#cocktails are cheaper at home

[elaboratelysimple]

[scary-grace]

#61 for man door hand hook car door

Hi Scarlett! Thank you so much for the prompt from this list (I'm still taking these!). This one took me a bit but I hope you like it! No quirks AU, fluff, sickfic, totally not inspired by anything happening in real life. 2.3k words.

61) “I’ll pick it up after work.”

Your phone rings while you’re on your lunch break, and you pick it up without looking. “Hey, this is –”

“Kill me.”

It’s your boyfriend. Your boyfriend never calls – only texts, because he needs to edit himself before he sends anything. “Hey, Tomura. How are you feeling?”

“Like shit.” Tomura’s usually raspy voice sounds distinctly nasal. “I was mouth-breathing on you all night. How did you not smother me?”

“Would you have smothered me?”

“No,” Tomura groans. “It wouldn’t be any different than your snoring.”

“I don’t snore!”

“Yes, you do. I like it. It’s cheaper than buying a white-noise machine.” Tomura coughs. It sounds like he’s making an effort not to cough into the phone, but it’s not much of one. “This sucks.”

“Yeah,” you agree. “I’m really sorry. You wouldn’t have gotten it if I hadn’t made us go to that party.”

“Yeah, maybe not.” Tomura coughs again. “But we agreed. Rules are rules.”

You knew when you and Tomura started dating that he wasn’t much for parties, but he was also able to admit that the occasional party is necessary, and you used one of the three parties you’re allowed to drag him to per year on bringing him to your friend’s engagement party. Said engagement party got a little messy. A little rowdy. A little drink-sharey, which you’re pretty sure is what got Tomura – during some horrible round of mystery cocktail hot potato, he somehow got stuck finishing almost every drink. You helped him out with most of them, but your immune system is bombproof. If one of you was going to get sick, it was always going to be him.

He went to work yesterday, but stayed home today. He was worse this morning than he was last night. “Rules are rules, but I still feel bad,” you say. “Is there anything I can do?”

“Come home and kill me.”

“Other than that,” you say, and Tomura grumbles. “Seriously. Is there something?”

It’s quiet for a second. “Yeah,” Tomura admits. “If you’re not going to kill me –”

“I’m not.”

“Can you grab my stupid prescription? I went to the urgent care and they sent it to the wrong pharmacy.” Tomura’s coughing gets louder, then softer, while you try to avoid saying something dumb out of sheer shock that he’d go to the doctor at all. “It’s far away and I’m tired. Can you grab it?”

“Which pharmacy?” You put your phone on speaker and look up the address. “That’s on the other side of the city. How did they mess it up that bad?”

“Maybe I said it wrong. I forgot my address for a second when I was checking in,” Tomura mumbles. “It sucked in there. It took forever to get seen because there were a bunch of kids ahead of me with marbles stuck up their noses.”

“With – what?”

“Marbles. Up their noses. At a sleepover. It was a dare,” Tomura says. You can hear just how pissed he is about it – or how pissed he would be, if he wasn’t too fatigued to be pissed. “I don’t know why they got to be seen first. My breathing was more obstructed than theirs.”

You try to imagine this – your sick, crabby boyfriend sharing a waiting room with a birthday party’s worth of kids with marbles jammed up their nostrils. It’s hard to picture. “Did you have to wait a while?”

“It felt like a while,” Tomura says. “Wish you’d been there. It would have sucked less.”

If he’d told you he was going, you’d probably have taken off work to go with him. “I wish I’d been there, too,” you say. You lean back against the wall. “I’ll pick it up after work. Is there anything else you need?”

“A cyanide capsule.”

“I don’t think they sell those at the convenience store,” you say. Tomura grumbles again, and you pause for a moment. “Promise me something. Before you kill yourself, at least let me go on a quest to far distant lands to retrieve the cure.”

“I asked you to get the antibiotics, didn’t I?” Tomura’s voice is muffled. “Problem solved.”

“Not just this time. Any time, Tomura,” you say. You and he have had this conversation before, and you’ve gotten better at talking about it. You know his jokes about killing himself are jokes, but you also know they’re a habit, and it’s not a good habit to be in. “Always give me a shot at the quest first.”

“Yeah.” Tomura’s voice is quieter. “You’re busy, right? Go do something or they’ll make you stay later.”

You don’t want to get off the phone, but you do need to eat. And then you need to race through the rest of your work for the day – or do you? Either way, you need to get off the phone. You check the address for the pharmacy one more time. “Okay. I have to go. Just try to rest.”

“I should have gotten you sick, too.” Tomura sounds incredibly mopey, which is what you’d be, if you had the symptoms he’s having. “Then you’d have to stay home with me.”

“Okay, but if I was sick, who would take care of you?”

“Me.”

“You’re also sick.”

“Shit.” Tomura’s hitting his head against the pillow. You can tell by the rustling. “I’m hanging up before I say anything else stupid. Love you.”

“I love you, too,” you say. You hang up the phone. Then you go back inside to talk to your boss.

_________________________________________________________

Tomura shouldn’t have gone to the stupid urgent care. He got the prescription, sure, but it came at the cost of an hour in a packed waiting room, three separate lectures about getting a primary care provider, a cotton swab down the back of his throat to check for strep even though he doesn’t have a sore throat, and a bunch of questions that weren’t even sort of relevant to why he was there. It sapped all his energy and probably exposed him to twenty more diseases than he already has, and he didn’t even get the antibiotics. He had to ask you to get them, and that means it’ll be even longer before you get home.

Tomura’s not an idiot. He knows you don’t have some kind of magical healing powers that can make his headache and cough and congestion go away just by touching him, but he feels better when you’re here, no matter what you’re doing, no matter what’s wrong with him. Tomura’s not an idiot, but he’s also not naïve. He knows he was shooting for the moon when he slid into your DMs. He never expected it to work.

And part of him is still convinced it hasn’t worked, even though you’ve been together for two years and living together for one. It’s not his low self-esteem telling him you’re too good for him – it’s observable fact. You’re smart and hardworking but sneaky about it, so you never have to do more work than you have to, and you’re pretty and cute but you’re also hot, which are things that should go together but don’t go together in real life, and Tomura knows that whenever people look at the two of you together they’re asking themselves the same question. What are you doing? What are you doing with him?

Tomura asks himself that same question every week or so. He still hasn’t worked it out. But he has a feeling it has to do with the fact that he’s able to pull his weight, which he hasn’t been doing since Sunday morning, when he woke up the morning after your stupid friend’s engagement party with an itch in the back of his throat. And then he piled on by making you pick up his prescription. You must be pissed. So what if you didn’t sound pissed on the phone? You must be. Tomura would – no, Tomura wouldn’t. He likes when he can do stuff for you, because it makes you happy, and he wants you to be happy, because he loves you. What is he thinking?

Nothing that makes any sense, so he should probably stop. Tomura brushes the piles of wadded-up tissues into the wastebasket by the bed, then curls up under the blankets on your side. He should get some sleep. It’s just past noon. You’re not going to be home until six. Maybe he’ll feel a little better on the other side of a six-hour nap.

Tomura falls asleep facing your digital alarm clock, so when he hears the apartment door unlock itself and opens his eyes, the first thing he sees is the time. It’s not six. It’s two. Why are you home so early? He can tell that you’re trying to be quiet as you take off your shoes. Maybe you’re trying not to wake him, but he’s already awake. He should let you know

“You –” Tomura starts, then coughs. His voice still sounds like shit, so he coughs again, which turns into a coughing fit, and by then you’re in the doorway. He peers at you through eyes that feel blurrier than they should. “You came back early.”

“I really shouldn’t have gone in at all today,” you say. “When I told my boss your symptoms, she sent me home. Apparently I could be contagious.”

You’re smirking a little bit. Tomura has a feeling you did more than just tell your boss his symptoms, but he doesn’t give a shit. You’re home. “I got your prescription,” you continue, shaking a paper bag, “and I got frozen yogurt instead of a probiotic so you don’t have to take an extra pill. I also got fancy tissues – and ingredients for real ramen if you want that and instant ramen if you don’t – and –”

All of that was one bag. Tomura recognizes the other one instantly – it’s from his favorite game store. “What did you do?”

“New headset,” you say. “You keep saying the one you have hurts your head. If it hurts your head on a regular basis, it probably hurts it even more now – and I know the one you want, so I figured I’d get it. In case you felt like gaming at all.”

Tomura should probably say something. Thank you would probably be a good start, but all he can do is stare at you and cough a little bit. You don’t seem worried about it. You duck out of the bedroom, then come back with a glass of water, a cup of frozen yogurt, and a spoon. You set the antibiotics down next to it and head over to the closet to change out of your work clothes.

Tomura tries to pay attention to the frozen yogurt – using a spoon feels like it requires all of his concentration right now – but he can’t stop glancing over at you. You look good in your work clothes, but Tomura likes it best when you’re comfortable, because you always look good to him and when you’re comfortable you don’t waste time worrying about it. It doesn’t hurt that most of your comfortable clothes were Tomura’s clothes at some point. The pajamas you settle on are half-yours, half-his. Your shorts, which Tomura likes because the elastic waistband is easier to get through than a drawstring is, and his shirt, which he likes because you stole it from him within the first month the two of you were dating and never gave it back.

It takes a spoonful of yogurt nearly sliding off the spoon and into his lap for Tomura to remember what he’s supposed to be doing. He shovels in a few more bites of yogurt, then downs the pill and flops back on the bed, just as you get into bed on what’s usually his side. “You stole my spot,” you say. “What’s that about?”

“Your side is better.”

“That’s not what you said when we moved in,” you point out. “You talked a lot of shit about my side being the worst one.”

“It is. Usually.” Tomura doesn’t want to admit this. He feels like a dumbass. “It smells like you.”

You look surprised. “You can smell stuff right now?”

“Only on one side,” Tomura says, and you laugh. You come closer, too, settling down in bed next to him, and wrapping your arms carefully around him. “You sure you want to do this? What if you get sick?”

“You’ll be done being sick by the time I get it, if I get it,” you say. You kiss Tomura’s cheek, then test his forehead with the back of your hand before brushing his hair out of his face. “I don’t think I will. But if I do get it, then you can take care of me.”

Tomura thinks he could do that. He wouldn’t be as good at it as you are, but you’re giving him a really good tutorial right now. He’s paying attention. Sort of. “I’d say I’m looking forward to it, but you’d have to get sick, so I’m not. Because I don’t want you to be sick. But I would take care of you. I want to, but I don’t want to have to, if that makes sense. It doesn’t make sense. I just – fuck.”

“It’s okay,” you say. You’re smiling at him. “Just get some rest. I could use a nap, too.”

“Yeah.” Tomura wants to talk to you more, wants to hear how your day was going before he ruined it, but now that you’re here, all he wants is to sleep. He sleeps better when you’re here. “Okay.”

The coughing’s not as bad when he isn’t trying to talk. Tomura closes his eyes and slumps against you. “Love you,” he mumbles, and he stays awake just long enough to hear you say it back.

[undercovercameron]

hole in one

summary: you're a server at the island club, and you may or may not have a favorite customer.

notes: i'm back baby! haven't written anything in a good while but i suddenly had this image of a girly reader and a flirty golfer rafe with that season 3 buzzcut... i HAD to make a pun with this title and i'm so glad i did. also i always write rafe a little more attentive and well-meaning than he is, so take this headcanon of nice rafe with a grain of salt-- and this shit is hella dirty so please enjoy and let me know what you think ;) (also im coming back to edit this fully in a little bit but i wanted to post just to prove i still love and use this account kajddjd)

tags: rafe cameron x fem!reader

word count: 4453

Some things in Rafe’s life were simple pleasures. 

A cocktail during dinner, a night where all the TV he watched was reality shows, a cigarette on a night out. The silence of his childhood home. 

Golf, coincidentally, was also one of those things. The course he frequented was just a ten-minute drive from his house, and he had priority parking. As a donor and a club-member of course. The drinks were cheap, the company was even cheaper, and he had a killer swing. There was rarely an afternoon out on that green that he didn’t enjoy. He felt closest to peace when all he had to work for was getting that tiny white golf ball sunk into a hole. 

They were often sweaty putting sessions, as the North Carolina heat in the summer was no joke, but the traveling drink cart was a brief respite from that. 

“What can I get you?” You ask, bright and long-lashed. Your hair was done in a tight updo, your makeup was flawless, and not a single spec of dirt or turf lay on your uniform. You took pride in your appearance and the effects it had on the loose wallets of the Outer Banks’ finest real estate investors and offshore bank account holders. Most of all, you enjoyed a certain someone’s attention. 

Rafe peeks under the overhang of the cart and stares at your selection. He stands with his hands on his hips, gold rings flashing in the hot sunlight. You take a look at him for the first time today, eyes taking over his bent form. He has gray slacks on with a dark blue polo stretched over his well-built back, unbuttoned to show the tiniest glint of blonde chest hair and his gold chain. He spared no expense when it came to his appearance, you’d come to notice. 

“I think,” he starts, standing back up, and fixes you with his blue-eyed stare. It makes you hold back a shiver despite the heat. “A double tequila soda.” 

He gives you a once-over, admiring the way your skirt hugs your waist and the sparkle of your earrings. He always likes when the girls have their hair up— gives him a sneak peek of what it’d look like if he pulled it. 

“Three limes? Just how you like?” You ask, breaking his focus, and reach for a plastic cocktail cup. You have a freckle behind your ear, he notices. 

“Exactly right,” he says, folding his arms over his chest, and his face splits into a grin when you glance at him and blush. He could be back with his friends from highschool, talking shit about their shitty swings or increasingly high scores, but he’s not. He’s right here, watching closely as you carefully measure the ice and pour a perfect double shot. 

“How’re you guys playing today?” You ask, a humiliating attempt at small talk, and you feel sweat bead on your lower back. 

“Shit, honestly,” Rafe laughs. “These jack-offs couldn’t get a hole-in-one if it was right in front of their fucking faces. And I’ve been distracted all day.” He looks down at you over the bridge of his nose, liking the way you tuck a stray lock of hair behind your ear. 

“Heat getting to you?” You squeeze the final lime and turn away from the cart, holding it out with a polite smile. He takes it carefully. 

“Something like that,” he says, cocking his head, and takes a sip. Tart. Just how he likes it. “Hey.” He digs a hand into his pocket and the tips of your cheekbones heat again for some reason. “Keep the change.” He hands you a fifty. 

You take it between hesitant fingers, peering up at him. 

“The drink is $6, Rafe.” 

He always does this. Pays cash with big bills and tells you to keep the change. He gave you a twenty for a packet of peanuts one time. “I don’t know if I can legally take this.”

He just shrugs. 

“Consider it a personal donation.”

“That doesn’t make me feel better.” 

“Makes me feel better. I think you deserve a little extra for your services—it takes a lot of work to look that good for a bunch of old geezers in sweater vests and loafers. I know I appreciate it.” He turns and starts off towards his group, yanking his sunglasses out of his shirt and jamming them onto his face. “I like your bra, by the way. ‘S my favorite color.”

You glance down the collar of your shirt, heart thumping, and look back up. 

That stupid fucking swagger he has. He’s going to throw out his back walking around like a peacock like that. 

You tug your shirt up, hiding the red bra you’d chosen for today, and hop back on the cart. Off to another hole where another old man will look down your shirt and ask for his Manhattan with two cherries instead of one. 

You think you’ll either quit this job or start wearing a fucking monk robe. 

The next time you see him is back at the club. Your boss had you on pool bartender duty, opposed to the drink cart you favored, and you were a little out of your element. 

The customer demographic was different, which you enjoyed, but they all seemed to want a lot more and a lot quicker. There was no loitering around to small talk; you had to work quickly and attentively to earn these housewives’ measly two dollar tip on margarita pitchers. 

You had spilled raspberry purée on your company-approved golf dress more times than you could count in your six hour shift. Near the end of it, however, Rafe had made his way to the end of the bar and watched as you ducked to put away the umbrella toothpicks and quickly and secretly downed a shot of Tito’s. Drinking on the job. Hm. 

(It’s not that you like to be drunk at work; it’s more of a little ‘fuck you’ to your boss, you think.)

“Hi,” you say on an exhale, coming over and wiping the already-spotless counter with a black rag. “What can I get you?” You have dangly earrings on today, and a different shade of lipgloss than he is accustomed to.

“Two grapefruit High Noon’s.” He folds his arms and leans on the counter, so close he could smell your perfume. “I could report you for that, you know,” he says, voice as low as a whisper. You peer up at him, lips pursed, and scan his face. No ill intent. Just an easy smile and dirty eyes. 

“Oh, yeah?” You reach for the fridge underneath the mixing mats and pull two cold cans from the shelf. You sit them on the counter and stare up at him. “You’re a real upstanding customer, huh?”

“Mhm.” He twists his pointer-finger ring mindlessly. “You owe me.” The corners of his lips quirk up. 

“Oh, do I?” You ask, giving him your best ’I don’t know what you’re talking about’ look. You know he likes that. 

The fact is that you and Rafe had countless conversations exactly like this one. Whether it be at the drink cart, on the way out of the building, or back inside in the restaurant bar. He always somehow leaned over you, smiling like the flirtatious bastard that he was, and making you feel like he’d like nothing more than to take you to his car and show you how much he actually enjoyed being served by you. That’s how you imagined him in bed, at least. Proving a point. 

He takes the two cans in one hand and straightens up, fixing you with a dangerous look. 

“Your shift ends in ten minutes, yeah?” He asks. 

“Yes.” You square your shoulders and stare back. 

“Good. I’ll take you home. Well, mine.” He backs up closer to where his friends are sitting at a covered patio table, mischievous smile flashing white in the sun. 

“I have a car, you know,” you say, leaning on the counter with folded arms. You ignore the hot rush of blood in your veins from his words. “And I have to shower.”

“What makes you think I don’t have a shower?” He purses his lips, faking the wildly confused look, and turns back around to his friends. 

You just sigh, exasperated with him, and work on cleaning up your station. God, it has to be him? The boy you had a crush on in elementary school? You’ve had plenty of hookups in your adult life, but none as close to home as this one. (Literally. You live down the street.) You feel his eyes on you as you scrub a particularly defiant streak of Grenadine from the counter, and feel his gaze on your back when you turn around to get a fresh rag. It makes your face burn hot. 

You know he’s not talking about just hanging out at his place. He probably has a huge shower, for God’s sake, and probably a humongous bed. California king if you can guess. 

You bet he tastes like summer.

After your replacement comes to the bar, you take your lanyard to get into the staff locker room from a hook under the bar and make your way slowly through the gaggles of people to your designated locker. It takes a brief conversation with your boss Angela about if you left the tip jar or took the contents to finally shoulder past the last group of people. 

You tug your bag from the hook, a change of clothes and your shower stuff already packed (as you had been planning to go to the gym after work). You now know you have other forms of exercise coordinated. You give yourself a final look in the little mirror on your locker. Here goes nothing. 

Rafe is waiting outside the swinging door when you push past it, button up shirt and shoes haphazardly thrown on. He immediately takes your bag from you and slings it over one massive shoulder, starting for the exit. 

“I can carry my own things, Rafe,” you say, slightly out of breath with the effort it takes to catch up to him. 

“Yeah, well, I’m in a bit of a hurry.” He casts a look over his shoulder, eyebrows raised seriously. You roll your eyes. 

His bedroom door pushes open and you stumble back, hand tight on his bicep as he walks you further. His hand circles your waist as he ducks to kiss you again, mouth hot and commanding over yours. 

He tastes exactly how you imagined. 

His room is bright with sunlight and slightly messy when you glance behind him, but you’re pretty fucking sure you won’t be focused on how his room is decorated when he keeps grabbing at you like this.

The back of your knees hit the bedspread and you fall into a sitting position, posture curved up into his as he leans and holds you by the side of the neck. You make a pleased noise into his mouth and tug at his shirt, suddenly irritated that he is wearing so many clothes. You snake a hand up his shirt and claw at his skin with your sharp nails. 

“Save that for my back,” he breathes, and your fingers fumble to unbutton his shirt as you finally pull it down and off his body. You rejoice at his newfound lack of clothing and smooth a hand over his chest, eyes trained on his toned and tan stomach. 

He’s huge like this, up close, and the warmth radiating from his skin makes your heart jump into your throat. Your fingers splay across the middle of his abdomen, just appreciating the way he breathes under your touch, and you lean back up for his mouth. 

He threads his fingers in your hair and pulls your face so hard to his own that your neck smarts. Between your legs throbs. You protest, grabbing at his wrist, but settle when he shuffles closer to the bed and tilts you back into the sheets.

“Spread your legs for me,” he murmurs. Your back meets silk, and he lifts your open legs up and around his hips as he settles between your thighs comfortably. Right where he should be. 

The feeling of his heavy weight where you’ve been needing it makes your back arch. He breaks away from you and slides a hand down your chest, laying the route that his mouth will take. 

“You smell like cherries,” he says as he presses his mouth to your collarbone and sucks. 

“I know.” You shudder through a laugh and bring your hand up to the back of his head as encouragement. “Spilled Grenadine.”

He hums noncommittally and shoves the hem of your dress up past your hips and to your midriff in one fluid motion. You wriggle for a second, so exposed so fast, but sigh contentedly when his lips meet your stomach. His mouth is so unexplainably hot, and as his tongue meets you your whole body erupts in goosebumps. It sends a shiver down your spine. It’s even better than you imagined. 

“Knew you’d taste so good,” Rafe practically moans, eyes darting to yours, and his fingertips curl around the waistband of your underwear as you watch. Your cheeks flush at his word. You’re honored to be the recipient of words like his— it’s not often Rafe finds himself giving someone a compliment. He lays a final kiss on your stomach and surges back up towards your chest. He mutters gibberish to himself, probably something like “I hate this fucking dress” and yanks your dress up past your tits. 

His fingers find your left nipple and squeeze as his tongue finds the other. You arch again, unused to the sensation, and let loose a groan. His fingers are so soft and light, but his teeth nip. 

You make a noise of surprise, eyebrows furrowing, and tug at the short, blunt locks of his hair. 

“Impatient,” he reprimands, tongue rolling as he glances up at your pink face. You’re strung so tight you might snap. “Needy.” He releases your nipple with a pop. Your lips are so pink and shiny, he just has to kiss you again. You whine into his mouth when he comes back, fingernails scratching at his scalp, and your legs wind around his waist. 

But he lets go of your hip with his left hand and creeps closer to the crotch of your underwear, fingertips dancing. Your grip on his hair tightens. Between your legs pulses with heat and need, hot on his clothed crotch, and he knows he could calculate your BPM just by laying with you like this. 

“Rafe,” you breathe, staring up at him as your chest heaves. 

“Relax,” he shushes, ducking down to press a kiss to your neck, and you gradually relax the muscles that lock your legs to his abdomen. “There you go.” You think you hear a “good girl” fall from his soft lips but it’s in that moment that he pushes past the cotton and digs his hand into your underwear. 

You immediately spur into motion, back arching and mouth dropping into an ‘O’, and he just bites his lip and watches. You’re so responsive, and it makes his dick fucking ache. 

“Thought about this? Hm?” He pants, releasing his bottom lip from between his teeth, and grins. “So wet, this pussy’s been begging for me for weeks.”

You struggle to nod, movement interrupted by the slew of noises and ramblings of “please” and “yes” and “Rafe” falling from your lips. His middle and ring fingers push past the slick resistance your pussy gives him, and you go silent and slack-jawed as he pushes all the way to the hilt.  

And he’s got big fingers. You wonder if they’re the same size as his dick. If so, you might be in trouble.

“Fuck, Rafe,” you nearly cry, head falling back into the sheets, and you’re slammed back into reality and consciousness of your surroundings. The coolness of the AC makes your nipples peak again, and the sweat on your lower back cools almost as soon as it’s created. But Rafe makes you hot. Your chest and cheeks are flushed a bright pink, and your lips are swollen into a bigger size and slick with his saliva and your own. We don’t even have to discuss how flushed the other parts of your body are—he already knows. 

His fingers curl slightly up and to the right, and your abdomen jerks at the unfamiliar feeling. You curl up slightly, eyebrows furrowed, and try to catch a glimpse of his large hand in your underwear. God, you wish you could take a picture. You lock gazes with him momentarily but fall back down at the look in his face. It’s nearly animalistic. 

“Rafe, please,” you beg, grabbing onto his wrist with both hands. You meet his eyes. “I want you to fuck me. Please.”

“Fuck,” he breathes, pulling his fingers out, and clambers off of you for a second. You sit up, quickly ridding yourself of the dress bunched up to your shoulders, and watch as he rips his shorts off and nears the bed. You don’t even have enough time to gape at the size of him before he’s grabbing your bicep and jerking you onto your stomach. 

You have half a mind to protest his man-handling of you but stay silent as you look up at the angle he positions you. 

There’s a full length mirror opposite this side of his bed, and you just stare at the pair of you as you catch your breath. 

“Like it, huh?” He asks quietly, dipping down and pressing a kiss to your hair. His hand finds your neck and he moves you to face the mirror head on, watching your face closely. You really like the feeling of his fingers around your throat. He can tell, now; your shoulders relax and your lips move into the shape of a smile when he squeezes. 

“You always keep this here?” You ask, head falling onto your folded arms when he releases you to just admire your body. His fingers trace your spine and the curve of your ass, never losing focus. 

“I moved it this morning,” he murmurs, gaze never straying from you. 

“Oh, so you knew you’d be fucking me tonight.” Your face splits into an easy grin, head tilting mischievously. His eyes find yours in the mirror, and he bends again to press his mouth to your lower back. 

“Always teasing me.” His voice is muffled by your smooth skin. He can’t get enough. “Knew it’d happen sometime soon. You can’t stay away forever, you know.” He straightens up but doesn’t find your eyes in the mirror. His large, warm hand maneuvers your hips into a tilted position, and you move up onto your feet. He has you flat on your stomach on the bed, but your ass and legs hang off and the soles of your feet just barely press flat into the floor. “Knew this pussy would get me at some point.” He smacks at an asscheek lightning fast; and your whole body jiggles with the force of his hand. You squeak involuntarily.

A large hand grabs at your shoulder as the other one jerks himself steadily. Once, twice, three times, and then he’s spreading you open and pushing into you. 

Your spine stretches and relaxes when he gets halfway in, and your thighs start to shake when you’re filled all the way to the hilt. 

“Shit, Rafe, you’re fucking big,” you complain, but the tail end of your protest bleeds into a desperate whine. Your fingers grip the sheets tightly, eyes squeezed shut, and your head falls onto your folded arms. “Please,” you say, reaching back to frantically find his hips. “Go slow.”

“Stretching you out, hm,” Rafe comments, breathing hard already, and relieves the pressure by sliding almost all the way out. His tip almost breaches the seam of your slit but he pushes back in, pulling your asscheek away with a thumb to watch. “Fucking sexy.”

You squeeze around him like a vice, but the intrusion is welcome. You will yourself to relax and accept his huge fucking dick, and the thought of yourself getting fucked by him sends a gush of slick between you two. 

“There you go,” Rafe sighs, and pulls out only to fuck back in to you quickly. You cry out, fingers squeezing extra tight on the sheets, but you will yourself to look up.

His chest is flushed in the mirror as his chain swings in the open air, and the pure concentration and pleasure on his face prompts a pleased noise from your throat. You tentatively jerk back into him and his head whips up in the mirror, blue eyes meeting your own. 

“Oh, yeah?” He mutters, teeth catching his lip, and his hips snap into yours. Your mouth drops open only momentarily before you close it and tilt your head to the size coyly, biting your own lip and pushing back into his hips. He watches you carefully in the mirror with squinted eyes, half-impressed and half-challenging. “You think you can take it?” His fingers squeeze at your shoulder tight. 

You just silently nod. Cocky. 

His emotionless gaze locks with yours and his blood pumps hot in his veins. He’s going to make you eat your words. 

His hips surge forward in a suddenly-steady rhythm, skin slapping skin ringing out in the room. You just stare at him, defiant, and push back with every thrust he gives.

Rafe grunts and lets go of your shoulder, replacing his touch with an arm slung around your neck and the other hand between your legs. His warm fingers nudge your clit, finding it immediately, and his hips snap punishingly quickly into yours. 

It’s brutal, having him like this. You hope you bruise. But you challenged him, and somebody has to lose. Except it’s not really a loss when Rafe fucking Cameron is genuinely fucking you into next week. 

“Shit,” you exhale, choking on the inhale that accompanies it, and you squeeze your eyes shut as his fingers rub you in circles. “Fuck, Rafe, that’s so good.” Something hot coils tight in your stomach and your thighs suddenly warm almost in preparation for the wave of sensation. 

“Yeah?” He pants, hot in your ear. “You like that?” His chest sticks to your sweaty back, gluing you together as his strong hips and legs pound you into the mattress. You stay strong, along for the ride, and provide all the verbal encouragement he needs. Your stomach feels hotter and hotter and your throat runs dry. 

“I love it,” you whine, head tilting up as if you’re praying he won’t stop. “Fuck me like this forever.”

“Mhm,” is all he says, too lost in the squeeze of your pussy around him and the warmth your body grants him. You pulse even more, so close. 

You gather some strength and struggle to push up into an elbow, head tilting further and further until you can feel his forehead brush the crown of your head. Your muscles strain. 

“Just like that. Just like—God, shit, right there.”

You squeak when the hot coil in your abdomen snaps and you fall twitchingly onto your stomach. His fingers rub quickly at your clit and you feel suddenly a hundred pounds lighter, eyes rolling back into your head. It’s so fucking good you wonder how you’ll ever masturbate happily again. Your fingers don’t compare in the slightest to this fucking dick. Your chest heaves with the effort it takes to fill your lungs with clean air, and your legs start to shake miserably underneath him. Your thighs feel like jelly and you barely did anything. 

“Please, Rafe,” you beg, turning your head to the side to look innocently up at him. “Give it to me.”

“Yeah?” He pants and leans down to kiss you messily. You groan into his mouth and push back once more into his hips. Your pussy is still buzzing with feeling, and it fades slowly into a pleasant ache the more he fucks into you. “You want it on your back or in your mouth?”

You blink wildly and push onto your palms, signaling that you want to turn over. He pulls out but jerks himself steadily until you scramble onto your knees in front of him, face level with his pelvis and tongue out. You look up at him with the most earnest and well-meaning eyes, and he just has to close his eyes when the tip of his dick finally meets your tongue and he fills your mouth. His chest loosens with the most pathetic noise he’s ever made, a mix between a raw groan and a whimper. Your soft mouth accepts him and cleans his dick, humming contentedly, and when he catches his breath and manages to open his eyes you’re staring up at him, an immensely pleased look on your face. 

You crawl closer and lift onto your knees, arms coming around his neck and pulling him to you. You press a kiss to his mouth. He can almost taste himself on your tongue, and he smoothes a hand down your side to grab onto your asscheek as you just kiss him. 

“Hey,” he murmurs, pulling away slightly to give your face a once-over. “You haven’t even showered yet.”

“And whose fault is that?” You sigh, exasperated. “Someone couldn’t make it up the stairs without shoving his hands up my dress—we barely even made it to the bed.” You smooth a hand down the back side of his head, liking the way his hair feels. 

Rafe just purses his lips. 

“Sounds like a really cool guy to me.”

“Mhm,” you say, rolling your eyes, and sit back on your heels. 

This room is a mess.

The corner of the well-made bed’s sheets and bedspread is yanked from the far corner and lies bunched up in the middle, dark with sweat. It smells like sex in here, the ceiling fan doing nothing to mitigate it, and your work dress is hung haphazardly on the closet door handle. With a dark Grenadine stain down the middle. 

“Don’t even think about it,” Rafe says, interrupting your inner monologue. His warm hand comes to rest on your thigh. 

“What?” You ask, eyebrows drawn. 

“Don’t even think about putting on clothes.”

You scoff.

“Like those would do me any good right now.” You wind your arms around his neck and smirk up at him. “I still haven’t even shown you what’s in my bag.”

His smile grows. 

“What’s in your bag, baby?”

[bidisasterevankinard]

Fuck it Friday

I had inspiration for bucktommy date night where Buck is in a dress so here's more (who forgot/doesn't know how dress look under cut is the photo)

“What are you doing?” 

Evan raises his eyebrow with adorable head tilt and Tommy just smirks at him, when he drips the remains of a cocktail, the name he doesn’t remember, onto Evan's exposed neck, enjoying the way the drops flow closer to the neckline on his chest. Licking all the tracks from the skin with his tongue, Tommy revels in the sharp intake of breath and the way Evan's body shudders under his tongue. Tommy grins. Evan's skin smells like floral shower gel and a little sweat from being in a slightly stuffy room. This blend with tart-sweet alcohol turns Tommy's head better than rum and tequila in their cocktails.

“Enjoying my cocktail and my hot boyfriend. Two in one,” Tommy winks and Evan smiles at him. “Tell me more about cocktails and its history.”

Evan beams and pushes his body so now he sits on his lap, having easy access to his ear.

“The most expensive cocktail in the world costs $22,579.”

Tommy chokes on his beverage.

“Yeah, I had the same reaction. It’s a Diamonds Are Forever Martini at the Ritz Carlton in Tokyo. It’s made from vodka, lime juice, and a one carat diamond.”

“Will you make this at home for a cheaper price?” Tommy nuzzles Evan’s neck.

“When l will propose to you,” Evan nods.

“What if I do it first?”

“Then I’ll do it for our first night as husbands, before fucking you like a king.”

Tommy growls and grinds his again half hard cock into Evan’s perfect little ass.

“It’s a deal, baby,” he bites Evan’s earlobe. “Tell me more.”

“One last fact and we’re dancing, right?” 

Evan bats his eyelashes, pouting, and his blue eyes getting so adorably soft and pleading, that Tommy would kill a man or steal the moon if Evan just asked him like that.

God, this fucking kid. He can make a man do anything he wants with just his pretty face.

Np tagging @wikiangela @bewilderedbuckley @hippolotamus @diazsdimples @diazheartsbuckley @queerbuck @queerdiaz @watchyourbuck @epiphainie @evnnkinard @evansboyfriend @evanbi-ckley @eddiestummy @repressedqueen @rainbow-nerdss @rogerzsteven @racerchix21 @pirrusstuff @underwaterninja13 @saybiwithme @devirnis @lavenderleahy @loveyouanyway @monsterrae1 @cal-daisies-and-briars @buckera @bi-buckrights @bigfootsmom @bekkachaos @theotherbuckley @thewolvesof1998 @theweewooshow @eddiebabygirldiaz and you if you want to

[xoxo-ren-xoxo]

on the topic of disability, sometimes when Im talking to other disabled people about disability rights and so on, I get this dreadful feeling that's like 'oh, they really do not know how bad it is, huh'. It's one thing to struggle for access to proper diagnosis and medical aid when you *are able to self advocate*, but as soon as some of you come across a person who cannot self advocate, you stop understanding.

my brother has autism, like me. he has ADHD, like me. he cannot write, cannot speak (he is not mute, but he cannot put words together), and needs care 24/7 from experts.

I have had conversations with other disabled people who have called my parents monsters for 'sending him off to be the government's problem' (in reality, he lives in a shared care house with 24 hour professional care, and my parents visit him weekly).

I have had conversations with other disabled people who were shocked that abuse happened at his past care home, and asked 'why don't you just live with him at home?' somehow ignoring the fact that he is a 6 foot tall, physically imposing 25 year old with very few ways to communicate that he is upset beyond physically lashing out.

I have had other disabled people come to me, confused, when I have described how yes, my brother physically attacked me when we were children and gave my parents lasting injuries, but I have never blamed him because he never had another way to express himself, he was on a cocktail of drugs, and he does not have the social reasoning skills to do something like that out of malice. I have had people tell me I am in denial for this truth, and I'm sure some of you will try to tell me the same.

when I talk about disability activism, I don't just mean wheelchair-accessible spaces, better treatment from doctors, and cheaper, easier healthcare. I mean more care facilities funded by the government. I mean more training for staff working with people who have complex disabilities. I mean advocacy and care for people who cannot, and will never, be able to write a plea for help, or voice their opinions in parliament, or ask to go to the toilet.

my brother is one of my favourite people. he has a personality - likes and dislikes, funny expressions and quirks, a silly smile whenever he's up to no good - he understands certain things, but we will never truly know what exactly he can and cant comprehend. he deserves someone on his side. he deserves the same advocacy other disabled people get from our allies.

if you stop caring about disabled people as soon as they stop being a 'full' person in your eyes, you do not care about disabled people.

[blueberryarchive]

alt bartender!hoseok x reader

The metal reverberating through the walls. The rain it's pouring in the middle of a starless night and you wish your feet weren't soaked nor that you were this tipsy; it didn't do you any good wasting your money while your ex is the one with a new partner. You couldn't hate him; you were actually glad for him. But you could cry if you weren't so tough on yourself. The tears would be cheaper, you thought.

You took a cigarette out of your tiny bag, the little stick resting in your smudged red lips. And then you remembered, the last time you saw him, he took your lighter with him; the same one he gave you for your birthday. Okay, now you could cry.

"Fuck," you rolled your eyes, feeling a sting in them. Where were your friends? Did they left you? Did they forget about you just like him?

"Oh, shit. My bad." The stranger excused himself when he bumped with your shoulder. It was Hoseok, one of the bartender. It was his smoke break. Your eyes were as wet as the concrete but that didn't matter now.

"Do you have a lighter?" You asked seeing the cigarette clinging to his slender fingers.

"Nah. Borrowed one inside." His eyes were gentle, the smile carved like a heart and the fishnet shirt like a second skin, leather pants stopped at his v line. You couldn't stop staring and he knew; he let you, enjoyed it.

"Come here." He whispered, laughing.

He took your hand in his to get you closer, your feet moved clumsily. Almost touching forehead to forehead.

"Put your hands around the flame— yes, like that," his voice reminded you of him, but the way he's eyebrows frowned trying to light your tip with the flame of his cigarette...

You looked up to his eyes, eyeliner smudged from the long hours working inside. How didn't you notice before? Was it the alcohol or the loneliness?

He was so cool, you thought like how little boys see superheroes. You wanted to be him, but the liquor wanted you to kiss him. The proximity had you so drunk.

He caught you staring and smirked. "Long night, love?"

You didn't say anything, you took a puff to stoke the fire in the tip.

"Long relationship." you muttered. He laughed, this is the first time you heard it without the riffs and the drums drowning it. It was heavenly, contagious. Made you smile.

"Fuck him." He chuckled, staring at your lips. He was so blunt all the time, and you loved it.

"Yeah, fuck him." you interrupted. Actually, yes, fuck what you said earlier. Your ex can choke. You were not happy.

"So, those that mean you're single?" He wasn't timid about it. The fruity cocktails in your veins either.

He leaned closer and kissed you, throwing away the cigarette to the void of night. You kissed him back with so much hunger and clinginess. The one that your ex didn't let you satisfy.

"Seok," Jimin, his coworker, called and when he saw Hoseok's body almost engulfing yours, he closed the door rolling his eyes. "Hurry up, man."

"I have to go, doll face." He panted breaking the kiss, your legs trembled. With one hand he took the phone in your bag and called an Uber. "Leave your fucking friends, they're too drunk. I'll tell them you went home."

You nodded, still in pure bliss, still in heaven; in his heart-shaped lips covered in your Rouge Coco Bloom lipstick type-of-heaven. Like a work of art.

"Here." He gave you a lighter on his hands, a little H written in black marker. "See ya." He kissed your neck so softly you felt chills, and disappeared through the door.

Now you weren't so mad about loosing your lighter.

[etirabys]

Huh. Are cocktails expensive because the culture as a whole wants to distinguish drinking socially from drinking alone? I looked at a $15 cocktail on a menu and shook my head, but then I imagined it costing $6, and my brain said "that buckets it closer to drinking alone at home, and that feels bad (although overall I like the cheaper option better)".

maybe the cocktail price is like a line you draw for yourself in the sand

[htchnr]

♰ check up ༻ SAM AXE.*ೃ˚ part three.

✮ꜜ masterlist. ✮ꜜ buy me a coffee!

content warning drinking ⋆ smut ⋆ piv ⋆ unprotected sex ⋆ Sam's THICK ⋆ choking ⋆ rough sex ⋆ overstimulation ⋆ soft aftercare ⋆ if i missed anything, lmk!

pairing paramedic!Sam x tattooed!sunshine!reader.

summary Michael sends Sam to help you out, and ends up helping in more ways than just baking. wordcount 3,2K.

© 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟒 𝐇𝐓𝐂𝐇𝐍𝐑. 𝐝𝐨 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐜𝐨𝐩𝐲, 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐬𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐦𝐲 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐦, 𝐨𝐫 𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫!

the sun was slowly setting by the time you got back from Michael's. you unlock your door, tiredly pushing through with your helmet in hand. you drop your helmet on the side table, closing the door as you hang your keys on their designated hook before shimmying out of your protective gear.

the moment you turn on some low lounge music, a knock on your doors rings through your home loud and clear. your brows furrow, could that be Michael? he did say he'd make it up for taking up your time.

you walk to the door, adjusting your dress a little. you open it expecting Michael, only to find Sam standing behind it. " Sam? what are you doing here? " a small smile finding it's way onto your lips, it was nice to see him.

he nods, grinning. " Mike said you uh, needed some help with baking, " he laughs, recalling how Michael said that he would make it up to you. Sam should've expected Mike's call.

you laugh, shaking your head. " of course, Michael doesn't do that kinda thing himself does he? " you let out a breathy laugh, stepping out if his way. " come in, " he nods, stepping inside.

while he took his shoes off you took a moment to take in his figure, no longer wearing the paramedic uniform he was dressed in baggy jeans and greyish blue t-shirt. he looked down right delicious.

you let out a breath, walking to the kitchen. " want anything to drink? " you call out, grabbing two glasses.

Sam joins you, sitting on one of your bar stools. " what do you have to offer? " your breath hitches at his tone, if he continues talking like that, you've got plenty to offer him.

" lemonade, beer, water, " you open your fridge, " and if it's your jam, i was about to make some mojitos? " you offer, head still in the fridge.

Sam's heart skips a beat, he'd never say no to a good mojito. " wouldn't mind a mojito, if you're making? "

you close your fridge, grinning. " absolutely, " Sam watches you move around your kitchen, grabbing the things you need. it felt so intimate, your figure moving through the space under the soft lighting. the soft flow of your dress, the thought of the lacy blue underwear still fresh on his mind.

it takes you a minute or two, Sam's dark eyes intensely watching as you squeeze the lime juice with a small grunt — a sound he could never let go again.

you stick thin straws into the glasses, turning around with a big grin, " hope you like em, " you set the drink down before Sam as you sit down in the stool across from him, your knees knocking against each other.

Sam grins, leaning down to take a long pull through the straw and he blinks wide for a split second as the drink hits his tongue. he quickly recovers, looking up with a hint of blush on his cheeks, " that's really good, wow, "

you grin, watching him happily drink. you tuck the small falter away in the back of your mind — mojitos, a clear way to his heart.

you nod, taking a big pull yourself. " cocktails and baking are my big passions, " you smile, nodding around the big, spacious kitchen. " else my place would've been a lot cheaper, " you laugh.

Sam laughs along, nodding. you lean in, chin resting on two palms. " so, Sam, " you trail, knees pressed to his, his eyes meet yours again. " what are your passions? " and with the look on your face, and the mojito on his tongue, he could never lie to you.

✮ꜜ : ❛

the air is lively, gentle 70s soft rock playing through the kitchen as you both start to knead your own bowls of dough. conversation flows so easy between the two of you, you really wonder where he's been all your life.

a few drinks in and both your cheeks are flushed, huge goofy smiles stretching across them as you set down your bowl on the counter. " in the uh, left cupboard there, " you point with your free hand as the other takes his bowl. " is a jar of flour, could you grab it? "

Sam's in motion from the moment you pointed to the cupboard, door already swung open as he looks for the jar. he grabs it, closing the cupboard and setting it down beside you. " thanks, " you grin, sticking a small measuring cup into the jar and set the full cup on the counter as you move the jar to the side.

you take a pinch of flour, dusting a small part of the counter. " so you sprinkle a little flour down, then grab the dough, " you scoop out the dough onto the counter, " and stretch it out like so, and then fold it in half, aaand repeat, " you look up at him, " easy peasy, " you grin.

Sam nods, it didn't seem so difficult. he sprinkled some flour across the counter, copying your movements. " see? in my opinion, anyone can learn to bake, " your voice full of sunshine, Sam was melting.

the kneading went well, Sam getting the hang of it quickly. the two of you talking about anything that came to mind. you fold down the last fold, and the moment you do, a large puff of flour shoots out the side, sprinkling onto Sam's shirt. " oh- i'm so sorry! " you laugh, moving over to brush it off, only for it to just spread around.

Sam joins in on the laughter, watching you rest your hands against his firm chest as you laugh. " oh no worries, oh hey you've got a little, " he trails off, one thumb lifting your face by your chin, before spreading some flour across your nose.

" hey! " you laugh, Sam's cheeks throbbing from smiling as he watches you try to wipe it off. you fully turn to him, tilting your head with a smile. you pause your smile, squinting in concern as you lean in, " what's this bruise? " you ask, hand resting on his chest as the other moves to his jaw.

" huh? what bruise- " he tries to ask, but you beat him by smearing a handful of flour across his face. " oh you sneaky little- " he laughs, his hands rushing down to grab your waist as he moves you away from the dough and down the counter a little.

the air felt heavy between the two of you, Sam's big hands holding yours beside you before you could rub more flour into him, your chests heaving as you're trapped against the counter. his heavy eyes watching yours. your eyes flit down to his lips, slightly parted, before flitting down to the gold chain around his neck that was more visible now thanks to the t-shirt.

an awful smirk stretches its way across his lips, knowing where your eyes are. " you really like the chain, huh? " his voice is low, leaning in a little. you nod, your tipsy brain finding it impossible to tear your eyes away from the piece of jewellery. he leans down a little more, his face inching closer to yours, and the chain slips free of his shirt, dangling closer to you.

you instinctively lean into him, tilting your face up as you feel his breath fan across the lower half of your face. the tip of his nose just barely brushes against yours, and you find yourself desperately tipping your head up. " please.. " you whisper.

his eyes flit between your pink cheeks and your parted lips. " what, 'please', sweetheart? " and your breath hitches at his tone.

you wriggle against his grip, thighs slightly rubbing together at his strength. " please, kiss me. " your voice merely a low whine as you press your nose against his.

he grins, " anything you want, baby. " before pressing his lips firmly against yours. you let out a moan, melting against his lips as you return the kiss. your heavy breaths mix as he drops your hands, one of his huge hands coming up to hold your face as the other grips your hip.

both of your arms shoot up around his neck, pulling yourself up into the kiss. Sam grunts, both his hands dragging down to cup the underside of your thighs, easily picking you up and lifting you onto the counter as he pushes himself between your legs.

you moan at the change of position, your finger dragging through his hair and across his scalp as he deepens the kiss. you wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him in impossibly close, dragging your tongue against his lower lip.

he happily obliges, parting his lips to dart his own tongue out, meeting yours in a sinful dance. his hands grip up and down your waist, settling on holding your hips as close to him as possible. you let out a lewd moan as you feel him press against your core, pulling away from the kiss to pant.

he gently knocks his forehead against yours, chest heaving as well. " normally you'd have to by me a real good dinner before this, " you pant, rubbing your nose against his.

he nods, " oh, honey, i'll take you out for anything you want after this, " his raged voice sending shocks throughout your whole body.

you grin, shaking your head, " you're lucky you're so good looking, mister. " pressing your lips against his.

he grins into the kiss, pulling away again. " oh yeah? " he taunts, experimentally rolling your hips against his with his hold on them.

you nod, biting your lip. you lean in, pressing open mouthed kisses to his stubbled jaw, trailing them down his throat until you reach the chain. Sam lets out a guttural groan as your trace where the chain sits against his skin with your tongue, sucking occasional gentle bruises into the skin.

he grunts, gently wrapping his hand around your hair and pulling your head up to press his lips against yours hungrily. your moans are swallowed by his lips the moment they leave yours. one of your shaky hands reaches behind you to pull on his hand, Sam lets go of your hair, allowing you to guide his hand where ever you need it.

a low groan leaves him as you guide his thick fingers to your throat, gently squeezing around his. " you sure? " he manages to get out between kisses. you bite his lower lip, squeezing his hand tighter to get your point across. " fuuck, yes ma'am. " he grunts, his rough fingers wrapping around your throat.

the moment they do you let out a lewd moan, rolling your aching core against his hardening cock. his hips buck against yours, his tongue swirling around yours, desperate sounds leaving you.

your hands fumble with his belt, unbuckling it before unzipping his jeans. he grunts against your lips, his hips bucking into your hand as you slip your hand down his jeans, stroking him over his boxers. oh lord, he feels good.

he pulls away from the kiss, pressing urgent kisses to your jaw, trailing them down to your tatted collarbones, down between your tatted breasts. you moan, dragging your fingers through his hair as he sucks bruises into the supple skin.

his hands eagerly pull at the straps of your dress, shoving them off your shoulders. his huge hands immediately sliding up to cup both of your breasts, pulling a nipple between his teeth. a high pitched gasp leaves you, pressing your chest against his lips as he swirls his tongue around the bud. " shit, Sam, just like that, " it was music to his ears.

he lets go of the one nipple, hot mouth eagerly finding the other as he drags his teeth across your skin. he's fascinated, entranced, by your tattoos. by the inked skin beneath his fingers and lips, he can't get enough of it.

your hands push at his face, Sam reluctantly releasing the hard bud as you smash your lips against his again, holding both sides of his face. you whine as you press your chest against his, perked up nipples dragging sensitively against his shirt. " fuck me, Sam. please. " you beg, trying to pull him closer by his belt loops.

he grunts against your lips, huge hands sliding you closer to the edge of the counter by your hips. you drop your head back and moan as he grinds up against you. " come on, you can do better than that, baby, " he taunts, connecting his lips to your chest again.

the pleasure has your tipsy brain almost crying. you hike your legs up higher, his hips immediately pressing even closer as one of his big hands takes ahold of your thigh to hold it in place. " please, Sam. " you've nearly got tears in your eyes from desperation. " please, i need you, "

his hips buck hard up into you at the sound of your teary eyed begging. " that's it, honey, " he praises, nipping at your jaw. " you need me that bad, huh? " his free hand holding your face, thumbing at the tear that slipped down. " i could never say no when you look so pretty like this, " he groans, kissing the trail that the tear left. " you want it here? " he asks, shimmying your dress up your hips.

your shaky hands help him, sliding your lacy blue thong down and pulling one leg out to leave it hanging on the other. " i don't care, i just need you now. " you pant, hands pulling at his jeans.

he grunts, shoving his jeans down enough to pull himself out. you lean back on your elbows on the counter, shaking in anticipation as you watching him pull himself out, lazily stroking himself. oh god this is gonna be good.

you drop your head back as you feel him press his weeping tip against your sopping core, a deep groan rumbling from his chest as he feels how wet you are. " god baby, s'this all for me? fuuck, " your hips stutter as he slips his tip up and down your cunt, trying to press them closer to him.

you feel him take ahold of your jaw, pulling your face up a little. you open your eyes, looking at him through your lashes. his hand remains by your chin, a wicked look in his eyes. " c'mon baby, spit. " 'yes sir' is all you can think when you gather the spit in your mouth, before pursing your lips and spitting into his palm. he moans at the sight, his length now pressed flat against your core. " atta girl. "

you watch him stroke his aching cock with your spit, and it gets you so ridiculously close to the edge already, and he hasn't even fucked you yet. you drop your head back again, moaning as you feel him slide up and down your awaiting cunt.

you heard rummage in his pocket for something, his strong arm around your knee to hold it in place as he looks. " i'm on birth control, " you pant quickly, trying to pull him in with your legs wrapped around his hips. " please, " you beg desperately.

he groans, and you watch him through hooded eyes as he debates it. you press closer to him, his slippery cock sliding against your core. his hold on your thighs is bruising as he leans down over you, his head pressing in. you drop your head back in pleasure, your walls trying to suck in what little is pressed in.

his eyes meet your flushed, teary face and he loses it, pushing in with one hard thrust. a cry is pulled from your throat, your nails clawing at his arms as he stills, fully seated. " oh- shit- " you struggle, you feel so damn full with how thick he is, the stretch painful but deliciously so.

he leans forward, forehead pressing against your as he tries to remain still to let you adjust, but with how your walls are hugging him make it damn near impossible. " so damn good, baby, you feel so good, " he moans, leaning down to press sloppy kisses across your chest.

you let a high pitched moan as his tongue swirls around your nipple, clenching around him in an instant. he groans, hips bucking into yours, causing you to cry out. " shit, stay- oh fuck- still, " you pant, chest heaving and nails digging into his strong arms.

he groans, resting his head against your chest. " 'm trying, honey, god i'm trying, " he breathes. your hair drapes off the other side of the counter, head dropped back as you adjust around him. god he was so thick.

your hips arch as he presses gentle kisses to your chest, tongue absentmindedly tracing your tattoos. after a few moments, snake a hand into his hair, panting. " move, " you moan lowly, walls almost suffocating him as he starts to slowly pull out. he leaves just the tip in, before slowly pushing back in again. you moan loudly, back arching off the counter. " fuck, just like that, just like that, Sam, "

he groans, his name sounds so good spilling from your lips, his hips setting a slow pace. he watches you closely, picks up on every little twitch, every time your nails dig a little deeper into his arms.

he gives you a few minutes with this pace, slowly but deeply fucking into you so you can adjust. his hands trail from your hips, dragging his blunt nails across your back before pulling you up. you cry out at the slight change of position, hands grasping his shoulders. he presses feverish kisses to your jaw and throat, slowly picking up his pace. " god, you feel so good, " he breathes.

you hold his head against your chest, rolling your hips into his to match his pace. " Sam, " you beg, your voice nothing but a low whine now.

he looks up from your chest, pupils blown and a sparkle in his eyes. " yeah? " the look makes your walls tighten around him, his brows scrunching together.

you pull his lips against yours, a sloppy kiss that's all tongue and teeth. " faster, " you moan, nudging your nose against his. you were almost embarrassed to feel yourself getting closer just by kissing and this slow pace.

his hips stutter a little at your word, but eagerly picking up their pace. you drop your head against his shoulder as he picks up the pace, speeding up bit by bit, till he hits a pace that has you almost crashing over the edge. " shit- 'm so close, " you whine, holding onto him as he slams in and out.

his hips stutter as he feels you clench around him. " yeah? c'mon pretty girl, cum for me, " he pants, that filthy grin on his lips. " cum all over my cock, baby, "

you feel him slip a large hand between you two, your hips shaking as his rough fingers find your clit. " oh fuck- " you cry out, digging your head against shoulder as you shake against him. you couldn't last more than another second with his rough fingers working your clit, the pressure sending you over the edge as white hot pleasure consumes you.

Sam groans, hips stuttering against yours as your walls spasm around him. " that's it- oh that's it, baby, " he coaxes, fingers retracting as he fucks you through your orgasm. god he was hitting all the right places, it feels like you could explode.

his pace quickens, hips roughly slamming into yours as he revels in your sounds, the choked moans and desperate pleas, your nails scratching up his back and down his arms.

he stretched you out so good, you felt so full. he was reaching all the right spots, you could almost feel him in your stomach. you knew you were going to be sore tomorrow morning from the moment you felt him in your hand.

" i'm close, doll, " he groans, nudging his nose against yours before painfully pressing his lips to yours. " where do you want it? "

you spasm around him at the question, " don't care, jus' need it- god i need it, " you beg, tears dripping down your face from the overwhelming pleasure.

he moans, his pace sporadic as he thinks. each drag against your walls sending him closer and closer. as much as he wants to fill you up, another idea has occupied his mind since he first saw the tattoos on your chest.

you watch him through teary and hooded eyes, his furrowed brows, the slope of his sharp nose, the chain bouncing around his neck. " please, baby, " you plea, your voice cracking a little. " please cum for me, "

and your words send him over the edge, hips stuttering as he moans, quickening his pace before pulling out. he pants heavily as he jerks his cock, before a guttural groan reverberates through him as he cums, shooting his load up onto your chest and stomach, watching with a pleasure contorted face how his cum covers your tattoos and drips down them.

his chest heaves as he squeezes every drop out, before you lay yourself down against the counter, Sam resting above you with his palms flat against the counter on either side of your waist. he takes deep breaths, trying to catch his breath as his are glued to the cum covering your most intimate tattoos. something strangely possessive stirs inside of him at the sight.

he watches your chest heavy, breasts rising and falling and your stomach flexing occasionally, the cum slowly dripping down your waist and onto the counter. he sighs deeply, " goddamn, honey, " his voice ragged.

you let out a breathy laugh, breasts jiggling before him with the laugh. " yeah, " you breathe.

he leans down, pressing a gentle kiss to your lips. you sigh into the kiss, a soft hand holding his stubbled jaw. he pulls away, eyes darting across your tear stained face. you smile tiredly, " 'm fine, jus' tired, " you sigh, stroking his cheek.

he nods, placing another kiss to your lips before standing up to his full height, admiring the sight before him for a few more seconds. " lets get you cleaned up, " he breathes, holding his jeans up at the waist as he walks to the bathroom.

his heart's squeezed as he steps into the space where he first met you, the image of you teary eyed with a bloody leg on the edge of the tub flitting through his mind as he looks for a washcloth. he finds one, wetting it with warm water before cleaning himself off and pulling up his boxers, sliding his jeans down and pulling his shirt off as well.

he makes his way back to you, sliding the warm washcloth across your inked skin as he cleans you up. satisfied, he reaches an arm under you, pulling you up against him so he can wipe the remaining cum off of the counter. you drape your arms over his strong muscly shoulders, resting your head in the crook of his neck.

he holds you, setting the washcloth down so he can wrap both thick arms around you securely. his rough, but gentle hands running up and down your bare back. " let's get some rest, yeah? " he offers, and you nodded eagerly against him.

he grunts as he picks you up, thick fingers digging into the plush skin of the underside of your thighs. he nudges his pointed nose against the top of your head, " what room? "

you sigh, hugging him closer. " the last door on the right in the hall with the bathroom, " he hums, slowly making his way down the hall. he presses the door open, finding your bedroom. tired legs carrying both him and you to your very comfortable looking bed.

he sets you down, your body bouncing a little against the plush mattress. his eyes can't leave the sight of your tattooed skin against the dark grey sheets, everything looked so perfect together.

you move aside, sliding under the soft covers as you pull the blanket aside for him to get in. " c'mon, big bear, " you mumble with a tired smile, looking up at him through those pretty lashes.

his heart skips a beat, kneeling down as he moves around to settle. fuck, your bed was even more comfortable than it looked. you pull the blanket over him, sliding closer to him as you rest your head against his shoulder and drape an arm across his firm, hairy chest, lazily combing your fingers through the salt and pepper hair. they occasionally drift to trace the gold chain you were strangely attracted to.

he sighed, pressing a kiss to the top of your head, a strong arm wrapping around your waist as the other drapes your leg over his thigh.

that night, Sam had some of the best sleep he's had in a long while.

[voxofthevoid]

Vore Wednesdays are out, Drunken Dubcon Wednesdays are in. Not sure if this will last past one more week, if that. Still, here's another fic that was meant to be a oneshot and turned into a three-shot, all while completely decimating my original ideas for the fic.

CWs: teacher-student relationship, adult/minor, alcohol use (by the adult, not the teenager)

“Ah, hel—”

“Satoru,” a semi-familiar voice growls into his ear, “where the fuck are you?”

“Um, Ieiri-san, it’s me—Yuuji.”

“Who?” she asks, following it up the next second with, “Oh, Itadori. Why’d I call you?”

“You didn’t?” Yuuji asks, jiggling a leg to make sure his much cheaper phone is still in his pocket. “This is Gojou-sensei’s phone.”

“Huh.” It doesn’t sound like a question, but there’s a marked lack of comprehension there. “Where’s Satoru?”

“He’s—”

Yuuji looks down and finds that Gojou has stopped hiding, except now he’s just looking at Yuuji. And that’s not really strange—he’s used to being scrutinized by those impossible eyes, to the point he can now tell when Gojou’s staring at him even with the blindfold, even across the room—but the way Gojou’s looking at him is new. It’s a heavy-lidded thing, pale lashes sweeping low. It makes his eyes look liquid, blue spilling out the edges. The flush on his cheeks seems brighter, more prominent.

His lips are very red—bitten red, spots of bright color dotting the flesh. It’s jarringly different from the glossy pink Yuuji’s become used to.

“—dori? Oi, Itadori!”

“Sorry,” Yuuji yelps, starting a little. She sounds distinctly annoyed. “He’s here! He’s home.”

“Idiot,” is her answer. “What the hell was he thinking, teleporting in that state? He could’ve landed himself in the ocean for all we know—would’ve served him right too.”

“Um,” Yuuji says intelligently. “He…seems alright? I mean, he’s drunk.”

“Tipsy,” comes the petulant correction that Yuuji soundly ignores.

“Of course he’s fine, he’s fucking blessed,” Ieiri says, and Yuuji really can’t tell if she’s pissed or bitter or just exasperated. “And of course he’s drunk! That idiot can’t hold his liquor, but he still downed three fucking drinks because some pretty boy wouldn’t stop plying him with cocktails. Men are fucking idiots.”

Yuuji’s got the sinking suspicion that Gojou isn’t the only one who’s drunk here. He chances a look at Gojou and finds shining eyes still fixed unerringly on Yuuji.

Some pretty boy, Ieiri said.

Huh.

“Should I…do anything?” Yuuji asks her warily.

“Smother him with a pillow. This is the only chance you’ll get.”

“Thanks,” says Yuuji, fighting off the urge to slam his head against the closest hard surface, mostly because said surface would be Gojou’s sculpted chest. “But I don’t really want to do that. I meant if I can help him somehow.”

“Oh.” She sounds disappointed. “Make him drink water and let him sleep it off. Dumbass can deal with the hangover like the rest of us mortals.”

“Alright—”

“Make sure he won’t fall and break his face. He doesn’t look it, but he’s really fucking drunk.”

He absolutely does look it to Yuuji, but maybe that’s because Yuuji saw him nearly break his face just like Ieiri warned. But he sounds normal enough. Even the whining isn’t unusual, though Yuuji usually hears it when Gojou’s on the phone with Fushiguro, the call on speaker so that Yuuji can stay really, really quiet and listen to his friend’s voice—the familiar tones of biting irritation. It’s not the same as seeing him, but it helps, especially on days when the sight of Fushiguro’s body bloodied and crumpled from Sukuna’s hands is a little too loud in his head.

“Thank you, Ieiri-san,” Yuuji says warmly. “I’ll take care of him, promise.”

She sighs. “You’re too nice to him, Itadori. Good night. Tell him I’ll kill him tomorrow.”

Ieiri hangs up before Yuuji can respond to that.

Gojou is still staring at him. Is he even blinking?

“She says she’ll kill you tomorrow,” Yuuji relays dutifully.

“Mean,” Gojou says. “You’ll protect me, won’t you, Yuuji?”

Yuuji takes his sweet time tucking Gojou’s phone into his own spare pocket, mostly so he can gather himself enough to speak without laughing or doing something stupid like call Gojou cute. Yuuji isn’t used to drunk people being cute. His grandpa was quiet, a little grumpy, and he’s seen his share of angry and weepy drunks in places he shouldn’t have been at to begin with. But this is new.

“I don’t know,” Yuuji says eventually. “She’s scarier than you are, sensei.”

“Betrayed my own student,” Gojou says, the words drawn out and theatrical—not all that different from when he’s sober, actually. They’re noticeably slower though, every syllable picked out with painstaking care. Tilting his head to the side, Gojou asks, “You’re not scared of me at all, are you, Yuuji?”

“Why would I be? You’re…” Yuuji hesitates a bit. Harmless isn’t the word. As much as he likes this guy, he doesn’t think there are a lot of nice words that can be applied to him. It just doesn’t change the fact that Yuuji would trust him with his life and death both. “You’re you, Gojou-sensei.”

“I am Gojou Satoru,” Gojou agrees very seriously.

“You sure are.” Yuuji can’t help laughing this time, muffling it behind a hand. “Now let’s get Gojou Satoru to bed.”

He tries to climb off Gojou, but all of a sudden, there’s a fist in his shirt, yanking him down with enough force that Yuuji’s forehead nearly slams into Gojou’s face. He yelps, but Gojou just asks, “Are you coming with me?”

“Huh? Of course I am.” Like hell is he letting Gojou navigate the stairs in this state. “Let go, sensei. Honestly, I nearly broke your nose.”

“Alright,” Gojou agrees easily, letting Yuuji go as suddenly as he grabbed him. “Good boy.”

Yuuji’s face burns as he extracts himself from the couch and Gojou’s insanely long limbs. Gojou calls him that all the time during training, and Yuuji’s always lapped it up, but it feels different now, somehow.

Once he’s standing, he tries to pull Gojou up too.

Easier said than done.

The man’s all limb and also heavier than expected. The half-unbuttoned shirt gives Yuuji a very good glimpse of just how ripped Gojou is, and it’s not that the sight of muscles is all that unusual to him—he does own a mirror—but he always thought Gojou was lankier than this. That bulky uniform and loose sweatshirts were hiding a lot, clearly. Still, it’s not the weight that’s the issue, it’s how there’s so much of him. And Gojou’s not helping at all, doing his best impression of a landed fish.

“Work with me here,” Yuuji says finally, exasperated. Gojou’s half upright, but he’s kind of oozing down the couch, and Yuuji just knows that if he hauls him upright, he’ll collapse on Yuuji. “At this rate, I’ll have to carry you, sensei.”

“Okay.”

Yuuji freezes, a hand clutching Gojou’s shoulder. “Huh?”

“Okay,” Gojou repeats; he’s smiling, and his eyes are closed. “Carry me. You’re…very strong.”

“Are you for real right now?”

[justice4billy]

You're the worst-Part two

Warnings; Allusions to smut/smutty language

Camille winced as Mariah tied the final strap on her top. She grimaced at the tight red and white fabric that adorned her curved body, it was supposed to be ‘sexy Santa’ according to Mariah.

‘’I look like a slut’’ Camille stated surveying the garment.

It was a red corset that tied around her back, the fabric was tight red lycra with a furry white lining around the neck. The fabric clung to her like a second skin and exposed a sliver of pale skin, whilst the top pushed up her already ample chest. Mariah had paired it with an equally tight red skirt and knee high red boots to match.

‘’It’s Christmas, you have an obligation to be a little slutty’’ Mariah winked.

Camille groaned. ‘’I look ridiculous’’ she stated trying to putt down the top so it covered her belly button.

‘’Stop it’’ Mariah commanded slapping her hands away. ‘’You look hot and I think your going to attract some attention tonight’’ she winked.

‘’I don’t want too’’ Camille huffed. The last thing she wanted to do was talk to any man, let alone Billy.

‘’Come on, your newly single and ready to mingle’’ Mariah encouraged with an eye roll.

Camille huffed, not adding anything more to the conversation. She just hoped she could get through this night and then go home and curl up in bed.

‘’Girls, are you ready?!’’ Danny hollered up the stairs.

‘’Coming!’’ Mariah called back as she took Camille’s hand and rushed down the steps.

The girls came to a stop at the bottom of the stairs, Camille’s eyes widening slightly when she saw Billy standing in the hallway. He had a red button down shirt exposing some of his tanned chest, his pendant resting against his taut chest and some jeans.

‘’Oh, you two match’’ Mariah stated with a smile. Camille narrowed her eyes and elbowed her in the ribs, causing her to let out a small oomph.

Billy smirked at the comment, his eyes making their way over to Camille as they roamed the entire expanse of her body slowly, starting from the top of her head and finishing at her red boots. His tongue poked out to wet his lips as he rolled his toothpick around his mouth, a sinful look flashed in his blue orbs and a smug smirk adorned his face as he blatantly checked her out.

Camille bit her lip not used to the attention, an action that didn’t go unnoticed by Billy. She squeezed her thighs together feeling heat burning through her core, what the fuck was wrong with her. Maybe it was because she hadn’t had sex in months even when she was with Brad, he always said he was too tired. Yeah, that had to be it.

‘’We thought it would be cheaper to split a taxi four ways’’ Danny stated.

Camille snapped out of her trance, craning her head towards him. ‘’Makes sense’’ she replied not trusting herself to speak.

‘’Well, it should be here now’’ Danny stated as he put his arm around Mariah and kissed her head. ‘’You look gorgeous sweetheart’’ he muttered.

Mariah giggled playfully and swatted at his chest. ‘’Oh stop it you’’ she giggled.

The foursome made their way towards the taxi that was awaiting them, Camille making sure to squeeze herself between Mariah and the door. She did not want to sit anywhere near Billy, unfortunately that meant he had to sit opposite her and she could of sworn she felt his eyes on her the entire ride. This was going to be a long night.

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….

An hour into the night and Camille was surprised that she was having a good time, lucky for her Billy had picked up some other poor girl and decided to flirt with her. She had been dancing with Mariah and drinking the two for one cocktails that were on offer, until the girl stated her feet were hurting and that she wanted to sit in their booth that Danny had managed to reserve.

Camille said she would join them, but wanted to get another drink first which Mariah declined. She trotted her way over to the bar careful not to sway on her feet, she was already five drinks in and tonight she planned on getting wasted and forgetting all about Brad and his small penis.

‘’Sex on the beach please’’ she called out to the bartender who gave her a nod in acknowledgement.

‘’Hey, let me buy these’’ a guy cut in.

Camille turned to her left. A tall and broad guy was standing beside her, a small grin on his face as his brown eyes shone under the disco lights. He was cute, if you liked the high school football player type, blonde hair flopped over to one side of his head with his pearly white on show as he smiled at her.

‘’Why thank you’’ Camille replied flirty batting her eye lashes for effect.

‘’Pretty girls should never pay for their drinks’’ he stated.

‘’I’m flattered that I’m classed as a pretty girl’’ Camille replied.

The guy smiled. ‘’You’re gorgeous’’ he complimented before sticking out his hand. ‘’The names Jason’’ he introduced himself.

Camille took his hand. ‘’Camille’’ she replied back.

‘’My friends and I are playing pool’’ he stated nodding over to some guys and girls. ‘’Wanna join?’’ he asked.

Camille debated in her head, should she really go off with some guy she didn’t know. But he did get her a drink, she didn’t want to be rude. ‘’I just need to tell my friend, she would worry you see’’ Camille explained. It was always best to be safe and Mariah could see her from her booth.

‘’Sure no problem’’ Jason gave her a lazy smile.

Camille turned around and trotted towards the booth, her drink in hand that she had watched the bar tender make and give to her. She did not want to risk being spiked.

‘’Hey’’ Mariah beamed leaning her head on Dannys shoulder.

‘’Hey, so this guy approached me at the bar and asked if I wanted to play pool over there’’ she explained pointing to the pool table where Jason was standing with his friends. ‘’Should I go?’’ she asked.

‘’Of course you freaking should’’ Mariah stated. ‘’But any signs of trouble, give us a signal so we can rescue you’’ she instructed with a waving gesture.

‘’Will do Mom’’ Camille replied.

‘’Go get some dick girl’’ Mariah encouraged with a whoop.

Camille rolled her eyes playfully, before turning on her heel with her drink in hand and making her way towards Jason. ‘’So, how are we doing this?’’ she asked.

Jason smiled. ‘’Thought we could play in teams’’ he suggested. ‘’You and me versus my friend Ben and his girl Delilah’’ he stated gesturing to the boy and girl beside him. The boy gave her a nod and the girl gave her a friendly wave.

‘’Okay, but I’m not the best’’ Camille stated.

‘’I can always teach you’’ Jason winked.

Camille took a big gulp and finished off her drink just as Jason handed her a pool cue. A few matches later and they were sinking, well more like Camille was just really rubbish at pool.

‘’God, I suck at this game’’ she whined her drunkenness taking over.

‘’That’s because you’re holding the damn cue wrong’’ a voice stated.

Camille turned on her heel meeting the eye of Billy who was standing beside her, a beer in his hand and a smirk on his face. Why the hell did he have to appear, she was having a good time and he was off somewhere else.

Camille grimaced. ‘’What are you doing here?’’ she asked with a slight slur to her voice. ‘’Your date not want to see you?’’ she goaded.

Billy shrugged. ‘’She didn’t have big enough tits’’ he replied.

‘’You masoggynist’’ Camille replied.

‘’You mean misogynist?’’ Billy asked in amusement.

‘’Whatever’’ Camille fired back feeling embarrassed.

Billy shrugged. ‘’Guess you and your pal don’t want to win then’’ he replied finishing off his beer.

‘’Like you could offer me anything’’ Camille scoffed turning away from him.

‘’Actually’’ she heard his voice which now sounded a lot closer than before, she felt his hand on her hip. ‘’You need to hold the cue a bit more like this’’ he instructed reaching around to grab her right hand and placed it near the bottom of the cue. She felt him let out a breath, goosebumps coating her neck as she shuddered slightly. ‘’Now, you gotta bend over and put the tip of the cue between your left finger’’ he stated nudging her leg with his knee and bending her forward.

Camille felt all breath leave her body at the intimate position, their bodies molded together creating a fire that burned through her core. She felt her wetness in her matching red knickers.

‘’Now shoot’’ Billy whispered as he covered his hand over hers, drawing the pool cue back and potting the coloured ball.

‘’Shit, nice one dude’’ Jason congratulated already too drunk to notice the tension between Camille and Billy.

Camille stood up straight, effectively shrugging Billy off her the blonde being forced to step back slightly. ‘’Oh my god’’ she stated before turning around and throwing her arms around Billy. ‘’We did it!’’ she exclaimed.

‘’You mean I did it’’ he stated placing both of his hands on her hip.

Camille pulled back, her hands loosening around his neck. She noted just how close the pair were to each other. ‘’You always have to brag’’ she stated weakly staring at his pink lips. She never noticed how plump they were before.

‘’It’s my talent sweetheart’’ Billy stated rubbing circles over her exposed skin and leaving a trail of goosebumps in his wake.

The nickname shot straight to her core, her heart fluttered in her chest. It must be the drink, she would never have reacted like this to Billy if she were sober.

‘’In fact, I think I deserve a reward’’ he whispered their noses brushing against each other, the pair making intimate eye contact that Camille forget all about Jason and his friends.

‘’What kind?’’ Camille whispered.

Billy shurgged, his hands moving to skim the curve of her ass. ‘’A kiss maybe’’ he suggested.

Camille hitched her breath, craning her head slightly to look for Jason. She didn’t want to be rude and make him think she had forgotten him. She gasped slightly when Billy grabbed her chin and turned her back to face him, his cool metal rings caressing her soft skin.

‘’He’s busy sweetheart’’ he muttered nodding over her head.

Camille turned her head slightly noting that Jason was now emursed in a conversation with his friends. She only had a moment to breifly glance over before Billy was turning her to him again.

‘’How about that reward?’’ he asked her.

‘’I-‘’ Camille stated not getting a chance to speak, Billy let go of her chin and pulled her towards him with his hands on her ass. Their lips crashed together, all teeth and tongue as the kiss deepened very quickly. Camille let out an embarrassing moan when he put his tongue in her mouth, he tasted like mint and cigarettes and she couldn’t help but feel addicted to the taste.

He backed her up so she was against the pool table, before picking her up and sitting her on the edge. Their lips never disconnected, the kiss only getting more hotter and feverish as she wrapped her legs around his waist.

Billy groaned when he felt her wetness brush up against his erected penis. ‘’You’re fucking wet, this all for me?’’ he asked in between kisses as he peppered light kisses over her delicate and exposed skin.

‘’y-yes’’ Camille stuttered as she arched her back at his hot kisses.

She didn’t remember much after that, flashes of moving through a crowded and hot room, the surprised looks of Mariah and Danny flitted through her head as they made their way into the back of a taxi, feverish kisses shared between the pair. Camille knew this night didn’t go to plan and she could never go back to the way things were.

[docholligay]

On reflection, was the price of the business class flight worth the experience of it?

Absolutely, because I didn’t pay for it ahahah. 

I think this is gonna be another one of those use case things. I’m a fucking podling, and I love to travel, and it makes me so happy and excited that the fact that I didn’t sleep is a REALITY, but not necessarily a PROBLEM. I am a little terrier of a human being. 

I adore pampering, and I love nice treatment, and we did get a screaming deal on the flight. I drank my fucking weight in sparkling and took every single snack and meal offered to me. I laid down and slept and I admit that was pretty amazing. 

But, if I had to pay, and I had to pay full price, I’m just not at a place in my life where I would be willing to pay that, because I don’t NEED it. If we go back to the Uk or Europe, I’ll probably pay for my wife to do business class while I sit cattle class with the understanding that I can order as many cocktails as I want. She needs to lie down and sleep so much more than I do. 

A normal flight to most European countries business is like 3,000 and honestly I could pad that out to a much longer experience in europe (If I am traveling alone) and that’s what I’d rather do, and save my money for things like fine dining and maybe one night in a super nice hotel, or treating friends. 

Quickly, for that money, there’s a very weirdly cheap flight into INverness, Scotland (???) so I could fly into there, see what the fuck is going on in Inverness, stay in a cheap room above or pub or a private room in a hostel, take the train to Glasgow and stay in a hostel, hook up with my friend who lives there and hang out for a day or two, take the train down to the Greater London Area and crash on a couch for a few days, probably, stay in a hostel in london, take the Eurostar to Paris, ask my friends in Germany if they want to come hang out there so either split a hotel with them or stay in hostel, take a cheap easyjet flight back to inverness and go home. That’s a planned in 3 minutes 2 week trip that leaves me with roughly 1k for food and activities. It would be even cheaper if I wasn’t too old for shared hostel rooms. 

BUT: I can only do that by myself. My other compatriots in life require a touch more, while I LIKE it but do not need it. 

But! I am so so happy that I did it, it was an absolute bucket list item for me, the whole thing was an absolute delight and I was bouncing with joy the whole time.

[rosecoloredtarot]

Hagging Out in May

Woo! Welcome to my first hagging out participation. Hagging out has been on my radar since I turned 30 in October. I had actually first heard of it only after I was eligible to participate. But I wasn’t really feeling the prompt, and then it wasn’t on the forefront of my mind so I completely forgot about it (thanks ADHD). Anyhoo, I get home on Friday, already planning on making an infused gin and what is the first post I see on tumblr? This month’s prompt of throwing shit in a jar for an infusion. Well that’s a few too many stars aligning to ignore. So please enjoy the pictures of my Strawberry Gin!

he ingredients, super simple. Just some fresh strawberries and a midtier gin. I almost did blueberries instead, but strawberries were a bit cheaper.

Cut those suckers up. I did quarters because reasons.

The berries came up higher than I intended but whatever. Just cover them up, seal it up and wait.

I’m probably going to let them sit for at least a week, but haven’t gotten that far yet. After just a day, the strawberries lost most of their color and are this lovely blush pink. I love the bleaching effect that happens. I’ll take a picture when I get home.

Was this made to be magical? Nope, I just wanted a tasty drink. BUT both strawberries and gin have magical correspondences that I can’t begin to remember right now. So maybe down the line this will have a purpose. Or maybe it’ll just be a cocktail.

Special thank you to @graveyarddirt for including me, this was a lot of fun :)

[queer-cosette]

Tell us about your night out :D

hello! Okay so I showed Ocea (coolest guy I know) this bar up at the top end of the city centre and we were chilling and drinking (I started off with vodka cranberry and he had a beer then we started buying bottled cocktails) and we're having a cool time, chilling and chatting shit, and I buy a vape from the bouncer (which is way less sketchy than it sounds, they have them in the bathroom for people who might have forgot theirs or run out) and we're passing it between us, having a great fucking time, and then this gay guy sitting on a barstool by himself asks if he can sit with us because his friends ditched him to get food and he feels awkward sitting alone. And because we're chill, y'know, we're like hell yeah brother sit down let's fucking chat. And he's so grateful to us for not making him sit alone and being nice and talking to him that he buys us cherry sourz shots, and like it's nothing any decent person wouldn't have done but we're not gonna say no to free shots y'know?

And then his friends finally show up and they sit with us too and it's getting a little louder in here, but while they're doing the whole incredibly homosexual equivalent of that straight guy thing where they don't actually hug, me and Ocea are chatting again and I have a water because I want to enjoy my night, not forget it. And then we notice this other person (we found out they were nonbinary later) sitting by themself and looking at our table kinda wistfully, and then they come over and offer us another unopened vape because they don't vape but somehow acquired it, and it's still in the packet with the seal on so we go sure thanks man! And Ocea opens it then tries not to gag because it's a stupidly sugary flavour, but also this person gave it to us for free so we're not gonna turn it down or make them sit by themself. And we thought they were just really autistic because they were super shy and kinda mumbling BUT it turns out this person has just done a FUCKLOAD of cocaine. They offer us some. We politely refuse.

I'm having my ear talked off by the First Gay Guy and meanwhile nonbinary cocaine person attempts to ascertain through Ocea if I'm single and willing to make out (I am not). We're both getting kinda overwhelmed so we tell the table we're gonna go outside and cool down, which we do, but when we come back in we sit down at a free booth at the front of the bar and relax. We get two more drinks each because it's getting close to closing but realise we're not gonna finish all of them in time. So then I have an idea: Ocea's drinks are both still in bottles, so if he closes the open one and we share my last drink, we can shove the bottles in his coat and take them home. We head out just before the bouncers start chasing people out, and share his headphones so we can listen to music while we walk to the Four Corners (cheaper to get a taxi from there).

There aren't a whole lot of people out and this area is entirely shops (no flats) so we wind up singing along, and Ocea lets me live my dream of singing Out Tonight on a street in town. We're having a great time and don't really want to go home yet so we wind up sitting on a bench screaming House of Wolves together along with various other MCR, Avril Lavigne, and Chappell Roan songs. Eventually (at like 4am) we start getting hungry, so we get crisps and water and dairylea dunkers from the only shop still open, then get a taxi home. I pass out around 6am (I had my snackies first), get three hours sleep, then proceed to experience the worst parts of a hangover. I eventually manage to sleep for five more hours, and I woke up like an hour ago craving grissini and cream cheese. Great fucking night.

[carrs-universe-writes]

well...are you going to share what you learned about making homemade weapons with the class?

Of course not! That's illegal!

I can't just tell you that alcohol makes a bad fuel for molotov cocktails because it will burn out too quickly and you should use napalm! I can't just tell you that most alcohol bottles are too thick to break easily when thrown, and that canning jars are both cheaper and a better choice of glass! I can't just remind you to make sure that whatever wick you use is very short and sealed tightly into the bottle/lid of the jar because the point isn't for the fire to get into the bottle, but for the fuel to catch fire when the glass shatters!

All of that is illegal! Molotov cocktails are outlawed in the United States! They're labeled at improvised explosives and if someone pulls one out at a protest it's an act of escalation and whatever fascist regime you're fighting against will react with lethal force! I could never just freely tell that to the public!

I can tell you, however, to be VERY CAREFUL if you're eating at a barbecue with Styrofoam plates that has diesel nearby. If you accidentally drop that Styrofoam plate in the diesel fuel, it might make a really dangerous accelerant that was used by the US government in Vietnam. And especially be careful if you have motor oil around! It'll make that really dangerous accelerant burn longer.

And I can also tell you to be careful while cleaning your homes! Because some cleaning products are dangerous when mixed! Here's a handy guide!

[apoptoses]

What do you think was Armand’s favorite thing for Daniel to eat or drink when he was mortal? Why?

oh man, you're asking someone who has eaten quite a bit of renaissance period food so BUCKLE IN you're getting more than you bargained for with this answer.

The short answer: modern fruit, modern seasonings/meats, cold food, and olive garden style italian

Fruits: we have so many varieties of fruits that just were not available in Armand's time. The apples and pears you see at the grocery store now are distant relatives of the apples and pears that Armand would have known and I really think he'd have sat Daniel down and had him try a little bit of everything from the produce section just to see what's better and what's worse.

He'd be totally unimpressed with the fruits we pick early and ship to stores covered in wax (their flavoring pales in comparison to a fruit allowed to ripen) but enthralled by fruit which would have been totally unknown to him, like bananas or mangoes.

(also every time they walk through a store? he's stealing some grapes off a bunch or a strawberry from a pack and pushing daniel to eat it right then and there, he's one of those grubby little fruit tasting thieves)

Meats: he'd also be totally enthralled by modern meats, but not for the reason you'd think. Spice usage in the 15th century was very different from what we have now, and spicing your meat dishes to be kinda sweet/savory was the thing. The seven most common spices were: ceylon cinnamon (NOT the ground stuff you get from the store, a totally different variety), grains of paradise (a type of red pepper), hyssop (an herb), saffron, sandalwood, galingale (a relative of ginger), cubebs (another variety of pepper not at all like black pepper)

So like. Just tossing a burger on the grill and eating it as flavored by the charcoal? Throwing some black pepper on and calling it a day? Unthinkable to him!

Armand would go through the grocery store spice aisle, get one of every premixed seasoning in a jar that's available, and force Daniel to try them all. Daniel never wants a fucking burger or seasoned chicken breast again after that.

Cold Food: this one is kinda obvious, in Venice you couldn't just dig a hole and build an ice cellar so chances of Armand ever having had a frozen treat while mortal are slim. Even cold drinks just were not really a thing in the renaissance, so Daniel sipping an ice water would be just wild to him.

He'd love ice creams and gelatos and sherberts and frozen custards. They're colorful, they have strange (to him) flavors, Daniel would have to try a bite of literally every single one of the 31 flavors offered by Baskin Robbins.

Also pudding! Jello! Cheesecake, which befuddles him because it's not cheese as he knew cheese. If it's in the fridge/freezer section Armand makes Daniel get it and take it home.

Modern 'italian' food: DID YOU KNOW Olive Garden was founded in like 1982 so in my heart Armand dragged Daniel there multiple times because it's Italian themed but is nothing like the Italy he knew. Tomatoes? Not a thing in his time but they're in like 90% of the food on the menu! Alfredo sauce? Never heard of it! Deep fried ravioli bites? What in god's name is that?

Daniel tries the soup because whatever, it comes with the meal. He powers through the Tour of Italy because Armand can't comprehend lasagna or chicken parm. He downs like four glasses of different sangrias because that? Armand doesn't know what that is and he's delighted that it's similar to the mulled wines of his youth but sweeter.

By the time dessert hits our man is sweatin'. Armand doesn't understand what could be 'italian' about cheesecake (they sell jello no bake cheesecake powder at the store, what could be different about olive garden's??) so he orders a slice of that as well as the tiramisu AND a fancy espresso cocktail. It's the Copley all over again but cheaper and greasier and with Frank Sinatra blaring on the speakers.

Would you gentlemen like a frozen entree to go? NO Daniel says just as Armand says YES, PLEASE, ONE OF EACH. He's so stuffed, he's drunk, he's in hell. Armand rants all the way back to the Night Island about his mixed feelings on modern innovations in cooking, Daniel doesn't care, Daniel never wants to see a noodle again.

(they go back the next night. and the next. and then armand discovers the fact that barbecue is different depending on which state in the US you're in and he's calling for the private jet. It's their own version of Diners, Drive ins and Dives from there and today Daniel can be found in Trinity Gate, watching Guy Fieri on the TV and yelling that HE did that first, he should be getting royalties or at least financial compensation from Armand for the emotional damage eating THAT MUCH greasy food left him with)

[lucisaphira]

𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐠𝐞𝐝 , @rhyscarter .

           the  bar  wasn't  exactly  a  place  luciana  found  herself  all  that  much  .  she'd  find  herself  in  some  higher  quality  establishments  . . .  somewhere  where  most  would  sip  on  fancy  cocktails  that  probably  costed  more  than  any  𝐒𝐀𝐍𝐄  person  would  want  to  spend  on  a  drink  they  could  more  than  likely  get  ten  times  cheaper  at  any  average  bar  .  but  . . .  she  wasn't  in  new  york  anymore  .  she  was  back  in  lincoln  city  .  something  a  lot  more  hometown  feel  about  a  place  like  lincoln  city  when  compared  to  new  york  .  well  ,  as  homey  as  a  place  could  be  that  held  as  many  𝐒𝐄𝐂𝐑𝐄𝐓𝐒  as  lincoln  city  . . .  then  again  ,  wasn't  that  exactly  how  family  and  home  was  ?  tight  ,  couldn't  escape  each  other  . . .  and  a  never  ending  array  of  secrets  .          ⏤         noticing  rhys  ,  luciana  caught  his  attention  as  he  walked  by  her  table  .  a  slight  tap  on  his  shoulder  .         ❛      care  to  give  me  a  little  company  for  the  night  ?     ❜        she  questioned  ,  grabbing  the  bottle  of  wine  she  had  purchased  and  pouring  some  into  the  extra  glass  .         ❛      help  me  finish  this  bottle  ?     ❜        maybe  she  should've  𝐀𝐕𝐎𝐈𝐃𝐄𝐃  the  man  but  it  was  luci  ,  after  all  .  she  wasn't  the  best  judge  of  . . .  really  anything  when  it  came  to  men  .