#especially the maroon and orange one

[lastofthe20thcenturygirls]

...and the whore saga continues

[yourlocalsmutwriter]

Kutning's Dag - Max Verstappen x reader

cw: dubcon/ cnc, rapeplay, intox kink, unprotected sex, creampie, public, perv! Max, icky! Max

At this point in the season, Max Verstappen needed a miracle. He had heard it all, at the start. That the car was so fucked he dragged it first to podium, then to the points, but what happened when this was not the case. Amateur theorists- that's what he called F1 podcasters- had predicted that it would be sooner than later. And he had shut them down in Japan. Suzuka was a dream. Fourth consecutive pole there in the last seconds of quali. Fourth consecutive win there, the return of the F1 outro, as the fans dubbed it. But the Dutch anthem didn't stick around the podium for long. There were a few hiccups after, but not for the McLarens. His 1 point behind Lando was gradually increasing. He was feeling like a fish out of water, for the first time in his career. The retirement jokes he so brazenly made during previous months were now met with hushed whispers. It didn't help that the Redbulls were down in the constructors championship too. They took Liam, and with the way Yuki was driving, Max could bet one of his cats that Hadjar was getting fitted for a seat soon, whether the rookie driver wanted it or not. Verstappen's fake Instagram even liked a few Helmut Marko as the 2nd driver memes, a bunch of Daniel cursing the thing too. But it seemed to be true now.

So Max Verstappen desperately needed to win the Miami Grand Prix. After a triple header that started promising and two weekends of pure hell, something needed to be done. Whatever. Literally anything. He remembered last year how Lando's first victory in the sunny state triggered this chain of events. This championship contender narrative that was heating up between the two since. Lando then, with his little nose scar, who had been partying in the Amsterdam canals before. A metaphorical lightbuls sparked up above Max’s head. If you can't beat them, join them. He was going to celebrate King's Day for the first time in a while.

Of course, he used to honor the holiday as a teenager. Which 17 year old doesn't go across the border to the Netherlands to drink copious amounts of alcohol in the streets. He was lucky that his mom and sister brought him in at the end of the night. It was a fun time. Lots of bad beer. Crowds of loud people dressed head to toe in orange. Music that everyone knew shouted at the top of one's lungs. Then, with the years, he was too busy racing for such frivolity. But now the calendar was smiling up to him, a nice little break between Jeddah and Miami. It was a nice opportunity for him to fly back to the Netherlands, try the "Lando method," and come back. Copious amounts of gin tonics and a few kebabs never hurt anyone. Especially on King's Day. It was an incredibly stupid thing to do. Nevertheless, Max did it.

Once his plane touches down on Dutch soil, he realizes this was a mistake. He's forced to take a train and be packed like a sardine in first class. "No, I'm not him, but I get that a lot," he says, ad naseum, eyes glued to the maroon seats around him. Once he makes it to Amsterdam, he all but scours the city, going from store to store, trying to see if there's any alcohol left. He piles premixed cans of gin and tonics into his Alpha Tauri backpack. He sure is an ambassador now. But his quest isn't just a way for him to grab some booze. No, he's strategically scoping out areas where he won't be spotted. Where the crowds were just drunk and rowdy enough to ignore him, but not thay quiet and sober that he'd be bored. One would try to rationalize that most people didn't bat an eye at Lando. Who knows, Max could even accidentally spot the Britton on his way, dj skills being tested on a party boat. And people wouldn't care. We'll that was a bit harsh, there would be many overjoyed fans. But not as many as Max's. It was the fucking Netherlands, we was treated as the second coming of Christ. Or the first, depending on the province. Amsterdam was definitely not on the Bible belt, so that was that. Still, the Dutchman took some precautions. He hid out, going over to long lost friends' houses. People who he had known since karting, all drinking together, wearing orange, and treating him like a normal guy. Yes, there were some offhand comments about F1 and the Redbull performance. There's a few people trying to get him to help them with their fantasy team too.

He offers them a pass at his own ranking if they beat him at a drinking game. And those he never loses, always choosing to go for reflexes or showing feats of physical strength. After all, those hours in the gym aren't for nothing. Max is more than pleasantly buzzed by the time they have to leave. It's past 10, and people are already plastered. Of course, this was strategic. It was more plausible that people got a mass hallucination of Max Verstappen after a few dozen beers. He steps out through the crowd, shoes already sticking to the pavement. The smell of sweat and vomit and beer is in the air.

Max reflexively pulls the orange army cap over his own face, especially when they play anything by Maxx Power. He grins when they play 5 remixes in a row, the dj shouting something about a 5th WDC incoming. Max is happy that at least the fans are happy they believe in him, albeit delusionally. He relaxes, the tension sliding off of him like dirty air. He's too relaxed, almost, and now his mind is wondering how. Yes, the 6 pack of gin and tonics helped. He almost sniffs the air and gets hit with a string smell, similar to the one from the house. He reluctantly takes a hit of this green electronic thing and coughs. It's good, but weird.

"Didn't know vapes were this popular here?" He shouts to his friend, who deadpan that it's weed. Of course, Max almost smack his forehead. He's contact high, just like half the grid was in Vegas. He remembers that day, letting the flashbacks warm over him. Yep, he was fucking fucked.

Max decided that he'd fight the weirdness and tingliness of his body by people watching. What better way to be distracted by analyzing others. He blends into the crowd, only because people are packed like sardines. Mostly friends, big crowds of people dancing, drinking and shouting with each other. He doesn't miss the rowdier ones. There's couples making out and dry humping all around him.

He feels like a teenager all over again, that awkward virgin 17 year old at house parties. Hormones not as contained as he'd like to, popping a boner at other people's activities. If he listened very hard, everything was sexy. He'd hear the little moans and groans of the couple, the pleas for more. Everything made his cock stand up and throb painfully in his pants. And now, 10 years later, it's the same. Max never pegged himself as a voyeur. But now, with every sensation in his body heightened, he couldn't help it. And with his dick needing release and fast, he sets out to find someone willing to do that. His gaze searches, he's like a hawk looking for a bunny. And his eyes land on you.

You hated King's Day. It was a stupid holiday, a Saw trap thing made to torture you. You hated the gaudy orange color. The public drinking. The stupid songs you didn't know as a foreigner. You should've stayed home. But here you were, freezing in a two-piece set. You hate the flimsy fabric of the thing. You only ordered it last minute to impress an ex, who you knew you'd run into. You didn't expect to find them with their tongue down the throat of a mutual acquaintance. But you made a vow that you'd make out with someone. So far, your lips only touched the bottle. Whatever they were drinking was strong, made you feel woozy and light. At least you were doing King's Day right, getting very intoxicated. You didn't even flinch when you felt a pair of hands glide dangerously close to your ass. The whole night, it kept happening, accidentally, sometimes not. It was the crowds, you reasoned, because you were practically sandwiched between many backs and elbows. Then someone did really feel you up from behind. God, his fingers were deliberate. Groping, touching, all short of clawing. Needing you, needing this, and it was gross. The man apologized, a faint sorry from under the rim of an orange hat. You had mentally prepped a joke about redbull giving him more than wings or an aggressive overtake. And then he does it again, this time his hands loop against your hips, seemingly trying to move you out of his way. His fingers hook against the straps of your orange thong and snap them. You want to scream, yell, to tell him to stop. But it's as if you've swallowed cotton. And the warmth of someone's touch against you was clouding your judgment. The stranger lets his fingers move up your bare stomach until your tits. He flicks at your already hard nipples, a little hum of appreciation. He comments that you're practically asking for it by not wearing a bra.

The voice is familiar, even though you can't exactly place it. Didn't all Dutch men all kinda sound the same. This one's hands were kneading your breasts roughly, more for him than for you. He was whispering absolute filth in your ears, the brim of the hat he won't take off digging into your shoulder. He smells like a gin brewery that was next to a coffeeshop.

"Look at you, just letting me touch you. Aren't you ashamed that a total stranger's groping your tits. Right in the middle of Amsterdam, mind you, with thousands of people around you. I think you like it. I think you're a little whore. Because if you wanted to, you could have asked for help. Look there, bimbo," he says as he grabs your chin and tilts your head towards the police at the edge of the crowd. "You want me to stop? Let's walk over there, and I'll let you report me. Hell, I'd even turn myself in. Yeah? Go tell the nice cop about me, I'm right behind you."

You try to move, and he follows. The stranger even lets his hands fall from your chest. But with every step you take, you end up going 3 steps back. It's a Sysyphean challenge. You stop suddenly, and the guy stops with you. You two are surrounded and pressed against each other. You're not sure who makes the first move again. You just know that you're rubbing your ass against his hard cock like an animal in heat.

He rolls his hips against yours, lifting your skirt with every movement. He can't help but knead your ass, feeling your skin prickle under his touch. When the stranger hears a low wolf whistle, you're dragged, literally through the crowd. He's taken his cap off and he's barking orders in Dutch and English, parting the people like they're the Red Sea. He ducks with you in an alley and you swear your drink was laced.

"Max Verstappen? What the fuck are you doing here?" You say, still unsure of what was happening. He shuts you up with a kiss, a bit sloppy and needy. You kiss him back, but then it all starts to be too much. He was a renowned athlete, a role model. Not someone who got a bit too handsy. That dawns on both of you at the same exact time.

"You could ruin my life. You could actually go to anybody about this, and they'll strip me of everything. It'll be Mazepin again, but this time with consequences." He says, and instead of stepping away, he begins unbuttoning his jeans. Sliding his boxers away and taking out his cock. Sizing it up against you. You plead with him.

He pretends to think as his hands go in your panties. He tells you how he's in deep shit as his fingers rub your clit. He goes on about how you should report him, how despite his celebrity status and the inebriated state you're both in, he's going down. You try to mention police injustice, how the odds are against you, even bring up Christian Horner. Your body betrays you as you talk. Your hips snap to match his movements.

"They'll come up with some bullshit excuse. That I was too wet or something. No signs of struggle, no bruises on you or something of the sort." You chastise, as he slides his fingers inside of you. One, then a second, in a hooking motion. He moves them with precision and you blush. In the small alley the sounds of your wetness echo. Max knows exactly how to press his fingers inside of someone to make them fall apart. You cum against him, despite yourself. You press yourself close to him, shut your eyes and let the orgasm wash over you. You're limp, letting him tap the head of his cock against your clit. Allowing him to thrust inside of you, burrying himself to the hilt. Telling you that "if he's gonna go down for this, at least he's gonna make it worth his while."

He tells you how good your cunt feels, how well you take his cock. He holds you down, muscles pressing into you, keeping you in place. He goes on this tangent about coming inside of you, leaving you something to remember him by. You don't have the heart to tell him he's the first and only man to fuck you raw. That his blue eyes and all of today will haunt your dreams. You can't express that what he's doing to you terrifies you, yet thrills you. That you just might be sick in the head for not hating this. Your warm wet cunt was drawing him in. Wanting him. Needing him. You bite your lips bloody. Yet he still catches your whisper of "please, come for me." His thrusts become faster, and he spills inside of you. If this were real life, he'd leave after that, blend into the crowd, and accept his fate. He'd wait for the other shoe to drop and get what was coming to him for being a disgusting pervert who touches women.

But it wasn't real life. Max was in a stupidly expensive Monaco sex club. Their new marketing ploy - get you in the door for a free visit and impress you so much you come back. He had to hand it to them, they followed up with him like a champ. Getting extras to play the drunk and disorderly dutchies. Even the set of the alley was good. Max casts a glance at you, his throughly fucked out girlfriend. You're sleeping with a grin on your face. He remembers the day you told him about your unusual kink. How the two of you would dabble in it, occasionally. He'd pretend to break into your shared apartment and rape you. You had been so loud and rowdy that night that your neighbors called the cops on you. But just before the sirens, you had come on Max's cock so hard, he swore he could marry you right then. After he was done politely explaining the misunderstanding to the policemen, he started googling. And a couple months later, here you two were. Completely immersive experience. And no sheets to wash. Max feels bad for the person who has to clean the floor after you squirt on it. In his defense, you didn't even know you could do that. He lets himself be photographed leaving the club with you in tow. Shoots off a few messages to his friends and the other drivers on the grid to also try it out. If he creates enough buzz, they'll give him a discount. And it's not as if his hefty paycheck doesn't allow him to visit sooner. Especially after he wins Miami. Because he has several bets going on - one with Christian, one with GP and one with Lando. He gets them all, collects the cash and says he'll invest it. He puts it on another night with you. Because the true key to Max Verstappen's winning strategy was a well fucked girlfriend.

[lieslab]

Lane seven is for losers (and lovers)

꘎♡━━━━━♡꘎ ꘎♡━━━━━♡꘎

Pairing: Seungmin X gn reader

Summary: Your boyfriend promises not to cheat at bowling, but all he tells is lies.

Genre: Crackfic

Word Count: 3.4K

A/N: I believe in Kim Seungmin cheating (at games) supremacy. This was supposed to be fluff, but it fits far more under the crackfic terminology. Long live Seungmin's cheating spree <3

_ _ _

“Whatever you do, you’re not allowed to cheat tonight.” 

“Cheat?” Seungmin glanced up from his bowling ball. “How would I cheat at bowling?” 

You narrowed your eyes, causing a smirk to quip up on his face. He shrugged innocently, but you knew better. “Don’t play with me, I know how you work.” 

“I’d never dream of cheating on my significant other, especially not when it comes to bowling.” 

“Uh-huh. Yeah, sure, whatever you say.” 

“Don’t believe me?” 

“Never. Deception lies behind those puppy eyes of yours. I’m onto you and I’d never let you get away with such a thing.” 

“I don’t expect you to.” A glimmer of something sparkled in his eyes, causing your face to fall slightly. Before you could speak, he smiled and went back to shining the orange bowling ball in his lap.

He was planning something and there was nothing you could do, besides sit and wait for it to happen. 

~ ~ ~ 

Lane seven, you had a good feeling about it. You spent two weeks planning the perfect little date. Tucked away in the back corner of town, you drove the two of you to the smaller building. It wasn’t huge and there were only a handful of other people around the building. 

Down at the opposite end of the lanes, an older gentleman and his wife were in a pair of plum purple polos and jeans. White bowling shoes sat on their feet and they took turns rolling their balls down the lane. You assumed they were waiting on others. They must have had a bowling league, or maybe they came here from a distant game. 

Whatever the case, you caught wind of their laughter. You couldn’t stop glancing over in their direction. You enjoyed their playful bickering and teasing. In your own pair of borrowed bowling shoes, you waited for Seungmin to wipe down his bowling ball. You never understood the importance of it, but Seungmin insisted it was key to winning the game. 

He originally sat with the ball in his lap. One hand steadied the side and with a maroon cloth, he wiped small circles around and around the top and opposite side. Just when you thought he’d finished, he placed it back in the return machine beside yours. 

He pushed on it, rolling it upside down, and started to wipe it down again. All you could do was roll your eyes and wait for him to finish. “Just like Changbin taught me,” he explained. You didn’t listen to him talk about the specifics of the game. 

Honestly, you really didn’t care about all the specifics. In your head, all you had to do was roll the ball down the lane and knock over pins. The automatic screen above your heads would keep track of the score. All you needed to do was knock down more pins. It should be easy and relatively simple. 

“Okay,” Seungmin finally stood up, “I’m ready to start. Go ahead and go first.” 

You turned your back on the elderly couple and headed for your bowling ball. “Are you ready to lose Kim Seungmin?” 

“Yeah, sure. Go ahead and give it your best shot, hot shot.” 

“Thank you, I will.” You stuck your fingers in the lime green holes and started towards the lane. Ten pins faced you and waited for impact. You twisted your hips, sucked in a deep breath, and pulled back your arm. 

Behind you, Seungmin watched in silence. His eyes scanned your body with a silent amusement. So set on winning this thing, you had no idea what kind of ideas he had up his sleeve. 

A loud thud and a steady rumble. Your ball rolled over and over and over again. Gliding smoothly beneath the overhead warm yellow lights. Just before hitting the pins, it started to venture to the left of your aim. “No, no, no, no!” 

Seungmin laughed and pins clattered. Two out of ten. Your head jerked around, he pointed and laughed at you. As the machine whirled and cleared away the dropped pins, your ball popped back out next to his. With a huff, you headed over and grabbed it. “I’m going to get a strike this time.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it.”

Childishly, your tongue stuck out at him. You didn’t see him imitate your stance. Instead, you swung your arm back and let the ball rip again. It rushed down the lane, too fast and too curved. Over and over and then- 

“Oh, gutter!” Seungmin taunted behind you. “Gutter ball! Gutter ball! You got a gutter ball!”  

“This is all your fault.” 

“What did I do?” 

“You’re a distraction!” 

“Me?” He glanced down at his t-shirt and sweatpants. “Yeah, sure. Just admit you’re a bad bowler and take the L.” 

“Suck my-” 

“Woah!” He held up his hand to stop you. “It’s only the first round and we still have so many to go. If you have issues, take it up with the pins, the machine, or your ball. Maybe just take it up with yourself in the mirror and your lack of pro skills.” 

“Oh, yeah? Like you could do much better.”

“Watch me because I will.” 

So you did. Angrily, with your arms crossed over your chest. Your nostrils flared and you huffed. Seungmin vowed to be better and he was. He shifted himself more to the side and threw the ball harder. You watched, trying to memorize how he stepped into the throw. 

The ball’s constant whirling ended with a loud crash. His hands formed into fists and he cheered. “Yeah! Strike! I told you!” He spun around to face you, but he was met with your eye rolling.

���You’re not going to win this,” you said. 

“Watch me.” 

What was supposed to be just an ordinary game turned into something far more entertaining than you ever expected. 

~ ~ ~ 

You didn’t recognize the first time Seungmin cheated. Too busy swept up in the chatter and laughter coming from a group of rowdy incoming teenage boys, you missed him taking steps onto the bowling lane and launching the ball closer to the fresh placed pins. He jerked backwards before the ball impacted, hurrying back towards your side, as if the cheating had never happened. 

At the sound of a loud clatter and call of another strike, you glanced over. “What? Already? How’d that happen?” 

He shrugged, “I guess I’m just that good.” 

Your head tipped back to find the screen. So far, Seungmin had three strikes and was in the lead. You? You, on the other hand, you weren’t doing so great. Maybe that microfiber cloth really did hold the secret to winning, but you didn’t ask if you could borrow it. No way. 

You’d triumph and go forth. You grabbed your ball and headed back down the lane, determined to gain your first strike. Seungmin sat back at the booth by the ball return machine. He picked up his sweet tea, saturated with condensation, and slowly sipped. 

You mimicked his movements and let your ball go. A quiet prayer fell beneath your breath, but it fell upon deaf ears. The ball shifted and slammed hard into the gutter. 

Seungmin chuckled and took another sip. “Hey!” He called out. You spun around, wondering what he wanted. “I think you missed the pins a little.” 

“Shut up!” 

He raised his hands in defeat and watched you come back to retrieve your ball. A few lanes away, the group of teenage boys discussed strategies and ways to gain points. Your eyes went over a few times, but Seungmin’s focus stayed on you. As much as you hated to admit it, the added noise caused you to lose focus. 

It was one thing to see the elderly couple. They were on the other side, their voices were softer. You only picked up snippets of their words, but with a group of nearly six teenagers, if one wasn’t loud, another was. It shook your focus and made concentrating feel extra difficult. 

“Are you going to get a strike this time?” 

You shrugged and went back to the lane. A head held tall and spine straightened. Your arm reached back, you stepped into your throw and- 

“WOO!” 

Right as you threw the ball, your hand shifted. The ball curved and didn’t even make it a fourth of the way down the lane before it slammed the gutter again. You jerked to the side, expecting to see one of the teens pointing and laughing at you. Chaos ran through their veins, but none of them looked your way. 

“Oh, yoo-hoo!” Seungmin called out. You spun to find him grinning ear-to-ear and waving his hand above his head. “What a shame. Another gutter ball. I guess that means it’s my turn now. Sit down and let me show you how it’s done.” 

“Did you just-” 

“What?” 

“Kim Seungmin, did you just cheat?” 

“Can a man not be excited for his date’s bowling session?” 

“You totally just cheated!” 

“Nuh-uh.” 

“You yelled!” 

“You should learn how to tune out noise.” He grabbed his ball and headed to the spot you were in. 

You sputtered, trying to push out words, but none came. Not a single word could defeat him. You should have known from the start, even when it came to bowling, Seungmin was going to find a way to cheat. 

He hummed, stepped up to the edge of the bowling lane, shimmied his body, almost mockingly, and let the ball fly. When it hit the gutter, you jerked upright pointing at him. “HA! Take that! How does it feel now?” 

“Feels like a victory, considering I’m still winning.” 

He didn’t show any signs of distress. Taking his time and coming back to you, he pulled out the microfiber cloth and took it to his ball once more. The entire nonchalant scene pissed you off far more than you’d like to admit. 

He posed again, but before he let the ball go, he dropped to all fours. You blinked, trying to understand what he was doing. Your head cocked, but you remained rooted in your spot. He crawled further down the lane, laid down, and shoved his ball. 

When all ten pins flew down and scattered around the edge of the lane, you stared at him in shock. Not because of the strike, but because you couldn’t believe he had the audacity to cheat so openly. He didn’t regret it either. He practically skipped back to your side beaming. 

“Did you see that?” 

“You asshole.” 

“You’re a sore loser,” he continued. “I’m doing my part as an honorable bowling player and-” 

“Honorable my ass and you should be disqualified.” 

“Someone’s feeling defensive because I’ve already won the game. We only have a few rounds left and even if you gained strikes with each turn, you’d never catch up to me. I’m simply adding my own form of entertainment.” 

You glared at him and scowled. As much as you hated his reasoning, he had a point. You were defeated and there was no way you could catch up. Your arms crossed over your chest and you dropped into your seat with a huff. 

“Oh, come on, don’t be like that. If you want to, I’ll let you cheat for your last few turns.” 

“How many times have you been cheating during this game?” 

“Uh…” He grimaced and shrugged. “A few.”

“I think we have varying views of ‘a few.’” 

He gestured back to the lane, waiting for you to take your turn. Just because you could, you leaned over, grabbed his sweet tea, and took a large swallow of it. He groaned, came over, and pulled it away from you. 

“Hey, cheating is one thing. You spreading your cooties is entirely different. Come on, loser, I’m going to show you how to properly aim and throw your ball.” 

“I don’t have cooties.” 

He laced one hand through yours and tugged you to the ball return with the other. His fingers stuck into your ball and the moment he tried to pick it up, it slammed back into the metal rack with a large clatter. His eyes widened and he jerked around to look at you. “Babe!” 

“What?” 

“Oh my god, this entire time I’ve thought you sucked at bowling. No wonder you can’t score properly!”

“Huh?” 

“Your ball practically weighs a thousand pounds! What size ball did you pick up?” 

“What do you mean what size? I just picked up the color I was drawn to. I like the lime green, it’s pretty.” 

He busted into a laugh and reached up and slammed a hand over his mouth. He spun around, turning away from you, and dropped to his knees. You stared at him feeling confused, until a voice came from behind you. 

“Are you feeling alright, son?” 

Behind you, the older couple from earlier appeared. The older man’s eyes met yours. Honeydew eyes, worn wrinkles, and thin lips. His wife lingered behind him, digging through her purse with bright red polished fingernails. “Does he feel okay? I have some anti-nausea medication in here.” 

“Oh, I don’t think-” 

Seungmin’s head popped up. He spun around with a red face. A smile broke out as he laughed again. “No need, I’m okay. My significant other here hasn’t been scoring very well and I just realized they grabbed a ball with a heavier weight. This whole time, I thought they were terrible at bowling.” 

“Oh, dear,” the woman uttered. Her hand went up, trying to hide her faint smile. 

The man laughed, reached out, and patted you on the shoulder. “You must be new to bowling. Eh, that’s okay. My wife and I weren’t good when we started out, either. If you need some pointers, we’d be happy to assist you.” 

Embarrassed and mortified, you found the courage to nod. You’d need all the help you were going to get if you planned to beat Seungmin, but if the ball was lighter, it’d be helpful if it was easier to roll. Seungmin offered his ball and the couple spent nearly a half hour teaching you everything you needed to know. 

It was safe to say that bowling was a hell of a lot easier when you knew what you were doing. 

~ ~ ~ 

“One more round! Please, Seungmin? One more round and then we can go.” 

“But you’ve already lost and I’m out of sweet tea.”

“I know, but I’m feeling a strike. I’ll buy you another sweet tea before we go. One more and I’ll let you have your win in peace.” 

He sighed, but gestured to the lane. “Okay, go ahead. It’s all yours, but seriously, this has to be the last one. People are really starting to fill this place up.” 

You took your aim and the helpful pointers from the older couple came back. Apparently, they took up bowling after retirement and found so much enjoyment in it, they joined a local league. The thought briefly crossed your mind as your eyes met Seungmin’s while they taught you how to stand properly. 

Would you two be like them some day? When your natural hair faded and skin began to sag? Would you still be able to find the energy to go out and swing around a bowling ball, despite your body wearing down with age? You hoped so. 

A final time, you brought the ball back. Your eyes laid on the single pin in the middle of the lane. Every muscle relaxed and your heart steadily pounded against your ribs. You held your gaze, letting your eyes keep hold of your aim. You started to throw and- 

The brush of gentle fingertips along the sides of your ribs caused you to gasp. Your arm jerked and the ball dropped. Seungmin laughed, but it was cut short when you screamed in pain. The ball landed on top of your foot. 

Something cracked and your leg gave out. The noise around you halted and Seungmin’s eyes widened. He called your name as you stumbled, reaching out to catch you. You barely caught his hands before you hit the ground. 

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to. I thought it’d cause you to get another gutter ball. I-I wasn’t thinking straight.” 

You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to ignore the throbbing in your foot. Your skin pulsed against the tightened black laces. “Forget the sweet tea, you owe me a trip to urgent care.” 

“With pleasure.” 

He echoed apologies non-stop as he helped you hobble out of the bowling alley. He offered to give you a piggy-back ride, but you refused. A few staff members tried to check on you, one offered to call for an ambulance, but you were stubborn. Headstrong and nearly as determined as he was. 

“It hurts,” you mumbled when you got to the car. 

“Yeah, no shit. You dropped a heavy bowling ball straight onto your foot.” 

“It’s all your fault.” 

“I said I was sorry! How can I make it better after urgent care?” 

“You spend the next few days helping me without complaining.” 

“Fine.” 

“And no more cheating!”

He sucked in a deep breath. “Even with a broken foot, you really know how to push my buttons.” 

“Kim Seungmin!” 

“Fine! No more cheating! I’ll stop!” 

“Thank fuck.” 

You slipped into the car, having to rely on him for help. You were quiet most of the drive. You could only focus on the sharp pain each time you moved your foot. It ached, no matter how you tried to angle it and it wouldn’t stop. The throb jerked upright into the front of your leg. 

No matter what happened next, you just hoped the pain would be kept to a minimum. 

~ ~ ~ 

A few hours later and with the help of Seungmin, you slipped onto your couch with a sigh. A velcro boot sat snug around your foot. Still swollen and in pain, you were told to elevate it. If needed to, you could take off the boot and ice the area. 

“What do you need me to do?” Seungmin asked. He didn’t say it out loud, but there was worry in his eyes. Ever since his actions caused the injury, he’d been internally beating himself up about it. “I can get a pillow for your leg.” 

Your head shook and you shifted upright. “I need you to come sit behind me. I’ll worry about that later. Right now, I just want to be close to you.” 

“Are you sure? I don’t want to hurt you again.” 

“Please?” 

He approached you cautiously and slipped behind you. After he sat, you slipped back and curled onto his lap. Like usual, his arms wrapped around you and provided comfort. You leaned over, letting the side of your face fall against his chest. 

“Thank you,” you whispered. 

“Are you crazy? You should be yelling at me. I fractured your foot!” 

“I don’t care about that at the moment.” 

“Huh?” 

“You heard me. Don’t let it go to your head, but I had fun, even if you were cheating. It did provide high quality entertainment.” 

“But I hurt you.” 

“And I’ll heal.” 

He reached up and pushed your hair away from your ear. “You really know how to give a guy a heart attack. We can never go back there. Everyone stared at me like I murdered you. It’s going to be the next trending Dispatch article.” 

“I’m okay.” 

“I can see it now. Kim Seungmin tries to kill his significant other. On Friday evening-” 

You laughed and his heart skipped a beat. He leaned forward, pressing a soft kiss to the side of your temple. “The next time I cheat, I’ll try to make sure I don’t injure you in the process.” 

“I appreciate that.” 

“So… should I get that pillow for you now?” 

“Sorry, bubs. You’re stuck being my pillow for the rest of the night.” You hunkered down, enjoying being close to him. “When I’m ready to get up and use the bathroom, I’ll let you know.” 

“I can’t believe I love you.” 

“I can��t believe you broke my foot.” 

“I said I was sorry!” 

You’d never be able to stop teasing him and for the rest of your lives, you’d be telling the story; even at your future bowling league, you’d recount how the love of your life broke your foot while trying to cheat at bowling.

| ♡.﹀﹀﹀﹀.♡ | ♡.﹀﹀﹀﹀.♡ | ♡.﹀﹀﹀﹀.♡ |

Taglist: @lia-linny @seungnishi @stellasays45 @emilyywhyy @rockstarkkami @flightlessackerman @inlovewithstraykids @velvetmoonlght @chrizrizz @ari-hwanggg @m-325 @justcallmewhatyoulike @bokkiesluv

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Ko-fi

[concretejunglefm]

enchanted Noah?🤭

I can't get this man oit of my hand, we know so little about him...

But I can't get the morning scene out of my head. What if there's another morning spent together in Noah's bed, full of stolen glances, tracing fingers on each other's skin, whispers of sweet nothings and teasing kisses, that slowly turn into slow lazy morning sex

OH BB!!! THIS MAN 🫠 it's always soft sweet mornings for him, even sweeter when you steal him away to your place, because no one knows anything about you and he even finds your little apartment cute 🥰

CW: soft lazy morning sex, a little teasing food play, fluff with Noah being an absolute sweetheart and making you melt.

Maroon 5’s Never Gonna Leave This Bed comes to mind, because he’s not letting you go. The moment you even attempt to roll out and crawl from beneath the covers, his arms are wrapping around you, dragging you back against his chest as he softly mumbles something about needing more sleep—it’s long into the a.m. by now—and presses soft kisses anywhere he can reach.

Truthfully, he loves these moments: when he gets to steal time with you. No obligations, no emails or phone calls, which have interrupted many a morning with you both, but not this morning. This morning, it’s just the two of you.

You promise to bring him breakfast in bed if he lets you go. It takes a little extra bargaining, a few more kisses, before he actually lets you slip free.

“Did all that catering give you culinary skills?” he teases.

You glance back at him, a flicker of a teasing smile on your lips. “Maybe,” you shoot back, and then you’re gone. Wearing his shirt, which barely covers past your ass, you slip out of the bedroom and wander down the hall of your apartment until you reach the kitchen. It’s small, but quaint—and all yours.

Strawberries, fresh cream, and pancakes. You have less in stock than you anticipated, but enough to make something to share. Grabbing two mini cartons of orange juice, you run back to the bedroom to surprise him with your culinary delight.

“I thought we said no phones,” you scold him, setting the plate down on the nightstand as you catch him sitting up against the pile of pillows, scrolling through his phone.

“Unfortunately, I don’t turn into a pumpkin when the clock strikes midnight.”

“And I do?” you gasp, reaching for the plate and scooping up some of the cream, smearing it onto the tip of his nose in retaliation. A hum of laughter rumbles in your throat as you lick your finger clean.

“Never,” he beams, hands sliding to your hips, gripping the fabric of his shirt that you’re wearing, and dragging you closer, back towards the bed.

You push the covers aside and climb on top of him, straddling his lap. Reaching over, you begin cutting a piece of the pancakes with the side of your fork. “Well, lucky for you, Cinderella here can cook too,” you tease, bringing a forkful of pancake, strawberry, and cream to his lips, watching him closely as he happily accepts it, soft satisfied moans escaping him.

“Delicious,” he mumbles, and you lean in, stealing a kiss—wiping away the smudge of cream coating his lips in the process.

“The strawberries are especially sweet.” You reach over, setting the fork down, this time using your fingers to pick up a piece. Lifting it high, you feed it to Noah, his eyes eagerly fixed on you as his mouth closes around your fingers, his tongue swiping at the remaining juice.

This time, he can’t resist another kiss, pulling you in, one hand cradling the nape of your neck as his mouth meets yours. It’s soft, sweet, and sets off an eruption of butterflies in your stomach.

You get to wake up to this—to him—every single morning so far. He’s refused to leave, your side, your bed, you. It’s been beyond perfect, the two of you creating a bubble you never want to escape from.

“My turn,” he declares proudly, reaching for a piece of strawberry and scooping up some cream in the process, but instead of offering it to you right away, he trails it down his bare tatted chest, letting it rest just above his navel.

Shuffling back, you happily dip down, leaving a trail of kisses as you follow the path he created. When you reach the strawberry, your tongue rolls over the spot, slow and deliberate, and you hear his breath hitch beneath you with every teasing movement.

You let out a squeal the moment his arms wrap around you, pulling you down against him as he rolls you both over. His head dips to capture your mouth in a kiss, sharing the sweet mixture still lingering on your tongue. It’s slow and sensual, his mouth soft against yours, each of you savoring the moment, just like you have ever since you locked yourselves away together in your little apartment.

“I love being here with you,” he whispers, his mouth soft against your skin as he trails light kisses down your throat, tucking into the crook of your neck. His hands edge beneath the shirt—his shirt—you’re wearing, large palms brushing against the soft skin of your back. The heat of him makes you tremble. He’s always had that effect on you, from the very first moment you met—his touch subtle enough to set you on edge and set your body ablaze, all at once.

“Would you stay here forever?” you ask. It’s cliché, but he indulges you.

He nods, whispering a soft "In a heartbeat" against your pulse before pressing a kiss there, feeling the way it thrums beneath your skin.

You can’t think of anything more idyllic than hiding away in your apartment together, shutting out the world—a world so incessant in its curiosity about him: where he is, who he’s with. Enough time should’ve passed for the “mystery woman” to be forgotten—she was, to you, and yet somehow, the rumors pull him into new assumptions, linking him to another artist, with whispers of secret proposals and declarations of an engagement.

None of it’s true—except maybe his desperate attempts to get you to come with him to every show, and his constant pleading for a trip to Paris.

“You’re still on that?” you tease, just as he lifts his head and brushes his teeth lightly against your chin in a playful bite.

“It’s romantic,” he insists. And it is—beyond romantic. Almost too romantic for two people who’ve only just met, who are still in the early stages of something so new, something not yet defined, but Noah is falling, hard, harder than he ever has, and the soft look in his eyes when he finally pulls back to gaze down at you tells you everything.

“You’re crazy,” you whisper, shaking your head as your fingers rake gently through his hair.

He doesn’t miss a beat. “About you,” no cheek, no cockiness, just pure adoration, like no truer words have ever been spoken.

“What would we even do out there?” you ask.

As usual, that question transforms him into his walking tour guide self, listing off everywhere you could go—his voice low and easy—while his mouth charts its own path along your jawline and neck, leaving soft, lingering marks behind.

“There’s a hotel that overlooks the Louvre,” he murmurs, “and at night, it shimmers so beautifully.” His body presses closer against yours, and your head grows cloudy at the thought. He talks about the view, about the city, about the hotel room and all the possibilities it holds for you both.

Breakfast on the balcony. Dinner while watching the Louvre light up at night. All of his sweet words slowly dissolving into soft filth as he whispers them against your skin. “And I can watch the city lights reflect in your eyes as I fuck you over the balcony.”

You think a soft ‘yes’ slips from your lips between quiet moans and the frantic effort to shed the only article of clothing between you—his shirt, and when he sinks into you, it’s full and deep, a feeling that spreads through every inch of your body, like he’s sinking home, as though this is exactly how you belong—together, completely entwined.

Every morning has followed the same pattern on the days you refuse to leave the bed, falling into slow, lazy morning sex. The kind that feels like the perfect start to the day simply because it begins with him inside you.

It’s the slow drag of him between your walls that you love—the way he stretches you, the way pleasure ripples through every inch of your body, the way he stays pressed close, like all he wants is to remain right here, wrapped around you.

Your mouths move together in slow, teasing kisses. A flick of your tongues, playful at first, until he grows greedy and presses his tongue into your mouth, seeking out the taste of you. There’s a faint trace of strawberries and cream on your tongue—just enough sweetness to deepen the kiss, to make him crave more.

Your hands roam his body—his biceps, his back, his hair. You comb your fingers through the strands and tug gently, arching your hips to meet the slow, deliberate rhythm of his own.

He draws out the pleasure for you both. You feel the way he twitches and pulses inside you, the tremble in his stomach as he leans into you, holding steady, refusing to give in too soon. Even when he does, he doesn’t stop. Half-hard and sensitive, he keeps moving—thrusting into you with slow, determined strokes until you feel him hardening again, like your body is the answer to everything for him.

There’s no clear edge where he ends and you begin. Your bodies feel made for one another—perfectly in sync—and he whispers as much against your skin, each word soft and reverent as he kisses along your body.

“It’s like you were made for me.” It’s a quiet murmur, but it makes your stomach ripple with butterflies, a slow build of pleasure trailing behind it, because it feels exactly like that. Like you were made for each other—soul to soul, body to body.

“You’re all mine,” he whispers, and the words have an instant, heated effect. You clench around him, your body responding without thought.

“All yours,” you echo, breathless, affirming what you both already know. You are his—in a way you’ve never belonged to anyone before.

“Just like I’m all yours.”

That’s what sends you over the edge. The words, the truth of them, hit with unexpected force—your climax erupting slowly but deeply, spreading heat through every nerve. You tremble beneath him as he cradles you close, moans spilling into his mouth as he kisses you through it.

He’s all yours. He belongs to you—just as you belong to him. There’s never been any doubt. From the moment you met, he made it abundantly clear: there’s no one else for him, only you.

tagged: @fadingangelwisp @deathblacksmoke  @geminigirlfromfinland @fuck1ng-queen @xxkittenkissesxx @lacy1986 @ami--gami @floodflameschosen @dominuslunae @tosoundlessdarkistare @alwaysfightforwhoyouare @lonelydragonlady @th4t-em0-k1d @amelia-acero @dollieomens  @sitkowski @athenexe @trvshdxddy @collapsedglasshouses @overmydeadbodysblog @xmads-omensx @ajordan2020 @astronoids @courta13 @oobleoob @bluehairpunklol @follow-me-down-to-wonderland @swissy23 @i-love-the-smell-of-your-blood @kenjipepsi1 @birdie-in-arcadia @blackcherrywhiskey @concretenoah @death-ofpeace-ofmind @ichoosetenderomens @chey-h @blade-dressed-in-red @limerinseme @lilgarbitch @pipidoll @heyyoplayer @iconic-taurus @flowery-mess @jesuisunchaton @bloody-spades @bluestdai @saythatuwill

[wroteclassicaly]

For The Record

(Steve Harrington x Female Reader)

Summary: You have a surprise for your best-friend Steve.

Word count: 1,647

Warnings: Language, NSFW, creampie, vaginal sex, slight choking, slight breeding kink if you squint, and fluff.

Pairings: Steve Harrington x Female Reader

A/N: Just a filthy little thing that I’ve been nurturing for a few days. No point to it, just showing Stevie some love! Haven’t written anything this lengthy in a while, but I hope y’all enjoy? ;P 💕❤️🥰♥️

Steve. Steve-fucking-Harrington. The heart of your group with a head of hair (that you’d washed, brushed, picked monster guts out of, and pulled, one too many times), a comforting smile that reminded you of Summer’s fading sunsets that give way to fall colors. All copper, rust, orange, mossy caramels swirling together, deep browns that look like cinnamon (smells like the gum he chews, or the breath spray he carries in his back pocket), sometimes even red in how his cheeks tinge on cold days, the way he makes your body warm. To his protective - fighter mode, like a crafted out of the finest marble guardian-angelic-god.

You’d worship at his temple. All day. Every single day.

His mouth has been in as many places as his hands. He knows every scar, just as much as he’s aware of spots, in which kissing you will cause goosebumps to electrify, sparking themselves known across your skin, or where his fingers will cause that high pitched whine to come from between your lips. You can’t really fathom that it’s been happening, especially for how long. There’s been no talk of labels, what anything means, it’s just been two friends crossing a line and fucking one another on it. You don’t know what you would’ve done, had it not been for Steve-the-hair-Harrington, King Steve, your extra heartbeat, your best-friend, your everything.

And that’s what led you to your current predicament, your planned leap of faith. Wrapped in a maroon colored mini gift bag, you had placed the packet. Steve arrived not long after, movies and pizza balanced in his massive hands, keys dangling from the middle finger of his left hand, a cheesy grin pressing into that beautiful mouth. “Hey, honey,” he had said. “Really missed you today, you know that?”

You’d taken in his appearance of dark Levi’s and a black belt, his signature Nike’s, and a low dipped white v-neck that he’d thrown a plain blue button over, leaving it open, his gold chain visible, nestled in that patch of chest hair. Salivating more at him than the food, it took you a second to help him inside.

You ate in avid chatter, watched one of the lamest, but most comforting horror films Steve could find on the shelves (that no one rented but he knew you’d appreciate), whilst being tucked beneath his bicep, warmed at his side. That’s when you’d retrieved the gift off your coffee table, his palm rubbing circles across your spine, kneading tension until you returned to your position. You handed him the bag and his bushy brows had pinched together, an adorable confusion clear. “For me? What did I do?”

“Just open it, Harrington. Before my nerves make me take it back.”

He cradled the parcel protectively, a pout forming as his watch strapped wrist dips inside. “No way, no how. Nope, not now.”

“Steve…” you laughed lightly, suddenly swallowing as he pulled the packet out, trying to make sense of the name.

“Contraceptive? I don’t… Isn’t this birth control?” He shook the packet before planting it in his massive palm.

You could feel your heartbeat in your throat, choking you like a vice, preventing you from answering in a full sentence.

“Yeah.”

“So, it’s yours? Why did you wrap it up and give it to me?”

“There’s a few missing already, Steve. I just wanted to get used to them before… Before I told you.”

“Told me, what?” He still looked puzzled, seeking out where you’d opened the package and taken a few tablets.

“That I just wanna use these from now on. Nothing else. If you, if that’s okay with you...?” You had felt the sharp claws of the butterflies, threatening to demolish your remaining courage. But this was Steve, you needed to remember that.

It took him a few moments, but then his pupils expanded within the enriching mossy flecks of his irises, at a rapid pace. His tongue licked at the five o’clock shadow above his upper lip. His voice, you’ll never forget how it sounded. Honey-hot and hoarse, raspy with bitten want, raw fucking desire. You’d clenched your thighs together, tongue eager to lick him… every-fucking-where — the burn of it felt on the muscle’s tip.

“Isn’t that something you do with a boyfriend, though? Not casual sex with a good friend, one of your best-friends?”

And you nod, vision swimming with shapes. Had you messed up? Fuck it. “It is.” Is what you’d responded with, taking the packet from him and tossing it with the bag back onto the table. The movie was rolling credits in the background and you were watching Steve’s dotted jugular as he swallowed, showcasing those tendons, all the way up to that stubble bitten jawline, dotted with freckles and moles.

“And who is your boyfriend, honey?” He had to hear you say it. If it’s what he thought it was, or you’d simply break his heart and move on to this guy. Could he really believe in a good thing again?

You leapt off that faithful precipice, years and feelings following, eyes locking, gaze unrelenting. “I was hoping it would be you.”

He was obviously choked up, orbs alight with mirth and excitement, among other things. “Funny that you mention that, because I’ve been hoping for the exact same thing.”And he’d fallen into your arms, seizing you with a kiss, noses nudging, tongues eager and messy. Clothes couldn’t come off fast enough.

The king sized condom lays unopened on your plush blush rug. Having fallen out of Steve’s wallet, that had also tumbled from his jean pocket in haste. Everything was out of control in the best possible way. You could’ve sworn you died a few minutes prior and came back as immortal — able to see through particles that floated on the air, hear cars, horns, music from houses all across town, smell the leaves that clung to the trees, damp with rain water and Autumn air. Your eyes roll back, perspiration damp behind the backs of your knees, where he’s got his current pinching grip, the fat of your thighs pressed into your tits, squishing them.

You realize in the moment, that you truly loathe condoms. Because this? Feeling that wet pre-cum smear down his shaft and around your opening as he pushed himself into you without a barrier for the first time, it was an indescribable experience. Each ridge, every vein, so hot, soft, and fucking, soaking wet. You aren’t sure where he ends and you begin. It hurts like hell, aches in the deepest parts of you, a place you know that he could easily put a child if you slipped up on your only remaining protection.

That thought makes you tighten around him, cream spilling out and further slicking back the curls gathered at his base. He drops your thighs, sweat-slick pelvis smashing into yours, stimulating your swollen clit. His chest hair scrapes against your pebbled nipples, making you arch your back and your toes curl, legs locking around his lower waist. He whines, palm coming up to grasp at your breast, calloused thumb strumming around your areola. “God, honey, your fucking nipples were made for my mouth to suck on.”

And he’s descending, his lips closing over one, tongue flicking and stimulating. You cry out, hand fisting into his honey streaked, chestnut locks. His shoulders work and bend, the dips and freckles and moles visible, glittering with the salt of sweat, his gold chain swaying out from his hairy chest and back again when he stops, nose bumping yours, hot breath on your mouth. “This pussy was made for my cock.”

And holy hell, his vocalizing focus doesn’t cease. “Who took your virginity, honey?” You both know it wasn’t him. But you are well aware what he’s getting at, and as he gives a harsh snap, those full and fat balls smacking your slick ass, you lose further coherency. “That’s right,” he’s speaking again. “They don’t matter, but I do.”

You weren’t aware that you could make the noises that you are. Only able to speak once Steve’s tugging himself and pulling out, stringing from your cunt to his shaft, a squelch echoing. You both groan, emptiness already jumpstarted. You plead for him. “Please, Stevie, need you! Put it back in —“

“Say it, say you’re just a hole for me to fill. That you’re only mine, baby.”

“I… Fuck! Stevie, all my holes are only yours, I’m only yours!”

He sinks his teeth into his bottom lip, before his jaw drops open and he whimpers. His hand leaves your breast and slides across your sternum, your collarbone, and settles at your neck. You nod to encourage, and those defined digits wrap around your throat.

“Tell me you love these big hands, sweetheart. Because they’re for you. They belong to you!”

“Want them all over me, Steve. All the time. Can’t get enough of you.”

He’s holding firm to his cock, stroking and teasing. You lick your lips as you stare at it, drooling. Reaching down, you tap his wrist (his arm, all muscles and tendons, thick and available to trace with your tongue), as he presses the thick red head into your clit, smearing the combination of you two all around. You mewl in appreciation, legs stretching so far apart that your muscles protest. He’s speaking next, panting out, “Like that? Hey, look at me. He grabs your chin, thumb tugging down your bottom lip. “Like. That?”

Your lip releases with a plop.

“Yes, yes! Don’t stop, Steve, never wanna not feel you again, baby boy!”

“That’s a good girl, that’s my girl.” He circles your sore opening and slips back inside with a loud, wet ease. You bite back the burning pain, welcoming the damp tears of pleasure along your lashes.

Your manicured nails cling to his back, his chest gliding along yours, heartbeat to hammering heartbeat. It’s frantic whispers and begging cries. And when he’s close to coming, you find his cheek with one hand, holding. “For the record, you’ve never been casual to me, Steve Harrington.”

// Eat me paragraph //

[therobotsarestuckinmyhead]

I need to give Cyberverse wildwheel love and affection >:(

holy, is he underrated, couldn't find a single image of him on Pinterest so i took an ss from the episode and decided to roll with that. AND HIS VOICE IS SO FINE… i may or may not have a thing for cowboys… (arthur morgan effect)

♡ [TFC] WILDWHEEL HCs

scenario: every Decepticon has that one Autobot they go after religiously, whether its out of spite or for the love of the game and for you, that bot was him.

setting: starts off with Autobot Wildwheel and then to the aftermath of EP 20

— You never really thought much about him, you knew him as just another Autobot. An interesting one, that's for sure with a penchant charm and thirst for teasing you back. As a rather… Flirtatious ‘Con, most of the Autobots you hit on in the battlefield rarely ever care or are just baffled at your audacity. But not that one Autobot, no. Maroon and orange; he was quite the looker. So you couldn't really resist. Not to mention his voice. He struck you back every flirt for another one. As if he was daring you to take it further.

You had managed to isolate one puny Autobot away from the rest of his group, the seekers were after them while you were trying to get this bot but he's slippery and fast. It didn't help his alt could help him fly.

“Pfft- Nice shot!” You laugh as he misses again, aiming for him from the sky. Your null ray shoots but ultimately, the mech dodges it with ease. He's quite agile and he did almost get your wing.

“Could say the same for you.” He let out a gruff mutter as his blaster reloads. You transform from jet to bipedal, standing atop of an old energon storage warehouse as you aim below— a high ground advantage. The bot mutters a curse under his ex-vent as he prepares to take aim from below, using the nearby building's walls as cover.

“You know, it's a sparkdamn shame you're not a Decepticon. Would've had a ton of fun with you.” The suggestiveness in your tone isn't lost and it makes him pause behind the wall, enough time for you to notice a slight bit of his servo sticking out and shoot at him once more as he's distracted. But you miss. Again.

“Eh. Purple wouldn't suit me, sweetspark.” He laughs as he moves away, dodging your shot swiftly. The nickname makes you pause and he takes aim, firing. And this time he manages to get your wing. Frag. You grit your denta.

“You're one of those wilder ones, huh?” You mutter out with disdain, ducking below as you work on your wing. This mech- He could fly up here and finish you off! Frag.

“Well, they don't call me Wildwheel for nothing.” But instead of deactivating you, Wildwheel uses the time you're taking to fix your wing to escape from you to rejoin with his group. You groan in disappointment.

At least you had a designation to look out for on the field next time.

— You'd repeatedly go after him on the battlefield after that. Hit on him, get hit on the back. Both an actual hit from his blaster and a flirt. It was sort of routine at some point. You even had Dirge and Ramjet wonder if there was anything between you two. But of course, you denied it. And they believed it. Only because of your reputation.

— It was tough to isolate the sharpshooter, he was always with the Prime most of the time. Either him or Jazz. But thankfully, Prime was too busy making hate with Megatron most of the time to notice you. And Megatron assumed you were getting the irksome Autobot away from their fight to make it more convenient for him.

— You were like a walking talking Decepticon advert, not even those Pre-War recruiters were after him the way you were trying to get him to join the Decepticons.

— But some day, he stopped showing up. And… no one seemed to care. You'd often just sour over the battlefield, looking to see some trace of him. Especially when you got the Earth and heard that the Ark was here. Where in Primus’ name was that mech? Time went by and you just assumed some other ‘Con deactivated him before you could get a proper audience with him. A damn shame. You hate saying this but man, did you miss him.

— So imagine your surprise when you're with your helm on the counter after downing another glass of fine high grade and someone with that exact same smooth, gruff voice takes a seat next to you, ordering something. Kroaton city has a decent oil house; obviously not as good as old Macadam's but hey, you can't have everything.

You turn your helm to the side lazily, a spark of recognition flickering as you look at the bot sitting right next to you. The other ‘Cons seemed to have left the bar upon his arrival, you wonder why. Either way, you're not scared of this stranger. You turn back to your rest without giving him so much as a word of acknowledgement.

“That's awful rude of you.” The mech speaks, taking a swing of high grade and then letting out a sigh of relief. The mug hitting the counter with a thud.

“...you seem familiar.” You say slowly sitting up, definitely not very happy about having your nice stasis nap interrupted. You stretch your servos up, relaxing on the barstool. The fact that you sense a hint of familiarity between the two of you, despite all he's been through makes him smile faintly. Not even that Optimus could tell who he was but his old arch-nemesis could.

“I've seen you somewhere before, haven't I?” You look over at him relaxed, propping your helm up in one servo against the counter.

The mech in a pancho just hums.

“Mm. Well, I remember a certain someone promising me a drink back at The Battle For Helex.”

“...Wildwheel?” Your optics widen a bit but you get your surprise under control. You study his current state— rugged, in a handsome way, a lot more rough and gruff, definitely been through something but the Decepticon insignia over his frame catches your optics and it makes you smile.

“Oh, I thought purple didn't match well over maroon.” You snicker, leaning in closer to him with piqued interest. He just takes a deep in-vent.

“Eh, you gotta try something new once in a while, sweetspark.” He takes another swing, not keen on telling you the real reason yet.

“So this a date then?”

“Whoa, hold your horses,” He chuckles as he's done taking a swing, putting the glass down with a thud onto the counter while his optics study you, taking note of every minor bit of your mannerisms and demeanor. There's a moment of silence as he stares at his glass, picking out his next words carefully.

“You did say you'd buy me a drink so consider this a date.”

— Wildwheel didn't know what to expect when he met you again but the fact that your first instinct was to try to hit on him told him everything he needed to know. Not that he's complaining. Might as well hit it off. He's a Decepticon now. He could use someone to show him around.

— The two of you usually spend time at the energon bar, sharing stories about your life. It's probably where he tells you how the Autobots abandoned him and left him for scrap. You would feel bad and a part of you does sympathize but you've been left behind a lot by your Decepticon ‘comrades’. Again, you can see why that'd hurt an Autobot more though. After all, they're whole gig was honesty, trust and all that slag.

— Wildwheel definitely has the wildest stories to share; from being outlaws in the wild west with a gang (some Vander Lind something gang) to working as a mercenary to bandits. He's certainly gone bad but it's kind of… appealing in a way, especially to a Decepticon. Not like you'd say that to him

— He's either got the best tolerance or the worst. Wildwheel has travelled the galaxy at this point, he's tried just about every fuel substance you could think of so he's relatively okay. Either that or he's got the worst because he hasn't seen a nice mug of energizing high grade in stellar-cycles.

— It would take some time for your relationship to progress past drinking together at energon bars and just walking together. At some point, the outlaw acts to you the way those cowboys do in those old movies. Taking your servo when you're walking down something, opening the door for you— these mannerisms are foreign to Cybertron and you have no idea where he's got these from. The influence of his time during the Wild West has yet to leave him, it's even affected his voice but hey, at least it makes it sort of attractive.

— He definitely has abandonment and trust issues. Wildwheel will be reluctant to let you in too close to his spark. So most of his affections are restricted to words and acts of service. Maybe gifts if he's feeling generous. Nothing too fancy though, usually some trinkets he's got from all his adventures.

— At some point, you're Bonnie to his Clyde. The two of you get missions from Megatron and work together well, you've got his back and the more patrolling duty you get with him, the closer the two of you seem to get.

— The two of you test out each other's aims, target practice with Wildwheel! You're left speechless to see how much better he's gotten with a blaster, literally speechless and he's got a smirk.

— At some point, he does start getting physical. Wildwheel will come out of nowhere and wrap his servos around your waist, pulling you closer against his front from behind you.

— Wildwheel introduces you to many new things. One of which is waltz, another little thing he picked up on back in the Wild West. He's no tap dancer and he didn't really have any dancing partners back them but he did witness his human compatriots dance. So he decides to show you how to waltz.

— He adores your compliments and physical touch. If he could, he'd surgically attach your servos to his frame. And if he'd known how nice it felt to have a bot cup your face and kiss you slow and senseless, he might've taken your offer to be a ‘Con much sooner. And please, do that more often with him. Crawl up on his lap and kiss him when he's having a bad day. Please.

— Give him a nice massage while you're at it cause his frame is worn, been a while since he's gotten proper maintenance.

— When I tell you this mech is a smooth talker, he is the smooth talker. He's got this bad habit of making you flustered by muttering sweet nothings in a low tone against your audials just to see your face all heated up and vents puffing out some steam.

— Not much of a cuddler but he likes wrapping his servos around you when the two of you recharge, closest you'll get to actual cuddles. He prefers taking stasis naps with you; recharge on top of him or next to him and he's happy. He likes having you close. He's a very low and easy-going mech.

— Definitely easily jealous but he hides it well. Way too well.

— Those two coneheads are probably laughing knowing they were right the whole time about you and Wildwheel back when he was an Autobot. You did have a thing for him. But your pride never let you admit it.

— Wildwheel is definitely getting more and more attached to his new Decepticon partner. More than he'd care to admit.

I HOPE I DID THIS WELL!!! i love writing for underrated characters! cyberverse has so many of them... Sky-Byte, Wildwheel, Mediastorm, Astrotrain, Deadend

[xozombiee]

“AFTER HOURS!” | W. BONNEY

✫| synopsis: bartending in the west gets boring at times, especially when the same old cowboys and outlaws come through those saloon doors everyday. you’d thought this was it..that’s the end of your story. then a certain outlaw, who’s name was getting around, walked through the doors.

warnings: porn with little plot, mentions of death, riding, little praise..it’s always gonna be there, female bodied reader, lowk psy rubbing??, hair pulling me thinks, idk what else

note: am i doing this instead of my homework?…yes. also do i know wtf women wore in the 1800s? err no. i tried tho! this is not proofread btw

In a dusty, sun-kissed town nestled amidst the rugged landscape of the west, there stood a saloon that echoed with tales of grit and resilience. behind the polished mahogany bar, you stood tall with a fiery spirit that matched the flickering glow of the oil lamps that illuminated the room.

you weren’t any ordinary bartender; you were a force to be reckoned with. with glimmering eyes that held mystery, and a rough demeanor that you used to command respect from every patron who dared to enter the establishment. your hands, calloused from years of hard work, moved with grace and precision as you served up drinks that could raise spirits or drown sorrows.

though the town was dominated by rough cowboys and outlaws, you had carved out your own place in their rugged hearts. they sought solace in your presence, and you became a confidante, offering a sympathetic ear to the broken souls who stumbled through the doors.

as the sun began its descent, casting an orange hue over the town, your saloon transformed into a sanctuary of camaraderie and laughter. the clinking of glasses and the lively banter of patrons mixed with the soulful melodies of a lone pianist, creating a symphony that echoed through the wooden walls.

but behind the facade of joviality, you carried your own secrets and dreams. you arrived in this town not long ago, escaping a past that haunted your every step. determined to leave a mark on the world, you had chosen the life of a bartending, finding comfort in the stories and journeys of those who crossed paths with you.

with swift movements back and forth behind your bar, you served drinks to the men celebrating..whatever it was this time. they sang along with others, their words jumbled and lazy, but undoubtedly filled with passion. you laughed as one of them sung to you, his eyes droopy and a crooked smile at his lips.

cleaning a few glasses, you watch as they all chat amongst themselves, if they weren’t still singing that is. a part of you yearned to have a life like theirs. to be free to do whatever you please, and not be told otherwise. you’d liked the idea of running from place to place and meeting new people. though, that’d never happen for you.

your back turns as you gather the clean glasses together, putting them neatly side by side. the sound of the saloon doors open, a sound you were used to by now. with your back still turned, you notice how most of the attendees in the saloon had gone quiet, watching as the person and their footsteps approached the bar.

turning back around, you come face to face with a taller man. he wore a shabby black hat, a maroon corduroy jacket that sat along his shoulders, and a gun at his waist. two actually, you noted as the jacket moved when he sat at the bar.

with a polite smile, you come closer, holding his gaze with yours. “evening, sir. what can i get you?”

he gives you a tight lipped smile, “whiskey, please.”

you hold his gaze for a second longer before glancing back at the people in the saloon. they stared with either fear, or curiosity in their faces. a scowl grows on your lips, muttering a small ‘drunkards’ under your breath.

the man watches as you place a clean glass onto the bar, and grab a bottle filled with brown liquid. his gaze moves to the drink as it pours into the cup, almost filling to the brim.

“you look familiar,” your voice chimes in again. “have i seen you in here before?”

he shakes his head, gaze falling back to yours. “nah.” he replies. “just passing through.”

with a sigh falling from your nose, you try to read his expression; he looked tired. you weren’t an idiot, it was obvious he was on the run. you’d seen his face on the posters, but didn’t know what his name was or what he was wanted for.

your fingernail taps against the glossy wood of the bar. trying to hide your sympathetic expression, you glance around the room. “if you need anything else, let me know, yeah?”

he nods, watching as you walk away to tend to the other customers. the way you moved was calm despite working in such an intense environment. his eyes trailed up and down your figure before taking a sip from his glass.

it seemed like hours passed as you worked. going back and forth behind the counter was time consuming as it passed so quickly. more and more people were leaving the bar as the early hours of the next day were coming.

as you went to grab some glasses from tables, you notice as the man before was still at the bar. his head was hung low, eyes trained on his glass. he’d had about three glasses of whiskey by now, only taking sips from time to time.

you’d noticed through the night how people tried to approach him. he’d usually brush them off, or making small talk that ended in peaceful silence. he wasn’t someone that was easily approachable to the blind eye. he held a strong, cold demeanor.

after gathering all the dirty glasses, and kicking the last passed out drunkard, you slide back behind the bar. you take the bucket of dirty glasses to the small sink, placing it inside before turning the water on. as it fills, you stare at it as your mind falls else where.

before it overflows, you turn the faucet off. you pour a little soap into the mix before drying your hands off to let the glasses soak. with echoing footsteps, you turn back to the bar and are face to face with the man of the night.

“want another, or is three enough?” you ask, a slight smile at your lips.

he glances up at you, studying your expression for a moment. his eyes drop back to the wooden bar, fingers tapping his halfway-empty-glass.

“this is fine.” he answers.

your elbows come to rest at the cool wood, chin in your palm as you watch him. you’d debated for most of the night to ask him what exactly he was running from. it would probably sound stupid considering how everyone and their second cousin knew about it. all except for you, as you didn’t look much into news and such.

he stares back at you, giving you the same energy within his gaze. his blue eyes analyze every bit of you, and you almost shudder at the sight of it.

“so, how long you been on the run now?” you ask, voice interrupting each of your own thoughts.

he brings the glass to his lips, downing the rest before replying. “months.” he mutters, not even phased by your abrupt question.

you hum in reply, “alone?”

“mhm.”

with his short and simple response, you laugh. it wasn’t out of humor, but rather more of irritation. you’d think someone as well known as him would talk more. most outlaws never shut up about flaunting their reputations. it’s different.

“you’re not a man of many words.” you say, not really caring about how he’d take your tone.

he shrugs, sucking his teeth a bit. “i’ve got nothing to say.”

you raise a brow, “tell me a story or something. i hear the same shit every night from my regulars. give me something new.” you request.

pouring a little more whiskey into his glass, you watch as his eyes dart to yours. “it’s on me.” you assure, giving him a smile.

the man sighs, tilting his head a little at the thought. what could he tell you? that he killed a man? that he fought a man in a saloon just like yours right before shooting him in the stomach out of defense? no..you’d probably already heard it anyways.

“what do you already know about me?” he questions, taking another sip.

your eyes squint at him, “i know you’re an outlaw on the run, obviously..and that’s about it. i don’t even know what the hell they call you.” you reply.

he chuckles, a small smile at his lips. “you’re probably one of the first.” he says. “just call me billy.”

with another hum, you nod slowly and give him your name. “billy..yeah, i think i did hear that once or twice.”

“well, either way, i don’t have many stories to tell.”

your eyes roll, a huff coming from your nose. “tell me why you’re an outlaw. i’ve heard like three different stories, and it can’t be all of them.”

billy smiles again, eyes falling from yours and to your lips for a split second. you watch him debate in his head before taking his hat off. he sets it on the empty stool next to him, running his fingers through his hair. he had brown shaggy hair that was sprawled all over his head.

“i killed a man. it was self defense.” he says, almost as if he was pleading his case.

you deadpan at him, “that’s all i get? not even a backstory?”

“there’s not much to it. he was making accusations at me..which weren’t entirely false, then he came at me. we fought over my gun, and i shot.” he elaborates, glancing at you with disinterest as if it was a meaningless story.

you fall quiet for a moment, brows raised while processing his words. that story was heard, but you didn’t know if it was the truth until now. the other stories were about robbing a bank and killing a bunch of people. hearing the actual story now..you couldn’t understand all the fuss.

a laugh falls from your lips, hand moving to pinch the bridge of your nose. “so, all this talk is because you killed a man that was attacking you?”

“yes, ma’am.”

your smile remains for a bit, eyes watching billy. “so, what now? you just gonna keep running?”

he shrugs once more, eyes kept on his glass. “probably.”

“have you at least slept?”

billy shakes his head. you chew on the inside of your cheek, contemplating multiple things in your head. if you offered him a place to sleep in the loft above your saloon, he’d probably laugh in your face. but, a part of you didn’t want him out on the street sleeping defenseless.

as a other sigh falls from you, you move away from the bar and stand straight. “i’ve got an extra room where i stay. wanna take it for the night?”

his eyes find yours, expression vague, “are you sure? i mean, i don’t wanna—”

“it’s fine. i’d feel guilty if i opened up tomorrow and my regulars are telling me you got killed in your sleep.”

billy focuses on you for awhile before taking one last sip. he lightly places the glass on the counter before moving to grab some money from his pocket.

your hand finds his wrist as he places it on the counter. “keep it. just take your ass upstairs while i finish up.”

he grins a little, grabbing his hat and standing from the stool. billy slowly moves to the door at the back of the saloon, opening it and disappearing from sight. you roll up your sleeves as you move back to the sink, dipping your hands into the soapy water to clean the glasses.

after about ten minutes, you make way up to your loft in the building. your footsteps slightly echo as you move toward the light in the living room. when you reach the floor, you watch as billy sits on the couch with his head thrown back on the edge while his hat covered up his face.

slowly approaching in front of him, you lightly kick his shin. he snaps his head up, eyes wide as his hat falls to his lap. he lets out a small breath in relief, making you smile. you watch as he sits up on the couch.

“scared the shit out of me.” he mumbles, putting that ragged hat on again.

you move to sit next to him, bouncing lightly on the cushions. “must’ve been too tired to hear me coming up the steps.”

he leans into the couch once more, eyes trained on the ceiling. you watched his expression and how he studied the whiteness of the panels above.

“penny for your thoughts?” you whisper, watching his eyes shift over to you.

billy shakes his head, scoffing a little to himself. “it’s nothing. just thinking.”

“about?”

“everything.”

you let your gaze falter, moving to the floor. “everything that’s happened?” you ask.

he nods, fidgeting with his hands in his lap. billy wants nothing more than to go back and stop everything that’s happened. to change what got him to this point.

but if he did that, he would’ve never met you. you were one of the kindest people to him since the incident. the way you carried yourself, much like him, was with confidence. he respected you, and that aspect of your personality.

“i understand what it’s like..kind of.” you say, patting down the wrinkles in your outfit. “i was never wanted, but i’ve done things. things i wish i could take back.”

billy watches as you speak, the way your lips move and the expression you hold shifts with each emotion running through you. he almost doesn’t understand what you’re saying. the only thing keeping him to reality was the fact you sounded serious.

he adjusts himself on the furniture, “what have you done?” he asks, a part of him afraid to know the answer.

“i’ve killed.” you reply, the tone of your voice dropping lowly. “it was in defense, like you.”

billy watches the way you bounce your knee against the flooring of the loft. the dress you wear moves along with it, and your shoe lightly taps.

“when did it happen?” he asks as his pure curiosity gets the best of him.

you look up at him, smiling a little. “i was fourteen.”

billy looks at you, empathizing with your situation. though he wasn’t that young when it happened, he still felt some sort of connection with your experience.

“i don’t regret killing him honestly, but i regret hurting my family and his. they didn’t deserve to go through that. it wasn’t any of their faults.” you say as you breathe out slowly.

in an small moment, his hand is on yours. it’s a light touch, like he’s afraid to hurt you. billy moves his other hand to the space beneath your chin, and shifts your head to look at him in the eyes.

his voice is light, “you were defending yourself. it wasn’t your fault either.” billy whispers.

the words make your heart swell. after everything, hearing those words made it all feel better. almost all the guilt left your veins. he was right after all. it wasn’t your fault. what that man did..you just did what you had to.

as he holds your gaze, you slowly inch toward him. his blue irises bore into yours, watching as you shift them to his lips. they were slightly chapped and held a small frown on them.

billy leaned closer to you and your breaths mingled, like two lights finding each other in the darkness. he could feel your heart beating against your ribcage, as all of his senses were focused on you and you alone.

he closed the distance, and his lips met yours. billy felt himself melt into you like a magnet. everything muted itself, and his hands made way to your waist. he pulled you onto him, your knees caging around his thighs.

your hands found their way to his jaw, pulling him even closer. he tasted your soft lips and felt your warm skin against his. the room seemed to dissolve around you as the only thing in existence was this. this perfect union.

time stood still, and you both wanted more, but neither wanting it to initiate it. then, with what restraint he had left, he pulled away, his lips still grazing yours.

he looks up at you, his eyes filled with worry. “im sorry, i didn’t mean—”

“shut up.”

pressing your lips back to his, he lets out a grunt in reply before melting into you once more. the warmth of you, your lips, your being that sat in his lap—he felt lightheaded. billy moved his hands to your waist again, slowly trailing them up your back.

you feel the buttons of your dress being undone. he stops right before taking the sleeves off, prying himself away from you. billy’s eyes look into yours for confirmation, and you give him a quick, impatient nod in reply.

with that, he pulls the dress off slowly. your lips trail from his own to his neck, putting the flesh between your teeth. he groaned, trying to focus on untying your corset.

as he removed it, he wasted no time to discard it to the floor, hands making way to take off the chemise you wore.

“all those months on the run got you impatient now, cowboy?” you mutter, laughing as he would struggle from time to time.

billy looks up at you, his gaze slightly hidden by his hat, “no, just none of the women i’ve been with wore this much underneath. i’m also not a cowboy, sweetheart.”

rolling your eyes, you grab at his wrists to stop him. he looks up at you, big eyes and all, causing the built up pressure in your lower stomach to worsen. “just leave it. i’m not wearing anything under, so don’t fuss.”

you watch him nod slowly as he started to stare, making no move to take off his clothes. “do i have to do it for you?” you whisper, hands undoing the brown suspenders on his shoulders.

he shakes his head, moving to unbutton his pants he wore. you watch the way he fumbles with them, sliding them midway down his thighs. billy’s hands eventually move back to your waist, bunching up your chemise to your hips.

billy’s eyes watch as your pretty pussy comes into view, sitting in his lap with such a prepossessing aura. he has to restrain himself from taking you right then.

his dick was hard and twitching, the length had an angry tip with its slit profusely leaking pre-cum. it looked painful and it was because of you. you. you wondered if you had power over him now for a brief second but you shake your head clear of these thoughts.

instead, you catch his lips again, the kiss slower this time. you raise yourself a bit so he can align himself to your entrance. the cool touch of his hand meets your cunt, sliding a finger through the folds and collecting the juices flowing from you.

he uses your slick and spreads it across your sensitive pussy. you took a deep breath of air into your lungs. this feeling was new, since no man you’d been with ever did this, but it wasn’t unwelcome.

a small groan falls from billy’s lips as he uses it to prep himself, guiding his hand along his cock and pumping it slowly. he was on the girthy side with veins on the underside of his cock.

you knew you would stretch around him, that your walls would be a perfect fit around his length. you were too impatient for any sort of foreplay; you wanted the stretch. you wanted him to make you dizzy with his cock splitting you apart.

billy grabs your hips with his unoccupied hand, bringing you closer to him. you let out a whimper as you began to sink onto him, eyes flicking to his. those blue ones he held were zeroed down to the place you both were connected now.

his hands are on either side of your hip, guiding you down on his length. it was after his cock was fully stuffed in you, that his self-control allowed him to almost whine at the feeling of you.

your hands are on his shoulders to support yourself. your fingers weakly fist his shirt as you begin to ride him, raising yourself a few inches before slamming down on his cock with a loud moan escaping your lips. he reached the deepest spot inside of you somehow. no one had ever done that. not like this.

his cockhead grazes your spongy spot as you fuck yourself on him. arousal and his pre-cum are smeared all over your thighs. this sight made billy’s breath hitch, something you didn't notice as you were too busy with your eyes closed and taking him. you looked completely dissoluted like this.

your hair was a mess now, your lips glossy and swollen, hands digging into his shoulder. billy felt himself become enraptured by you and this sight. it was something he could get used to..if he wasn’t an outlaw that is.

he pulls you closer to him. one of his hands is on your back, pressing you to him. his hips raise upwards to fuck you as he now lets out more vocal sounds of enjoyment.

watching him with a hazy gaze, you remove the hat from his head. you place it onto your own, grinning at how he stares up at you like you were the creator of all living beings and creatures on this earth.

moving one of your hands from his shoulder, you bring it to his hair and give some strands a tug. he groans, the vibrations of his chest transferring to his dick, which transferred to you.

each thrust of his was made for his selfishness in your velvet walls. the drag of his cock was perfect, his speed was unbelievable. it was like heaven itself, but without the pearly gates and clouds.

while stuck in your own brain, the feeling of teeth bring you back to reality. you let a shuddered sigh fall as billy digs into the collarbone that peaked from your square-necked chemise. he slowly kisses up your neck, bringing a hand to the back of your head.

“fuck..’s too good,” he mutters, trying to keep his voice even.

you laugh, making him groan a little. he looks up, watching as you bounce with one hand held on his hat to keep it on. “too good? were all your other girls shit?”

he lets out short breaths, his blue eyes studying the way you moved as if he was in a trance. billy would answer if he wasn’t on another planet right now. a planet where you were taking him so deliciously, almost to the point where he could pass out.

“fuck,” he says under his breath as your pussy clenches around him. “where do you want it?” his voice was strained from trying to keep his composure.

you pant, “inside.”

billy doesn’t waste a second before obliging and quickening his pace, making the hat on your head fall lopsided. you could feel the pressure in you tightening, almost about to burst like a pipe.

he moves his thumb to rub at your clit, and the tip of his cock repeatedly nudges against that one spot that has you falling apart on top of him with a loud cry. your orgasm hits you hard and billy can’t hold it in any longer. he fucks into you for another minute, eyes squeezed shut as he groans out your name.

billy groans when you flutter around him as you cum. he’s thrusting his hips up into you with his newfound force. it requires you to tighten your grip on his shoulders to stay put as he empties his load deep inside you, his sweet moans echoing in the living room.

your cunt milks him dry, and he fills you up to the brim—to the point where you could feel him leak out of you. the both of you pause, your hands resting on his chest as you catch your breath.

he slowly eases his cock out of you. the both of you were breathing heavily as he pulls you closer, letting you rest your head on his shoulder. you wrap you arms around his chest, listening to his heart beat.

“wanna share my bed?” you whisper.

tags: @m0rphys

[somewhereincairparavel]

What would the seven wear? - Fashion Style analysis ( HOO Girls Ver.)

as a kid I used to want to be a fashion designer so making this post healed my inner child <3 enjoy ~

HAZEL LEVESQUE - okay okay omgg this girl would have the best fashion sense out of all of them (imo) because she is influenced by SO many fashion aesthetics, like her style would be vintage and modern at the same time! I feel like she would love long flowy dresses because it was the most common clothing women would wear in the 40's, she would love floral patterns sm because they are so cheery and it lightens her mood, this would bring out her "adorable" style more. also. JACKETS. this girl is OBESSED with jackets and cardigans, particularly in the colors brown and black. Overall her style is a mix of cheery, cute but she has that pluto edge to her style aswell with the jackets.

PIPER MCLEAN- honestly as much as she would hate to admit it, i feel like Piper would LOVE pink, pale pink takes up the majority of her palette. Her style is very youthful and it's a mix of rebel indie kid and soft coquette core. LOVES LOVES LOVES denim shorts, they are like a must in her wardrobe. Also, She loves jewelry, whether it be tassel earrings, beady bracelets and necklaces, rings etc. like she defo cares more about accessorizing than the actual clothing. she wears baggy white shirts a lot for some reason, but it suits her so well. Crop tops are a must, specifically pink or purple ones with a cute image on it, remember she wore a hello kitty crop top? yeah like that. I feel like her style is the most fresh and childlike without it being over the top, it is so cute. i love her style sm.

ANNABETH CHASE- Annabeth's style is super elegant tbh, she LOVES wearing grey, orange and white imo, also, i feel like she LOVES light blue/dark blue jeans. Ofc Annabeth loves caps, its like super dear to her, she doesn't have a specific "style" she just loves changing it a lot. Annabeth LOVES long dresses especially if they are white/warm brown. Her style is just super chill and modern. Percy is down bad when she wears baggy shirts tho cuz she slays so hard in them Annabeth loves knitted lace jackets because it gives off very homely vibes. Overall her style is super authentic and fresh tbh.

REYNA AVILA RAMIREZ ARELLANO- i have a feeling that reyna would love dressing up. it brings her comfort, she was the hairdresser in circe's island after all, Reyna is just straight up royal core. she likes wearing corsets, and silk gowns, Her color palette is gold, black, white, violet, and dark maroon tbh. Reyna LOVES large gold earrings that just dangle y'know? it makes her feel and look regal. She also loves circlets that you wear on the head. uggh she has got that roman classiness y'know. Super fancy and enjoys wearing long robes and skirts, i love my fancy shmancy queen <3

[monsterblogging]

Fuck JKR: How To Create A Harry Potter-Esque Aesthetic Without Any Harry Potter In It

So I saw a few posts from people mentioning that a reason people might be into Harry Potter is because of the aesthetic or atmosphere, and ya know what? I can't even argue that, because if there's one thing about HP, it's that it Sure Does Have Aesthetic And Atmosphere.

So! I'm gonna tell you how to STEAL ITS LOOK! Because:

JK Rowling considers ANY support of her work to be support of her politics.

Fan content/fan merch is still free advertisement for Rowling's work. YOU might not choose to give her money, but you can't be sure you won't pull people into the fandom who will.

Everyone should create more things that aren't tied to corporate-owned IP, period.

So. Most things in these films have an aged, antique look. You'll see a lot of brown hues, both on sets and on people's clothes. There's a lot of near-blacks (especially charcoals and walnuts) and lighter grays on the sets, especially from the third film onwards. (Wood is more often than not stained dark, while lighter hues are often provided by bricks or plaster.) The last two films use a lot of stormy blues and grays. Prisoner of Azkaban also emphasizes contrast between tones, which heightens a sense of texture. True black also appears throughout the films, such as on students' uniforms and many Death Eaters' outfits, and on the chairs in Malfoy Manor. White appears occasionally, especially on Hedwig, students' shirts, or during winter scenes, but pure white isn't otherwise really common. Paper or parchment is usually warm beige. There's also a lot of silver, gold, and brass, often appearing on things like dishware, tools, trinkets, Christmas baubles, and so forth. Bronze also comes up occasionally.

Reds, yellows, blues, and greens are pretty common throughout the films, even outside of Hogwarts, though you'll see just about every color somewhere. For example, orange is often found around the Weasleys, and orange, maroon, and purple feature in the divination classroom. Teal features prominently in Grimmauld Place (contrasted with saffron yellows).

Most colors aren't really super bright; a lot of the time they look a little faded, or like they're colored with natural dyes. If you use medieval illustrations to source your colors, or aim for earth tones and jewel tones, you'll be about right for a lot of what you see in the films. Bright colors are pretty rare; some of the brights we do see are in Honeydukes, Weasleys' Wizarding Wheezes, and certain magical effects, such as Floo fire.

A lot of light is provided by candles, torches, or fireplaces, which cast a warm yellow/orange light. Moonlight is represented by blue light in the first and second films. Blue light is also used for the Goblet of Fire and the penseive.

Another thing you gotta have in there is clutter. It should look kinda antique and give off a kind of magical or mystical atmosphere. Think books, storage jars, orreries, crystal balls, old lamps, antique clocks, vintage glassware, antique mirrors, old teapots, and little metal trinkets. (If you're trying to decorate a physical room, your stuff doesn't have to actually be antique, of course; antique-styled is fine.)

Texture is also very important, which can be represented with full or top grain leather book covers, stone walls, dents and scratches, cracks, embellishments, and embossing. Additionally, all damage and wear gives a sense of oldness to things. Stains and variegated colors also add interest. (If you're decorating a physical space, you might look into aging/distressing/antiquing techniques.)

If you want a space to look cozy, you don't really want bare or blank walls. Shelves, paintings, tapestries, and wallpaper can all help with that. Again, use brown, rather than black. Warm, yellow lighting will also help. If you lean toward blacks and cool lighting, you're going to have a colder-looking space.

Fashion in the wizarding world is extremely all over the place, ranging from stereotypical fantasy witch and wizard clothing, to pretty normal vintage clothing, to some wacky vintage-inspired looks, to the kind of fashion that would be put under the cozycore umbrella, to ordinary modern clothing. One thing that's absent is subculture fashion as we know it. (Bellatrix Lestrange does look kinda goth, but it's less a subculture thing, and more a "yeah we're putting our bad guys in fancy black stuff" thing.)

If you're trying to lean into the whole eccentric/quirky/old-fashioned kinda thing, you'll want to pass over the more modern and obviously synthetic type stuff. Also, patterns, textured fabrics, knits, mixed colors, lace, and other embellishments can add interest to outfits.

Architecture is also all over the place. Hogwarts is pretty medieval, while places like Diagon Alley give more Victorian vibe. The main thing is looking old fashioned and quaint.

To try and summarize all of that:

Browns. Lots and lots and lots of browns. Blacks and grays, too. Contrast between light and dark browns and blacks/grays.

More beige and gray than pure white; more charcoal gray and dark walnut brown than true black.

Among other colors, mostly earth tones and jewel tones. Very limited brights.

Polished metal and glass also add shininess.

Old-fashioned. Vintage. Antique.

Clutter, texture, patterns, variegation. Minimalist/clean aesthetic avoided.

Aged and distressed.

Lighting often yellow/orange due to coming from fire. Blue/teal light often coming from moonlight and certain magical light sources.

Now, here are some things we actually don't see. I'm not mentioning them to discourage you from using them if they're what you really want, but to inform you about them so you can consider whether they might throw off the vibe for you:

Green/purple/black combos.

Purple/silver/black combos. Pink/purple/teal combos.

Pink/black combos.

Orange/black combos.

Green/orange/purple combos.

Red/black combos.

Basically a lot of combos commonly associated with Halloween, witches, or vampires.

Big raw crystals. We see crystal balls now and then, but that's it.

Other natural items used as decorations - feathers, pinecones, sticks, etc. The one exception I can think of are the shells embedded in the walls of Shell Cottage.

Crushed velvet. Lots of fantasy uses this, HP films don't.

If you need inspiration, go look up medieval and renaissance diagrams and illustrations of stuff like the four elements, the zodiac, the solar system, and all that. Go look up alchemical symbols and emblems. Search up pre-WWII vintage ephemera. Go look up Victorian clipart. Look up stuff like botanical, zoological, and astronomical books and art from the 17th-19th centuries. Look up vintage wallpaper and fabric patterns. Look at vintage-style crafts. Research period architecture and fashion. Research European heraldry.

If you're wondering what exactly you're going to design around without Hogwarts and the Four Houses, here are some suggestions:

The four classical elements (earth, air, fire, and water)

The four seasons

Card suits - Tarot, French, whatever you want

Holidays - Halloween, Christmas, whatever

Fairy tales

Flowers

Mythical creatures

Bugs

Birds

Any other animals you like

Ecosystems

Your own original worldbuilding

So yeah, there ya go. You don't need to keep participating in HP to indulge in the aesthetic.

[NOTICE: Anybody who clowns on this post by making this about them and their childhood, patting themselves on the back about their chosen means of "ethical" participation, praising the fandom, or adding any other form of irrelevant bullshit is getting blocked. Also, I don't want to hear about PJO or Earthsea again for the millionth time, either.]

[hazshit-hotel-hater]

It Had To Be You

Before I get into my big explaining rant, reblogs are very much appreciated! I know this is usually a rant blog but when I spend so long on a drawing I want to have people see it and stare at it like I do LOL

Also for the ALT text, a lot of the details are going to be explained below so if you’d like extra details please read!

So, my designs! I really hate Husk’s design; as in I hate drawing it. It’s too red and tiny for me, Husk is very orange and round to me, he’s like a really chubby cat that you flip over in the bed and smack their belly and kiss em. He also kinda reminds me of Tigerstar from Warriors but like if he was a more morally correct person. Kind of. I removed all of the red from Husk and replaced it with little motifs of orange and brown like in his ears, his eyebrows, wings, and the little patch on his snout. For his wings I tried to base them around a Brown Thrasher because they fit the colour I needed and they’re very defensive birds which is a trait I’d like to see in Husk more. Seeing him protecting others with his wings in Episode 8 was a very cute touch and I want more of that. Oh and the little orange bit on his snout was based on one of my old cats named Whiskey and I thought that was fitting cause yknow. Whiskey. 🥃. Also it’s cute!

Part of Husk’s orange colouration also falls under some inspiration I received from @bluehazardanonymous whom you may see on my blog again. But they sent me a very interesting colour chart and it made my brain go funny

Husk’s design has a lot of orange, yellow, and small hints of red like his undone bowtie and hat band/ace of hearts card. The orange for gluttony is mostly related to alcohol and such, meanwhile the yellow in his eyes, shirt patch, and on the button on his hat are to show greed from things like gambling and possible leftovers from being an overlord. I don’t think you can just go from being all powerful to some random bartender and NOT have some kind of thirst for power right???? That also bleeds into the red parts (haha cause blood red) to keep his design on the warm side and have a little bit of anger in there.

His clothes are also supposed to look a bit sloppy and kinda sad cause I mean. He is. But they are also all relatively formal items of clothing. By the way I’m never drawing this guy shirtless, sorry you need to beg and pay for that/j

Now for Angel. With Angel being pink-ish and how I usually draw the rest of Hell, I try to make Hell more gross looking and greenish/sickly, generally unpleasant, so that Angel is more eye catching and pops out more like a celebrity would. A lot of the cast in my head is more orange/maroon coloured, not a lot of pink or salmon colours. Of course pink is under lust on the colour wheel, but I personally don’t like chalking Angel up to just his job, nor do i really like using “true” pink. I always keep him in this range:

Also that white is not for him it’s for other things, I always make him a cream-ish colour. I like pink with red undertones always, especially for Angel. It shows his job very blatantly if you take a simple glance at him, but if you’re nuts like me and colour pick from these that I use, you’ll see a lot of them are closer to red, rather than the bright pink-ish-purple colour for lust. And also closer to his original more purple design!

I think it goes without saying that Angel has a lot of pent up anger and frustration that he hides with his persona and humour, and I think trying to show some of that in his colours is a lot more interesting than just haha pink gay spider. I dunno.

Also I thought these little cowlick flip thingies on the side were really cute

I was originally going to make the sign in the back purple since that’s usually the colour of most XXX signs in Hazbin, but the yellow makes everything else look a lot more dingy and gross while still being bright and I love that. Also the yellow is kind of a shallow jab of my own at the adult entertainment industry, a lot of this stuff is just people being exploited for money but I will go on a tangent about this if I don’t shift topic!! Anyway. A lot of the background isn’t super visible, but based on the colours I was kinda going for a more envy & wrath & greed section of the pride ring. Just seems like a good place to smoke. The rain doesn’t hold much symbolism to it but it is there to make the area seem more unpleasant. Yknow how it rains sometimes and the sewage in the street comes up? Like that.

Im really happy with a bunch of stuff in this art. 10 hours, 184+ layers, and 11751 strokes is probably the most I have ever done for.. anything????? Even if you don’t like the art I hope you appreciate the long rant LOL

Be sure to have a good day and drink something ‼️

[igetthedisneybox]

Carlos Madrigal

Inspired by @hannahhook7744's Encanto AU, and her own character headcanons.

Third image made using https://picrew.me/en/image_maker/1558575

Fourth image made using https://www.dolldivine.com/la-colombiana

Fifth image made in Disney Dreamlight Valley

Carlos’s full name is Carlos Darío Guzmán-Madrigal.

His first name means “army” and his middle name means “goodness”. 

He is the third child of Dolores Madrigal and Mariano Guzmán.

He has his father’s lighter skin tone, jawline, and hair, and his mother’s eyes and nose. With these traits, he looks oddly similar to his Tío Camilo.

He is fourteen years old.

He has an older sister by five years, Leta, an older brother by a year, Andrés, and younger sisters by three, Avila and Amada.

He is uninterested in romance or sex.

His gift is duplication, and he can duplicate any non-living objects twice. Any more, and he gets really nauseous, and will eventually pass out. He loves his gift, and of course, uses it for evil. The adults in his life placed strict rules on duplicating money, so he doesn’t cause inflation, but he doesn’t really listen. He runs a bit of a duplication black market of sorts.

His door portrays him grinning, with one hand over his heart, and the other holding two orbs. Around his feet are more orbs.

His room looks like a store. There is stuff everywhere. All the walls are shelves, and the shelves are filled with more stuff. The floors are dark wood, and the walls are stucco red. The bed and amenities are all on wheels, and can be moved around at will. Carlos moves them out of the way during the day, because he literally runs a whole ass shop out of his room. 

His symbol is two overlapping orbs.

He and Dolores love each other, but don’t spend much time together. He’s eccentric and loud, while she’s quiet. She’s also the only one who knows his secret, but keeps quiet about it.

He and Mariano butt heads sometimes, just because Mariano wishes that Carlos was a bit more selfless…because he doesn’t know his secret.

He and Leta like to cause mayhem together, and she helps him with his black market business.

Carlos and Andrés are polar opposites, and therefore don’t get along very well. Andrés’ shyness and ‘goody-two-shoes-ness’ bugs the crap out of Carlos.

He encourages Avila and Amada to be wild, and to be themselves. They get free stuff out of his store.

He mainly hangs out with Amelia, Beatriz, Lidia, and José.

He gets along best with Bruno, Camilo, and José.

He’s hiding a huge secret: he’s a very generous person, and uses almost all of the money he earns to buy gifts for his friends and family, or donates it to the local orphans. If anybody questions him about where his money goes, he lies. He has a reputation to uphold.

He enjoys acting, like Bruno, Camilo, and Marcos, and so helps out with the theater a lot.

He dislikes poetry, but has a knack for scripts, and he and Mariano (when they get along) will take the time to write together.

He’s very popular with the Encanto, especially the children, who he has a soft spot for. He duplicates their sweets. Laundresses also love him, as he can duplicate socks that have lost one of a pair.

He has mild ADHD, and can’t sit still for very long.

His favorite colors are orange, yellow, gold, and maroon.

[velarisnightsky444]

Scorched Shadows: Part I

Eris x Azriel's Sister OC

Summary: Estella is the younger sister of Azriel. Like her older brother, she is a shadowsinger and spymaster for the Night Court. When she meets Eris, she initially despises him, but after a bargain is made between them, and they are stuck Under the Mountain together, things begin heating up.

CW: Mentions of abuse(beron)

AN: This takes place over many years, so I will keep track of the years.

Word Count: 1114

Series Masterlist

Part 2

»»————-　♔　————-««

Year 1

     Estella spent most of the meeting fidgeting with her scarred hands. The Autumn Court made her uncomfortable, and she hated when Rhys dragged her out for High Lord meetings there.

     Not only were the High Lord of Autumn and his sons cruel and wicked, but their powers, which revolved around fire, had always made her nervous.

     Morrigan had been allowed to stay home, but not Estella. Even if she had practically begged Rhys to let her.

     Rhys routinely caressed her mind throughout the meeting, which she appreciated. She had been six years old the first time he'd done that, and it had terrified her. But she'd learned to see it as comforting rather than threatening over the years.

     She kept quiet throughout the meeting, though she couldn't help but notice how her husband continuously cut off the Lady of Autumn when she attempted to speak.

     During the meeting, he constantly belittled her, and no one intervened. Estella was furious to witness such treatment towards the female.

"He's a cruel, abusive male,"a shadow whispered to Estella. "She fears him."

     Estella locked eyes with Eris Vanserra, who was sneering from across the room. Estella glared at him, still furious about what had happened to Morrigan all those years ago.

     He ran his amber eyes over her, then looked away, dismissing her entirely.

»»————-　♔　————-««

     Estella snuck out of her room that night, feeling suffocated by the Autumn Court decorations. The flames and leaves that were embroidered into everything irritated her.

     She hated the bed she was given, with its maroon sheets. She hated the mahogany from which all the furniture was made.

     Most of all, she hated the darkness that was everywhere. It wasn't physical, but she could feel it. The court was cold, empty, and dark.

     Her bare feet padded across the wooden floor until she reached a balcony. She was wearing only her nightgown, and she regretted not grabbing a shawl or a robe on her way out.

     She stared out at the beautiful scenery. As much as she hated the court, she couldn't deny its beauty.

     The trees were all golden, red, and orange, and the forest ground was covered in leaves. The chill in the air was comforting, not too cold.

"What is a delicate thing like you doing all alone?"

     Estella whipped around, finding herself staring into Eris Vanserra's amber eyes. He was still wearing the emerald button-up and black pants he had on at the meeting. The jacket he had been wearing had been discarded, though. His short, red locks were still combed finely, not a hair out of place.

"I'm hardly delicate," was all she managed to say, the words a snarl.

     He clicked his tongue, his hands meeting behind his back.

"You think those shadows could save you if the guards found a pretty little thing like you wandering the grounds at night?" he challenged. She tensed.

"I'm just enjoying the beauty of the court," she said sarcastically, rolling her eyes.

"Such rudeness from a lady," he tsked with a smirk. "You wouldn't last a day living here."

"I'd rather die than live here," she snapped back, her teeth bared.

"You should care to watch your tongue," he warned. "Especially at the meeting tomorrow. My father doesn't take kindly to females who run their mouths."

     Estella's fury from the meeting came back. She recalled how he had just sat there as Beron spewed belittling words at his mother.

"How can you just let him treat your mother like he does?" she demanded, nostrils flaring with the words.

"Excuse me?"

"He's abusing her, and you're doing absolutely nothing to stop it," she glared, crossing her arms over her chest.

"Tread lightly," her shadows warned her. "He's sensitive about his mother."  She couldn't find it in her to care. 

"Don't speak of things you don't understand," he growled, eyes narrowing.

"I was just a child when I witnessed the cruelty my father brought upon my mother, but I wanted to stop it then, and if I had been older, I would have," Estella snapped at him with a scowl. "And you don't even say anything when he insults her—"

     He snarled, lunging towards her and pinning her body to the wall. She gasped, the air being knocked from her lungs as her back hit the stone.

"Say another word about my mother, and I will kill you," he threatened, his features twisted in unbridled rage. "I don't care who your brothers are or that you're a Lady."

"Like father like son," Estella replied, her hazel eyes narrowed at the male.

     He looked nearly murderous at that. But he didn't raise a hand to Estella. That would only prove her point.

"Estella, is it?" he asked, his amber eyes cold. She nodded tensely. "Well, Estella, you should learn to keep your nose out of other's business. It will only bring trouble."

"I'm a spymaster; that's my job," she replied coolly, her back still pressed against the wall.

"Well, keep my mother out of it," he growled, releasing her.

     She let out a breath of relief as he stepped away from her. Then, he was gone, had winnowed away. Estella stood, glancing around as she tried to get her bearings.

     She huffed, frustrated at the interaction. He was such an infuriating asshole, and she knew that well from the stories her family had told her, even if this was her first time speaking to him in five centuries.

     She turned on her heel, deciding that it was best for her to go back to her bedroom now before she got caught by someone else.

"Guards are a floor away," the shadows whispered.

     She thanked them softly, adding momentum to her steps so she could get to her room before they found her.

     Estella shivered from the chill in the air, and her shadows wrapped themselves around her shoulders in response. She smiled softly, letting one of them stroke her cheek. She felt as though her shadows were her family, and she loved them, even if they were just wisps of darkness.

     They had shown up when she was seven years old, a year after she and her brother had gone to live with Rhys, Cassian, and Rhys's mother, Selene. Azriel's had come to him a year prior, but nobody expected her to be a shadowsinger, as well. Though, it did make sense. They'd both been raised in the shadows.

     When Estella returned to her bedroom, she carefully locked the door and sent a shadow outside to keep watch, though after wishing it a good night.

     She sighed deeply, climbing back into the embroidered sheets of the Autumn Court. At least the bed was comfortable. That had to count for something, she thought as she drifted off to sleep. 

»»————-　♔　————-««

Scorched Shadows Taglist:

Eris Taglist:

Comment to be added to the Scorched Shadows or Eris taglists!

»»————-　♔　————-««

[rubykgrant]

A couple years back, I did a pretty wedding picture of Grif and Simmons, and I was pretty happy with how it turned out (especially their faces, and the pose; it isn't complicated or anything, but I wanted to make sure their hands/arms looked decent). At one point, I added some shadows/highlights to it, and it was OK... but not as good as it COULD have been. So, I touched it up a little, and re-did the shading entirely, before finally making a version that softens all the lines and has an extra shine to it.

So, here they are yet again; Grif and Simmons standing together, facing toward each other, with their hands raised and clasped between their chests (Grif's hand has the lighter shade from the skin grafts, and Simmons hand is the cybernetic one). Grif;s has long, dark hair that is thick and wavy, pulled back into a bun, with the rest of it falling down his back (a little past his shoulders). Simmons has rusty red hair, with a length of bangs swept off to one side, the rest of it in a braid. Grif has a neatly trimmed beard that follows around his jawline, and Simmons has cybernetics framing one side of his face (going from around the eye underneath the eyebrow, curving with the shape of his cheek/jaw and ending at his chin). Simmons' cybernetic eye has a red glow. Both of them have very please expressions. Their outfits are suits designed to be a sunset gradient, dark red/maroon around the shoulders, shades of bright red/orange in the middle, and golden-yellow at the edges of the jacket/sleeves (their undershirts and pants are less vibrant dark red with red ties). They also have mis-matching asymmetrical patterns with embroidered flowers; one Grif, the thread is bright yellow, on the lowers part of one arm and the bottom of the jacket. On Simmons, the thread is an almost-purple dark colors, up on the shoulders and party way down one arm. The sky behind them is a sunset (in pale shades of peach-plum)

Simmons obviously asked Sarge to be his best man, and Grif chose Tucker. Kai declared herself to be the "Grand High Bridesmaid", even through they tried to tell her there is no "bride" here, that term doesn't apply. Donut made sure they didn't just have plain red suits, or tacky solid orange/maroon ones. He went with the sunset theme HARD (and had several panic attacks when Simmons' hair-ties kept snapping). Grif chose the place for the wedding/reception, a hotel in Hawai'i. They called the whole affair The Red Wedding, because why wouldn't they~

[renlysbussy]

Can u do a daemond drabble mhm mhm

You and this tweet inspired me soooOOOO--a Daemond Drabble below the cut. Rated: Explicit. Set in a modern, mafia-esque AU.

Daemon liked picking out what Aemond would wear for the night when his nephew would let him. He relished in picking out Rhaenyra’s outfits too. If his partner were to accompany him out, on his arm, they should dress the part. Daemon didn’t say this, of course, but he believed it. 

That was how Aemond had ended up wearing a long, black jacket with no shirt underneath. The jacket was tied at his waist to accentuate his shape. The clean, velvet fabric looked and felt exceptionally soft. Daemon especially liked the feeling of the velvet on his hands as he rubbed light circles on his nephew’s back, his fingertips leaving swirl patterns as to where they’d been.

Aemond wore tight-fitting, black pants under the jacket and matching boots that barely reached above his ankles. With the sparkling sapphire choker, another gift his uncle had bought him, sparkling under the dim light, he was the picture of elegance. Daemon had made sure of that. Aemond didn’t know how much Daemon had spent on the entire ensemble and frankly, he didn’t want to. He knew it was excessive, and that was Daemon’s business, not his. 

Seated comfortably in his uncle’s lap, Aemond placed his arms loosely around his neck so that he could stare down at Daemon. His hair was braided back loosely so that some loose strands of white-blonde hair hung in a way that gave them a little privacy. “Are you pleased, uncle?” Aemond asked softly. The club was loud, but he was so close to Daemon that they could hear one another.

“Pleased?” Daemon let his hands roam to Aemond’s waist where the belt cinched the jacket closed. He liked how Aemond fit between his hands. Daemon glanced down and thought about the last time his hands were around Aemond’s waist like this. Aemond had been in his lap, riding his uncle’s cock as if his life depended on it. The fingerprint-shaped bruises Daemon had left on his skin had lasted for nearly two weeks after that. He was long due for a new set. 

“Yes, Kepa,” Aemond smiled as he watched Daemon closely. His sapphire eye twinkled just as much as the choker at his throat. “My clothes, this club, all of it—are you pleased?” It was important to Aemond that his uncle be pleased. He liked satisfying all of Daemon’s needs—he liked being able to. 

“Oh,” Daemon’s eyes widened a little as he thought about it. He nodded and motioned for a waiter to attend them. Aemond couldn’t hear what Daemon asked the waiter for, but he was gone as fast as he had arrived. 

“You didn’t answer my question,” Aemond reminded him. His expression didn’t betray how worried Daemon’s silence actually made him. Instead, Aemond expelled some of his nervous energy by reaching up to run his fingertips over the burn scars that decorated his uncle’s neck—a permanent reminder of the type of work they did.

Daemon turned his attention back to his pretty nephew, switching to speak in High Valyrian—the ancient tongue of their equally old family. Knowing a language that was mostly dead had proven useful more times than Daemon could count. “I’m quite satisfied, nephew. But you…” Daemon’s words trailed off as the waiter returned with a small, black glass plate. On the plate was an arrangement of fruit that looked so perfect that it could have been pulled from a 17th century still-life painting. There were apple slices, peeled pieces of orange, raspberries, and a small bunch of grapes that appeared maroon in the low light. Next to the fruit was a dish of honey in a cut-crystal bowl that could have been mistaken for a salt cellar. Atop the honey was what had to be a pinch of cinnamon. The plate was simple but mouth-watering. When the waiter walked away yet again, Daemon finished his thought, “…you need to eat. You haven’t had a bite all day.”

“Me?” Aemond wanted to roll his eye. His uncle often worried about his most basic needs. It was sweet in ways, patronizing in others, but he knew the pleasure it brought him.

“Yes, you,” Daemon insisted, a smile spreading across his face. The pair were still speaking in High Valyrian to one another, even as Daemon plucked a grape from the bunch to hold it to Aemond’s lips. “Eat.”

“Yes, uncle,” Aemond answered with a sweetness that matched the substance in the crystal dish. He opened his mouth enough to let Daemon pass the grape between his lips. Aemond smiled as he bit down and chewed, his eye watching Daemon’s. Once the grape was swallowed, Aemond was free to comment, “It’s a bit tart. I think I’d fancy one of the raspberries with honey next.” 

He knew how this worked by now. Daemon liked feeling needed and while Aemond hated asking, he would ask anyways—demand even, to make his uncle feel wanted. And Daemon, he was more than eager to please. He dipped a raspberry in the honey as Aemond had suggested, carefully lifting it to hold it to Aemond’s lips next. This time, Aemond gave Daemon more.  

Aemond opened his mouth wider than before, letting his uncle pop the raspberry past his lips. His tongue slid against Daemon’s fingers to make sure he’d cleaned all the honey from them. The taste was excellent. The sweet, rich honey balanced out the bitterness of the raspberry and the cinnamon lingered after the food itself was gone. It was more than pleasant—it was divine. All of it. The club, the music, the lights, the clothes, the food, his Kepa.

Aemond couldn’t stop himself from sliding his hand up to cup Daemon’s face as he leaned in to kiss him softly, but with passion behind it all the same. Daemon couldn’t resist the kiss and returned it with fervor, but his nephew wasn’t done yet. He forced himself to pull his head away enough to break the kiss. “No distractions. Not yet. Eat.” Daemon smiled slyly and dipped an apple slice in the honey this time. 

“Uncle,” Aemond protested, but Daemon only pressed the apple slice to his lips tenderly. He had no choice but to acquiesce, accepting the honey coated fruit into his mouth. The apple was somehow even better; it lacked the bitterness of the raspberry, and the cinnamon gave the illusion of biting into a bit of apple pie. As Aemond watched Daemon wipe his fingertips on a small napkin on the plate, he felt inspired. 

Leaning in close to Daemon again, Aemond pressed his lip to his uncle’s ear, speaking low, “I think I’d like to try just the honey.” He hoped that his uncle would understand what he was asking. Luckily, Daemon did. Of course he did. They were too alike. 

Daemon’s mouth formed a small smirk as he dipped his pointer and middle finger into the cinnamon-honey mixture, bringing it to Aemond’s lips. It was exactly what he’d hoped for. Aemond opened his mouth again so that Daemon could press his fingers inside. While the honey was just as delicious, the real treat was getting to slide his tongue around Daemon’s fingers and between them obscenely. He closed his eyes, moaning softly around them as he imagined how much sweeter they would be inside of him.

When Daemon pulled his fingers from Aemond’s mouth, Aemond only felt disappointment—empty, even. Daemon had seen the expression on Aemond’s face before. “So spoiled, nephew,” Daemon chided, running a hand up Aemond’s thigh, under the jacket. “Finish your plate and we’ll leave this place. Deal?”

Aemond wondered how quickly he could finish the remainder of the dish. Not fast enough. 

[quitealotofsodapop]

This was in my notes for a long time

MK glanced up at the ringing of the bell. The food truck was bustling, full of people all over the city looking to enjoy Pigsy's Noodles during their New Years while they await the parade. At the sight of the partially glamoured face of a ginger haired person with a heart-shaped birthmark around his eyes wearing an orange hoodie and maroon pants, he felt his face pale considerably. Especially as the very obviously glamoured demon was accompanied by four seemingly human children, having apparently put more effort into their glamours than his own. A quick flash of Gold Vision confirmed MK's suspicions. His mom and siblings.

"Oh boy..." He groaned, glaring at the snickering of one of the twins. They pointed at their headphones and stuck their tongue out before bringing their attention back to their sibling. Right, lotus ears. There's no verbally spoken secret within a mile that can be kept from the twins simply because one of then was born with their father's ears. Before MK could return the rude gesture he felt a hand shaking his shoulder, startling him.

"What's up, monkey man?" Mei was grinning, "You look like your mom jsut walked in on you or something!"

"That's because he did." MK groaned, pointing to the group, "He brought my siblings too."

"Oooh, tough. I'm totally gonna record the entire thing, it's bound to be good blackmail."

MK rolled his eyes as he pushed himself to the front where his mom was watching the whole interaction with amused golden eyes.

"Mom! What are you doing all the way out here?"

"Can't a fella come to his son's workplace on the holiday?" Wukong joked, instinctively reaching out to stop Luzhen from grabbing at Yuebei's hidden tail, "With the New Years I thought it'd be a good idea to bring your siblings down to the parade for a better view. We're jsut stopping by fir seem food before we go down to the festival."

"Well you came to the right place! What can I do ya for?" Pigsy grunted as not too gently pushed MK aside for some room. For a moment the glamoured monkey demon was frozen at the unexpected resemblance before shaking himself a bit,

"Oh, uh... something vegetarian please. Make sure mine is cooled."

"Cooled?" Pigsy raised a brow as he glanced at MK, a cooled bown the noodles is rarely something people want.

"Mom had an accident when he was younger that makes it difficult for him to eat hot foods." MK explained, writing the order down for his boss. The pig shrugged, muttering something about ice as he began the order. MK returned his focus to his family as they chatted, Wukong quite forcefully demanding a hug from him.

What MK didn't realize was the conversation going on behind him.

"So that's very obviously a glamoured demon." Tang was pointing out as they watched the family interact, "So our theory is looking more and more true."

"Yeah, kid's a demon. Or the least his mom is. Poor guy." Pigsy said in return, "Still that isn't a good glamour."

"I've seen glamours before." Sandy chimed in, "I don't think it's because he's bad at it, just look at his kids! He's probably jsut putting all his energy into keeping his kids' glamours up."

Ref.

Oh gosh poor MK getting mega-embarrassed by his mom and siblings XD

I love the detail of the Eclipse Twin with the lotus ears teasing MK before they even get there. No secret is safe from the twins; one hears all and they both share everything.

I love Wukong being so focused on his kids glamours that he barely has enough magic left over for his own. And ofc Luzhen trying to grab Yuebei's invisible tail - cus where did it go? XD

I love hcs of Wukong not enjoying hot food cus of his lore. Him like his noodles lukewarm at best.

And the noodle gang cofirming their suspicions that MK is def a glamoured demon (or at least half-demon). Imagine the shock they'll get when they learn exactly who MK's mom is! XD

[puddleorganism]

Organism Prompt #3

Saprotroph (a creature that feeds on decaying organic matter, decomposers)

Small

Terrestrial

Stands on only a few of its limbs

Bonus relationship prompt: Charismatic (popular or appealing)

This is little project to expand the biodiversity of my own worlds. I have many space-faring aliens, but few of their homeworlds are fleshed out. Anyone is more than welcome to use these prompts as well! Please tag me if you do, I’d love to see what you come up with :)

My organism below the cut:

These organisms are native to the Fireback homeworld. A cold, volcanic world only habitable along its equator.

These organisms are mangroves (many mangrove species are already a result of convergent evolution, so I feel like I get a pass to call these mangroves)!

These mangroves inhabit the wetlands along certain island coasts within the Firebacks’ range, most of which are salt marshes. Being volcanic and usually tropical, these islands have incredible biodiversity, meaning there’s plenty of organic matter in the muck of these marshes. Muck that these mangroves love to eat! They have a complex system of mycelium-like structures that grow below the water and filter organic matter out of the water and mud. Additionally, they have a cluster of limbs that grow above the water which allow them to sequester oxygen from the air and to grow flowers.

How exactly they grow depends on the species, environment, and age. Sometimes, they are rooted in the ground with a few - or even just one - limbs that stick up through the water, that then branch out into more limbs. Other times, they are just a floating mat of limbs that drifts in the water with their feeding structures hanging down into the water. Most species of these mangroves start out like the latter, then send down limbs into the water, eventually grounding themselves and allowing them to grow into a structure more similar to the former. Some stay as mats for their entire lives. It’s not terribly uncommon for the free-floating kind to be swept out to sea, where they seldom survive for long.

These mangroves are mostly bare except for the flowers at the top of their limbs. These flowers are typically clusters of vivid reds, oranges, and golds, and are very much multipurpose. During the plant’s youth, these flowers are a more dull maroon color, and are used to pull the gases the mangrove needs to survive out of the air. However, as they get older these blooms start to lose their effectiveness and the mangrove will begin to grow new ones, usually on newly-grown limbs higher in the air. The old flowers are not wasted, though! Once they lose their effectiveness they will rapidly change, turning colors and growing reproductive organs. Essentially, at this point they turn into an actual flower, which is then pollinated by various other creatures in this world and falls off.

These flowers (in their actual flower stage) are primarily what makes this organism appealing to Firebacks. They feature in many stories and legends, most notably the legend of their god, Consumption. It is said that, as a mortal, Consumption stole one of these flowers from the Sea King for her mother, which led to her exile. These flowers are often used in rituals, associated with superstition, and given as gifts. What exactly they symbolize is variable, but they often represent luck, new beginnings, favorable weather (especially at sea), familial love, and rarely pacifism or peace.

If a stranded free-floating mangrove is found at sea, there are a million different superstitions about that whole situation. Generally it’s seen as a symbol of luck and good weather - being an indicator of Consumption’s good will and approval. Sometimes it’s seem as a harbinger of imminent doom - a herald of Consumption herself and her wrath. What to do with it afterwards is equally contentious. Maybe you should just leave it alone, maybe you should hide some sort of offering within the limbs to show gratitude or plead for mercy, maybe you should fish it out of the water and return it to shore. Sailing is a less common practice these days, but it’s still paramount that you pick your sailors carefully because physical fights will absolutely break out over these things if found at sea.