewhat smutty fic.

AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/61216822

Summary: You and Homelander have been dating for a little. He's able to smell your period before you start and during, and takes it upon himself to ease your cramps and make you feel good.

"You know I can smell you, right?"

You almost jump from fright. You're lounging in bed when he comes in. He doesn't have a key to your place. You never gave him a key. So how—you know what? Never mind. It's better to just not ask questions with him sometimes. "You know knocking works, right?"

"I'm the Homelander. I—"

"—can do whatever you want. I know." You fix him with a look. Don't be cocky. He grins. "I literally showered like two hours ago. I know I don't smell bad." You do your best to try to look offended.

"It's not that and you know it. You're on your period." His eyes have turned dark and hungry for a few moments. With his bloodlust, it's not surprising he can smell it. "Just started, actually." He inhales deeply, and when his eyes open, his pupils are blown wide. He smiles at you. "Heavy flow today, huh?”

"Don't be weird about it," you say as you try to smile. "It's usually heavy the first two days, especially the second."

"What do you need?" is his follow up question.

You tilt your head.

He rolls his eyes up to the heavens. "I can smell your period before it comes, you know. So. That was actually a hypothetical. Because—" he pauses, making his way out of the room, before he comes in with a package of pads, chocolate, and a literal bouquet of roses "—I already got you this."

When you're quiet and stare, he looks like a kicked puppy. "You don't like it?"

"No, no, I do. I just wasn't expecting this," you quickly say as you shift to an upright position in bed. "We've been dating for—what, two months?"

"The amount of time we've dated doesn't matter to me. Am I not supposed to treat my girlfriend well, especially when she's on her period?"

You don't have a rebuttal. "I appreciate it. Thank you, Homelander." You reach a hand out, beckoning him over.

He does, putting the package down on the bedside table and then placing the roses in a vase that was already sitting there. You do a double take. You didn't own any vases to your knowledge. He must have put it there while you were in the shower.

He props his head on his hand, watching you silently. You were so beautiful. He could stare at you for hours. He takes your hand in his as his thumb caresses your hand gently. The feeling is nice.

Had he planned to come over? You two didn't make plans for today, but you knew he was impulsive spontaneous sometimes.

He offers you the chocolate bar he bought silently, and you break it in half, offering the other half to him. That's the way you usually do things—sharing. He doesn't really get it. He's always been akin to a dragon, hoarding everyone and everything he loves close to his heart and never letting them go. Pictures of Stormfront were still stored, photos of Ryan, Madelyn, Maeve. And now, of you too.

You have been added to what he deems his collection, and he's not letting you go anytime soon—or ever.

He breaks free from his thoughts, his hand splayed on your abdomen. A frown forms. "You're cramping."

"Yeah." You force a quick smile. "First two days are heavy bleeding but also the worst cramping, so…"

"You know…" he begins slowly, lips curling up into a smirk.

"We're not having sex," you blurt immediately, knowing that look in his eyes.

"If you're worried about the mess, we could always just put a towel." He shrugs as if it's no big deal. "It does help alleviate cramps, according to science. I don't mind. Besides, I'm used to getting blood on me."

"You've never gotten my blood on you," you comment dryly with a roll of your eyes.

"We can change that if you'd like." His suggestion hangs in the air. He moves slowly, nibbling at your earlobe, kissing your collarbone gently, trailing down your stomach kiss by kiss. His lips meet your bare thighs—you were only in a hoodie and shorts—but they don't go further. "Take it off."

"What?" you stammer, completely having zoned out for a moment.

"Your shirt. Take it off."

"It's a hoodie," you correct.

"Same thing."

You take it off far too slow for his liking, but that's okay.

"Your bra too."

You raise a brow. "What's the magic word?"

He lets out a desperate groan. "Please."

"Good boy." You flash a grin as he seems to melt at the praise, right before he yanks your shorts off, quickly followed by your underwear. "You're fast when you want to be, huh?" You try and sound cocky. You sound breathless instead.

"We could always do this slow, babe. Up to you." He's lying. He can't wait.

"Are you sure you don't mind the blood?"

"If I minded, I wouldn't have brought it up to begin with." He brings his face closer and inhales again, eyes once again growing dark as he gives you a look. You nod at him, and that's all he needs. He laps at your clit, slow at first, and when your body jerks, he holds your hips so you don't move. "Too much?" he grins up at you.

"It's fine," you pant out.

"Fine? I'll show you fine." He goes back, tongue swirling before he presses his entire tongue ever-so-gently against your entrance. You hear yourself gasp as you feel a gush. You feel a sense of something. You're not sure what. He pulls back as he licks bloodied lips, eyes trained on you, slightly narrowed. "You okay?"

That was kind of hot. "Sorry. I didn't mean to get blood all ov—"

"It's okay. Nothing to be ashamed about. You're on your period." His voice turns a bit softer. "It's normal. It's natural. I asked for this, and I wouldn't be doing this if I didn't want to. Besides, you taste good. In both ways. Relax."

You do so. "You gonna keep going?"

"You haven't cum yet."

"I don't need to. This is good."

"Have none of your ex boyfriends ever made you cum?" He sounds half baffled and half offended on your behalf. What pathetic losers. He'd put them all to shame.

"No."

"Well, let me change that then." He dips his head again.

By the time he's done and you've finished, he's made you cum three times. You're out of breath as he finally has mercy on you and lets you take a quick shower. You're back in your underwear, shorts, and hoodie once more.

"Thank you," you blurt, "for... that." You motion downwards.

He snorts. "You're thanking me for eating you out?"

"Well, that and making me cum three times in a row. That's literally never happened before."

"Glad to be of service." He tugs you into his arms, sighing contently.

"You don't want me to...?" Your eyes glance down.

"Do you want to?" His eyebrow raises.

"Not right now, no."

"Then no." He shrugs.

"Okay." You rest your head on his arm. "By the way..."

"Hm?"

"The cramps are gone."

"Good to hear." He's not letting you go. Not now, not ever. "I'll always be there for you, no matter what, even if you don't want me to. You know that, right?"

You think you hear a hint of possessiveness leak into his voice. But no. That wasn't right. That couldn't be. "I know. Thank you." You move up to press a kiss to his cheek.

He pretends it doesn't affect him as much as it actually does. "You should get some rest. I'll be right here." He settles, holding you near him as you close your eyes.

You've never felt so cared for and protected as you listen to the steady thrum of his heartbeat under your ear, dozing off.

[satoruhour]

HE PLAYS BASS !

a/n: modern au bc i cant handle any angst rn. i ramble a lot in this to set the scene teehee. not beta read, gn btw / tagging @crysugu @slttygeto @getousex :3

wc: 3k ish

warnings: bass guitarist!geto, soft dom!geto, he is respectful of your boundaries, both geto and reader smoke weed, shotgun kiss, sexual acts under the influence, fingering, clit stimulation, implied second round, implied cunnilingus, dry humping, praise, n*sfw under the cut

bass guitarist!geto who has had an interest in music and its instruments since being a little boy, practically begging his parents to enrol him in some guitar classes. with fingers strumming the nylon strings alongside complicated chords on the frets felt so right that since then he and his guitar have been inseparable since.

bass guitarist!geto who gets to know the guitar so well that he masters guitar solo after guitar solo, playing songs by ear in his free time and thought lead guitar was all there was to music until the age of fifteen where he stumbles across a song with a bass line that sounded absolutely heavenly — through the 240p quality of the youtube video, he watched the bassist dish out the heavy beats, always in the background yet detrimental to making the band sound complete.

bass guitarist!geto who leaped at the opportunity to buy a bass guitar with whatever money he had to purchase a Squier bass — it was a little shitty in sound but it was cheap, something affordable for a middle schooler. suguru didn’t care. he perfected the use of his bass guitar, already having the basics down from playing guitar; his room is filled with posters, picks, pieces of displaced lyrics.

bass guitarist!geto only has the chance two years later to ask his new friends if they wanted to jam out together and down the line, if they wanted to form a band. it was a clueless band of boys (with shoko of course) in some room of gojo satoru’s luxury house where his parents don’t care to ask him to keep the noise down like suguru’s parents do.

bass guitarist!geto fights to get a spot to audition for one of tokyo’s biggest music festivals a few months later. if they won they would get more recognition, more support, even if they haven’t figured out the specifics of how to operate a band. with gojo as the singer, shoko on the lead and nanami on drums, they would find out what they had.

bass guitarist!geto who breaks that stereotype of the bassist being ignored throughout a performance. he thinks it could be because of his longer hair and his newly bought gauges, and he thought he didn’t look too shabby himself — although he isn’t surprised to see most of the girls fawn over gojo as he sang lyrics of an original song, courtesy of the joint effort between geto and shoko.

bass guitarist!geto who gives judges the finger after they said they couldn’t perform originals at an audition, blacklisting them for future performances — but gojo sees it as a win when he has a hoard of new fans waiting outside to get a photo with him with autographs that differed from each paper his pen made contact with. later, he bursts out laughing when gojo says he hadn’t even thought of a proper signature yet and just ‘did whatever on their paper’.

bass guitarist!geto whose band gained popularity fast because of everyone’s good looks, singing at that same place they auditioned at, but now with repertoire under their belt. it’s then that they’re already all in university, and yet everyone’s still incredibly passionate.

bass guitarist!geto who spots you in the crowd together with your friends, jamming out to their set, but while your friends’ eyes are locked on gojo who’s loving the attention, nanami who can’t give a shit and shoko who’s too focused on her solo, you manage to draw geto’s eyes to you. he spends the rest of the set locking eyes with you, amidst other things like sending you winks and licking his lips until you’re under his spell. all throughout he doesn’t lose the rhythm, but he does slip-up from time to time and there’s a panicked look that nanami sends to geto for messing up his rhythm.

bass guitarist!geto who sees you at his next show alone, smiling up at him right at the front row while he’s trying not to mess up after the last time. this time he has a chance to show you what he’s got in a bass solo, losing himself in the music until even you fades off and you’re truly seeing the bassist for who he is. he’s easing back into the main melody of the song but not before leaning over the speakers with a knee on the floor, hovering right over you before shoko takes over and he’s back to his heavy beats.

bass guitarist!geto who brushes off the teasing after the set ends, only to be bombarded with more of it when he sees you on campus — no way you’re in the same school as him, walking around with your cute outfits and laughing along to your friend’s joke with no care in the world.

bass guitarist!geto who doesn’t have much trouble charming you into hanging out with him, already recognising him from far away when he’s got his long flowy hair and gauges and tight black shirt and tall stature — you aren’t realising he’s asking you if it’ll be okay for you to head over to his dorm room. you’re getting pushed by your friends behind you to say yes with giggles and gossip, and of course you weren’t going to reject the hot guy you missed class and ditched friends for.

bass guitarist!geto who shows you his room and tells you to let him know if he’s made you uncomfortable in any way. in the background, there’s a faded, soft song that continues to play that really completes the dorm, immediately hitting it off until he starts to roll a joint a while later, offering it to you with a raise of his eyebrow.

“oh— n-no it’s fine, geto-san, i don’t really smoke…” you sheepishly turn down the weed, settling instead to watch him and his beautiful side profile, letting him explain to you about bands and guitar and chords.

“thank you for having me, geto-san,” bowing, you’re nothing like the person in the bar that day, geto thinks it’s the lack of alcohol but he doesn’t mind, simply leaning on the doorframe as he nods down at you. his smile is intoxicating and so goddamn attractive you would’ve buckled to your knees if not for the deep breaths you were taking.

“next time, pretty?” geto smiles, a little high from smoking. his eyes are lidded (they usually are anyway) and smile lopsided. his hair’s almost out of the bun.

“yeah, next time,” it sounded so breathy, you bit your lip. “i guess you’d have to find me on campus, though.”

bass guitarist!geto who mutters how you’re a little tease to himself later when he closes the door. he swears to himself he’d get your number next time, but it’s not difficult to find you the next time, hanging around the same place at the same time. it’s like you wanted him to find you — he’s not opposed to it. it’s a few weeks down the road now, and the second time is watching him curiously as he smokes, too. you take a hit and embarrass yourself completely in front of him though, and while you’re fighting for your life, you’re not opposed to the buzz it gives you.

bass guitarist!geto who’s opening the door to you the next time, surprised to see your dishevelled state and a pillow between your arms, walking almost a block like this to the next building where his dorm was. he offers to make you some tea and you shake your head, feeling a pounding headache already coming on just from explaining that your roommate was an asshole.

“you can sleep here if you want to, okay?” you sigh, thanking him immensely because even after knowing him for such a short period of time, you’re comforted by his presence.

“at least satoru’s not here,” you laugh at that, nodding tiredly before you’re settling on gojo’s bed after insistence from the other. he wouldn’t care, he’s always going back home anyway, don’t know why he wanted to share a room with me. but before you can get settled in, you hear the familiar crinkling of the paper and the click of the lighter and the smell of weed fills the room again.

again, his hand is outstretched, holding an ashtray below him as the tip of joint glows a red, calling out to you yet reminding you of the way you coughed the other night.

you crawl off his roommate’s bed, snatching the cig out of his hand in a way to prove something to yourself before taking a big puff. this time you’re better, letting the drug flow through your system, but tolerance is another thing, because it only takes another hit for you to be smiling drowsily at the other while geto is a little high, too, eyes rolling to the back of his head when your hand traces over his arms and you giggle.

“you w’nna kiss?” geto asks quietly, a little soberly, having talked late into the night while you hang off his arm and slur your words. but now you know you’re feeling a little more sensible when you can feel your heart pound and your eyes widen despite their need to close.

“i meant it, doll. you’re fuckin’ stunning,” suguru mumbles, the coldness of his rings sending a chill down your body, but also a spark to your core, “you look exactly like the day i discovered bass.” and it’s like cupid fully shoots his arrow through your heart — because have you heard the man play? you’re speechless at his point, only mustering a nod before you’re leaning in.

he hums drunkenly as a way to ask you to wait a min, manoeuvring you onto his lap before he’s taking the almost vanishing joint into his hands. two more puffs are perfect for the cigarette to be discarded and so with a gentle hand, he holds onto your nape while he tries not to get hard from having you on his lap. slowly, your lips wrap around the other end of the joint, taking in another influx of the drug before he does too.

bass guitarist!geto who pulls you towards his lips a little roughly but he doesn’t give you what you want (what he has in mind is much, much better), rather leaving his lips ajar as he exhales the smoke from his mouth into yours, your own smoke already dissipating. weirdly, this burn is more prominent, probably because all you can focus on are suguru’s dazed eyes and the way they burn through your skull. you inhale the smoke before you feel his soft lips on yours.

geto hums into your lips, coming off of them periodically to allow the smoke to disperse, but the moment is so intimate and hot that you blow away the smoke and lunge forward to wrap your arms around his neck.

“no more pullin’ away, geto-san…” you’re trailing off, words messily whispered against his lips and you burn at the chuckle he sounds out, muttering back a question of consent. you’re nodding, reeling at the speed at which he places his hands on your thighs, dragging you further up his front until you rested on his pelvis.

“kissing me like you can’t breathe and you’re still calling me by my last name? i’m wounded.” geto pulls away and defies your rule — you think he’s the only one who can do that. pouting, suguru pushes away the hair enclosing your face. “c’mon, drink, sober up a little.”

“...i like it like this,” you murmur, ashamed as to how readily you leaned into his touch. his stare is piercing though, not budging until you’re gulping down half the cup.

“throats turn dry when we smoke, princess. we can do it more when you’re more used to it, alright?” geto explains, patting your thigh and ignoring the tensing of them around his own. he’s trying so hard to act nonchalant, but he can’t get the image of you parting your lips for the smoke out of his head. the way your eyes flutter close, how you wanted more of him.

“alright… suguru,” you sigh out the name and geto wishes he could hear it somewhere else, “but can we—” the high is getting to you, making your hormones go into a frenzy and you’re grinding on his lap. geto hisses at the feeling, of your cunt brushing against his bulge. your hips are inexperienced, but you’re going by feel, drawing little circles and moving back and forth; whatever that brings you pleasure.

“baby— f-fuck…” geto swears when you pair it with the lips tha kiss down his cheek and jaw and neck, hands on your hips guiding you as you try to chase your high. but a whine from you draws geto out of his daze and he almost cums hearing your needy voice, begging him for something, anything.

“’m tired, suguru,”

he knows, grinding is a tiring thing, so rather he opts for you to lie on him with your back to his chest. by now, the room’s filled with the smell of weed and arousal, asking once again if he could take off your pyjama shorts. geto smiles at the lack of underwear but he says nothing, eyes latched onto the strings of juices that connect your pussy to the shorts.

“my baby ready to be touched?” he feels you nod, loving the way your stomach contracts and expands at the hand that travels over your clothed tits. there, he squeezes them, rubbing fingers over the hardened nub but soon creeps towards your centre. his hand and fingers are so much larger than yours, covering your whole core easily when he cups it and the contact is enough to make you mewl.

“hurry,” your hips hump the air.

“patience, darling,” geto’s gravelly voice cuts through to your ear before he finally draws languid circles upon your clit, rubbing and pressing on your bundle of nerves. his whole body burns from seeing you react so cutely, all cause your eyes couldn’t leave his on that stage. now your eyes were rolling up and over, little moans leaving your lips just from his hands.

bass guitarist!geto who seems to know all your pleasure points in one night, kissing the spot under your ear, to talking you through your orgasm. you were enamoured by the guitarist that you’d let him do anything to you, obsessed with the way he never missed questions of “is this okay?” and “tell me to stop”. geto is just as besotted by you, the arch of your back, the call of his name. god, he was going to write so many songs about you.

“think you can handle a finger, baby?” suguru whispers, caressing your twitching thighs from your first orgasm. with a shaky “yes”, geto plays with your hole, smearing your juices around your sex and getting it all on your thighs. the bashful suguruuu! has him laughing, taking your lips into another kiss as an apology.

“sorry, sweetheart. love teasin’ ya,” muffled words are said, “goin’ in.”

your jaw drops even more when geto first inserts a finger, so much wider and longer that a long moan escapes you. the stretch is so good, everything you’ve ever imagined after watching his fingers travel over the bass strings, and you’re already asking for a second finger. when he does oblige, your hands fly to grab at his wrist.

“feel good?” he chuckles at your lack of an answer, rather responding by clenching around his fingers and leaning back more into his hold. geto sets a pace, thrusting his fingers in and out of you. he thinks it’s enough of staring at you and almost gets whiplash when his head turns to his hand — from the way he disappears into your dripping cunt, he thinks he’ll cum untouched, although your desperate hips also would play a part.

“feel s’good, suguru— shit…” geto groans lowly into your ear when he feels your hand replicating the circles he’s made on your clit, juices starting to collect in his palm from how wet you were.

“you keep clenchin’ around me, baby, you w’nna cum?”

your body is more vocal than your voice, twisting and thrashing from how his fingers already feel so good. the haze and the smell of geto suguru and the weed in your system is all overloading on you at the moment, but in between you’re able to nod, fingers rubbing at your clit while geto’s speed picks up a little.

your legs naturally spread, each slap of his palm against your pussy paired with the lewd noises only making the whole thing better. it’s not long before you feel that familiar feeling, using your right hand to direct him to you once more and it’s here you see the man you saw on stage before: focused, flushed, small smirk on his face. “gonna cum.”

“yeah? are you?” geto asks against your lips, still tasting the faint aroma of the joint. your eyes are so heavy and your limbs feel like lead; it’s a wonder how both your hands are moving on your soaking wet pussy.

“yeah, sugu, s’sensitive—!” geto coos softly at your whimpers before capturing your lips, swiping his tongue over your bottom lip and your orgasm comes crashing down on you. suguru effectively swallows your moans, groaning on his own end when he can feel your cum running down his hand. slowly, he lets you ride through your orgasm, pressing pecks on your skin and shoulders.

“attagirl. so much cum, hm?” your chest is heaving, whining when he removes his fingers and there’s a cute little squelch from the juices, gasping softly as geto separates his fingers and there’s strings connecting his middle to ring finger. “dirty girl.”

you scoff softly with a smile, eyes following how his fingers make his way into his mouth. the other only hums before carrying you bridal style to the shower with a sweet smile on his face. geto suguru was certain he’d worship you.

“gotta taste that cute little pussy next time.”

[idrawweirdstuffnominors]

If it's okay to request, can I get a scenario where one day like Epilogue! Bill founds out Reader had an ex boyfriend and when Bill looks at the pictures it OMG ITS AARON WINKLEMAN?!?!?

(you decide what happens next..I just think it would be funny lmao, the reason I requested this cause I saw your work with Jaybird lol)

(I have an idea!

"Title:" Are you Serious!?"

(Epilogue bill dickey x reader)

It was supposed to be a chill night. You were organizing old boxes while Bill was slouched on your couch with a lukewarm beer, half-watching a rerun of Battlestar Galactica and half-ranting about how "the internet sterilized gatekeeping into brand loyalty."

You pulled out an old album, chuckling to yourself as you flipped through photos from college cons and comic shop events. You didn’t even realize Bill had gone silent until his voice came sharp, acidic:

“Who the hell is this greasy little goblin?”

You looked up. Bill was holding one of your photos like it was a rotting sock, squinting at it in revulsion. It was you and a grinning guy with a lanyard that read North West Comics Collective.

“Oh. That’s… Aaron,” you said slowly. “We used to date.”

Bill stared at you. Then stared at the photo again.

Then back at you.

Then:

“You dated AARON F*ING WINKLEMAN?”

You winced. “It was years ago.”

“YOU—” He stood up like he’d just been slapped in the face by the ghost of Steve Ditko. “You mean to tell me you let that boot-licking, Funko-hoarding, IGN-quoting crypto-fascist into your pants?!”

“Bill—”

“No no no no no. Don’t try to spin this. I knew this guy. He ran the NWCC like a goddamn cult. He once told me ‘Alan Moore peaked with Miracleman,’ and then tried to kick me off a panel for saying cosplay isn't performance art!”

You rolled your eyes. “Yeah, he had… opinions.”

Bill was pacing now, wild-eyed, holding the photo like he wanted to hurl it into a shredder. “He’s the guy who wrote that Medium article titled ‘Why Gatekeeping Saves Canon’! He made a YouTube series where he ranked women in comics by ‘narrative functionality’! He once said Stan Lee was ‘problematic because he gave people hope.’”

You tried to grab the picture back. “He’s not like that anymore. Probably.”

Bill yanked it away. “You ever hear him talk about the Snyder cut? He treated it like the f***ing Rosetta Stone. He told me Vertigo was for people who pretend to read! And this—THIS—is the guy who had his tongue down your throat?!”

“Jesus, Bill.”

He flung the photo across the room. “This explains everything. This explains why you once said Kingdom Come was ‘a little overhyped.’ You’ve been corrupted. Tainted. You’ve had Winkleman brain rot festering in you like a parasitic worm.”

You crossed your arms. “You done?”

Bill pointed at you, wild and bitter. “I can’t believe you let that self-published, leather trench-coat-wearing, moderator-in-his-own-forums little war crime of a man TOUCH YOU.”

He collapsed back on the couch, muttering. “Winkleman. Christ. I need to bathe in back issues just to look you in the eye again.”

After a long silence, you raised an eyebrow. “You jealous?”

He shot you a withering glare. “I’m nauseous.”

Then, under his breath: “...Jealous of Winkleman. Jesus Christ. I’m gonna die here.”

---

Bill hadn’t spoken in like two full minutes.

You sat on the edge of the couch, legs crossed, awkwardly sipping from your soda while he stared at the far wall, hunched over like he was trying to telekinetically set something on fire. The photo of Aaron lay crumpled on the floor, abandoned like a crime scene.

Then, without looking at you, he asked flatly:

“Was he your first?”

You blinked. “What?”

“Winkleman. Was he your first first?”

You exhaled slowly. “Yeah. He was.”

Bill made a sound between a grunt and a gag, rubbing his hand down his face like he was trying to scrape the news off his skin.

You gave a weak shrug. “It was after we’d been dating for a few months. We were both into the same comics, and one night after a creator signing we just... kinda happened. He quoted Grant Morrison and made me a playlist.”

Bill’s whole body twitched.

You kept talking, maybe out of spite. “He cried after. Said he felt ‘creatively renewed.’ It was weird, but I thought it was sweet at the time.”

Bill whipped around to face you.

“He cried? He CRIED?! And you still slept with him?”

You raised an eyebrow. “He was... passionate.”

“He was a sentient Reddit thread!”

Bill stood up, pacing like he was about to testify before the Senate. “So let me get this straight. Your first time on Earth’s plane of existence was with Aaron Winkleman, a man whose idea of foreplay is name-dropping editors? Who uses the word ‘milady’ unironically in Discord servers?!”

You just smiled faintly and said, “Jealous?”

He snapped. “Jealous?! I’m enraged. I’m insulted. I’m offended on behalf of your vagina.”

You burst out laughing—but it died in your throat when Bill suddenly knelt in front of you, intense eyes burning into yours.

His voice dropped low.

“I’m gonna make you forget he ever existed.”

Your breath caught. “What?”

He leaned closer, hands braced on your thighs. “Winkleman? That little toe fungus in a Secret Wars tee? He’s not gonna live in your memory anymore. Not after tonight.”

You swallowed hard. “Bill—”

He pulled you into a kiss so deep, so furious, it knocked the wind out of you. Not romantic. Not soft. This was territorial. It was years of pent-up rage, bitter fandom trauma, and insecure masculinity poured into the shape of a man who refused to lose to Aaron Winkleman of all people.

His mouth moved to your neck, voice a growl. “I’m gonna rewrite your whole damn archive. Page by page.”

You clutched the collar of his shirt as he pushed you back onto the couch, and for once, Bill wasn’t talking.

He was doing.

And by the end of the night, you’d realize—

He wasn’t kidding.

You couldn’t even remember Aaron Winkleman’s stupid middle name.

---

[aviradasa]

The lost boys main hcs

Marko

5th times the charm with trying to post this.tumblr hates me. This isn't proofread. Sorry it's short I'm tired as fuck and irritated. But I hope you enjoy it nonetheless 🖤

Marko is an only child, and he grew up without a father. His mother was a seamstress and worked out of their home when he was a child. His mother was Italian, and his father was Swedish. When Marko was born, they were already living in the united states though so Marko had never been to either country, and he had never met any of his other family members. his dad died when he was 8, so he hardly remembers him now. His mother, on the other hand, died on his 16th birthday, falling victim to the san Francisco plague in 1904. Which was an epidemic of the black plague. He had to abandon her in their home to avoid catching it himself. Taking the last of the money they had and the necklace his mother wore with a picture of their family in it. Not long after, he found the boys, and they all stuck together (as you can guess), but not until after he struggled around town by himself for a few months. God, i need to stop making this shit sad hand on switching gears. He was the youngest when the boys got turned into vamps he had only turned 18 that summer He really tries to act more mature than he is, but as soon as something funny happens, that's over. Marko has a really good sense of humor, but he finds a lot of really stupid shit funny. He's the type of dude to watch his friends fall face down ass up on concrete and start laughing and snapping a photo before asking if they are ok (he is me) This also can lean into how he does lowkey bully people on the boardwalk. Mostly surf nazis but let's be so deadass he's kind of a dick to everyone there in his own special way. Him and paul have a tendency to double team people to: like whoever they come at wont have a chance to say anything cause as soon as one of them pauses the other jumps in to just dog on the person who annoyed them. Some of his insults get pretty creative as well: so if he says something to you thats just out of pocket,like 85% of the time its one of the ones that makes you stop to think about it before you can even get offended 🤣 Strange enough, though. He is very well spoken and charismatic when you talk to him normally. When talking, you notice after a while that he's not one of those folks that cuss every other sentence. Like he will throw it in there like everyone does, but not all the time if you feel me Idk how to describe it. he still talks like a normal person and uses slang and stuff, but he is oddly classy vocabulary wise. He's got a slightly softer tone to his voice as well, which makes his way of speaking come off smoother. He's also extremely smart. Having conversations with him is never really dull or unpleasant. (Unless you're an unlucky boardwalk asshole) Marko is very imaginative and creative. He never stops coming up with things. He hoards hobbies like a dragon hoard gold. From painting to sewing to cooking to wood carving, He just knows how to do this stuff, and he loves it. You will never catch him doing nothing. Even when he's spaced out at the wall, the dude is fiddling with something or sewing. Something together, he just can't stop. He loves giving gifts to friends as well. All of the boys have gifts from Marko that he's made himself. Mostly cause he loves showing off he has skill and unlike Paul he doesn't care if people touch his stuff so he will drag you around his space handing you stuff and showing you everything he's made/ collected cause he's just so proud. Just don't break it. He will be fucking pissed if You break it. Or if you give away anything he gifted you. Also he will talk to you about this stuff for hours on end if you let him (Do let him. He will love you for life if you show Intrests in the things he likes) his space is really cluttered. But looking around, it's mostly albums,art, fabric,patches, and various random objects.

other then that he's really clean. On that note He does not like getting covered in blood when he eats just sayin. He's like the least messy eater of the group mainly cause he hates getting it on his jacket. Plus the texture of dried blood on him makes him want to rip his skin off. It's just one of those things he can't stand So he makes sure to clean up fast. That doesn't mean he doesn't like toying with victims though he's a jumpscare master. He likes to scare his victims half to death before beating the shit outta them. He jokes that hes “tenderizing The meat”. When he does this He gets a kick outta that one. Oh he also likes music, he's not like overly into it though He likes alot of different types as well. Some of his favorite generas are Rock,goth,classical, and some 30s jazz strange enough. He does not give a DAMN what the others have to say about his music taste. if He wants to play his music it will be loud and proud. If they don't like it they are free To take it up with him. (They never will)

[pfhwrittes]

thinking thoughts about arsonist!soap again….

arsonist!soap who was sentenced for only 18 months because his counsel’s defence was extraordinarily good (and because he charmed the shit out of the judge, jury and prosecution with those baby blues).

arsonist!soap who was able to get a reduced sentence based on his brain damage and history serving. (“an entirely out of character and impulsive behaviour for Mr MacTavish, who risked life and limb countless times to protect his country” - a right load of pish if you asked johnny but he knew when to keep his mouth shut.)

arsonist!soap who has been ringing his bonnie wee thing everyday, leaving multiple minute long voicemails talking about all the dates he’ll take you on when he’s out, if you’ve cut your hair, if you got the tattoo of his name in a flaming heart covered over or lasered off, if his dog misses him, if kyle has been by tae see you.

arsonist!soap who writes pages and pages to kyle asking about you when you don’t return his calls or ever accept his offers to visit.

arsonist!soap who hoards the “candid” photos kyle takes of you and guards them viciously from the screws and other inmates.

arsonist!soap who can smell accelerant and ash in his dreams and wakes up burning every single day.

arsonist!soap who gets his sentence extended for putting a nonce in the medical wing instead of keeping his head down after he heard the dirty cunt bragging about what he’d done.

arsonist!soap who stays a million miles away from the god botherers that want him to “see the light and accept the Lord into his heart”. he knows what his God has to say about his Sins and he can live with that.

arsonist!soap who is flooded with letters from all kinds of loonies looking for a bit of rough but happily shares them with his stoic cell mate and pretends not to hear the wet slick slide of simon’s hand under the shitty blankets after lights out.

arsonist!soap who after 4 years inside gets picked up by his shaking sister and asks her to drive the long way home just to catch a glimpse of the flat he used to share with you…

[sofasoap]

Teddy Bear - 3

Pairing: John Price x F! Reader

Summary: Just as you thought he ghosted you.. he turned up.

Warning: M Theme. Angst talk. Canon, what canon? what happend at end of Mw3 never existed, nor happend.

A/N: I was so blocked for .. oh gosh, seven months. and Thanks to @a-small-writer-in-a-big-world, it suddenly unblocked. This is for you, Aunty Bear.

John Price Masterlist

Masterlist

You look at the man standing in front of your door. Stunned that he appeared at your door step in the middle of night. 

“Hi.” Oh how you miss his deep rumbling voice. 

Why is he here now?

November. Christmas, New Year. February. 

Not a single call or text message from him since October. 

You sighed after throwing the phone down and curled up in bed. You haven’t heard from John after the night you stayed at his place. 

Has he ghosted you? Or has he decided you are too much for him to handle. 

You know it was too good to be true. 

You tried to move on from this short romance.

But even your niece and nephew can see how dejected you have been since their aunty’s “Furry boyfriend” hasn’t made an appearance for the last few months. 

But here he is. With a single rose in his hand, together with a little teddy bear who’s holding a small bunch of flowers itself.

“I am sorry… for going M.I.A for the last few months.” he apologised as he shifted on his feet. “It has been. Quite an ordeal.” he sighed. 

“You.. alright? Is everyone alright?” you asked, eyes flitting. His frown seems deeper than usual (your niblings often joke how he can squash a fly between his brows),the fresh cuts and healing scars on his face, the fatigue, as if life has drained out of him. 

You immediately notice the way the twitches subtly everytime he moves his left arm. 

Shaking your head as you bring yourself out from the whirling thoughts and observation, you realise you are letting an injured man standing in the cold. “Oh how rude of me. Come inside.” You took the flower and the teddy bear off him and stepped back and let him into the flat. 

John looked around your cosy little granny flat. A small kitchenette, living room area, and the bedroom just off to the side. Bits of trinkets here and there, and hoards of photos on the wall.  Your sister gave you the free reign of making his place yours, with promises that you don’t burn the place down with wild parties. 

“Make yourself comfortable on the sofa…. Would you like tea? coffee, or ..” Or me? That silly little joke flashes across your mind but you mentally slap yourself. Not the time to make such a joke, you idiot. “I don’t think you can drink any alcohol with…” you asked as you wave towards his shoulder. He shook his head. “Tea would be fine, thank you.” he replied. 

You nodded your head before putting the gift on the small dining table and started the kettle.

You could feel John’s eyes on you as you fret around the kitchenette to put the rose into a little vase and make the tea for both of you. Staring at you. Drinking you in. As if to make up for the last four months that he hasn’t seen you. 

You handed him the cup of tea as you sat down beside him. The only sound in the room was the clock on the wall, ticking away as the two of you started sipping on the tea, not knowing how to start the conversation back up again. 

“I.. we.” he paused for a second, gripping tight onto the mug as he stared across the room. “It’s been a close call. As you can see.” He laughed bitterly. “We nearly lost.. One of the boys.” 

Your breath hitched. John talks fondly of his subordinates. From the one time you met them,  they are a lovely (scary, but friendly) bunch The boys are almost like sons to him. 

John never went into exact details about what his job entails. You knew he was in the military but he never went any further than that. 

“My hands are not clean.” 

You cock your eyebrows. “Are you a hitman?” 

He chuckled. “Not that sinister. I am in the military.” 

“Dangerous job.” you hummed as he nodded his head. 

He looked down at his tumbler glass, gently swishing the ice and the whisky around. “But…someone has to do the dirty work.” he mumbled. 

“I.. I am sorry to hear.” 

You were slightly confused by his response, you remembered. But now, come to think of it, all the dots connect, with how tight lipped John is about his job, the injuries. His previous comments, the little stories here and there the boys told you about during the first meeting, you have guessed they are probably in some sort of elite unit in the army.

Never guaranteed to live until the next mission.

He shook his head, not replying.  You reach out to put a hand on his thigh, not quite sure what else to say, or do. Without shifting his gaze, he let go of the grip on the mug and covered your hand with his warm callous hand, seeking for more comfort. 

“Stay?” You broke the silence after a while, begging him. Silently wishing he can hear the pleading in your voice. After months of not having heard or seen him. You need him. And maybe, he needs you too. “Stay for the night. Please.” 

He slowly turned his head, and looked you in the eyes. The sadness in it. you have never seen him like this before. He is a Captain. The commanding presence. The rock of the team. 

Always calm and collected. 

But who is the anchor for him when he is lost? 

John held tight onto you in his sleep that night, like his life depends on it. Nozzle his head into the crook of your neck. You felt his body finally give in as you gently stroked his hair, occasionally dotting him with kisses. When was the last time he had a peaceful sleep?

“Aunty Bear? OH Furry uncle!!!” The high pitch yelling and something jumping onto the bed startled the two of you awake.

“How.. How did you two get in!” You gasped as you struggled out of John’s iron clamp that held you close all night. “Careful don’t touch John’s arm —” you warned as the two children started to clamber around the poor man.

“Mum gave me the key.” Your nephew pointed out before he turned towards John, who finally let you out of his grasp and slowly sat up. “Mum wants us to wake you up because you are late for breakfast.”

Oh lord. You were glad the two of you are still somewhat… presentable. You in your PJs and John.. in his boxer. At least we are not naked. You also totally forgot you were supposed to make pancake breakfast for your niblings. 

“Hello you two little rascals..” Price chuckled, ruffling the two children’s hair. “How have you two been?” he asked in a tired voice. 

“Good! Oh… what happened to your shoulder??” Your niece’s smile dropped as she spotted the bandage around John’s shoulder. “Did some bad people hurt you?”

John looked at you, and turned back to the little girl. “You could say that.” 

“Does it hurt?” she poke it with her little finger while asking.

“Lizzy, it WILL hurt if you do that.” Her brother warned as he pulled his sister back. Lizzy pouted and turned her attention to John’s chest. “Oh, you got a furry chest too. Just like my dad…” 

“Ok, you two, shoo off the bed, and tell your mother I will be over there in ten minutes.” you interrupted and usher your niblings off the bed and out of the room. The two groaned but quickly scrambled off the bed and ran towards the front door. 

“Lock it before you leave too!!” You shouted.

“Is that how they wake you up every weekend?” John smiled, as he leaned back into bed and smiled at you. 

“Um. Sometimes…” You blushed, and you don’t even know why you are blushing. The two of you slept together before. Well, purely sleeping. Not… in the … intimate sense. And you have seen his chest as well. It’s not like you have not been with men before. “We. um, better get out of bed, the kids seem to be hungry for breakfast.” you fidgeted, trying to cover your embarrassment. “Would you like to .. stay for breakfast? I am very good at making pancakes..And I promise you there will be different berries and even creams to go with it too. And honey, or maple syrup, whichever one you fancy…” you rambled on. 

“If it’s not too much of a bother.” 

You quickly shook your head. “Never. Never a bother.” you look into his eyes, with sincerity. Hoping he will understand the other meaning behind your words. He slowly reaches out, cupping your face with his uninjured hand, and caresses your cheek with his thumb, before looking down at your lip and back up to your eyes, silently asking for permission, before leaning in to give you a gentle kiss on the lip.

“Thank you.”  

“Did you two…..”

“ NO sis, NO.”

“Then what took you two so long then. You said ten minutes…” 

“SHUSH.” 

Tag list: ( I am just tagging who ever requested to be tagged at the last chapter and also who responded...let me know if you want to be taken off the next chapt's list thank you :) )

@a-small-writer-in-a-big-world

@homicidal-slvt

@okayyadriana

@cumikering

@siilvan

@devcica

@nrdmssgs

@gamergirlbonestaskforce141riot

@glitterypirateduck

@mmyrrhh

@whydoilikewhump

@crazymela

@makayla-666

@alypink

@merkitty49

@arminarlertssword

@ateliefloresdaprimavera

@roosterr

@okamimarta

@liyanahelena

[malk1ns]

december 28 @ islanders, 6-3 loss

playing this team is so fucking BORINGGGGGGG oh my god.

i received confirmation this season that geno is still the penguins' finemaster (click here for more info on what that entails) and is just as much of a cheerful bully about it as you'd expect him to be.

Losses are always deflating. Nobody who’s made it to the National Hockey League is ever okay with losing a game, any game, even if they’ve gotten better at processing how they feel about it.

Some games are definitely easier than others, though, and a road game after Christmas break definitely qualifies, especially when Sid feels like perhaps the final score doesn’t quite reflect their quality of play. Plus, they have a chance to get their own back in less than 24 hours.

He keeps an eye on the team as he changes out of his gear, but the mood is light—seems like most of the guys feel the same as he does.

“Hey!” Geno calls, standing on the bench and banging on the side of his stall. “Hey, assholes, quiet. I’m nice all month, okay, know you all need to buy good gifts for your wives because you’re not nice—” there’s an eruption of jeers and teasing at this, which Geno allows for a second before banging on his locker again, “—I’m not make you pay your fines all December. But it’s new year soon, need to balance the books, and I have list.” He waves his phone in the air.

“Fuck,” Bunts mutters from down the row. Sid stifles a smile as he hangs up his shoulder pads, patting OC on the shoulder as he drops into his seat.

Geno’s been finemaster since Sid was out with his concussion and neck issues. He shared duties the season after they won their first Cup, but the season before the lockout he took over full-time, and he does this every year—gets lax with assigning fines as they approach the holidays, takes IOUs and deferrals without any argument at all, but the whole time he keeps a ledger, noting down who hasn’t paid and who’s still committing fineable offenses.

Kris learned about Krampus a few years ago. Geno protests when Kris calls him that, but Sid knows he likes it.

Geno’s recitation of fines owed starts on the shuttle to the airport and is still going when the plane touches down in Pittsburgh. He goes easy on the younger guys, he always does, but the vets are hit especially hard this year—even the most minor case of tape-hoarding earned a spot on Geno’s naughty list.

Once they’re ready to de-board, Geno heads off the plane first, making a show of plugging in his Square card reader amid the team’s groans. He stands at the bottom of the stairs, holding everyone up until they either fork over the cash or swipe their card to pay what they owe.

Sid takes his time getting his stuff together, smiling blandly when Kris shoots him a disgusted scowl as he makes his way to the front of the plane.

Kris knows about him and Geno. Sid doesn’t remember how exactly he found out, but he’s kept their secret for years now. Being trustworthy, though, doesn’t stop him from being nosy, and then acting like the intimate details he’s cajoled out of Sid or Geno after encouraging them to get tipsy and spill their secrets are some disgusting burden he’s stuck with.

It’s his own fault that he knows the game Sid and Geno play when the end-of-year fines are collected.

Sid ends up shivering in the sharp breeze halfway down the stairs as Karl tries to argue his way out of one of his infractions at the base. Geno holds firm, though, brandishing his phone and scrolling rapidly through his photo album with some sort of evidence, and eventually Karl relents, digging out his wallet and counting cash into Geno’s waiting palm.

Nobody else puts up a fight, and by the time Sid reaches the bottom of the staircase, the rest of the team has scattered, heading home to rest and recharge before tomorrow’s game.

“Well, Crosby? Cash or card?” Geno says, holding up his phone and waggling it in Sid’s direction. On the screen is a notes app list of all of Sid’s crimes over the last four weeks. It’s a lot longer than what Geno read out in the locker room on Long Island.

Sid looks up at Geno through his eyelashes. “I don’t have any cash on me, and my card got frozen—fraud,” he murmurs, quietly enough that Geno has to bend closer to hear him. “Isn’t there any other way I can work off my debt?”

Geno frowns at him. “Sid,” he chastises, tucking his phone into his jacket pocket. “What’s the guys say if they’re find out I’m not make you pay? Not fair, you know.”

“C’mon,” Sid wheedles, shifting closer to Geno so their body heat bleeds together. “I’ll make it worth your while.” He slides his hand into Geno’s jacket and down, groping over where his dick is half-hard in his suit pants.

Geno shudders, pretending to think about it. “Don’t know, Sid, you’re owe a lot of money,” he points out, and Sid breaks character for a minute to glare—he knows he didn’t do that much to get fined over this month. Geno smirks back at him.

Glancing around to make sure they’re alone, Sid leans up and puts his mouth to Geno’s ear. “I’ll make it worth your while,” he says huskily, smiling when Geno shivers.

—

They drop the act in the car ride home. Geno complains about the refs calling back that goal, and Sid gets out some cathartic bitching about Cizikas. They spend more time talking through what went right in the second period than anything else—the coaches will go over the bad stuff and breakdowns in video tomorrow morning.

That continues into the house, where they grimace at each other in the kitchen as they choke down the protein shakes the trainers assigned them this season, all the way up into the bedroom where they go through their nighttime routines.

When Sid emerges from the bathroom after brushing his teeth, Geno’s leaning against the wall across from their bed. He’s naked, and still mostly soft, but he’s playing with himself, and Sid zeroes in on his hand where it’s stroking slowly over his dick. “Time to pay up,” Geno says, and when Sid jerks his gaze up to meet Geno’s eyes, Geno’s smirking. Smug bastard.

Sid’s mouth waters. “I could blow you,” he rushes out, crossing the room towards Geno. “Let me…” But before he can get too close, before he can drop to his knees between Geno’s legs and get his mouth on him, Geno puts out his free hand and stops Sid in his tracks, nodding over at the mattress.

Sid looks over his shoulder, just now noticing the lube out on the nightstand, the open bottom drawer where they keep their toys.

“You owe lots this year, Sid,” Geno says, gently pushing Sid backwards. “You want to suck me? Fine, okay, maybe that’s part. But it’s not enough. For the rest, you get on the bed, touch yourself, show me what you like. Then maybe you work off enough to get my dick.”

“Fuck,” Sid mutters, palming himself where he’s getting hard. Geno’s voice is even, almost bored, like this is any other fine transaction. When Sid looks at him, he arches an eyebrow.

It’s a challenge. And Sid always rises to a challenge.

Geno wants him to prove himself, to earn it? Sid can do that.

It takes him a little bit to settle when he gets onto the mattress. This isn’t something they do, really—Sid’s never been much of an exhibitionist, and Geno’s always so eager to get his hands or mouth on Sid that he’s never really asked for this.

Sid feels exposed, leaning back against their pillows with his thighs parted as he pours lube into his palm and takes himself in hand. Geno’s staring at him, eyes half-closed as he lazily touches himself, and Sid matches his pace at first, breathing in through his nose and out through his mouth.

It doesn’t take long to sink into it. Geno’s gaze feels good, the sharp intakes of breath Sid can hear from across the room as Sid starts to show off a little, tries to make it look hot only egging him on.

Geno likes a lot of lube, likes to make them messy, so Sid pours more onto his hand, slicking up his fingers so that every stroke sounds loud in the room.

Sid gets all the way hard pretty quick, and the way he’s spread out for Geno makes him itchy. His hand on his dick isn’t enough, not even when he starts playing with his balls too, tugging at them meanly like Geno usually does.

He shifts his hips, and Geno notices. “Put pillow,” he says hoarsely, “and get from drawer.”

Sid whines, but he does what Geno says, rolling to his side and groping through their nightstand until his hand closes around a familiar toy—nothing too big, he’s not sure he has the patience it would take to open himself up for some of the stuff they have, but one with a curve that hits him just right.

His hand shakes as he spills lube over it, and Geno makes a strangled sound when Sid tucks a pillow under his hips, spreads his legs, and pushes the tip into himself.

He’s going too fast, especially since they have a game tomorrow, but he feels desperate, and when he opens his eyes Geno’s touching himself in earnest now, hand moving over his dick steadily.

“Please,” Sid gets out, licking his lips as he works the toy further into himself, hissing when it hits his prostate too hard. “Have I—is this enough, please can I blow you now, Geno—”

“No,” Geno says, working himself over with little grunts that Sid can practically feel, all the way from across the room. “Not enough. Fuck yourself, Sid, let me see it.”

Sid moans as he sinks the toy in further, twisting it so the curved tip rubs over his prostate with every thrust. It’s too much too fast, and he’s going to be sore tomorrow, but Geno wants a show, and Sid’s going to give it to him.

He loses track of the game as warmth builds low in his stomach. The hand on his dick slows as he gets into the feeling of fucking himself, clenching his thighs as they start to shake with every pass over his prostate. He can’t always come just from penetration, but this is really doing it for him, being spread out like Geno’s personal porn, and he thinks he can get himself there.

Sid can feel it building, arches his back and clenches around the toy as he speeds up his pace. Yeah, this is gonna be a good one.

“Stop,” Geno’s voice is shaky and turned-on, but Sid jolts, hand going still almost on instinct. “Sid, stop, come suck me off, now.”

Sid moans, but this is what Geno wants, so he pulls the toy out and staggers across the room, dropping to his knees between Geno’s thighs and opening his mouth.

Geno feeds Sid his dick, and Sid lets his eyes drift closed. He’s keyed up, trembling slightly from how close he was to coming, but he knows how to do this, knows how to relax his jaw and angle his head to let Geno’s dick slip into his throat, knows how to keep his lips and tongue soft so that when Geno finally thrusts into him, he groans long and loud above Sid.

“So good,” he praises, threading his fingers into Sid’s hair and holding his head still. “Baby, so hot, fuck, take it—” He trails off into Russian, and Sid lets the sound wash over him, sucking when he can and laving his tongue around the shaft when Geno presses deep and holds Sid’s face against his groin for long moments, fighting back his gag reflex.

It doesn’t take long. Geno clearly liked what he saw, had gotten himself halfway there before he called Sid over; all Sid has to do is breathe through his nose and let Geno hold him steady, until Geno’s coming down his throat with a loud moan.

Sid swallows, pulling back and blinking his eyes open. He’s dizzy, still so hard it almost hurts, and he clenches around nothing against the feeling of emptiness. His balls hurt. He needs to come.

All he can do is stare up at Geno, mouth open as he tries to catch his breath.

Geno’s still panting when he pulls Sid to his feet and tugs him back to the bed. He gets Sid on his back, and before Sid can even think of anything to ask for, he slides three fingers into Sid’s hole and bites down on his nipple.

Sid comes so hard every muscle in his body locks up. It’s so intense it almost doesn’t even feel good. There are tears running down his cheeks into his ears as he tosses his head back and forth.

Geno shushes him, keeps his fingers inside Sid as he gentles him down, only sliding them out when Sid gets oversensitive and tries to squirm away.

“Shit,” he finally sighs, rolling his shoulders back into the mattress. He feels like a bruise, hole throbbing and dick still twitching a little. His knees hurt.

It’s awesome.

Geno hums, pressing his palm down on Sid’s stomach. His hand is sticky with Sid’s come, but Sid can’t even bring himself to care about how gross he’s going to be. “Debt paid,” he half-slurs. “Good job.”

It takes Sid a minute. He’d completely forgotten their game.

[wheels-of-despair]

This Is Not A Movie | Michael (Hoard) x You

Once upon a time, a boy and a girl became best friends. They remained that way for years, until one day, the boy stuck his dick somewhere he shouldn't have. Is their relationship strong enough to withstand the news of a baby growing inside someone else, or will complicated feelings arise at the most inopportune time imaginable?

This is a canon-compliant Hoard one-shot that comes in at about 8.6k words. Our female reader is Michael's best friend… and Leah's step-sister. It's angsty. It's messy. Hearts will be broken. Both tears and blood will be shed. Best friends will become lovers. And there will definitely be a happy ending... for some. Press play if you dare.

If someone had told you a year ago that five minutes in a bar bathroom would change your entire life, you would have laughed. And probably rolled your eyes.

But it did.

The kicker? You weren't even in that fucking bathroom.

You were in your usual booth outside, avoiding your step-sister and waiting for your best friend to take his seat beside you, just like he'd done every Friday night for nearly a decade.

Wait. Pause. VHS rewinding sound. Play grainy montage of growing up in a tiny flat with a single mother and her revolving door of awful men. Pause on her wedding photo. Pan from your fake smile, to Mum's brilliant one, to Richard's mustache, to his daughter Leah. The only redhead in the world who could pull off a pink dress.

Leah was the daughter your mother had always wanted. She was polite, and she was sweet, and she was always well-behaved. She liked all the right things, and didn't spend her time with any of the wrong people. That perfect little angel would never dare to get drunk or experiment with drugs or play her music too loud. She enjoyed getting her nails done and having her hair styled and shopping with her new mother. Which was fine by you.

You were 20 when you met the girl. She was 16. Your mother's whirlwind romance with a bullheaded lawyer led to a marriage in less than four months. After the wedding, when your mother moved across town to live with him and his daughter, you saw them approximately twice a year; at Christmas, and at your mum's birthday dinner.

Everyone was happy with this arrangement. You were left alone. Mum had the daughter she'd always wanted. Leah had a mother to do girly teenage things with. Richard had a wife to take to parties. For eight years, this was your normal.

And then, one day, your mother called to inform you that her darling Leah would be taking a cosmetology course on your side of town for a week, and she would be staying with you. When you tried to protest, Mum quickly reminded you of the delightful home she was so gracious to leave to you when she married up and moved to a nicer part of town.

And so you'd grumbled and hastily scrubbed the tiny, one-bedroom flat you grew up in. God forbid The Chosen One returns to her respectable upper-middle-class home with word of a dust bunny.

A few days after the call, Leah made herself comfortable on your couch, and you convinced yourself that you could live with this relative stranger for a week. It was easier than you thought, because you hardly saw the girl at all. She was always asleep when you left for work. She was never there when you came home. You'd occasionally hear her tiptoe in, late at night, when you were already in bed.

She didn't disrupt your schedule nearly as much as you'd anticipated.

Until the night that changed everything.

Every Friday night for the last ten years, your old school mates have gathered at a nearby pub. There aren't many of you left now. Billy, your first love and the glue that held you all together, had overdosed at 20. Half of the group had been lost to university, or jobs in better places. A few started families and didn't have time for you anymore. Some just... drifted away.

But there was still Amy, and Curtis, and Jack… and Michael.

You met him at age 16. Your Billy, the sweetest boy in the world, had dragged the new kid to your lunch table and introduced him. Michael sat down and never left. He was one of you, from day one.

When Billy died and you retreated into the shell he'd spent years coaxing you out of, Michael was the person who got you back out. Your boyfriend's best friend was there for you, day and night and all the blurry moments in between. For months, he was the only person you talked to at all. (It helped that he'd swiped Billy's key after the funeral, and had no qualms about letting himself into your flat.)

Michael was the only person who never forgot your birthday. The only person who knew that you still visited Billy's grave every year. The person you called when you needed to vent, or when something needed fixing. The person who reached for your plate and traded pickles for tomatoes without even having to ask.

You and Michael even got drunk and gave each other matching "Billy" tattoos one night.

He was the person who punched the ex who cheated on you, and hospitalized the one who bruised you. "You deserve so much better," he'd say each time you bandaged his bloody knuckles.

If your life were a movie, you'd have realized you were in love with him then. There would have been a teary speech, in the rain perhaps, and you would have kissed and the camera would have panned away and "The End" would have appeared on the screen in neat cursive.

But your story can't be told in a tight hour-thirty, no matter how great the editors are.

So you met Michael and the rest of your friends at the pub once a week. You'd sit in the same spot in the same booth, thigh pressed against his, as everyone drank and laughed and told stories about the idiots they worked with and reminisced about being young and free and not having bills to pay. Michael would occasionally make eye contact with some desperate girl at the bar, and his face would transform. You'd roll your eyes when this happened, smacking him on the leg and sending him off with a "go get 'em, tiger." He'd approach her, turn on his charm, and follow her into the bathroom. His record is one minute, seven seconds.

After they parted ways, he'd drop back into the booth next to you, out of breath and smelling of sweat and cheap perfume. You'd all tease him about his lack of standards and two-pump-chump status, and he'd chug a beer and take it.

But he always came home with you.

After school, he gladly left his brother's house to move in with Jack. And Jack liked to spend a little more time with his conquests than Michael did. So, in the interest of giving Jack some time to properly woo a girl in their gross little flat, Michael would spend Friday nights with you. He'd throw his arm around your shoulders, and you'd help him stumble back to your place. You'd help him get his clothes off and wash his face and put him to bed and crawl in next to him.

On Saturdays, you stayed in bed as long as you possibly could. When your stomachs finally growled too loud to ignore, you'd get up and cook breakfast together. In the afternoon, he'd accompany you on the running of errands, usually ending up at the supermarket. He'd push your trolley, insisting that you needed things that you absolutely did not, and always bumped the metal cart into your ass when you stopped and pretended it was an accident. You'd take him home after a day of adventures that sometimes felt like babysitting, parting with a kiss to the cheek and a promise to see him next week.

Again, if this were a movie, one of you would have moved your head at the last second at some point and kissed on the lips and felt sparks fly and not stopped kissing until a police officer knocked on your steamy window to give you a lecture.

But since this is not a movie, let us return to that particular Friday night. The one that changed everything.

It was the week that Leah was staying with you. You had to work a little late. You'd scrambled to get home and change, discovering that yet again, your step-sister was nowhere to be found. You were kind of relieved, to be honest, because her absence meant you could proceed to the pub as usual instead of attempting to entertain her. When you arrived, you found everyone at the table except Michael.

"Sorry I'm late," you apologized as you slid into the booth. "What'd I miss?"

"You really are late," Amy observed, checking her watch. "Michael's already found his Hole of the Night."

You snorted and reached for his beer, knowing he'd spot you when he came out of the bathroom and bring another to the table anyway.

"Anything interesting happen this week?" you asked, spotting one of his thumbprints on the mug and covering it with your own.

"Told the new guy that the boss's office was the bathroom, so he stormed in on Mr. Harris with a newspaper under his arm," Curtis laughed.

"I told him that was too mean!" Amy scoffed. Curtis laughed harder, and Jack snickered next to you. You hid your smile with a drink.

You spotted Michael coming out of the ladies' room. He met your eye immediately and gave you that wolfish grin that you frequently threatened to smack off of his face. You moved closer to Jack so Michael could join you in the booth and get his official fuck-time.

And then you caught sight of the redhead following him, and your stomach dropped.

"Five minutes, fourteen seconds," Jack announced.

"What's wrong?" Amy asked, but you couldn't speak.

"Hi," Michael greeted, dropping into the booth next to you. But you'd locked eyes with her, and couldn't move.

"Oh," he exhaled, realizing she was still there. They never came back to the table. "This is…" He paused so she'd tell him her name again, since he'd already forgotten, but her eyes were on you.

"What are you doing here?" Leah asked, her heavy brows knitted and her mouth downturned in displeasure. She learned that from your mother.

"You know each other?" Michael asked, looking from you to her.

"Oh, fuck," Amy breathed.

You slowly turned your gaze to Michael, feeling your blood boil. He stared at you, completely lost and maybe a little scared.

"You must be Leah," Amy said after a moment, breaking the spell and saving Michael from your withering glare. Leah looked to Amy, and her face changed completely.

"I am," she smiled sweetly, extending her hand.

So polite. So dainty. So not Michael's type. And yet, there she was, having spent more than five minutes with your best friend in a bar bathroom. That's a long time for a bathroom quickie, especially for someone who's constantly trying to beat his own record. Was it because she was bad, or because he was into it?

You're going to be sick.

"Move," you ordered, giving him a shove. He scrambled out of the booth.

You knocked into him with your shoulder and left without another word.

Your brain swirled all the way home, trying to focus on anything but the two of them together. Why did it matter? Why did you fucking care? You'd seen him go off with hundreds of girls. They don't matter to him. You'd asked him once, why he never takes them home. "A wise man once said," he'd informed you through a full mouth at that very pub, "that you shouldn't shit where you eat."

"You're so charming," you'd told your favorite idiot, batting your eyelashes and sighing dreamily. He had ketchup on his chin.

He'd flicked a chip at you.

It had hit you in the nose and fallen to the floor.

Your feet had apparently taken you home on their own, because you found yourself staring at your own floor while the noise continued in your head.

It stopped abruptly when someone knocked on the door. It echoed through the silent flat.

You ignored it.

Keys jingled. The knob turned. Michael's head popped in, like he was making sure you weren't going to throw things at him, and then the rest of him followed. He closed the door and leaned against it, chin down and eyes looking up at you bashfully.

"I didn't know who she was," he said quietly.

You stared at him from your chair.

"It doesn't matter," you sighed.

"It does," he argued. Michael pulled your purse out from under his jacket and put it on the table, where you usually do. You hadn't even realized you'd left it. Good thing your keys had been in your pocket. He approached you cautiously, sinking to his knees on the floor in front of you. He rested his elbows on your knees and looked up at you with those beautiful brown eyes, just begging for forgiveness.

"I'm sorry," he whispered.

You cupped his face and wondered how this rat bastard had conned you into loving him so fucking much.

"I need to know something," you said seriously. Michael looked downright frightened. You took a deep breath and blew it out slowly, to prolong his panic. "Does…" You drew in another breath and exhaled dramatically. "Does the carpet match the drapes?"

Michael snorted in amusement and dropped his head to your lap, and your fingers found their way into his curls. He closed his eyes and sighed as you stroked his hair. Damn him.

"I won't see her again," he said quietly.

"Do you ever see them again?" you asked, your mouth twisting into a smirk. He chuckled and nuzzled his cheek into your leg. "You're such a slut," you teased, scratching at his scalp.

"Careful now," he warned, "you'll ruin my respectable reputation."

You both laughed at that one.

Leah went home the next day, and things returned to normal. You spent your days working and your Friday nights pressed up against Michael, first in the booth and later in your bed. You laid in bed every Saturday morning until time for breakfast, which you cooked and ate together. You went shopping together, and attended the occasional matinee showing at the cinema. It was like The Leah Incident never happened.

Until she showed up on your doorstep, three months later, sporting a baby bump and crying because her father had kicked her out and she had no other place to go.

Of course it was Michael's.

You'd marched to his fleabag flat and let yourself in, finding him napping on the sofa. You'd stood there and stared for a moment, unsure and uncomfortable at every thought and feeling coursing through your body.

You went behind the cheap sofa and flipped it over with a strength you didn't know you possessed.

"What the fuck?!" he'd shouted when he hit the floor. He'd crawled out from under the ratty old sofa on his hands and knees, looking angry and confused.

And you let him have it.

"Have you seriously been sticking your dick in everything that moves without even wrapping it up? Are you that fucking stupid?!"

"The fuck are you talking about?!"

"I'm talking about your disease-ridden dick falling off! If you've been fucking those whores raw all these years, I swear to God, Michael, you fucking deserve it!"

"What the fuck are you talking about?!" he roared, finally picking himself up off the floor, ready to fight back.

"LEAH!" you yelled. "She's fucking pregnant!"

You watched Michael deflate. The color drained from his face. He sank into a chair in a way that made you ache. You didn't have it in you to yell at him anymore.

You stepped around the overturned sofa and sat on the edge of the coffee table, facing him.

"She showed up at my place this morning," you explained, feeling drained as well. "She's already showing. Says you're the only person she's been with since her boyfriend broke up with her eight months ago."

"You believe that?" he asked.

You looked into his eyes and felt sick.

"I don't want to," you admitted. "But she seems so sure. How do we know it's not?"

Michael leaned forward and put his head in his hands.

"I always wrap it up," he mumbled. "M'not stupid."

"If you say so," you replied emotionlessly.

He lifted his head and gazed into your eyes. He looked as miserable as you felt.

"What are we going to do?" he asked.

"What do you want to do?"

He thought about it for a minute, eyes dark and face somber. He sighed deeply and leaned back in his chair.

"Go back in time and double-bag it."

"OR!" You felt the fire inside you reignite, and kicked him in the shin. He yelped. "Maybe NOT fuck my fucking step-sister!"

"Or that!" he yelled, rubbing his leg.

You pinched the bridge of your nose and sighed.

"I'll see if I can talk her into… taking care of it," you said quietly. "Unless…?"

"No," he said quickly. "Do that. Please."

You rose from the coffee table, feeling slightly relieved somehow, and walked toward the door. You turned back.

"You're the only person in the world I'd do this for, you know."

He was the only person in the world you'd do a lot of things for.

Michael sprang out of his chair and crossed the room in three strides, pulling you in for a tight hug.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled into your neck.

"You better be glad I love you." It came out softer than you'd meant it to. It was supposed to sound like a threat.

"I am," he said, hugging you tighter. "I love you, too."

Even if you had realized it then, it would have been too late.

Leah couldn't bring herself to terminate the pregnancy.

Michael, having grown up alone and unloved and parentless, made the choice to stay with her and help her raise the baby. You highly suspected that his brother played a part in that decision. You added that to the long list of reasons why you hated that asshole.

You'd both cried when he told you. "Maybe if my own dad had stuck around for a bit, I wouldn't be this fucked up," he'd said, tears streaming down his face. You told him you were proud of him for stepping up. For taking responsibility. For being a man. That's what you were supposed to say, right?

And so Michael found himself in the second serious relationship of his life. The first had been when you were just out of school. You and Billy and Michael and Emma double-dated every weekend that summer. You and Billy liked her. Michael loved her. He'd fallen hard and fast, and once he received word that he'd been hired by a waste management company with benefits and a decent salary, he was ready to settle down.

You all went to a nice dinner at a place he couldn't quite afford yet. Michael told Emma that it was to celebrate his new job. He invited you both along, for moral support. (And because Billy knew a waitress who could give you a discount.) Michael got down on one knee, and in the center of a restaurant full of strangers, asked Emma to marry him.

She laughed at him.

His heart was broken.

And so was one of her car windows. Only Billy knew that you were the one who did it. You felt horrible when you learned Michael had been questioned by the police the next day. But he told the truth when he said he didn't know anything about it, and since they couldn't prove otherwise, the issue was dropped.

He never showed interest in another woman. Not for more than about five minutes at a time.

Until now.

The tiny flat that he shared with Jack was barely big enough for two. Adding a pregnant woman to the mix was not a viable option. It was decided that Leah would stay with you while Michael found them a place of their own. It wasn't much bigger, but at least it was cleaner.

The neighborhood Leah wanted to live in wasn't exactly on the next street over, so Michael spent some time staying near there with a former foster mother while arrangements were being made.

You tried your hardest not to hate Leah for ruining the best thing in your life. She was young and stupid. She didn't mean to get pregnant. She didn't know that your mother and your best friend had now chosen her over you. She didn't know that it was strange for you to go to bed with a book while she went out to dinner with Michael on Friday nights. She didn't know how you ached inside when you got up alone on Saturday mornings and skipped breakfast and did all the shopping on your own. She didn't know how completely miserable you were without him.

You knew he was avoiding you. You were avoiding him, too. Seeing him made your heart hurt. Seeing him reminded you that you'd never get to spend another Friday night together. You'd never hear him snore too close to your ear again, or get to kick him for farting on your clean sheets. You'd never make breakfast together, just the two of you. Would Leah learn to make eggs the way he liked when they moved in together? Would they learn to love each other? They hardly spent any time together. He was always working, and she was always on your couch complaining.

Leah grew more irritable and demanding as the pregnancy raged on. You made yourself scarce as much as possible, working so much overtime that you were ordered to "go the fuck home or start paying the company rent". You didn't want to go home. You didn't want to go to the pub. You had nowhere to go. You had no one who understood.

You kept an eye on the calendar, wondering when your nightmare would be over. Why was it taking so long? Was the paperwork really that exhaustive, or was Michael dragging his feet? Surely he'd get his ass in gear and have a house ready to move into by the time the contractions started, right?

And then, a few weeks before Christmas, they got engaged.

"Look!" she'd squealed one morning, waving a hideous ring in your face. "Michael's asked me to marry him!"

Months she'd been living here, and that was the first time you'd ever seen her awake before you left for work. She hauled her pregnant ass out of bed - yes, Michael bought her a bed to put in your living room - just to show you her ring. Was she proud, or was she rubbing it in?

"Congratulations," you'd told her with a fake smile.

And then you walked out the door, stopped at a phone booth to call in sick, and drove until you didn't recognize any of the scenery.

You cried your heart out in a car park in a town whose name you couldn't pronounce.

You knew you should be happy for him. Proud of him, even. Proposing again must have been hard. He'd really stepped up these last few months. He had been covering lots of extra shifts, according to Leah. He was making bank and saving up and trying to get them a house to raise their child in. Michael finally grew up.

But he did it without you.

You missed him so fucking much. You'd give anything to go back and tell your boss to kiss your ass that Friday night and get to the pub on time so you could introduce Michael to Leah. Your step-sister. Someone who was off-limits. Let him stick his dick in some drunk blonde with nice tits who will forget him as soon as he turns his back. Let him come back and sit next to you and share a plate of something fried and go home and fall into bed together and stay there for the rest of your lives.

Let him be yours.

The realization nearly cracked you in two.

You were in love with him. You've always been in love with him. But the timing of this realization could not have been worse.

He wasn't yours. And now, he never would be. He was engaged. He had a baby on the way. He'd made a commitment, and he was sticking to it. You even loved him for that, despite the pain it caused.

You bought a bottle of liquor and rented a hotel room and cried and drank yourself to sleep on a scratchy floral duvet.

The next morning, you woke with a pounding head and swollen eyes. Thankfully, you finished puking before checkout time. You didn't remember the drive home. You had nothing left. Your eyes were dry and your heart was empty. You were a zombie.

You trudged up the seemingly endless stairs to your flat to find that Leah wasn't there. It was just as well. You didn't want to see her. You never wanted to see her again. And then you noticed that she'd spilled a drink by the phone and hadn't bothered to clean it up. You picked up the cup and went to the kitchen to get a towel. You didn't even have the brainpower to get mad about it.

You mopped up the mess and dropped the sopping towel in the kitchen sink. Why would she not bother to clean up her spill? Of all the complaints you had about sharing this tiny flat with Leah, her cleanliness was not one of them. Had she gone into labor? It was too early for that, she still had over a month to go. Had something happened with your mum, or her dad? Was it Michael?

A jolt of panic shot through you, flipping a switch and waking you from your stupor. Michael. You walked to the answering machine with purpose and pressed the play button.

Your heart skipped a beat when Michael's voice came through the crackling speaker.

"—forgive me one day."

Silence followed. You pressed rewind. Your entire body shook as the tape whirred. You pressed play again and held your breath.

"Leah, I'm sorry, I can't do this with you. There's… there's someone—" A loud vehicle went by on his end and drowned him out. He must be in a phone booth. "I can't do this anymore. And—" A crackle in the line, but you knew he said your name. "I'm really sorry, love. I hope you'll forgive me one day."

You pressed stop. He broke up with her. He broke up with her on your fucking answering machine.

Your brain began to whir, and so did the tape when you pressed rewind. You listened to it again. When you pressed stop, you heard her yelling in the hallway. You didn't know why your instinct was to run, but you closed your bedroom door just as she opened the front.

"Lying, cheating, filthy bastard! You're lucky I'm even considering taking you back!"

The door slammed. You heard a thump. Slaps. A grunt.

You opened your door to find Michael hunched over and shielding his face, and Leah slapping the shit out of him.

"Leah!" you called, hoping that knowing you were home would make her stop.

It did not.

"What the fuck are you doing?!" you asked, loudly, forcing yourself between them. She slapped you in the face.

"Did you know?" she yelled.

"Did I know what?" you snapped, rubbing your cheek.

"Did you know he was cheating on me with a fucking teenager?!"

You didn't know what to say to that.

Apparently silence was the wrong answer.

Leah screamed. Her hands closed around your neck and pushed you back into Michael. You felt her nails slice your skin.

You know you should have fought back, but your brain was far too focused on the fact that Michael was holding you. He was hugging you from behind, twisting you away from her, using his body to protect you like you'd tried to protect him. It was the first time you'd touched each other in months.

"Leah, enough! She didn't know!"

"Fuck you!" she spat. "Probably been fucking her behind my back as well! You filthy, no-good—"

She sucked in a breath and hunched over. Another puddle appeared on your living room floor.

You and Michael rushed to her, despite the fact that she'd just attacked you both. The two of you helped her down the stairs and into your car. She wouldn't let you sit in the back with her. You sat in the front next to Michael, careful not to make eye contact with either of them as she continued hurling insults and accusations at both of you from the back seat between contractions.

You'd never been so relieved to see the hospital sign. A nurse came out and helped Leah into a wheelchair, and you rode with Michael to park the car. Not a word was spoken. Not a glance was shared. You walked in silently to find Leah together. She continued ranting and raving as soon as you entered the room, alternating between hurling insults at Michael and accusations at you. A nurse gave you a brief reprieve by pulling you aside and bandaging the cuts Leah's fingernails had left on your neck.

When another nurse announced that there were too many bodies in the room and that Leah must choose one person to stay with her, you finally looked at him. He looked so fucking scared. You were about to volunteer to stay and endure her abuse, so that he could go outside and smoke and not have to witness this, when Leah decided for you.

"Fuck you both," she hissed. "Get out!"

"Leah," Michael pleaded.

"GET OUT!" she screamed.

He scurried from the room like a dog with its tail between its legs. You took one last look at the glinting black eyes boring holes into you from the hospital bed and followed.

You met him in the hallway and stared at each other for a moment. Twelve years of knowing him, and this was the first time you'd ever felt awkward around him.

And then he burst into tears, and without a second thought, you rushed forward and wrapped your arms around him. You held him tight and breathed in deeply, feeling yourself come alive again at the familiarity of his scent and his warmth and the softness of his body. You didn't think you'd ever get to hold him again.

"Come on," you whispered when he began to calm down. "Let's go for a smoke."

Michael pulled back with a sniffle, quickly drying his face on the sleeve of his denim jacket. He held out a hand for you.

You took it.

You wandered around until you found a door that led to the roof. You tensed when Michael pushed it, wondering if an alarm would sound, but it did not. He led you to a place where you wouldn't be spotted right away, and sat on the ground. You sat beside him. The cold of the concrete seeped into your bones almost immediately.

You chose to focus on the heat of his denim-clad thigh pressed against yours instead.

Michael's hands shook as he extracted two cigarettes from the pack in his pocket, stuck them in his mouth, and tried to light them. He couldn't do it. You took the lighter from him and lit them for him. He took an experimental puff, to make sure they were really lit, and then handed you one. You both leaned back against the low wall and stared at the grey sky and smoked in silence, until you gained the courage to speak.

"I missed you," you whispered.

"Not nearly as much as I missed you," he argued.

"Wanna bet?" you smirked, glancing over at him.

He smiled back at you, and you were so happy to see that fucking smile again, you wondered if you were going to pass out. You stubbed out your cigarette and leaned your head on his shoulder, just in case.

"What'd I miss?" you asked, just like you did whenever you used to arrive late at the pub on Friday nights.

Michael tensed. And he smoked. You were always amazed at how close he could smoke down a cigarette or a joint with those big fingers of his. You waited patiently until he stomped the singed remnants on the ground next to him and blew out a long, final plume of grey that signaled he was ready to talk.

"I don't want to tell you," he whispered.

"Why?"

"Because you'll hate me."

"I could never hate you," you told him, fighting the urge to scoot closer. You'd crawl inside his skin if you could.

"Why?" he asked.

"Because I love you too much."

Michael's chest heaved. He reached for your hand and laced your fingers together, squeezing tightly. Desperately. You could feel him shaking, and you knew it wasn't because of the cold.

"I met someone."

You held tightly to his hand and listened to the story of Maria, the strange daughter of a woman he'd once hoped would become his mum. He told you of crazy adventures and food fights and feeling like a kid again. He cried as he told you of burns and fights and the confrontation that took place this morning.

"Why's it so hard to love me?" he asked, his voice cracking.

"It's not," you said, finally lifting your head to look at him. His eyes were red. His cheeks were streaked with tears. You wanted to kiss his pain away so badly, you ached. You wanted to tell him that you love him, that you've always loved him, that you were just too stupid to realize how much, until it was too late.

But you couldn't do it. Not today. Not after he'd been through so much. He'd been rejected by Maria, embarrassed and thrown out of Michelle's house, smacked around at yours, and…

Leah was downstairs having a baby.

Michael's baby.

He was going to become a father today.

"I don't want to do this," he cried, as if he could hear your thoughts. "I don't want any of this. I wish I'd never fucking laid eyes on her." You weren't sure which her he was talking about, but you wished that too. "I wish I'd stayed in the booth that night and waited for you and told you that I've been in love with you for a fucking decade."

Your heart soared, and then just as quickly, it crashed to the ground.

You didn't know what to do. You didn't know what to tell him. No matter what you did, someone would lose. Why were you both so fucking stupid?! Why couldn't you have figured this out months ago?! Years ago, even!

You want him. You want him more than anything. You want to hold him and kiss him and walk away and leave all these trouble behind. You want to be together, forever, and not care about anyone but each other.

But what kind of person would you be if you stole a father away from his child? Could you live with that? Could he?

"I love you," you whispered, trying your hardest to keep your voice steady. You cupped his face, wiping his tears away with your thumbs. "I love you more than I've ever loved anyone. And I always will. No matter what."

He sobbed, and you pulled him to you. You'd never seen him cry so hard. Not the night he laid his head in your lap in the backseat of Billy's car after the failed proposal. Not the morning he came to tell you about the overdose. Not at Billy's funeral, when you held onto each other's hands like a lifeline. Michael buried his face in your neck and grasped at the back of your jacket and sobbed so loudly, you wondered if people could hear you on the ground six stories below.

You closed your eyes and held him and wished that none of this was happening. You wished you'd realized how much you loved him years ago and told him so. You could've been living your happily ever after right now. You could've been downstairs together, having a baby of your own. You could've been waking up next to him every morning and coming home to him every night. You could've been together, all this time. You could've been happy.

It wasn't fair. None of this was fair.

You held each other for hours and and wept for what could have been.

When the sky began to darken, you reluctantly let him go. You stared into those bloodshot eyes and knew that you'd do anything he asked of you. If he wanted to run away tonight and pick new names and start new lives, you'd do it. You'd be right there with him, everyone else be damned. Even…

"We should probably go check on Leah," you whispered, not sure if you were more afraid for you for for him.

Michael nodded, groaned as he rose from the cold concrete he'd been sitting on for hours, then offered his hands to help you up. You took them. He pulled you off of the ground and into a hug. You squeezed each other tight, wishing that this didn't feel like goodbye.

You went back downstairs and walked the hospital halls with distance between you, both physical and otherwise. You stopped at a nurse's station, and Michael inquired about Leah.

"She's in there," she pointed to a door without looking up from her crossword puzzle, "But she's recovering. You can see the baby in that hallway over there."

She gestured vaguely to your right, and you looked to Michael. You didn't want to see the baby. You didn't want to see a child he made with someone who wasn't you. But somehow, you took the first step, and he fell into stride beside you.

You stopped outside the large window and scanned the names on the bassinets, finding Baby Girl Hughes written on a basket containing a pink lump.

"It's a girl," you whispered.

You felt dead inside.

A nurse inside spotted you and walked toward the baby you were focused on. She pointed to Leah's baby and then to Michael. He nodded. She smiled and picked up a little bundle of pink and brought it to the window. She pulled the blankets aside a bit, so he could see his daughter's face.

You looked away. You didn't want to see her. Instead of focusing on the baby, you watched Michael's reflection in the glass.

His brow furrowed. His mouth opened, then closed again. He looked toward you, then back to the baby. What was he asking?

Curiosity got the better of you. You stepped closer to him and finally looked at the little girl wrapped in pink in the arms of a nurse.

Whose skin was far too dark to be a child of Michael's.

Was there a mix-up? Had they mislabeled the baby? You and Michael looked from the baby, to each other, to the baby again. Finally, you made eye contact with the nurse. You pointed toward the door, and she put the baby back in its bassinet and met you there.

"That's Leah Hughes' baby?" you asked.

"Yes," the nurse answered, looking at you strangely.

"You're sure?" Michael asked.

"That's what the chart says," she told you. "Is there a problem?"

You and Michael shared a look.

"No," you answered. "Thank you."

She gave you a funny look and closed the door, making a show of locking it behind her.

"What the fuck?" Michael said, turning to you.

"It's not yours," you whispered, head spinning. "Why the fuck would she say it was yours?"

"I dunno," Michael said, his eyes blazing. "But I'm gonna fuckin' find out."

He turned and marched toward her room, and you scrambled to keep up.

"Sir, she's sleeping!" the nurse protested as Michael shoved the door open.

You decided to wait outside for this part.

"LEAH!" he roared.

The door swung shut.

You leaned your back against the wall on the opposite side of the hallway, catching bits and pieces of their squabble. You didn't start getting truly worried until it went quiet. And it stayed that way for a while. You slid down the wall and sat on the floor, never taking your eyes off the door.

Eventually, it creaked open.

Michael appeared, red-faced and exhausted.

You wanted to go to him, to hold him, to tell him that everything was going to be alright. That you'd figure it out together. That no matter what, you'd be there for him.

But you sat there, frozen, just staring at him.

He crossed the hallway and leaned against the wall next to you. He sighed and slid down it until he sat on the floor, his thigh against yours. How was he always so warm?

"It's not mine," he confirmed quietly. "She doesn't know whose it is."

Everything you thought you knew about perfect, sweet little Leah just went out the window.

"There was no cosmetology course. She came down here for an abortion. Was going to recover while she was with you, but she couldn't go through with it. So she thought she'd snag a respectable guy with a decent job and try being a mum."

"Guess she should've spent more than five minutes getting to know you," you said without thinking.

Michael turned to you. You regretted your comment immediately. How long ago had it been that you'd joked about his respectable reputation? And then, his mouth twisted into that wolfish grin that you pretend to hate so much. He remembered. You chuckled together, knocking your knee against his.

"She picked me because you liked me, you know," he said. "Figured if we'd been friends this long, I must be a pretty good guy."

"You are," you whispered.

Michael sighed, like he wanted to argue but didn't have the energy.

"So what happens now?" you asked quietly.

"Leah said she'd call your mum in the morning," he answered. "See if she can't soften the old man up with a sob story about a broken engagement, maybe he'll let her come home."

You wanted to feel bad for her. Really, you did. She was young and desperate and in an unfortunate situation. Her solution was a creative one.

And you might've been able to, had her target not been the love of your fucking life.

"And what about you?" you asked. "What will you do now?"

Michael closed his eyes, leaned his head back against the wall, and sighed again. A moment of silence passed.

"I think I'd like to go get a beer."

"A beer?" you asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Yeah," he turned his head toward you and smiled in a way that lit his entire face up. "Wanna come with me?"

You were too stunned to speak.

So you nodded.

Michael grunted as he hauled his ass off the floor, turning around and offering you both hands. You let him pull you up, and he wrapped his arm around your shoulders, just like he used to do when you were coming home from the bar. He walked you to the car, not letting you go until he opened the door for you. He held your hand as he drove.

He parked in your usual spot near your flat, and you walked to the pub from there. You felt like you were floating. You hadn't even realized what day it was until you spotted your friends in your regular booth. It was so late, the crowd had begun to wind down.

"Look who it is!" Curtis yelled.

"Where the fuck have you been?!" Amy complained, but stood to welcome you back with a hug. "What happened to you?" she asked, touching one of the plasters on your neck where Leah had scratched you.

"Doesn't matter," you smiled. "It'll heal."

"I'm glad you're back," Amy beamed. She reached up and flicked Michael on the nose. "You, not so much."

You laughed, and a familiar waitress squeezed by to plunk two foaming mugs of beer on the table. It felt good to be home.

Jack moved over to make room for you. You slid into the vinyl booth, and Michael followed. Your thighs pressed together like usual. But tonight, instead of leaning back against the seat or leaning forward to put his elbows on the table… he put his arm around you. You looked up at him in surprise, and once you locked onto his warm brown eyes, found yourself unable to blink. Was this real? Were you really back here, together, after months of living apart in misery?

"It's about fucking time," Amy said from the other side of the table.

You broke your shared stare with Michael to see that all your friends were grinning smugly at you.

"To these twats," Curtis said, raising his glass. "Welcome back. You're together now, yeah?"

You looked to Michael again, and your mouths quirked into matching smirks. It's about fucking time.

You reached for your glasses, clinked them all together, and drank. The beer tasted sweeter than usual.

"Not that I haven't missed you or anything," Jack began, "but I've had my eye on that brunette at the end of the bar all night, and if that spiky-haired cunt gets her off that stool before I do, I'll kill you both. Move your arses."

Michael, and then you, got up to let Jack go mark his territory. You sat back down and looked to Amy and Curtis, who were having a whispered conversation across the table.

"We better get going too," Curtis said, sliding to the end of his bench and rising. "I've just been informed that The Sex Window closes soon, and if I don't get this wench home in time, I'm going to be jerking it alone in the bathroom."

"Again," Amy smiled sweetly, not making a move to get up. Curtis reached down and grabbed the sleeve of her jacket and gave a tug. She laughed and exited the booth as well, wrapping her arms around his middle. "See you two next week?"

"See you next week," you and Michael echoed.

You watched Amy and Curtis leave, and made sure Jack had scared the spiky-haired cunt away from his brunette before turning to Michael.

"I'm starting to think everyone knew before we did."

"Knew what?" he asked.

"Fuck's sake," you groaned. He laughed and pulled you closer and kissed your forehead. And then he tensed.

"What's wrong?" you asked, fearing the worst.

"I've just realized we've never had a proper kiss."

You had to laugh. This had been the longest, craziest, most surprising day of your life. Of course you never found the time to kiss.

"Guess we should probably fix that," you whispered, nearly getting lost in his eyes again.

Michael leaned in, and you leaned in, and your lips finally met. Your hearts pounded. Your bodies thrummed. Your tongues danced. Your hands wandered.

The End

This story is dedicated to @sheneedsrocknroll92, who encouraged me to take this from Idea I Cried About In Bed At Night to Messy Fic I Wrote and Shared with Angsty Tumblr Girlies Who Will Probably Threaten Me in the Comments.

Without her support, this fic would not exi—

"I got it!" Michael shouted, bounding in the door.

You dropped the spatula in surprise. It bounced off the edge of the stove and clattered to the floor. You snatched it and tossed it into the sink, turning the stove knob to the off position. Dinner was done enough anyway.

"What'd you get?" you asked, wiping your hands on a towel and walking to meet him.

Michael unfolded a letter and grasped it at the top and bottom, holding it out so you could see.

"Dear Mr… uh-huh… okay… good… okay…" you skimmed the page, but not fast enough for him.

"I passed!" he said, loudly and happily.

You took the letter from him and flipped it over, making sure you hadn't missed anything. When you finished, you grinned up at him. He was smiling from ear to ear.

You whirled around and marched to the refrigerator, where you stuck it to the metal with a banana-shaped magnet. When you turned back around, Michael's face was horrified.

"What?" you asked.

"Did you just post that on the fridge like a proud parent posts a good grade on a spelling test?"

"You passed, didn't you?"

"But… but it's…" he protested.

"I'm still proud of you," you grinned.

Michael cackled and rushed over to wrap his arms around you, spinning you around the kitchen. His joy was infectious.

But his dick was not.

You'd never seen a man so happy to receive the results of a lab test for venereal diseases.

"I love you," Michael mumbled against your neck.

You held him as tightly as you could, your hands trying their best to pull his slick body closer to yours. One of your hands slid through his sweaty hair, the other over his broad back. You couldn't get enough of him. You'd never be able to get enough of him, even if you lived a thousand years together.

He pumped into you, slow and methodical, with passion and purpose. Not just trying to get off, but trying to enjoy the experience. It wasn't about the end result with Michael. It was about appreciating every single second you were able to spend together.

Because, once upon a time, you thought you'd lost each other.

Your brain had long ceased to function as it should, and it took everything you had to move with him. No one had ever made you feel this way. This wasn't fucking. This wasn't having sex. This wasn't even making love. This was two people giving themselves to each other, surrendering their individual selves so entirely, that you became one. It was beyond the scope of anything you'd ever imagined.

"I love you, too," you finally responded. If you had one breath left in your lungs, that's how you'd use it; to tell him that you love him.

Michael moaned and held you tighter, thrusting deeper and hitting a spot you hadn't even known was there until he discovered it.

You gasped, seeing stars for the fourth time tonight.

"Hey, Billy," you smiled, drifting your hand through the freshly cut grass above his grave.

You did this every year. You had to go visit Billy on his birthday.

Typically, you'd lie with him - just a few feet above where his body was laid to rest - and have a good cry. You'd arrive just as the sun started to dry the morning dew, and Michael would show up a few hours later to sit beside you until you ran out of tears. Then he'd help you off the ground and gently brush the grass from your clothes. He'd pause to touch his hand to his best friend's headstone for a few seconds, just to let Billy know he was there, then hold you to his side on the way to your car. You never thought to ask how he got there.

This year, things were a little different.

You sat beside Billy's grave instead of lying on it.

There were no tears.

And you hadn't come alone.

You looked over at Michael, sitting cross-legged in the lush green grass on the other side of the plot where your first love's body lay, and felt your heart skip a beat. He reached for your hand. Your fingers laced together and rested on top of Billy's grave. Like you were including him. Because you were.

Billy would always be a part of you both. He was the person who brought you together. Missing him was what kept you together. In a way, he was the one who taught you both how to love. You knew he'd be proud of you, for taking care of each other. He'd be happy for you.

"We've got some news, mate," Michael smiled.

This was a one-shot, and not a part of my normal Michael-Verse.

But you can check that out too, if you're into that sort of thing!

[redo-of-chii]

ʚ♡ɞ 𝕯𝖎𝖌𝖎𝖙𝖆𝖑 𝕰𝖝𝖔𝖗𝖈𝖎𝖘𝖒 𝖙𝖔 𝕰𝖒𝖇𝖔𝖉𝖞 𝖞𝖔𝖚𝖗 𝕭𝖊𝖘𝖙 𝕾𝖊𝖑𝖋 ʚ♡ɞ

I decided to make a series of posts dedicated to mental dieting, even if you're not really into manifestation/law of assumption and you're just into your journey to become your best self.

We spend so much of our time on our phones, tablets or computers that it has become our way of life. Most of the daily content we consume and most of the people we interact with every day come from the internet. We basically consume content like we consume food every day.

We talk about digital detoxing and digital decluttering constantly, but sometimes we have to become extreme to live our best life. We have to be mindful about the content we consume since like I mentioned earlier, we consume it like food and if we can be mindful about the food we consume to nourish our body then we can do the same to nourish our minds and hearts. So basically a digital exorcism is what we need to hold ourselves accountable, including myself.

In fact, I am guilty of this and as soon as I'm done with my own post I'll start doing my own digital exorcism as well to be mindful of my own mental diet since I've been neglecting it for the longest time.

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Here is a list of things to do to start your own digital exorcism with things I've come up with and some ideas I've compiled over the months from reading around:

୨୧ Curate your social media experience.

I know that many people cannot quit social media entirely because nowadays some jobs depend on social media presence, plus social media can be a very nice and positive experience!

The internet should be a safespace for you so curating and being mindful of your content should be a high priority.

Delete people/users and social media that either you don't talk anymore or don't bring positive things into your feed or life.

Engage in content that makes you happy or brings positivity into your life, especially topics that you want to learn or improve so your feed gets filled with those things.

Delete any accounts you have that you don't use or represent a part of your life that reminds you of pain (we all had an emo private account to vent somewhere that either needs to be wiped for a new era or just deleted).

Scroll past things that trigger you without guilt since your mental health has to be the most important thing.

Just put your phone down, think about what you need in your life right now to become your best self or make things better for you mentally and practice mindfulness by curating your experience.

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୨୧ Declutter & Simplify

This sounds very easy but it also can be very exhausting so I advise you to do it on a day off but include some things like skincare or a nice podcast to do it. You have to prepare yourself for this mentally since going down memory lane while doing this can be emotionally draining.

We already mentioned deleting accounts but deleting phone numbers that we no longer engage with is a form of self care, same goes for deleting messages or chat logs.

Leaving Discord servers that are inactive or you no longer engage with. Why keep something like that if you're no longer using them? Out of nostalgia? Honey, don't do this to yourself.

Delete apps or music (especially sad and depressing music!) that no longer serve you. They are taking up a lot of useful space after all.

And in relation to making space, declutter your photo gallery. This can be a rough one since we tend to hoard pictures and hoarding comes from a place of fear. Sit down, be ready to confront yourself, think carefully about how you want to categorize your photos and Konmari everything. Focus mostly on screenshots, pictures that you feel you don't look good in, repeat pictures and pictures that bring you bad memories.

Clean your emails to make space. Unsubscribe to newsletters that you don't need and remove any alerts. Just clean it.

From there, things should look cleaner and simple. I know that some of us are addicted to the chaos but trust me that even if you may feel some regret at first, you'll thank yourself later. Sometimes, your phone is a reflection of the state of your mind after all.

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୨୧ Romanticize your Life!

This is the fun part of the digital exorcism, which is making things easier and prettier!

Redecorate your home page. Put everything in folders and from there you can go crazy! Pretty wallpapers, themes, colors... Anything that your heart desires. You can also apply this to other things, revamp your social media and Pinterest boards for a cleaner and better look.

Go on an account scout mission and follow accounts that align with your thoughts and values of your best self.

Install new apps that bring you joy but also feel purposeful to you. And don't feel guilty about installing things like cute games that can make you pause and relax, just don't abuse screen use!

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୨୧ Other Important Things

Don't forget to update apps and back up what's important. I know that cloud backups are important but don't forget to backup things that may be important in an external hard drive.

Set up a ¨Sleep Mode¨ for your phone so you don't feel tempted by notifications at night and have proper sleep. You can also turn off notifications on some platforms to minimize your anxiety.

Set up ¨Digital Detox Hours¨ every day for you. Reconnect with your hobbies, play with your pet, take a nap, journal, do some prep... Just stay away from your phone. And if you don't have any privacy, it's okay. You can take notes and journal in your phone as well, just stay away from social media. Put on music and relax. This should be time for yourself and your feelings after all.

Don't feel bad about doing regular digital decluttering once you're done with the digital exorcism. This is mostly to start again in a clean slate, if the apps you installed for your clean slate are not to your liking, then you can make a small digital declutter and get rid of them later. It's not a bad thing to try new things because it's part of your self-discovery journey.

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I hope this post was useful and don’t hesitate if you want to share any other advice you may have to improve your digital exorcism!

I might make another post recommending apps I use for manifestation soon in another post.

꒰ Always & Forever — Chii ꒱