#blurby blurb

[jakexneytiri]

neteyam helps sick reader

i am not feeling well myself so this seems fitting :’)

⊱✿⊰ ⊱✿⊰ ⊱✿⊰ ⊱✿⊰ ⊱✿⊰ ⊱✿⊰ ⊱✿⊰ ⊱✿⊰ ⊱✿⊰ ⊱✿⊰

it’s the middle of the night when you sit up in a cold sweat. your mouth begins to salivate, as your body temperature rises. you feel the need to strip any clothing that’s currently stuck to your skin, like it’s the reason you’re overheating. sweat drips from the back of your neck, as well as your temples. your stomach is burning, causing you severe discomfort.

only a few moments pass before you’re expelling the contents of your meal from earlier today. grabbing the bowl closest to you, you place it in your lap as your arms wrap around it, beginning to gag and heave.

the noise is enough for your mate to wake, causing him to sit up immediately. his hand brushes the hair out of your face, holding it back while you continue to heave into the bowl in front of you.

neteyam whispers beside you “i’ve got you, i’ve got you. it’s okay, i’m awake now. i’m here.” he begins to rub your back, circling in small motions to try and bring you comfort.

“teyam.” you rasp, your throat sore from getting sick. “i feel s-so warm, it’s so hot.” you sniffle, holding back a cry.

neteyam frowns, his lower lip jutting out in a pout. he raises a hand to your forehead, feeling your temperature. he lowers his cheek to your forehead, confirming his suspicions. “you do feel warm, my love. it might be a fever. or maybe it was the food…” he tries to pinpoint exactly what could be causing your discomfort.

you slump against his chest, eyes closing. being sick made you exhausted. he lays you down gently, placing a kiss to your forehead. scrambling to his feet, he heads outside to get rid of the bowl you got sick in, discarding it just outside your marui to be cleaned tomorrow. making his way back to you, he grabs a cloth and a bowl of water.

he raises the bowl to your lips, allowing you to drink small sips before you lay back again. dipping the cloth in the water, he begins to gently wipe down your arms and legs, the water feeling nice and cool against your burning skin.

“teyam.” you mumble, eyes closed as you speak. you pat the spot beside you, saying “come. sleep.”

he gives you a half smile, answering “i will, my love. just let me take care of you first.”

[carolmunson]

another day, another laundromat blurb.

The way the sun is out, out but it’s not quite warm yet reminds you of softball practice when you were a kid. Not that you ever really wanted to be there, the texture of the pants and the way your throat constricted whenever you ran left much to be desired. You haven’t thought about softball since before high school, you wonder why you’re thinking about it now.

After an hour of crying and contemplation, you hoisted your laundry bag on your shoulder and made your way to the ever deteriorating Clean ‘N Suds a few blocks away. Your body feels as heavy as the laundry bag. Early Spring wasn’t supposed to make you so sad.

The steady drone of dryers rolling is almost a comfort, knowing you’ll be stuck here for at least an hour thirty you get comfortable in a plastic seat after loading in your colors and whites all in one go. The suds swish, swish, swish, and your eyes follow like they do in cartoons — round and round and round, lulling you into something calm. A world of difference from how you’ve been feeling for the past few weeks.

You see a flicking sparkle of silver in the dark outside of the windows and then the jingle of the door. No one looks up from what they’re doing but you, you know that silver. It’s the buckle on his leather jacket and the flash of the pins on his vest.

“Hey you,” he smiles, moseying his way over while he creaks into the plastic seat, denim knee touching yours.

“How’d you know I was here?” you ask, the weak and tired drawl of your voice clues him in on where you’re at. He offers his open hand.

“Well, I got home and there were no lights on and the laundry bag was gone,” he explains, squeezing your hand when you take the bait, “Figured if you were at the club or something you wouldn’t be taking my delicates.”

You crack a smile, a little laugh bubbling your chest, “You’re such a dweeb.”

Eddie pulls your hand to his lips, feather light kisses peppering the back of your hand. He wants to praise you for getting up and leaving the house, for doing laundry, taking care of something, feeling empowered to do it — but he doesn’t because he knows you don’t like that.

“I’ll carry the bag home,” he says, “Okay?”

You nod, sleepiness from the task already settling in. The feathered kisses travel from your hand to your temple, eyes fluttering shut while you lean into him and his leather and tobacco scent. You wish you could bottle it and turn it into detergent. But for now, it’ll just be next to you. It’ll just carry the bag home.

[isacksteban]

Marc Fucking Marquez — Marcmarc

Marco sat at the edge of the bed, the faint creak of the frame the only sound breaking the stillness of the room. His hands trembled as he pressed the rosary between his fingers, its worn wooden beads cool against his clammy skin. His lips moved soundlessly, whispering a prayer he wasn’t sure he believed in anymore. The words came out fractured, broken by the weight in his chest, fragments of Hail Marys and half-hearted pleas for forgiveness slipping into the empty space around him.

He didn’t know why he clung to it — maybe it was for penance, maybe for hope, or maybe just for the comfort of holding onto something that didn’t break so easily. God knew nothing else in his life felt sturdy enough to lean on.

The air was heavy, suffocating, and every inhale felt like dragging a stone across his lungs. Marco’s gaze flicked toward Marc, slumped against the doorway like a man condemned, his head buried in his hands. His shoulders shook, silent tremors rippling through him, and Marco thought he looked like one of the cracked statues from the chapel back home — pristine from afar but riddled with fractures under closer inspection. It was almost poetic, Marco thought bitterly. If only it didn’t hurt so goddamn much.

“Goddamn, man child,” Marco muttered, his voice rough and frayed with exhaustion and sorrow. The words slipped out before he could stop them, sharper than he intended, but he didn’t care. He laughed bitterly, a hollow, mirthless sound that echoed in the empty room like a confession whispered too loud in a church. He traced the edge of the rosary with his thumb, grounding himself against its weight as he spoke. “You fuck me so good I almost believe you love me. Almost.”

Marc didn’t respond. He never did when Marco started like this, tearing into him with words sharp enough to cut bone. He just sat there, motionless, as if he thought the silence could shield him from the truth Marco spat at him. But Marco couldn’t stop. He couldn’t let the quiet win, couldn’t let the ache settle into his bones like a sickness he’d have to carry forever.

“You act like a saint,” Marco continued, his voice trembling but rising, gaining strength with every syllable. “But you’re just a man, Marc. A stupid, selfish man who drags me to hell with you and calls it love.” He stood abruptly, the rosary swinging from his hand like a chain he couldn’t break free of. His movements were restless, his pacing a frantic attempt to outrun the fire burning in his chest. “And I let you. I let you because I think maybe this time will be different. Maybe this time you’ll stay.”

His voice cracked on the last word, and he hated himself for it — for the hope that still lingered in him despite everything. He stopped in his tracks, turning to face Marc, who still hadn’t looked up. The weight of Marc’s silence pressed against Marco like a vice, tightening around his ribs until he could barely breathe. The rosary slipped from his fingers, landing on the floor with a soft thud, and Marco stared at it for a moment, wondering if it was even worth picking up.

“Say something,” he demanded, his voice breaking into a plea despite himself. “Anything. Tell me I’m wrong. Tell me I’m right. Just—” His breath hitched, and he dragged a hand through his hair, his fingers trembling. “Just tell me why, Marc. Why do you do this to me? Why do you keep coming back if all you’re going to do is leave again?”

Marc finally looked up, his eyes rimmed red, glassy with unshed tears, his face pale and hollow, like the statue of a grieving saint left too long in the rain. His lips parted, trembling with the weight of unspoken words, his expression a mixture of shame and anguish that Marco knew too well. “I never meant to hurt you,” Marc said, his voice barely a whisper, thin and fragile like a prayer slipping through cracked lips. It was a confession not meant to be heard, an apology too quiet to carry the depth of its meaning. “I never meant to—”

“To what?” Marco snapped, his voice sharp, rising like a storm crashing against fragile walls. His chest heaved, his breaths coming in ragged bursts as he fought to contain the fire in his veins. “To what, Marc? To make me love you?” The words burned on their way out, each syllable cutting deeper than the last. His hands shook as he gestured wildly, the desperation in his movements betraying the calm he was trying to hold onto. “To make me pray for you every damn night, hoping — begging — you’ll come back to me in one piece? Hoping you’ll stop tearing me apart piece by piece?”

Marc flinched at the words, his body stiffening like he’d been struck, but he didn’t look away. Instead, he stood slowly, his movements deliberate, his presence towering over Marco, suffocating yet heartbreakingly familiar. His shadow fell over Marco like a shroud, and for a moment, it felt as if the room itself held its breath. “You don’t understand,” Marc said, his voice trembling but resolute, heavy with something Marco couldn’t quite place — remorse, maybe, or fear. “I’m not good enough for you. I’m not—”

“Don’t you dare,” Marco interrupted, his voice cracking under the weight of his fury and grief. He stepped closer, his chest rising and falling with the intensity of his emotions. “Don’t you fucking dare act like you’re some kind of martyr. You’re not carrying a cross, Marc.” His voice softened, trembling as the pain seeped into every word. “You are the cross. And I’ve been nailed to you for so long I don’t even know how to stand on my own anymore.”

The silence that followed was deafening, the kind that pressed against the walls and seeped into the cracks between their breaths. The faint hum of traffic outside served as a cruel reminder of the world that kept spinning, indifferent to the devastation inside this room. Marc reached out then, his hand hesitant but steady, brushing against Marco’s cheek. His touch was soft, too soft, like an apology he didn’t have the courage to say out loud. Marco flinched at first, his body recoiling from the familiar tenderness, but he didn’t pull away. He couldn’t.

“You colour me blue,” Marco whispered, his voice breaking as tears spilled over, tracing the hollow curves of his face like rain carving paths into stone. “Over and over again. And I let you. I let you because I don’t know how to stop. Because I’d rather bleed for you than live without you.”

The words hung in the air between them, raw and vulnerable, echoing with a finality that neither of them could ignore. Marc’s hand fell away, his eyes shimmering with tears he refused to let fall, and Marco felt the weight of the moment press against his chest, suffocating and unrelenting. He wanted to scream, to break something, to make Marc feel the same devastation tearing through him, but all he could do was stand there, his heart laid bare, waiting for the inevitable crash.

Marc’s hand dropped to his side, the movement slow and weighted, as though even gravity conspired to keep him close for a moment longer. His eyes, dark and stormy, filled with something Marco couldn’t quite name — remorse, maybe, or self-loathing, or that hollow resignation Marco had seen too many times before. “I’m sorry,” Marc said, his voice raw, every word trembling on the edge of breaking. “I’m sorry I’m not what you need.”

Marco’s laugh rang out, sharp and brittle, a sound that shattered the fragile quiet of the room. It wasn’t a laugh of humor but of bitterness, the kind that left an ache in the throat long after the sound faded. “You’re not what I need,” Marco said, his voice steady now, a calm born of resignation rather than peace. He looked up at Marc, his gaze unwavering, his expression etched with something between defiance and despair. “But you’re what I chose. And that’s my sin to bear.”

Marc flinched as if the words had struck him, but he didn’t reply. Instead, he turned, his movements slow and deliberate, each step pulling him further away from Marco. The silence that followed his retreat was deafening, broken only by the faint creak of the door as it closed behind him. Marco didn’t move, didn’t call after him. He just stood there, the rosary still clutched in his trembling hands, its beads pressing into his skin as if to anchor him to the moment.

The first rays of dawn began to creep through the window, soft and pale, casting the room in a holy light that felt both comforting and cruel. The golden hues illuminated the scattered remnants of their night — a shirt draped over a chair, a half-empty glass on the table, the weight of unsaid words hanging heavy in the air. It felt like a benediction and a mockery all at once, as if the universe itself couldn’t decide whether to offer forgiveness or judgment.

Marco’s legs buckled, and he sank to his knees, the cold floor biting against his skin. His body shook with silent sobs, each one more forceful than the last, until it felt like his very soul was spilling out in the stillness. He turned his gaze toward the cross hanging on the wall, its outline stark against the morning light.

“Forgive me,” Marco whispered, his voice barely audible, cracked and raw from the weight of his grief. But he didn’t know who the words were meant for — God, who seemed so distant in moments like this; Marc, who had left him alone in the ruins of their love; or himself, for choosing a man who could only ever break him.

The rosary slipped from his hands, its beads clattering softly against the floor, and Marco stared at it for a long moment. The cross at its center gleamed faintly, catching the morning light like a beacon, but it offered no answers, no solace. Just the silent promise of penance for sins Marco didn’t know how to stop committing.

[bobardo]

prompt: for the dom to have the sub on all fours,  using them as a table or footstool. 

some objectification from dismissive h… that would be hawwwwt while yn whines for attention

first slumber party ask!! i've like... never thought of this before and it's rlly...🥸🥸 it’s something that’s fs!!

wc: 601

cw: smut. minors dni. 17+. d/s dynamics. allusions to high, hindering stress/anxiety. humiliation&degradation kink. objectification&dumbification kink. fingering (f recieving). spanking. mean dom!harry.

You can't say you recall exactly how you got into this position. Though, you can't recall much of anything in this moment—this position. You're grateful thought—recollection—isn't something that's expected of you here. Just your obedience.

The chipped red paint of your fingernails, much like the carpet fibers (calloused; scraping against knees and digging into palms) beneath your form—kneeling on all fours, head bowed between your straight, straining shoulders, back flat—blurs in your line of vision.

You inhale sharply—but not sharp enough to move—when the clinking of ice against glass rattles above your head. Your peek out of the corner of your eye and spot as an old fashioned glass is brought to hover over you, condensation dripping down the sides, cradled in jeweled, tattooed hand. You exhale, now, and will yourself not to shift as it slips from the glass and falls into the dip of your spine, cooling against your overheated skin.

The chatter and commentary coming from the television—a footie game, from what you can tell, which isn't much in your current state, this hazy, smog filled bardo—morphs from speech to static in your ears. You blink at the carpet, lagged.

How had you gotten here?

(was it because you'd failed to have his meal—dinner, the feast you're unchangingly responsible for each night—prepared for him upon his return, instead found in your washroom, shower running, sat under the hot spray with skin rubbed raw and fingertips pinching at your roots, nails scraping at the scalp, staring down at the water trailing toward the drain blankly, hollow—un-useful, the woman fallen to hysterics. Or was it because he saw through the surface and knew you needed him to fix the problem; couldn't do this on your own, too unstable—the girl built on broken stilts—needed his heavy hand, curled around a stone chisel, to chip it away, to cut it clean off—)

You're pulled from your thoughts—a fruitless reverie, more jumbled and confounded after trying rather than just letting—when the cool, wet press of fogged glass is felt against your flat back. Your bottom lips fits itself between the bite of your teeth, willing away any reaction—objects don't react, and you're not you right now.

It becomes increasingly difficult when the hand clasped around the liquor glass standing on your back leaves it to stand, unsteady, on its own and settles over the swell of your ass—tender to the touch, hand-printed and bruising—fingers smoothing a downward trail to your cunt, wet and dripping with neglect. A thick, ringed finger slips between your soaked petals, parting, to press itself inside.

Your throat bobs, shoulders shake, ever-so-slightly—but enough for him to notice.

You freeze when you hear his soft tut.

"Don't move, Pretty Thing," Harry mutters, eyes still tailing the footie game on the television, tone vaguely distant, infliction indifferent. He takes his finger out to pet over your aching ass, gently. It lifts, and the soothing of flesh smoothing into flesh is replaced with the lingering sting of skin colliding. The strength with which it's delivered is more bruising than those that he'd previously left behind.

You don't move, though. Nor, yelp, or stiffen. You barely breathe.

"Good," he hums, and presses two fingers inside this time. "Don't spill my drink."

Your eyelashes flutter—lids heavy, sight blotchy, spotting—eyes threatening to roll back.

You're not sure you can take much more of this. You're not sure you can keep still, stay good, for much longer.

You're not worried about it, though. Not with Harry here, with his flesh against yours; his heavy hand, fit to your purity (chipping away at the festering disease—a tumor, brain and body, to cut clean off—

problem solved).

——

a/n: this was slightly liberating to write :)) anywho hope this suffices nonnie and THANK YOU FOR PARTICIPATING IN THE CELEBRATION/SLUMBER PARTY!1!!1 😁🥳

loosely edited/proofread!!!

[gingerjolover]

omggg well since u asked for holiday requests: soft!gf and julien ice skating together?? and one of them (dealer’s choice) is super nervous / has never done it before but the other’s a natural. maybe the boys and muna are there, maybe they aren’t, up to u. love ur work mama g 🫶🏽

okay wait soft!gf gives me lowkey figure skater vibes... maybe figure skater!gf oop

like gf lived a whole life before they became soft!gf and met jb and got into a relationship

(i physically cannot create another universe rn because i am so backed up, but we can keep this in the back of our minds, yes?)

okay i would like to think that jb would actually be pretty good on skates but it would be getting her on the ice thats hard

like if soft!gf actively still skates, julien is watching her rehearse or going to competitions or maybe watching her teach classes in awe of how she moves

but julien is SO resistant to getting onto the ice, like seeing how graceful soft!gf is, julien just doesn't believe that she could be the same way??

but let's say that julien and soft!gf are in NYC or soft!gf's hometown, maybe at the rink they grew up skating in (whether soft!gf was a figure skater or just ice skated with friends for fun)

and soft!gf is BEGGING julien to come skate, even just for a little

def goes as far to rent out the rink or hit some people up and be like "can we just have an hour, my girlfriend is super nervous"

and soft!gf is a treasure and loved so dearly...so clearly, they get the rink to themselves

getting julien in the car to go to the rink? check

getting julien in the proper clothing and skates? check

getting julien on the ice? girl... bffr

it takes SO much bribing and bartering, i mean soft!gf owes julien like 5 massages, a warm bath, 2 hours of braiding her hair, and special cookies that she doesn't make often because they're time consuming before julien agrees

and julien is giving bambi

holding onto the wall, slipping and sliding

it takes most of the hour? two hours? that they have the rink for jules to just acclimate to the ice

eventually soft!gf convinces jb to hold on to the walker thingy (yall know what im talking about?) or the big traffic cone and skaet around the ice

and right before they need to clear out, julien lets soft!gf take her hands, skating backwards as they pull julien around the ice, teaching her how to brake and glide

julien doesn't fall once and is encouraged by the many kisses and butt grabs that soft!gf graces her with

ice skating!julien comes back into play when they return to LA

i feel like soft!gf was talking to kelli or katie about ice skating and they were like wait lets go ice skating

so munagenius all decides to go to a rink

and everyone is nervous, except katie and soft!gf, i feel like phoebe would be nervous but still just like step onto the ice

and julien has increased confidence but is still terrified

mainly because she hasn't fallen yet

but she lets soft!gf genuinely teaches all of them, Katie assisting because of their rollerskating knowledge

and all of munagenius are ice skating like grandmas, the best playlist you've ever heard bumping through the speakers

and i feel like julien would get tired quick, like would go off the ice and sit, a cup of coffee between her hands as she watches soft!gf try and help jo and lucy skate in zig zags

eventually munagenius watches katie and soft!gf's choreography you know how when you were a kid and you made dances with your cousin and performed them? thats the vibe

and it's to a song thats just so out there, maybe its like fucking hardy or something idk

or silk chiffon teehee

[kurasutaa]

I should make at least a half assed attempt at an oc bio for all these nerds

Will I?? Remains to be seen

[peachhcs]

For celly propt 17 for Will and Sammy

Where it’s summer and Sammy need help with her dress and will help her but Sammy also helps Will with his tie when they are going to a fancy dinner over the summer

admiring her

hughes!sister x will smith au (samy + will blurb)

will can't help but admire his girlfriend while she ties his tie for him

0.5k words

warnings: lowkey will being a slight perv but like in a cutie way. a bit suggestive, but not really. will's just admiring his girlfriend and feeling lucky lol

hey guys i’ve been somehow extremely busy lately so i’m posting this i wrote up a few weeks ago that’s been in my drafts. i promise i will write my requests so soon!!! they do not go unnoticed and i love all the send ins!! this is extremely blurby, but i wasn't quite sure what else to add to it. hope u like it though!! thanks for the request :)

700 celly masterlist | au masterlist

“hey will, can you come in here for a second?” samy called from where she stood in her bathroom knowing her boyfriend was on the other side of the door. the blonde poked his head into the sight of samy holding her dress up with the zipper undone exposing her entire back. 

“hi, sorry. can you zip me up? i can’t reach the zipper,” she smiled, oblivious to the stare will had on her. 

his gaze shamelessly lifted over her entire body head to toe before licking his bottom lip. he shuffled forward with delicate fingers as they clasped around the zipper and one hand on samy’s hip. the blonde drew up the metal as if the dress was going to fall apart under his touch. once he reached the top, his fingers drew lightly across the rest of samy’s back that wasn’t covered by the satin cloth. 

his touch left shivers in its wake. “you look so beautiful,” will hummed, leaning down to press his lips to samy’s shoulder. 

“thank you. you look handsome,” the brunette spun around, her eyes falling over her boyfriend’s half buttoned shirt and tie draped loosely around his neck. her hands ran over his muscular arms, squeezing on the way down. her touch left the hockey player a blushing mess. 

“need help?” she tugged on his tie. 

“maybe,” will teased. 

of course he knew how to do it, he just liked it better when samy was the one standing in front of him tying his tie for him because he had more time to admire her up close when she wasn’t paying attention. 

the girl began working her magic. she buttoned up the rest of will’s shirt before she dealt with his tie. she wasn’t even touching his skin, yet any contact she made had the blonde’s head spinning in circles. even after 19 years of friendship and a year of love. will’s gaze trailed over her face again, enjoying the way it scrunched up into focus when she worked on his tie. her eyebrows became set and her tongue poked out of one side of her mouth which was a little concentration habit she’s had since they were kids. 

his eyes wandered a bit lower in places where he shouldn’t be looking, but definitely was because he could. not that he looked at her cleavage every single time, he took his height as an advantage to peak every so often when she was in a dress like the one that currently hugged every right place. he just couldn’t help himself. not when his girlfriend looked this good and he was the only one who got to see her in ways no one else could. 

“okay, you should be good,” samy patted will’s chest as she did her finishing touches. his smile grew while his one hand still on her hip pulled her a bit closer. 

“thanks, pretty girl. i love you.” 

“i love you too, will. thank you for planning this date,” summer let the couple make up for every date they missed out on during the school year and will was determined to go all out because samy deserved nothing less. 

“of course. we’ll leave in 5?” samy nodded, telling him she needed a few more minutes to touch up the last of her makeup. 

she broke away from his grasp to spin back to the mirror. will lingered in the bathroom for a few more seconds taking one last glance, a smile painting his lips because how did he get so lucky? 

[str4ngergirlw0rld]

lil blurby blurb of stevie baby taking his time making you feel good 18+

when steve is fucking you he loves taking his time , reminding you that theres no rush that he will always give you what you want. He watches your chest hitch up and down from the heavy breaths he’s causing , a smirk appearing on his face when he sees how cock drunk hes making you. He leans down to lick around your nipple , drawing circles with his tongue til he takes it into his mouth sucks and lets go with a pop moving to the other one. once he’s done with your nipples he moves lower and lower til he’s teasing your clit with his nose , his tongue licking you through your surely ruined lavender panties. He pushes them aside to sucks at your folds and presses his tongue flat against your mound and tells you to ride his face. You oblige and grip his hair bucking your hips against his face , he cant help but groan against you , once you cum. he licks a path from your mound all the way to your lips , making sure to press his tongue against yours so you can taste yourself and he leans down to whisper “you taste so fucking good”

You let out a whimper , ready for him to give you his cock til you feel his fingers spreading your folds apart , his thumb expertly finding your clit and rubbing it in a circular motion , his middle and ring breach your hole and a squelching sound fills the room, you feel too good to get embarrassed . His fingers start pumping in and out , too slowly for your liking but you know steve will get you there. “Stevie please.” you beg , Steve looks up shocked to hear you call him that, you only call him that when you’re small and fuck if he were in your position he would be begging for you too.

[clarionglass]

gang,,,,, gang. i am honestly still reeling from The game changer account reblogging the comic,,,, my god. my god.

for newcomers: welcome! thank you for being here!! for those who may have only seen the part of the fic linked to the comic, this is part 6 in the series (because truly i cannot stop myself). all the other parts are linked in the lil game master cinematic universe blurb i've got down the bottom of the post, and the whole thing is now on ao3!

and speaking of my lil blurby thing, if anyone else wants to play around in the game master cinematic universe, tag me so i don't miss it and i'll add whatever you make to the list!! and if you just want to chat about the crossover, hit me up! truly i am so happy to have as many people playing in this sandbox as want to be here :D

but anyway, without further ado:

a selection of correspondence (game master cinematic universe, part 6) | read on ao3

From: Sam Reich (@dropout.tv) To: Group <Dropout cast and crew> Subject: Announcements and info

Hi all,

Just a quick announcement that we have a new member of the team joining us at Dropout! Some of you have met him already, although you may not have realised it—he worked on A Game Most Changed and Escape the Greenroom in season 5, and Bingo, Deja Vu, Beat the Buzzer and Sam Says 4 in season 6, doing some of the hosting in my place.

And before you ask how that can be, this man is my exact doppelganger! He’s a time traveling alien who, for the moment, we are calling Other Sam, because we’ve agreed that the name he’s chosen is not exactly appropriate in a workplace setting. He’s here on a kind of rehabilitation program, as shows like Game Changer provide the sort of enrichment that he needs, without him having to resort to things like planetary conquest and murder. We also have him to thank for our new studio—he has kindly allowed us to use his (currently grounded) spacetime machine to record in, seeing as he did blow up our original studio. On an operational basis, nothing should have changed with the studio, but I do recommend you don’t go poking around in cupboards, just in case.

I promise on everything dear to me that this is not a joke.

I hope you’ll all make Other Sam feel welcome! So there’s minimal confusion between the two of us, he and I will be taking care to differentiate ourselves (he says he will try and look, in his words, “more evil”, although I’ll admit I’m not quite sure how that will work).

Series leads and producers, if you would like to include Other Sam in one of your shows, please let me know. He’s a lot of fun to work with, and he’s promised us his best behaviour, so I can guarantee there will be none of the aforementioned planetary conquest and murder. Of course, the wellbeing of all Dropout cast and crew is my highest priority, so if any of you are not comfortable working with him, please let me know as well, and production and I will ensure you are not cast in the same episodes. In future seasons of Game Changer, we will be sharing the hosting duties, so if you’re on an episode, it’ll be made clear which of us you’ll be working with.

On a related note, you know I hate being the bearer of bad news about mandatory seminars, but there is a training seminar next Monday on psychic defence techniques. This seminar is a requirement if you’re going to be working with him, and even if you’re not planning on that, I’d strongly advise coming along anyway.

As always, if you’ve got any questions, don’t hesitate to get in touch!

Cheers, Sam

---

[Note: many responses with the general sentiment of “what the fuck?!” have not been included in the selection of return correspondence.]

---

From: Brennan Lee Mulligan (@gmail.com) To: Sam Reich (@droput.tv) Subject: Re: Announcements and info

I need this man in the dome immediately. 

---

From: Siobhan Thompson (@gmail.com) To: Sam Reich (@droput.tv) Subject: Re: Announcements and info

Hi Sam,

Many thanks for your email, and for letting us know about Other Sam. You don’t need to confirm or deny this, but I’m assuming he did something to us during the Deja Vu recording. I haven’t felt entirely comfortable around you since then, and until now I haven’t been able to find a logical reason why. You mentioned psychic defence techniques in your email, so I take it that there was some kind of mental fuckery involved—perhaps a memory wipe? 

I don’t know what he did, and I’m not sure I want to know, but whatever it is, I don’t think it’s good. I would very much appreciate it if I don’t have to work with him.

Best wishes, Siobhan

---

From: Grant O’Brien (@gmail.com) To: Sam Reich (@droput.tv) Subject: Re: Announcements and info

Hey Sam,

I’m already digging up info for a Breaking News segment. There’s someone on reddit called scarfytwin who says they might be able to give us some good info, but I might need to sign a few things first? Looks like it’s tangled up in some British government stuff, which is wild. Sounds juicy, whatever it is, and I reckon it would be good payback…

Best, Grant

---

From: Lou Wilson (@gmail.com) To: Sam Reich (@droput.tv) Subject: Re: Announcements and info

Man, are you telling me that Samuel Dalton was kind of a real fucking thing?? No way. If you let me punch him *hard* one time I’ll go on any show with him.

Cheers, Lou

---

From: Brian David Gilbert (@gmail.com) To: Sam Reich (@droput.tv) Subject: Re: Announcements and info

Hi Sam,

This explains a lot about the weird feelings I’ve been having since Deja Vu! I know something terrible probably happened during that recording, but I’d love to just sit down with Other Sam and have a chat. Do you recommend we just meet in a professional context, or would that be something you’re able to organize?

Thanks, Brian

---

From: Zac Oyama (@gmail.com) To: Sam Reich (@droput.tv) Subject: Re: Announcements and info

Cool.

---

From: Ally Beardsley (@gmail.com) To: Sam Reich (@droput.tv) Subject: Re: Announcements and info

Absolute freak behavior and i love this for you, sign me up for anything!

---

From: Mike Trapp (@gmail.com) To: Sam Reich (@droput.tv) Subject: Re: Announcements and info

Hi Sam,

Huh, that sure explains some things. This will probably be cool in future, but for right now, I think I need to do a bit of processing. I’ll let you know!

Cheers, Trapp

---

From: Vic Michaelis (@gmail.com) To: Sam Reich (@droput.tv) Subject: Re: Announcements and info

Hi Sam,

Intriguing! If you think he’d be up for the prosthetics, I’d love to have either of you on Very Important People next season. Both of you together would be even better!

Vic

---

From: Lily Du (@gmail.com) To: Sam Reich (@droput.tv) Subject: Re: Announcements and info

Hey Sam,

I’ve had a chat to Grant, and I would love to put this guy on Dirty Laundry. Grant says he’ll share what he finds out from the reddit person with me, and we might be able to make a good episode happen.

Cheers, Lily

---

From: Sam Reich (@dropout.tv) To: Other Sam Reich (@dropout.tv) Subject: Fwd: Announcements and info

Well, most people seem to have taken it well! Looks like we’ll be having some fun…

---

From: Other Sam Reich (@dropout.tv) To: Sam Reich (@dropout.tv) Subject: Re: Fwd: Announcements and info

“Not exactly appropriate in a workplace setting”?

---

From: Sam Reich (@dropout.tv) To: Other Sam Reich (@dropout.tv) Subject: Re: Re: Fwd: Announcements and info

We discussed this. You agreed.

---

From: Other Sam Reich (@dropout.tv) To: Sam Reich (@dropout.tv) Subject: Re: Re: Re: Fwd: Announcements and info

I most certainly did not. I said “hm”. “Hm” does not count as agreement.

---

From: Sam Reich (@dropout.tv) To: Other Sam Reich (@dropout.tv) Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Fwd: Announcements and info

You do know this is a group of people who I can guarantee, on hearing the word “Master”, would react the exact same way Grant did?

---

From: Other Sam Reich (@dropout.tv) To: Sam Reich (@dropout.tv) Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Fwd: Announcements and info

Fine. “Other Sam” it is.

---

missed an installment of the game master cinematic universe?

original idea by @ace-whovian-neuroscientist: x

art by @northernfireart concept: x scissor sisters sketch: x sam and his doppelganger: x escape the death beam: x

by @bloopdydooooo drawing collection: x

writing by me (!) part one (escape the greenroom): x part two (deja vu): x part three (sam says 4): x part four (you think you know someone): x part five (point and counterpoint): x part six (a selection of correspondence): you are here!

[oneforthemunny]

merry christmas eve-ie to all!!!

here's a little blurby blurb for our fav dilf <3

"How's it going?" You whispered, slipping into the garage carefully.

"Good." Eddie grunted, tongue poked out in concentration. Glasses perched on the tip of his nose, he tightened the screws. "I woulda thought they would've evolved this shit by now." He huffed.

"What?" You whispered, head tilting down the hall to make sure Delilah was still asleep.

"I had to build all this stuff for Brielle, and I just woulda thought it would be easier by now." Eddie rolled his eyes. "Shit should come assembled."

You joined him on the cool concrete floor of the garage. It was warmer than you expected this year, no chance of a white Christmas. "You're a pro at this, Santa." You grinned.

"Reminds me of this one year," Eddie reached for the screwdriver behind him. "I think Brielle was nine, and I saved up to get her this Barbie Castle Dreamhouse thing, right? I was working like overtime because those things were so expensive and I wanted her to have all the dolls and shit that went with it."

You watched him, eyes shining in adoration as his brows creased in focus, securing the tiny elevator onto the track. "Anyways, I spent all this money because she was having Christmas with me this year. And I hadn't bought the house yet, so I decided to put it together in my closet while she was asleep. I stayed up all night, all fucking night, putting this thing together." Eddie snorted at the memory.

"That thing had so many fucking little pieces and parts."

"I bet she loved it though." You cooed, chin pressed to your palm, a lopsided smile on your face. "Bet she was so excited when she saw it."

"Yeah." Eddie smiled, head bobbing at the memory. "She didn't want to go back to Gina's because she just wanted to stay and play with it."

You looked at the doll house Eddie was working on now, the number one thing Delilah had asked for- besides a puppy, which you had put a stop to.

"I think Lilah's gonna love this." You grin.

"Yeah, I hope so." Eddie muttered, fastening the plastic pieces together. "Oh, look what I got her." He laughed lightly, reaching back to snatch the small box beside him.

Inside the bright cardboard, a tiny plastic puppy. An accessory that went with the other dolls, but it made you laugh. "There's her puppy." Eddie smirked.

[writefightandflightclub]

“Yes man” (Cecil Dennis {fuck me, how did I get here} x fem!reader)

Summary: Blurby McBlurbFace. Mainly chat, slight fluff, smut, pining / friends to lovers vibes.

18+ ONLY MINORS DNI

Warnings: alcohol consumption; drug use mentions (weed); smoking; dumbification of Cecil, I guess. Mommy kink if you squint. Public erections / handjob sorta, premature ejaculation / cum in pants. Mentions of dead fish but no fish were harmed. Actually, a surprising number of animal metaphors. Oops. Rimming I’m sorry that one snuck in very last minute Omg.

A/n: having a shitty mental health day (boo) and this Cecil blurb (whilst not my best) is my self-care ☺️ I don’t remember his character well aside from wet bloody cat boy, but I’m damn sure not rewatching that again so this will have to do 😅. Feedback appreciated! 🧡 (Is the rimming too much? 🙈) Not proofed and I’m almost positive autocorrect will have screwed me over.

Also totally inspired by @my-secret-shame’s meme and @foxilayde’s amazing blurb. I will not pretend to have had an original idea! 🧡

“Come onnnn, Cecil,” you whine, poking him in his soft belly with your index finger. He giggles lightly, almost like a hiccough. “It’s always me coming up with the ideas. What do you wanna do next?”

He turns his head as though in slow motion. Moves as if he’s underwater, this one - at least when he’s got food and several beers in him (which is most of the time). He looks up. Blinks at you; dumbly. “What do you mean?”

Eh. You’d really thought your statement had been quite clear.

You resist the urge to pinch his cheek and tell him It’s a good job you’re pretty.

“I mean, that I suggest things, and you go along with them.”

He blinks again. It’s like everything is just a little slower in Cecil’s world. Takes a little longer to filter through. It’s refreshing, in a way. He’s in no rush, and it encourages you to slow down too. To smell the roses.

Cecil is beyond easy-going, come to think of it. Goes with the flow like a dead fish. You’re pretty sure, in fact, that he’d go along with just about anything. With just about anybody’s hare-brained schemes, without once thinking through a single one of the potential consequences.

Scratch that - he probably already has done just that; which would explain a lot of the trouble he’s routinely gotten himself into since you’ve known him.

Though, you suppose, in a way that’s refreshing too. You always did worry too much.

Besides, he always seems to muddle through, somehow. Though quite how has you stumped. It’s hardly due to his charm or his smarts, now, is it? Even so, despite whatever attributes he is lacking in, you can’t deny that he must be doing something right. Trouble simply seems to slide right off the man’s back. Like water off a… well. A dead fish, you guess. What a versatile metaphor.

He blinks at you again. Maybe those big pretty cow eyes help, just a teency bit, to get him out of trouble, you would wager.

Look at him though. You’ve never seen anyone more relaxed. Practically horizontal as he’s hunkered down in the booth, seated next to you in the corner of your usual dive bar. Maybe there’s something to be said for all the pot and seedy hotel room fucks he indulges in. You bet his shoulders are inordinately loose. Maybe he really does have it all figured out, despite appearances.

As you ponder this, Cecil -eventually- makes a non-committal noise, before his bloodshot, glassy eyes flick back to the TV hung up on the wall. He is barely even watching it. Just letting it happen to him, like he does with most everything else.

That’s probably why you’ve never fucked him, you realise, like a bolt out of the blue. He’s pretty, sure. But you wouldn’t.

You don’t mind control - that’s not it. You don’t mind taking charge. But with Cecil? You think he’d take it lying down - a little too literally. If you’d ever suggested you and he fool around, you’d never know for sure. Never know if it really was his idea - a thought or desire he’d ever had before - or if he was simply far too agreeable and opportunistic to decline. So agreeable, that he’d let you ease your vagina up and down on his cock until you came on him. You were intrigued by the thought, sure. But you refused to go there simply because Cecil couldn’t come up with anything better to do.

You look at him, and immediately bat that thought - the vagina all over cock one - away though, as you regard his complete lack of gumption. It’s tangible. Look at him now, for example. He’d seemed to like the way the air from his non-committal noise had filtered over the neck of his bottle, tucked under his folded chin. Indeed, he is now pursing his full, curvy lips, and blowing over the mouth of it until a soft series of “hoots” fill your booth.

You fold your arms and sigh.

You reckon that will amuse him for the next ten minutes at least, so clearly, once again, Cecil’s not the one coming up with a plan for the remainder of this evening.

It’s not that you ever really have to do anything with Cecil to have a good time. It’s just that, tonight, you’re antsy, and it’s making your thoughts wander in directions. Down below his zipper directions, so help you.

“Beer’s empty,” Cecil states flatly, finally noticing after sucking on the bottle for a mo, poking his wet pink tongue around the rim like the little wet cat boy he is. Cute though. Does things to you.

Anyway. You register his statement, but you observe that no action follows. He doesn’t look at all like he plans to do a damn thing about it.

You decide to test your theory, then. Your theory that Cecil’s simply a dead fish swept along in your river. That maybe he doesn’t even want to be here at all. Never did. That you are just another something that happened to happen to him.

“Do you wanna go get Mexican?” you offer, with ulterior motives Cecil is not shrewd enough to pick up on.

His eyes tick back from the captivating, shifting lights of the TV. “Sure,” he smiles softly at you, perfectly content, it seems - and yet, you are less than satisfied.

“See!” You smack the palms of your hands together in triumph, and he jumps. Pushes himself up a little straighter in the seat, his palms disappearing into the worn, lumpy upholstery. “See what I mean?”

He blinks at you blankly. Again.

Clearly not, then?

“You just go along with anything I say. We ate two hours ago, Cecil,” you complain, recalling the all you can eat Chinese buffet you and he had gorged on with two coupons you’d cut out of the newspaper. You drop your hands to your lap, dejectedly. You’re getting agitated with him, which surprises you, in truth. And still… there Cecil is. Unflappable. Calm. Constant. There are pros to his cons, for sure. “I just… I never know if you actually like what we’re doing, you know?”

“But. You always suggest things I like. So why would I say no?” He shrugs a little. “Tacos are good. I like tacos. I like…” he hoots into his bottle again as he says the word. “You-ooooooh.”

You hate to admit it, but his answer has you stumped for a moment. Cecil’s statements may generally be simple. Uncomplicated. But they can be oddly profound at times.

Christ. Maybe… Does the man actually have a valid point? Or, perhaps you’re looking too hard for meaning in his words - it’s possible. You feel like you’ve spent a lot of time lately looking hard at Cecil, perhaps to justify your bizarre and inexplicable feelings.

Possibly you’re even projecting. His seeming lack of independent willpower would certainly make that easy enough to do.

Maybe the man has a point though. Maybe he’s not as “easy-going” as you think he is. Maybe you’re just coincidentally so attuned to his desires that he’s never had cause to deny you. Maybe you are aligned with his desires. One and the same. “What if I asked you to do something you didn’t like, then?”

You slurp up the dregs of melted ice through your straw and Cecil blinks again as though it’s taking all of his processing power. Damn, though. You’re surprised that the fanning of those endlessly long cow lashes didn’t cause the curtains behind you to billow in the breeze they threw up. “Like what?”

You shake your head. Touch his arm to placate him. “Never mind, Cecil.” Christ. If he can’t even think of a single Thing He Wouldn’t Like, maybe you can safely stick to your dead fish hypothesis. It’s all the same to him. Just happening to him. He’s not choosing you.

That particular thought, when it arrives, niggles you more than expected, but you quash the growing agitation which rides in alongside it.

Meanwhile, Cecil looks around, quite visibly thinking. “I wouldn’t get up outta this seat,” he states adamantly, his voice croaked from all the blunts he’s worked through today. “I wouldn’t like that.”

You believe him. He’s practically sliding down to become a puddle on the floor. Dissolving into the bar furniture; becoming one with the upholstery.

Your lips curl up into a tender smile, remembering one particularly ridiculous night at Cecil’s. The night involving a 3am bong sesh, culminating in him genuinely believing he had merged with the couch, becoming a half-human half-upholstery monstrosity. He had waved the two huge, puffy couch cushions around as though they were his arms, and he’d grabbed you up in the middle of them like a grilled cheese, sandwiching you and taking you down to the floor where the two of you had rolled and laughed until you’d cried.

When the laughter had subsided to only the odd titter here and there, and you had lain on his disgusting rug almost nose to nose? That’s the first time you’d wanted to kiss him, and it turned out not to have been the last.

Fuck. You are rather fond of this idiot, aren’t you? How the fuck did that happen?

Engaged fully now though - slightly more lucid than your fond memory- Cecil sits up. Still slouched but this time over the table, his forearms bracing him against the surface. As he moves, you get a waft of his layered, stale cigarette smell. It’s… confusing, in its appeal. Should be off-putting, but you find, in fact, that it’s a comfort.

“No? You don’t wanna?”

With a rush of affection you link your arm through Cecil’s, and he slumps his head on to your shoulder as though it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You weren’t ready for the way his knotted curls brush your cheek, and it inspires a similarly dense and tangled knot to form in your middle.

“No.” It’s the most sure you’ve ever heard him sound. “I don’t wanna get up.”

“A minute ago we were going for Mexican food, Cecil.” There’s a beat. “That kinda involves movement, you realise?

He swivels his head towards you then, gaze all doe-eyed and pathetic, and the proximity of him parroting on your shoulder knocks you for six. “You mad at me or something, Hottie from Walmart?”

You snort. He doesn’t always pull out that nickname for you - how you’d been known to him before you had been known to him - but it always makes you sentimental when he does.

He shifts from you then, tilting his body towards you. Scrutinising you with apprehension in his sweet face.

Fuck him actually, and fuck his pouty beautiful kissable lips most of all.

You sigh, and you deliberately soften your face. He’s easy-going, sure, but he’s sensitive. Trouble slides off of his back, but other things… other things don’t slip off quite so well, and he often gets like this. Like he’s done something wrong, when he hasn’t.

You actively resist the urge to coddle him. To tenderly rake his somewhat grimy but beautiful curls off of his forehead.

You hardly want to examine the fact he brings out your… motherly instincts; but it doesn’t escape your attention that he always seems like he’s craving just a little nurturing. You want to take your thumb and smooth out the creases in his troubled brow.

“No, Cecil. I’m not mad at you. I’d tell you if I was and we’d talk about it.”

He nods.

You’re not mad at him. Really. And so, you take pause to wonder why this happy-go-lucky trait of his is particularly irking you today. “It’s mostly a good thing, I promise.”

“It is?”

“Yeah.”

He looks pleased for a minute and then: “Wait. What’s a good thing?”

You want to kiss his stupid mouth until he can’t think. Which you don’t think would take long at all, actually.

“That…” You think about how to phrase it, and it quickly occurs to you. “That. You’re my ‘yes man’.” He is expressionless for a moment, and you wait for comprehension to slowly crawl over him. “I mean, Cecil,” you take his clammy hand in yours. “That it’s always fun with you. I mean that you never shoot down my ideas. Even when you probably should.”

His face splits with a brief - goofy, but wholly endearing - smile. “You have fun with me?”

His big cow eyes go all soft and wet.

Oh boy. This idiot. If you didn’t have fun with him, even just sitting on his grotty couch, what other reason could you possibly have to hang out with him, huh?

You open your mouth to say as much before thinking better of it, but for once Cecil beats you to it.

“I have fun with you too, Hottie.”

It’s another one of those moments of levity that you’ve experienced surprisingly often with Cecil. One of those moments where everything feels a just little more profound. A little more magical. Sometimes, Cecil gets you in the gut just a little harder than expected.

Great. And now you’re thinking of Cecil all up in your guts.

“I should think so - I’m awesome. But, right now? All I’m saying is…” You tap your noggin. “Tank empty. No ideas. It’s your turn to decide what we do tonight? Okay?”

You search his eyes. His big, beautiful, sincere and secretless eyes. You silently ask the true question you want to ask him. I want to know what you want.

You’re not yet ready to admit the questions buried right beneath that one: do you want me back? Could you? Would you, Cecil?

“Yeah?” Cecil responds, unsure, and you immediately worry that you have, in fact, given him too much responsibility. His expression compresses in a frown of deep, deep concentration. Like he’s really wrestling with this.

You watch with bated breath, dying to see what he comes up with - if anything at all.

And then - aha - he finally has it.

“I could jerk off.”

“Wha-?” You playfully bat him in the arm, aghast. “Cecil!!”

“What?” A surprised, contrite laugh bobs in his throat.

“I mean.” You swallow. “How is that an idea for both of us?”

Oh that’s your problem with his idea?

That it’s not participatory enough?

“You could help.”

Your jaw drops open. “Cecil! I’m not gonna-” you switch to a loud whisper “-jerk you off!”

He blinks again, his eyes glinting with a gentle - ever so gentle - flicker of amusement. “You’re not a yes man,” he complains softly, his curly lips sneaking up into a curly smile. “Always shooting down my ideas.”

He bats his lashes at you and oh boy - even Cecil must be starting to figure out that you’re a sucker for those big, pretty brown eyes. Your one true weakness.

“That’s really what you want?” you ask, trying to keep things light. To keep your tone jokey and jovial, like always, despite the rising tremor in your voice. “It would involve getting up, you realise?”

He winks at you - a gesture which seems entirely unlike him and yet somehow works - and smirks down at his crotch. “Already am.”

“If you’re really so uncontrollably horny, why don’t you get someone else around here to help you, huh?” Your heart skips a beat. “Why me?”

He’s looking at you like he wants you but… he’s an opportunistic guy. Goes with the flow. That’s how things come to him; he’ll take his cigarettes and beers and fucks wherever and whenever he can get them.

He unceremoniously pulls out a rolled blunt and lights it up, the filter end pressed between his plush pink lips.

“No.” It bobs as he talks and he takes little, peppered drags to get the burn going.

“No?”

You blink at him dumbly now.

“No. I only want you.”

Correction. That’s the most sure of anything you’ve ever heard him.

He slips forward, exhaling his smoke into your mouth as his lips caress yours. “Come on,” he encourages. “Get going. Before my penis turns into a couch cushion.”

He kisses your laugh, and as his tongue slides hungrily against yours suddenly it isn’t quite so funny. Suddenly, you feel like maybe Cecil has the best ideas.

“Right here?” You reach down, and you smooth your palm over the clothed bulge at his crotch. “In the booth?”

“I’m already barred. Heh. What are they gonna do?”

You smile at him, licking your lips as Cecil bucks up into your hand, his head lolling back against the lip of his seat, and his pretty eyes fluttering closed.

He groans, as your fingers snake to tease open the button at his fly.

“Oops,” Cecil whispers contritely, almost immediately, his cheeks and his ears darkening with a deep crimson flush as he looks over to you. “I just… I…”

Oh God. He just came in his pants, didn’t he? Oh Lord that makes you inexplicably hot.

His big, pretty eyes are wet with apology. “Are you mad?”

“No, Cecil.” Poor baby. “I just think I should take you home and get you cleaned up, hmm?” You next words all run into one, as you struggle to get your new genius plan out of your mouth. “Mayberimyoualittlewhatdoyousay?”

Did you actually just suggest that you take him home to rim him? Good Lord.

He blinks rapidly, the colour in his cheeks flowering more, like a beautiful rose unfurling. “Y-Yes. I say yes.”

It’s a hare-brained plan, for sure, but you decide that for once,

you might as well just…

go with the flow.

It certainly works for Cecil.

[carolmunson]

carol’s at the laundromat — and a new character appears.

The sun is spilling in just right on the silver dryers on the back wall — whir, whir, whirring their spring cleaning drawl.

“Wait, stay juuusssst like that — perfect,” Robin encourages, pulling out her Polaroid camera while you’re bent over loading in her clothes. The flash glares bright in your eyes when snaps the picture and catches it right when the camera spits it out.

“Rob, my back isn’t built to hold this pose,” you laugh, “Also, why am I doing your laundry?”

“Cause you’re so pretty and the light was hitting you perfectly,” she shrugs, snapping another picture at your annoyed face, “Maybe not in that one.”

Her camera goes back around her neck and the half finished blow pop goes back in her mouth, stretching her freckled cheek. A breeze comes in when the door opens, a whoosh of a warm breeze with the promise of a long summer kisses you both — still in jean jackets and long pants.

“That doesn’t answer my question, why am I doing your laundry?” you ask, closing the door and leaning against dryer, feeling it heat up on your back.

She shrugs, “I dunno, you scooched me away when I didn’t separate my darks from my lights.”

“Well, Rob you can’t just—”

There’s a wrap on the front windows, sharp enough to know that its rings on glass. The sweat on your back from the dryer goes cold, you don’t look up when you hear Robin squeal.

“Finally,” she calls out, bounding out the front door that stays open on its hinge, “Took you forever.”

“Sorry, had to wait for Harrington for some wheels,” his voice sends a pit into your stomach, you stay staring at your sneakers on the dirty linoleum tile.

“Where’s my guy?” Robin’s raspy voice muses.

“Over a block or two,” he laughs, “Doesn’t wanna get in trouble or some shit.”

“Whatever,” you can hear her roll her eyes, but even worse, you can hear the crunch of his boots come into the laundromat, “Let me just grab my wallet.”

You look up to see her hold her hand out for her fanny pack which is tucked into her laundry bag still in your hand. You look down and back up with a quiet, “Oh! Sorry.”

The deal takes ten seconds total, but ten seconds is long enough to make your skin crawl. The scent of his cologne mixed with leather and weed fills your nose; he’s standing too close to you and he knows that.

“What, you don’t wanna say hi?” he drawls. Your gaze slowly rises up from his boots to his jeans to his chest to his chin — that smirk, those glittering eyes.

“Do I have to?” you retort, your body numb with uncertainty.

“Heh,” he lets out, grimacing, “Guess not. Figured you —”

“Eddie Munson!” a shrill voice calls from the back room, “Eddie Munson if you’re not here to do laundry I don’t wanna see your face in my business!”

“Aww Marj, you’re breakin’ my heart,” he teases, turning around to shout back at Ol’ Marj with both hands on dramatically holding his chest, “Can’t a guy come here and launder some cash?”

“OUT!” she yells, “Before I call the chief down here!”

He sucks his teeth, shoulders rounding when he drops his hands, “Welp, see ya later Rob.”

“Bye! Tell Steve I — we — said hi!” Robin waves with her Blow Pop in her hands, the click of it on her teeth obvious when she puts it back in her mouth. A final whiff of him lingers in your nose when he whisks out of the laundromat without a second thought, disappearing down the street to Steve’s car.

“You both really gotta talk things out,” Robin tuts, pulling her sandy hair up in a bun at the back of her head with a scrunchie, “It’s like pulling teeth watching you try to be civil.”

“We broke up,” you shrug, “It’s gonna be weird.”

“I dunno,” she shrugs back, “I feel like you guys either gotta fight it out or fuck it out — whatever happened. Just…I miss my friends being altogether.”

“I know,” you sigh, defeated, “We’ll figure it out.”

“Well you better do it soon,” she mumbles, looking over the baggies in her hand, “‘Cause he owes me another dime bag.”

[isacksteban]

Hot Headed — Strollini (+ Delilah)

The tension had been building all game. Lance skated down the rink, his breath coming in steady bursts as he chased the puck, adrenaline surging through his veins. The other team had been relentless, throwing body checks at every opportunity, and the referees had let a few questionable hits slide. Lance, usually calm under pressure, could feel his patience wearing thin.

It started midway through the second period. Lance had been cornered near the boards by an opposing defenseman, a hulking guy with a reputation for trash talk. The player shoved him harder than necessary, pinning Lance against the glass.

“Nice skating, sissy,” the guy sneered. “Maybe try sticking to figure skating next time.”

Lance ignored him, focusing on the puck, but the comment got under his skin. Moments later, another shove sent him sprawling onto the ice. The refs called nothing — as they tended to when it camr to Lance — and the crowd groaned.

As the game wore on, the hits kept coming. By the third period, Lance had had enough. He'd managed to be on his best behaviour since transfering to the Oilers before this season but he couldn't act like what the other team was doing wasn't completely fucked. He wasn’t the type to back down, especially when the other team started targeting his teammates. When one of the rookies on his line got checked into the boards so hard he crumpled to the ice, Lance’s blood boiled. It's not so much the idea of himself getting hurt that gets him going but seeing someone smaller and less experienced be targeted for those exact reasons was too much. He skated over, his jaw clenched, and got right in the defenseman’s face.

“What the hell’s your problem?” Lance snapped, shoving him back.

“You want a problem?” the guy shot back, dropping his gloves.

Lance didn’t hesitate. His gloves hit the ice as the two lunged at each other, fists flying. The crowd erupted in a deafening roar, cheering and jeering as the two men grappled. Jerseys were yanked, and helmets clattered to the ice. Lance landed a solid punch to the guy’s jaw but took a brutal hit to his temple in return, the impact sending him stumbling backward.

The refs finally intervened, pulling the two apart. Lance was still seething as he skated toward the penalty box, blood trickling from a fresh cut above his brow and staining his white jersey. His legs wobbled slightly as he sat down, adrenaline giving way to a dull, throbbing pain in his knee.

By the time the game ended, Lance was limping off the ice, the cut above his eye hastily patched with a butterfly bandage. He knew he’d face questions from his coach and teasing from his teammates, but worse than that, he dreaded the look he’d get from Luca when he got home.

By the time Lance made it home, still smelling faintly of sweat and disinfectant, his husband was waiting for him in the living room. Luca, impeccably dressed despite the late hour, had their three-year-old daughter Delilah nestled against his side. She was asleep, clutching a small plush of the Oiler's mascot, Hunter.

“You’re limping,” Luca said, his voice sharp but low enough not to wake Delilah. His eyes zeroed in on the butterfly bandage barely holding the cut on Lance’s brow together. “What happened, Lance?”

“It’s nothing, mon amour” Lance muttered, kicking off his shoes. “Just part of the game.”

Luca’s eyes narrowed, the calm veneer cracking. “Part of the game?” He carefully shifted Delilah onto the couch and stood, arms crossed. “You got into another fight, didn’t you?”

Lance shrugged, trying to downplay it. “It happens. You know how it is. You've seen the product of a handful of fights in my career. You were on my side four years ago when Verstappen called me a slur mid game and I socked him in the jaw.”

“No, actually, I don’t know how it is,” Luca snapped, his Italian accent thickening in his frustration. “You’re supposed to be a role model. Not just for your fans, but for her.” He gestured toward Delilah, who stirred slightly before settling back into sleep. "I don't care what you got away with before we adopted Delilah, before you had to grow the fuck up, but it doesn't matter now."

Lance sighed, running a hand through his messy hair. “Luca, sweetie, it’s hockey. Fights happen. You can’t just—”

“You’re not some reckless rookie anymore, Lance!” Luca interrupted, his voice rising. “You’re a father and a three time champion with almost eight years of experience. Do you want Delilah to grow up thinking it’s okay to throw punches every time she’s upset?”

“That’s not fair,” Lance said, his voice softening. “I don’t want her to think that.”

“Then act like it,” Luca shot back. “She adores you, Lance, you know she does. She mimics everything you do. You have to think about what kind of example you’re setting.”

Guilt twisted in Lance’s chest as he glanced at their daughter. Delilah’s tiny face was peaceful in sleep, her light curls framing her pale cheeks whistfully, Luca was right.

“I’m sorry,” he said after a moment of silence. “I didn’t mean for it to get out of hand.”

Luca’s expression softened, though his lips were still pressed into a thin line. “Just... promise me you’ll be more careful. For her. For us.”

“I promise,” Lance said, pulling Luca into a hug. “No more fights. I’ll be the best role model I can be. The best behaved hockey player the sport's ever seen.”

“You better,” Luca muttered against his shoulder, though his arms wrapped tightly around Lance. “Because next time, I’m the one who’ll fight you.”

Lance chuckled, pressing a kiss to Luca’s temple. “Noted.”

From the couch, Delilah stirred again, her sleepy voice piping up. “Daddy, did you win your game?”

Lance and Luca both froze before bursting into quiet laughter. “You know I always win, now go back to sleep, sweetheart,” Lance said, brushing a kiss against her forehead.

As Delilah snuggled deeper into her blanket, Lance met Luca’s eyes. He still had work to do to prove himself, but he knew he was willing to do anything to please his husband.

[bobardo]

I saw your reblog and i couldn’t help it…

I’m begging on my knees… write a breeding blurb. Doesn’t have to be long cause i can’t wait. Like 100-500 words

PLEASEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

THIS IS MY FIRST BLURBY, SO I HOPE U LIKE IT :D pls excuse any typos, most of this was written on my phone 🧍🏽‍♀

wc: 1.7k

cw: smut, minors dni, 18+. breeding kink, and more. not proofread.

It really had started out as a joke.

Thanksgiving inspires spending time with family, and family means entertaining all the new cousins and little nieces and nephews that had joined the family in the past year.

So, Y/N naturally gravitated toward the children.

They’re irresistible! With their chubby cheeks and gummy smiles, innocent stutters and big wide eyes that are subject to tears at any moment.

It’s not as if they put up much of a fight either, Cole and Oliver practically fell over each other to claim the thorn that was her lap.

She was consumed by them; if they went somewhere, she was right behind them making sure their little heads didn’t knock, stubby legs wobbly like a newborn doe. She ate on the floor with them (“The carpet’s comfy, Titi!”), played games with them—if you could even call it playing, they just oohed and ahed and slobbered over a deck of cards—laughed with them, wiped their tears for them, held them close, cradled them into a dreamy state that had her cooing in their ear.

And he saw. From his personal spot on the couch, that he’d homed since the first thanksgiving he could remember, he saw his girl becoming his family, too. He saw the hearts in the eyes of his nephews, he saw her adoration for them (not that he’s much better, they’ve got him wrapped tight around their tiny fingers), saw the bond that began to blossom between them.

He saw how calm Y/N looked as she cared for them, saw how natural she was.

And so maybe, on the car ride back he made a few teasing remarks about her motherly tendencies. And perhaps he mindlessly let it slip that he’d thought about her, pregnant, with his child.

But it was all in good fun, right? She’d scoffed in her seat—though the flush of her cheeks did not go unnoticed—slapping his shoulder to halfheartedly reprimand his crude comments. Sure, it sent a yummy tingle up her spine. And, yeah, okay, her panties got, admittedly, a little more uncomfortable after hearing his confession.

But that didn’t matter, because it was just teasing. Just words that he said to get a reaction, like always.

…Right?

———

Y/N now understands that he was not joking.

Not one fucking bit.

It’s kind of difficult to find miscommunication in any of his words now. She understands him, she gets him—Holy fuck, she gets him.

“Prancin’ around with babies on your hips, an’ you think m’not gonna wanna get you pregnant with my child?”

She gets him, with his fat cock stuffed in her snug, tiny pussy, filling her up, up to her fucking stomach. Literally. With the way he’s got her bent into herself—ankles up to her ears, thighs squishing her arms in, which in turn pushes her tits together, shiny with spit and quite bruised—his cock molds to her, pressing at her tummy, glaring at her. It scares her.

And it’s fucking everything.

She gets him, but she doesn’t fucking get how he has the ability to tease, mock, and degrade her so thoroughly, after so much time spent doing nothing but abusing her poor, helpless cunt. He stretches her out to the point of pain—unsurprisingly, there was little to no prep in the build up to their current state, though, at the time, it didn’t feel needed, she’d been dripping down her thighs as soon as the first button of his dress shirt popped. His cockhead shoves into her cervix relentlessly, viciously. He bullies his way through her, her essence soaking his prick to the base, a sticky mess between their crashing hips.

“Wan’ you stuffed full by the time m’threw with you,” he grunts against her lips, his hot breath fanning over her face, grounding her to this moment. She gasps with every plunge of his hips, the lack of activity in her brain clear as day from the cute, stupid look on her pretty face.

Eyes crossed in the middle every other second, glossy from past and reoccurring tears. Her cheeks puffy and rosy, glistening in the lamp-light from drool and salty droplets of tears. Her hands push fruitlessly against his hard, sweaty abs, chocking out spineless protests.

“S’big, too big— too deep, Daddy!” She cries sweetly, hiding in the puff of his pillows cushioning her head.

“Shhh, Baby, lemme fuck you, plug you up with my cum…” His hands move from the headboard, one pushing down on the back of her thigh, keeping her spread open for him, and the other to her ruined face, three fingers shoving between her kiss-swollen lips. She slobbers over them immediately, brows furrowed in devoted concentration, desperately aiming to please him. “Tha’s a good girl, Puppy, jus’ suck on Daddy’s fingers while he uses your cute, slutty little pussy.”

She whimpers through her gag, nodding dumbly, drooling all over again, the sparkly, moony glow in her eyes letting him know that her head is empty.

“You wan’ my babies, Pup?” His thrusts slow, working himself into her with a heightened calculation, forcing her to feel every vein and ridge of his big cock. She squeezes around him, whining. “Yeah? Tell me, were y’thinkin’ ‘bout it when you were takin’ care of the little ones?” His fingers slide farther into her mouth, his cock hitting places brutishly and delicately at the same time. “Were y’thinkin’ ‘bout bein’ my pretty baby mama?”

“D—addy,” She chokes pathetically over his fingers, tensing up in every way.

“Yeah,” he chuckles, “you wan’ my babies, Puppy.” He picks up the pace again, pistoning his hips so her special spot, oversensitive from so much use, gets completely smooshed by his prick every single time he grinds back inside of her weepy pussy. His hand on the back of her thigh moves to the crease between her leg and her slippery cunt, his thumb poking her puffy clit.

“Oh, ma goo—ness!” she bleats, huffy, wiggling away from his assault.

“Cut it out, Sugar,” he tuts, the hand on her thigh coming down to smack against her cunt, strings of her silky cum stuck on his palm when his fingers move to fuss over her achy button meanly. “Fuckin’ take my cock,” he strikes her again, her hips jumping in response, tears sprouting and spilling from her bleary eyes. “Keep still before Daddy gets sick’a your squirmin’ and ties you to the fuckin’ bed.

When his palm makes rough contact with her swollen clit for the third time, Y/N comes instantly.

She squirts, everywhere, as a matter of fact.

“Oh, fuck, Puppy,” he groans, hips stuttering as his cock twitches, and before he can stop himself, he’s being flooded with an overwhelming warmth, his cum spurting in thick, white ropes that paint her insides.

There’s a lot. More than usual, probably. It fills her up to the hilt and then some, dripping from her cunt and smearing down her sloppy pussy lips, over her mound and his faintly hairy pelvis. He fucks her through their simultaneous orgasms, through the crippling, divine sensations that somehow fatten his prick even more, urging on his insatiable desire.

Y/N shakes beneath him, still crying over his finger, chomping mindlessly on them as the pleasure continues to roll over her in waves.

Eventually, his cock slips out of her, too soaked for his thrusts to remain precise. She gasps at the sudden, jarring emptiness, and he grunts, animalistically, at the loss of familiar, snug, wet heat.

He doesn’t immediately push back in, however. His eyes get distracted on the view of his milky cum gushing out of her stretched, abused hole. His hand drops from her mouth to join the other, smearing their mess into her flesh and spreading her puffy pussy apart. Inspecting.

His head tilts curiously while he collects his cum on his middle and ring finger that’d dripped down to her puckered entrance, scooping it up before tentatively pushing it back inside.

It does more bad than good, honestly; more cum spills from around his finger, leaving them right back where they’d left off. But, that doesn’t stop him from repeating the action. Once, twice, hushing her screechy crying when her massages it into her silken walls the third time, smearing it onto her special spot when he pushes it back in the fourth. He jams his fingers into her cunt until he loses count, and the sound of her messy, stuffed pussy is louder than both their moans combined. He adds a third finger and picks up speed when her hand wraps around his wrist, when her voice grows hoarse and she screams bloody murder.

“Too much, too—I can't, please!” she screams, eyes clamped shut, body trembling.

“Shut up, Puppy, ain’t shit too much,” he dismisses, standing to his knees and using his free hand to keep her pinned to the mattress. “M’gonna fuck my cum back into this slutty, precious cunt ‘til you fuckin’ squirt f’me again.”

His gruff voice, his big, veiny hands trapping her to the bed, the incessant press of his fingers into the perfect spot that makes her toes curl and her stomach coil tighter and tighter. The sweat that drips from his face—from the tip of his nose, across his forehead and temples, glazed along his cupid’s bow—his beefy biceps, straining as he fights against her involuntary shudders. His chest, massive and buff, firm and slick with sweat under her palm.

It doesn’t take long for Y/N to oblige his demand.

“Just like that, Sugar, wet the fuckin’ bed, keep fucking coming.”

She keeps fucking coming. When his fingers are gone and his pretty, fat, perfect cock is reintroduced, she comes then, too. Like, as soon as he starts to push in.

It’s embarrassing, pitiful; pathetic.

But she can’t help it. She can’t help anything that she does or says when her cunt is stuffed with cum and cock, her sore pearl rubbed and swatted cruelly, her tits fondled demeaningly. She just lies there and cries, and takes his lovely cock. She lets him dump load after load of his spunk into her, claiming her, marking her as his. Making it stick.

“You’re my little cumdump, Pup,” he grumbles harshly, squeezing her pert nipple between his thumb and forefinger. “You’re fuckin�� mine to kiss, love on, take care of,” she whimpers below, crying for his mercy, “my dumb slut to use, fuck, breed,” he plunges into her as deep as he can go, leaning in close and whispering, “you’re my fucking girl; my pathetic, needy fucking puppy that’s obsessed with my cock.” Y/N nods, gargling agreement.

He smirks, “Yeah, my little breeding bitch.”

[https-florals]

jj maybank is a munch and i will not be taking any arguments. 18+!!!

a/n: this is just a little blurby blurb!!! (the product of scrolling through the new touch tank trend on tiktok and being in desperate need of good head) my requests are still very much open please i will not write if i don’t have inspiration

he definitely has a little bit of a reputation in kildare for knowing how to eat it. when the two of you start dating, he can’t keep his hands off you. he’s constantly making jokes about you sitting on his face, or how sweet you’d taste. you’re a little scared, honestly. all your past boyfriends treated giving head like a chore. you’re more comfortable giving than recieving, but jj won’t let you go down on him. he’s adamant about the “ladies first” principle.

you finally decide to let him after a dinner date, you’re all dolled up in a pale yellow sundress and a light sunburn coloring your shoulders and nose bridge. jj always thinks you look like a goddess, but something about a fresh sunburn and the way your hair falls after it air-dries drives him insane. the whole ride home you’re talking about how you’re ready to just get home and relax, and being the gentleman he is, he’s fully prepared to beg to climb in the shower with you so he can wash your hair (his other favorite pastime).

jj limits himself to one joke as the two of you walk through the door, saying “really craving a little snack right about now, baby.” you think he’s gonna ask to run by the gas station, which puts a little dent in your plans, but he runs right with your little thought out scenario when he follows up with “you’re looking extra sweet tonight.”

he’s all smiles as he wraps his arm around your waist, wiggling his eyebrows in attempts to make you laugh. jj is a little concerned when you’re silent, pulling him into the bedroom and shutting the door without even giggling. you sit on the bed and begin to take your heels off, and the blonde boy just stands and watched you. he’s so very lost. a couple of minutes ago you were happy as a clam, all over him at the restaurant and in the car.

“come here,” you ask, so soft and timid.

“yeah, honey?” he swallows, cause the way you’re looking at him is giving him butterflies. your lips are a little parted, eyes wide as you look up at him. when he gets close to you, you tug on the bottom of his shirt. jj leans down so he’s eye-level with you, and then all it takes is a quick push to his shoulders, and you have him on his knees.

you’re blushing so hard, but you stand, albeit a little shakingly. you didn’t have a plan to stand up, in fact you’re pretty sure you’re gonna be on your back in a few seconds, but there’s something so nice about jj kneeling in front of you. your hand slides through his hair, tilting his head back with a slight pull to the hair at the nape of his neck. your other hand rests on his jawline. his hands come up to the back of your thighs, thumbs rubbing gentle circles. “i’m not wearing panties,” you kinda hiccup out. the phrase isn’t as sexy and seductive as you had hoped it be, because you’re nervous and tingly and giggly.

but you think it works, because jj’s eyes light up like you’ve just told him he won the lottery. his hands move to your ass and he buries his face right where your thighs begin to touch. you squirm a little, but he doesn’t let you move. you can feel his breath through the thin fabric of your dress, hit and heavy and inhaling like you’re a respirator or something.

“what are you doing!” you’re scared you smell funky, even though before dinner you took a very thorough everything shower.

he shushes you, and pulls back with a groan. “let me just take a sec,” he mumbles. “been praying for this.”

it takes maybe fifteen seconds for the two of you to be on the bed, jj on his back with you straddling his chest. your dress is off, and you’re totally bare over him. this is a whole new kind of vulnerability, all your insecurities on plain display. you’re thinking about your stomach, or how your tits sit naturally.

in turn, there’s not a thought going through jj’s head except for “girlfriend!!” he pulls you up a little closer, so he can lay a chaste little kiss on your skin. you flex your thighs so you’re hovering over him, but you’re already shaking when his tongue lightly skims over you, and you don’t know how you’re gonna hold yourself up.

he murmurs something you can’t quite hear, and then he’s yanking you down on his tongue.

“jj!”

“shit, darlin’, just sit down and hold still!”

“i’m gonna suffocate you!”

“i’ll tap out if i’m about to die.” he reaches his head up a bit to smile at you, all punch drunk like a kid in a candy shop. “but damn, that would be a way to go, huh?”

[yagirlwrites]

Morning After (The Sounds of a Good Boy Blurb)

A blurby blurb! This follows The Sounds of a Good Boy, it is the morning after their first time! A bit of angst and a lot of fluff in here peeps💖

Pairing: Rafe Cameron x Reader

Hope you like it! Let me know your thoughts and if you'd like more blurbs about these two idiots💞

Series Masterlist

My work is my own; it’s not to be copied, transferred or translated. Happy reading!🥰

Morning After

He woke to the smell of freshly made coffee. Looking around the empty room, disoriented and a bit lost, still in that state between dream and reality, he realised this wasn’t his room. His eyes searched the unfamiliar suroundings untill last night’s events finally caught up to him.

A blush spread across his cheeks at the memories. He reached across the bed for his phone on the bedside table, he didn’t remember plugging it in to charge last night but there it was. He checked the time 7:36 am. Groaning at the revelation, he begrudgingly pushed himself out of bed. Collecting his clothes from the floor, memories kept rushing back to him in flashes making that blush from earlier return with vengeance. His whole face was hot and he was sure he looked a sight. After putting on his clothes he stumbled out of the bedroom. Following the sound of sizzling and the rising aroma of bacon, he found her in the kitchen.

She was fully dressed, already eating a plate of eggs standing over the stove while at the same time making sure the eggs and bacon in the pan didn’t burn. She turned as she heard him walk in and with a mouth full of breakfast and cheeks portruding she gave him a close lipped smile. It was the cutest thing he’d ever seen. She was quick to finish chewing and swallowed, slighty embarrased at his first sight of her this morning being that.

“Morning.” She said, mouth finally free. She used a paper napkin to wipe at her lips, just in case.

“Good morning.” His voice was low and husky, the sound causing a stirring deep within her. His morning voice was hot. Very hot.

She snapped out of her daze after staring at him for a beat too long, remembering his breakfast and moving to action. She arranged the eggs and bacon onto a second plate and grabbed a freshly baked toast out of the oven.

He took the plate from her extended hand, perplexed and - as his stomach growled at that moment - he realized, hungry.

She made him breakfast. Not the most life altering of gestures but for him? Quite something. He wasn’t used to his dates making him breakfast. Not that you could call his past conquests dates per se. Nor was he used to waking up in someone elses bed, the phrase hit it and quit it having been taken quite literally in his adult life. This was different.

But so was everything else that happened last night. Everything else that had happened since he met her, actually.

As he ate the feeling which started to pool in his stomach, warming his insides, making his skin flush - had nothing to do with the food and everything to do with his current situation. With her.

He was quiet and she didn’t really mind, she enjoyed a quiet morning before a busy day. But she was in a rush, having to make breakfast for two while she usually just scruffs down some toast and butter with her coffee before she’s on her way out of the appartment really set her back. But she decided putting a little effort into breakfast this particular morning was completely understandable and not at all a big deal.

While a part of her, a small part deep inside, kind of wished she could just sit and have breakfast with him and maybe drink their coffees on her small balcony - she had an early morning class and she needed to move if she was going to make it on time.

She quickly finished the last of her eggs and put the plate in the sink. Gulping down her coffee and grabbing her jacket and bag was a sight that told him everything he needed to know. He’s overstaying his welcome. He needs to go. Now.

He rushed to his feet with a hushed “Sorry”. And she looked at him, a bit frazzled and a bit confused.

“Why are you sorry?” Her voice caught him on his way to clear his plate. He turned around only to be met with her standing right in front of him. When did she get so close?

“Um, I’m keeping you. Sorry.”

His repeated apology made her sigh with frustration which he took to be aimed at him when in reality it was directed towards herself. She didn’t know how this worked. She never had a guy stay over before. She didn’t have a precedent to fall back on and she realized she was coming off as rude.

He turned, feeling defeated, fully intending to just make his way out of there as fast as possible, this awkwardness making him want to throw up the food rushed down moments earlier. But her hand caught his wrist, effectively stopping him and making him face her.

“No. I’m sorry.” As he opened his mouth to protest she shushed him.

“I’m being rude. You’re not keeping me I’m just - I’m not used to this.” She motioned vaguely between them.

“I have a class in-“ she trailed off checking the clock, “-20 minutes. I hate to rush you, I wish I didn’t have to.” He nodded.

“I get it. You have to go. It’s totally fine. I’ll head.” He gave her a small polite smile and made to the front door, quickly putting on his shoes. She wanted to smack herself. This is not how she wanted this morning to go.

“I’ll drive you home.” She said as she joined him in the hallway, slipping on her boots. He looked at her confused.

“You-you don’t have to do that. You’ll be late. I can walk-“ She interrupted him then.

“I’m not letting you walk back in the freezing cold morning, Rafe.” Her tone was final and it left him a little flushed as memories of last night came rushing back again.

“I can get an uber, you know.” He smiled at her.

“It’s not far and it’s on the way. I’m taking you.” She wasn’t sure why she was insisting here, he really could just get an uber, and she was cutting it very close, but for some reason she just couldn’t let this be how they parted. Why? She had no idea.

“You got everything?” She asked before opening the door. He had shrugged his jacket on and was currently checking his pockets for his belongings untill he decided he did. “All good.” He said and she nodded as she led him out the door.

Their walk to her car was quiet, a bit akwkward. Neither knew what to say. He still hadn’t properly processed last night’s events, on top of that he was trying to figure out what was happening now. Between them. Was there even anything to figure out?

She was trying to sort out her thoughts and find a way to break the awkward silence, to save this morning; perhaps to save whatever it is between them. She refused to think about all the things he made her feel last night. Instead she focused on rectifying her rude behavior from earlier.

“You’re in Theta, right?” She finally spoke as she started pulling out of the parking space.

“Um, yeah. The big brown house at the end of greek street.” His voice was small and he sounded like he would rather be anywhere but here with her. She frowned at that.

“Look, I’m sorry about earlier.” She started but he interrupted her.

“No, you don’t have to say sorry. I get it. I don’t usually spend the night either.” His eyes wouldn’t meet her and he was fidgeting with his keys in his hands.

“I do, actually.” She continued. “I’m not used to morning afters but I shouldn’t have been so rude.” He just nodded, silent, staring at his hands.

She was frustrated at his silence. He usually always had something to say to get her attention, despite her annoyance at it. But now she almost wished he would make a dumb comment and she could roll her eyes at him and maybe she’d be able to pretend like last night never happened. Pretend that last night hadn’t changed everything. But it had. Things have shifted now and there was no going back.

“I’m not used to morning afters.” She repeated, and it caused a frown in his brow.

“I wanted to make breakfast and wake you up and maybe we take our coffee on the balcony. It’s a small thing really. But I like it, it’s...it’s cozy.” She trailed off. What was she even saying right now? Why was she being awkward?

He was asking himself the same thing because he finally looked at her then.

“That sounds nice.” His words surprised her and she met his gaze. He looked... endeared? Yes, he was looking at her like he was in awe when she had just been rambling like an idiot.

She was nervous, he realized. She made him breakfast and she wanted to show him her balcony and drink coffee with him and she was nervous. The thought made butterflies erupt in his stomach and he couldn’t stop the smile from breaking out on his face.

She was nervous around him. The tables have turned, the shift was palpable. He was in too deep, he realised as she looked at him confused but he couldn’t stop the smile even if he wanted to and truth be told he didn’t.

“I would’ve liked that.” She blushed at that. She fucking blushed. He swore his heart skipped a beat right then.

“Maybe... Maybe we can do that another morning?” He trailed off, now he was anxious waiting for her response.

This was it. The moment of truth. She would either shoot him down and tell him that last night was a one time thing and she wasn’t interested in it being anything else or -

“Yeah.” One perfect word interrupted his anxious thoughts.

“Yeah. I think that can be arranged.” She was smiling now and the sight knocked his breath right out of him. He was the one blushing now, a smile breaking on his face. She didn’t want last night to be the last of them either.

As her car slowed to a stop he was still smiling at her, not paying much attantion to their surroundings. She grinned at his dazed look, even though she was feeling just as giddy, and decided to tease him. Just a little.

“This is your house, is it not?” Her words broke his daze and he quickly looked outside to see that they were parked right outside his frat.

“Oh. Um, yeah. Yeah, it is.” He was mumbling, embarrased as he rushed to unbuckle his seatbelt.

Her hand caught his wrist yet again, right as the belt loosened. His breath hitched at the touch and as his eyes met hers he gulped at the intensity in them. It reminded him a lot of last night and the way she- No. Now is not the time to reminisce.

“I expect there’s another party happening on this street tonight.” She kept looking right into his eyes as she spoke. He managed to nod, with quite some effort as her gaze was making him feel all sorts of things. Intense, hot things.

“Uh, yeah. Probably.” She noded.

“Maybe I’ll see you there then.” She smirked at his blush and he realized what she was doing.

And God, she was doing crazy things to him, with that smirk, and the look, and the implication- no, a promise- of a repeat of last night. Again. Tonight.

She wanted to see him again tonight. She was just as into him as he was her. And that realization sparked something in him. He wasn’t sure where it came from but he was moving before he could think.

His lips met hers, his hand on her cheek. She was taken aback but it didn’t take long before she melted into the kiss, into him. She deepened the kiss as her tongue traced his lip and he didn’t hesitate to let her in. How could he when she was kissing him back, kissing him like she meant it.

He couldn’t even complain at how quickly she managed to get control of the kiss. Her hands found their way into his hair, still messy from sleep, and he moaned into the kiss as she lightly tugged on it. The sound managed to force her out of her haze and she begrudgingly broke their kiss. Foreheads pressed together as they caught their breaths, eyes blinking open.

She was met with the vision of him, flushed, breathy, so fucking pretty, with hair messed up and puffy lips - she felt like her breath had been kicked out of her chest. She forced herself to calm down, eyes looking at the console to break away from his captivating gaze. That’s when she noticed the time.

“Shit!” Her exclamation startled him. “I’m gonna be late.” She looked back at him and he was still looking at her like that and she wanted to curse at what he was doing to her.

He bit his lip as his eyes kept staring at her. His chest was heaving. The kiss woke up every cell in his body. He barely registered her words. All he could really do in that moment is feel. He felt like he wanted to pass out, like he wanted her to keep kissing him and maybe never ever stop, like he wanted her to forget everything and just go inside with him and give him everything she’s got. He’d gladly take any little thing she’d give him, he knew that.

The way he was biting his lip and looking at her with those bedroom eyes had her losing her mind. Half wanting to shove him out of the car because she is late - half wanting to just take him right there in the car in front of his entire frat. She was so damn tempted, even calculating just how important this class really was and if she could technically get away with missing it-

Her thoughts were broken, by a loud honk. She was half way leaning in to kiss him again and he was too, the mangetic pull between them seemingly inescapable, when the car behind her honked.

She was parked for fucks sake, what the hell was this guy’s problem? As the spell was broken, Rafe looked back and realized who it was behind them. The reason they were so rudely interrupted - Mack. Rafe’s best friend of 3 years and as of 10 seconds ago his worst enemy. They could hear Mack’s laughter as he got out of the car and Rafe groaned.

His forehead met her shoulder and as she realized this was probably one of his frat brothers she let out a light chuckle. Was she pissed off at the interruption? Yes. But seeing Rafe embarrased and grumpy like this was endearing.

“Think we can make a break for it before he gets to the door?” He mumbled into her skin and she laughed, looking in the rearview as the guy approach them.

“Nope.” She said popping the p, and he groaned again. The third groan was the loudest, a response to a knock on his window. Unbelievable.

His face was still buried in her neck as Mack knocked again.

“Good morning!” He said chirpily from the other side of the window. Rafe flipped him off without looking as he finally brought his head up and his eyes met hers again. They could hear Mack laughing from outside, but he didn’t care that they had an audience. Their gazes glued to each other, seemingly reliving the intensity of their kiss from mere moments ago.

“You’re late.” He whispered, voice low, raspy, very very hot, she noted.

“Yeah.” She whispered back. And then they were kissing again. This time it was shorter but just as breath taking as the last. She pushed him away as he went in for another kiss and he groaned again.

It was becoming one of her favourite sounds, now. Very grumpy and adorable Rafe. She quite liked this side of him. She gave him a smile, and then waved to Mack over his shoulder. Mack waved back, grinning.

“I’ll see you tonight?” He asked her, gaze earnest. She smiled at that.

“Maybe.” He rolled his eyes at her and then laughed with her.

“Have a good day.” She said as his hand reached for the handle.

Fuck it. That was his thought before he turned around and kissed her again quickly before jumping out of the car.

“Have a good day.” He grinned at her stunned expression as he closed the door behind him. She couldn’t help the smile that broke on her face at his antics.

Why did this feel so... natural? Kissing him and laughing with him and not wanting to part from him. It felt like they had done this a thousand times before as he waved at her through the window as she pulled away in her car. Like they had played this game before. Like looking back at him through her rearview mirror, him pushing his friend off him while looking at her car with a silly smile on his face, was a sight she’d seen a thousand times before. Or maybe there was a little part of her that hoped it was a sight she would see a thousand times again.

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