#free mustache rides

[featherbreak]

Nona added in the spirit of truth: "And I can't help chewing the ends with plaits. I want to steer clear of Temptation."

feat. Noodle(s) and a mustache r--

coloured contacts & silly faces test for summer!croptop!Nona (aka "it's too hot to wear three layers on public transit right now, ayfkm?")

[sdvbraindump]

I also only know this Harvey now. His glasses are next to him trust me. He wants you to see his "What you wanna do" eyes without them in the way.

[drastrochris]

Imagine.

It's the end of the world. Destruction is everywhere, there is no safe place to escape to, everyone will die.

You turn a corner, and this short lady with night-black braids catches your gaze. "Death! Death first to vultures and scavengers! Death then to those who remain!"

But she's in super short jorts with a t-shirt that reads "Mustache Rides: 69¢."

"THEY SHOULD BE FREE!" she roars as she claws your right arm from your torso. "WHY IS THERE ANY CHARGE????"

[sdvbraindump]

Just saying

Damn the amount of people who want to see that man eat pussy

[spoonv]

ignore that this took me like a month but HE'S HERE

for a limited time only get it while you can people!!

(click for quality tumblr ruins everything 😭)

[meat-loving-meat]

My silliest, most pointless, and least helpful pet peeve in the Locked Tomb fandom is that the t-shirt Pyrrha was going to give Nona advertises CHEAP (not free!) mustache rides! She is making a joke about how everyone thinks that she is Nona’s pimp! Paul even says that they think mustache rides “should be free” in opposition to the t-shirt! It is a joke about sex work! The fact that they are cheap and not free is important!

[eddiegettingshot]

sorry to message you twice in one night but oliver is 100% reading bpreg like 'i hope this doesn't awaken anything in me...'

HES LITERALLY CRYING TO BREEDING FIC <3

[a-mermaids-heart]

Never escaping NTN

[elegant-fleuret]

old man brainrot coming in. obsessed.

Rating: Explicit Pairing: Mobius M. Mobius/Reader Summary: If anyone was to blame for this situationship it was whoever at PepsiCo thought it was a good idea to invent Josta soda.

Ch001: What does my coworker's spit taste like?

No one in the TVA gets sick.

Something about the rigorous vaccination process that all employees go through every so often that leads to almost complete immunity against all viruses and bacteria that ever existed everywhere at all times. At least that’s what you've always assumed each time it was your turn to bend over with your pants down, getting needle after needle stabbed in your buttcheeks by the dear TVA medical department. Hundreds of years working and you’ve yet to hear about any one having even so much as a runny nose.

So there’s no reason to ever think you’re sick. 

There’s just a constant tickling in your throat. 

Irritation of the mucus membrane, right up behind your uvula, in an area at the bottom of your nasal passageway before your throat. There's an urge to clear your throat, to try and itch the tickle or try to swallow down what feels like a lump of mucus. But it never works. All you get is dirty side eye looks from the analyst sitting at the desk surrounding you and the sounds of them scraping their chairs as they move as far away as they can from you. You try not to take offense, you wouldn’t want to be sitting next to someone who was trying to discreetly hack up a lung for hours on end.

You're not sick. The air in the analyst room is just dry. And you forgot to grab any water during break.

For the umpteenth time since you sat down in your chair to work hours ago that damn tickle is near unbearable. You try to convince yourself to yawn, taking in a deep breath of dry air and forcing your mouth to water as well as your eyes. As you swallow, desperate for some inkling of moisture relief, you realize it was not enough. Shit. Now you had a dry throat, watering eyes, and you were going to have to cough.  

You were definitely not sick. 

Just when you pull your elbow to your mouth to cough there's a movement in the corner of your eye. A metal can is suddenly in your field of vision. You turn your head to see the hand holding the metal can, connected to the arm of one of your fellow analysts. Older, maybe middle aged, with short, slicked back gray hair and kind smile under a silly looking mustache. Your eyes blink, blurry from yawn-tears. Obviously he worked with you in some capacity. What was his name?

You take the can and notice it's not only already open but it's also half empty.

“Figure you might need it more than me,” he says like it's a perfectly normal act to offer a coworker your half drunk can of soda. His smile is crooked just like his nose, both totally uniquely identifiable traits that you would remember if you had seen before. His name and his oddly handsome face escapes you in the sea of hundreds of other TVA analysts you've met. 

You look up at him then back down to the can. You do not want to thank him for his slightly used drink and you don't want to drink the rest of it either. But you find yourself doing both.

Illness can’t spread in the TVA because no one, ever, gets sick.

The can's design is bold in its ugliness. A bright yellow rectangle highlights the name, Josta, written in a font that screams trying too hard to be extreme, against a bright red background.  On one hand you wanted to roll your eyes. On the other hand, your mustachioed coworker is still standing at your desk as if he was waiting for you to take a sip. Ah, of course, one of the TVA’s many weirdos. You raise the can in his direction before bringing it to your lips.

Josta is… peculiar. To put it lightly.

Carbonated bubbles fizz to the top of the brown liquid, a faint popping sound that you hear only moments before you smell its sickly sweet scent. It tingles your nose in a not exactly pleasant way. The fruity taste is borderline chemical, as if someone has seen a picture of a berry once and tried to guess the taste then shoved it in a soda to manufacture the hell out of it. Every taste bud on your tongue begs you for mercy.

You hide your reaction of disgust behind the back of your hand, under the guise of daintily wiping your lips, eyes widening as you force yourself to make a little yum noise. Mr. Mustachio seems pleased, pleased enough that he claps you on the shoulder, tosses what you assume is a finished report on your desk, then gives you a wink before sauntering off to who knows where. You watch him leave, eyes focused on the swirl of a cowlick in his gray hair on the back of his head, until he disappears into the sea of analysts. 

Who was that guy?

It takes every ounce of your will power but you manage to finish what was left in the can. What it lacks in good taste it makes up for in being a liquid other than your spit. Instead of a dry throat tickle you're now dealing with the leftover taste of faux berry cola with the little extra flavoring of Mr. Mustachio’s backwash. It clings to your tongue for the next hour just like the saucy little wink clings to your mind. 

You smack your tongue against the top of your mouth before you get back to what you were doing. The manilla folder he so fluidly tossed landed top of the one you were already working on. Curious, it wasn't often that the analyst brought you the reports themselves. You blink at it with curiosity before flicking open the top, eyes skimming the report to see what could have possibly made Mr. Mustachio think any of that interaction was worth it. Nothing. 

Without a second thought it gets neatly placed at the bottom of the stack. Sly dog thinking he could garner favor with you so you'd get his report checked out before the others in line? Nuh-uh, not with a slightly used soda. You settle back into your work groove, throat sufficiently quenched until you can take another break, letting the entire awkward interaction fade from your mind.

Until the buzzing started. 

(continue reading at the ao3 link for the sexy bits)

[catnipster69]

The Cost of the Ride is Free

An uneasy quiet settled over the valley. The faint sound of the wind through the grasses mingled with the susurrations of a creek somewhere nearby. Dawn was just starting to break, but the birds were sleeping in or just staying out of the way of what was to come.

A man hiked in on the lone trail carved into the southern hill. Despite his attempts at silence, his boots still kicked a rock here or there, and for anyone looking, they would see a cloud of dust where he passed. But no one was looking. The other man in the valley turned over in his sleeping bag, trying to get a few more minutes of shuteye, or like the birds, he was unwilling to face the day.

The hiker stood over the sleeper. After a few seconds, he kicked the sleeper lightly with his dusty boot. The man in the sleeping bag looked up and scowled, and he held his arm across his eyes to shield the sun.

The man standing said, “I hope you’re proud of yourself, Dean.”

The man on the ground ran his hand across his upper lip and smiled, as if remembering.

“Don’t say it,” Sam warned.

Dean looked up at him and grinned. “Free Mustache—”

Sam turned and walked away, cutting him off. “You’d better shave that thing off!” he yelled over his shoulder.

Dean just laughed. Still, it was gone by the next day.

[technicolorxsn]

I fucking love when people draw alecto in nonas shirts it's always so good

[incorrectbatfam]

Retail steph with damian and Jon? :) i love retail steph so much

(featuring Billy Batson because he only adds chaos and I love him)

Previous: Margie | Batkids | Rogues | Justice League | Retail batkids | Retail Bruce | Young Justice | Black Friday | Valentine's Day

[grocery store]

Steph, working the bakery section: How can I help you boys today?

Jon: We're getting a cake for our friend's birthday. Chocolate with buttercream frosting, please. 

Steph: Do you want it to say anything? 

Jon: Yes. "Happy 14th B-day, Billy!"

Steph: What color?

Damian: Red. 

Steph: *starts writing on the cake*

Damian: Please also add: "Despite your shortcomings and lack of maturity, you are a valuable part of our team and as you get older, I expect you to gain greater wisdom that will aid us in our goals and prospects."

Steph: *struggling to fit it on the cake*

———————

[coffee shop]

Damian: Can we try the five-drink espresso flight?

Steph: You sure?

Billy, eyeing an unsuspecting Jon: Yes.

Steph: Alrighty.

*moments later*

Jon, after his fifth espresso: I'M KING OF THE UNIVERSE!

Jon: *shoots through the ceiling*

Damian: *grumbles and hands Billy ten bucks*

Steph, sighing: I'll get the broom.

———————

[clothing store]

Jon: *dancing in the dressing room with light-up shoes*

Damian: *T-posing in a trenchcoat*

Billy: *filming them*

Steph: What are you doing?

Billy: Making a TikTok. 

Steph: Well, you can't have cameras in the dressing rooms. I'm gonna have to ask you to stop. 

———————

[drive-thru]

Damian: One vegetarian Batburger, one regular Batburger, and one order of Night-Wings. And an extra-extra-extra large Ivy Salad.

Steph: Did you take the Batmobile again? 

Damian: No. 

Steph: Why don't you pull up to the window and prove it? 

Damian, Jon, and Billy: *ride up on Bat-Cow*

———————

[furniture store]

Jon: What's a warranty?

Damian: It's a court order to arrest someone. 

Steph: That's a warrant. A warranty covers the cost of something if it gets damaged within a certain amount of time. In our case, the store has a one-year warranty on all items. What are you looking to buy?

Billy: *enters pushing a Pinball machine*

Damian: ...It's for school.

———————

[restaurant]

Steph: What can I get you?

Damian: We'll split a pizza. 

Steph: Okay, anything else?

Billy, as Shazam: An alcohol.

Steph: "An alcohol?"

Billy: Yes, your finest alcohol. Sharing size, please.

Steph: I'll need to see some ID.

Billy, nervous: What's there to see? I'm clearly an adult. 

Steph: I need them for everyone at the table. 

Damian: *pulls out Jason's crime lord license*

Jon: *sticks on a fake mustache*

———————

[call center]

Steph, stifling a yawn: Wayne Enterprises account support, how can I help you? 

Damian: Why are you still working? It's midnight. 

Steph: Overnight shift. This is a 24-hour line. What do you need, Damian?

Damian: Nothing. We just wanted to annoy you. 

Steph: We?

Jon: Hiya!

Billy: 'Sup.

———————

[sleepover at the Manor]

Steph: Alfred told me to bring you some snacks.

Damian: Excellent. 

Steph: *leaves the room*

Steph, internally: What do kids these days even do at sleepovers? 

Steph: *presses her ear to the door*

Damian: Truth or Dare? 

Jon: Truth. 

Damian: Which one of my siblings do you like best?

Jon: Steph, all the way.

Billy: I agree, she's the coolest. Remember when she drove us to get midnight breakfast on my birthday?

Jon: And when she promised not to tell my parents when I broke the café ceiling.

Billy: Or when she took us for a walk and actually explained why we couldn't make TikToks in the store instead of going "because I said so" like other adults. 

Jon: Plus, she gave all the leftover salad to Bat-Cow and helped us set up the Pinball machine downstairs.

Billy: Ooh, and she's really good at making mocktails. 

Jon: Also, she extended our free trial of the Daily Planet for our social studies project. 

Damian: Hm... point taken.

Billy: And she's hot.

Damian: Say that again and I will smite you with your own powers.  

Steph: *smiles softly*

[roosterforme]

The Younger Kind Part 62 | Rooster x Reader

Summary: Bradley could tell how important it was to you, so he spent the morning after the wedding night helping you fill out adoption paperwork. Christmas was fast approaching, as was your next appointment, and he had never seen Noah so happy before. He'd never been this happy before either.

Warnings: pregnancy topics, swearing, smut, fluff, and age gap (18+)

Length: 5000 words

Pairing: Single dad!Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x babysitter!female reader

Check out my masterlist for more! The Younger Kind masterlist.

You spent the day after your wedding snuggled up on the couch with Bradley and Skittles, reading over the adoption paperwork one last time before signing everything. "You're officially Noah's stepmom now," Bradley whispered as you watched the swirl of ink from the pen turn into your signature. You still wanted to change your last name, but this was the most important thing to you. This was what you wanted the most right now.

"I just want to be his mom."

He kissed your ear, the deep rumble of his laughter making you smile. "You've been that for a while, Princess."

"Yeah, but for real though," you said, turning to look back at him as you sat perched on his lap. "Once this gets approved, which could still take weeks even though they will probably waive all of the inspection protocols, I'll change my last name. Then we can pay to have an updated adoption certificate where we all have the same last name."

He nodded and gently turned you to face him. "We'll drop your adoption paperwork off tomorrow with the county clerk. Tracy said it's all in order. And then we get to find out about this little one."

You kissed him while he caressed your belly. "And then it will be Christmas."

"Like my Christmas in July birthday party," he murmured against your lips. His mustache was rough and perfect, and soon he was untying the drawstring of your lounge pants. "You feel like giving me a few minutes of your time, Mrs. Bradshaw? Before our son gets home from Penny's?"

He helped you out of your pants and your underwear, and you whispered, "I guess this is our honeymoon," with a little laugh.

"Nah," he grunted as he yanked his sweatpants down until his thick cock was free and bobbing against his thigh. He met your eyes as you took him in both of your hands. "I already told you, we can go anywhere you want next year. Just me and you."

When you lined him up with your opening, you took him inch by inch listening to his deep groan as he slowly filled you up. You wrapped your arms around his neck and kissed his cheek as you felt yourself fluttering softly around him. "Is this okay?" you whispered without moving your hips, even though you could tell by his eyes that he loved it. "If we just do this for a few minutes?"

"Keep me warm, Princess."

You kissed your way from his lips to his mustache and along his jaw. He smelled and tasted so familiar, you never wanted to stop touching him. You never wanted his hands to stop their gentle exploration of your hips and belly. Your fingers found their way to his hair as you said, "We should get Noah a Christmas tree. We could put it in the corner next to the front window."

"Absolutely, Baby," he whimpered as you clenched softly while keeping yourself still. "We can pick out some presents for him, too."

You weren't sure how you already felt like you were going to come when you weren't even moving, but the desperation in his voice and the brush of his rough hairs against our clit were sending you there. "Let's get him a bike with training wheels," you moaned while he pulled your shirt up and over your head. "Watching you teach him how to ride it would be so hot, Daddy."

And what that, he scooped you up so gently and held you to his chest with his cock still buried deep. He eased you down onto the floor while you clung to him, and he set you down next to the snag in the area rug. His big body was pressed to yours, but you knew he'd never hurt you. The pressure was delicious, but it was never too much against your belly.

Bradley kissed your breasts, thrusting with deep, long strokes and holding your hands above your head. "Call me Daddy again."

"Daddy," you gasped as he pulled your nipple between his teeth before sucking on it. "You're my Daddy."

"Mmm, that's right," he rasped, kissing his way up to your lips. "And what does Daddy do for you?" You were panting, your arms pinned in place as he kept his thrusts even and steady. "Tell me."

"Anything I want!" you cried out, your gaze on the snagged rug as he pressed his mouth to your ear.

"Anything you want. Do you want to come?"

Your voice was lighter than air as you said, "Yes." Because you were already there. "Yes." 

You came on his cock while he braced his hands on either side of your head, his face turning red as he fucked you a little faster. When you reached up to run your fingers along his cheek, still gripping him as you orgasmed, he kissed your wrist. "I love you, Mrs. Bradshaw."

You and he were still finishing when you heard a car door slam outside, and he was still inside your pussy when there was a knock on the front door. You started giggling as he whispered, "Perfect timing," before picking you up again. He set you down on your feet, scooped up your clothing and swatted at your rear end while his cum dripped down your thighs. "Go get dressed, and I'll let them in."

You pranced off toward the bedroom, calling out in a singsong voice, "Don't forget your cock is still hanging out."

"Thank you," he replied as you giggled more and made a pitstop in the bathroom. You could already hear Noah asking for you. You could hear him telling Bradley he made you macaroni art. You couldn't wait to adopt him.

--------------------------

"You don't need me here. You know that, right?" Tracy asked as she cracked open a Red Bull and looked at the adoption paperwork. 

You gave Bradley a miserable look as he collected you into his arms. You were nervous, afraid somebody would find something wrong with the forms you and he filled out together. So he called Tracy first thing on Monday morning and asked her to come to the clerk's office and look over everything. He offered to pay her double her hourly rate.

"I panicked," you whispered, barely loud enough for Bradley and Tracy to hear you. "I want this to go off without a hitch."

Tracy sighed and smiled softly. "Here, hold this," she said, thrusting her drink into Bradley's hand as she flipped through the pages. "You've got proof of marriage. Proof of citizenship. Proof of Noah's birth mother being incarcerated and losing custody of him." She looked up and added, "You're welcome for that one."

Bradley laughed in the quiet hallway before pulling himself together while you tried to cover his mouth. "Bradley, shh!"

"It's all in order," Tracy eventually said, handing the papers back to you and snatching up her Red Bull. "It's perfect."

"Thank you, Tracy," you whispered. Bradley watched you hug her while she tried not to spill the drink on her suit or on you, and his heart swelled with love. This was so important to you. Noah and he were both so important to you. He'd never been a priority like this before, not since his mom died. And now Noah was thriving with you in their lives.

"I brought my checkbook," he said, reaching to pull it out of the back pocket of his uniform pants. "Double for the hour?"

Tracy shook her head as you finally released her. "Consider it another wedding gift. And happy holidays."

You had tears in your eyes as she walked away. "We need to send her a case of Red Bull. Two cases. Three! Order them when you order Noah's bike."

"Okay," he laughed. "I will. Now let's hand this in so we can make it official as soon as possible."

You yanked open the door to the clerk's office and waited in the short line with Bradley right behind you. When you got to the front, you stated your name and what you were there for. "I want to adopt my stepson." The words were so important to you and to him, and your voice shook with emotion while the clerk collected the paperwork and your fingerprints. And that was it. Three minutes later, and you were in the parking lot with your arms wrapped around Bradley's neck.

"Are you okay, Baby?" he asked while you cried.

"Yeah," you said as your voice broke. "But I just want to go home and color my Princess book with Noah. I don't know if I can wait several weeks to hear back about this. I'll never make it."

He hooked his fingers under your chin and whispered, "Time will fly by. Tomorrow is a big day."

Your bright smile left him breathless. "We get to find out about the baby."

He nodded and guided you so your back was pressed to the Bronco. "I can't wait to find out if I'm painting the nursery blue or purple."

"Daddy," you laughed, bouncing in place a little bit. "Noah is going to be the best big brother either way."

"He can pass down your ants on logs recipe to number two," he whispered, and you laughed harder. 

"He can teach the baby that only one of us can be trusted in the kitchen."

"I resent that," Bradley said with a smile as he leaned in close and kissed you as you giggled. "I need to get to work. You'll pick Noah up later?"

"Yes."

"And you'll start dinner?"

"Well I'm certainly not going to let you do it."

Bradley glared at you playfully. "I was going to suggest we take Noah to pick out a little spruce tree for the living room after we eat, but perhaps not."

"Perhaps yes!" you insisted. "It's happening!"

----------------------------

You barely slept on Monday night, too excited by the smell of the fresh tree in the living room and the excitement bubbling up inside you whenever you thought about your appointment. You curled up in Bradley's arms, enjoying the warmth he always gave you, and you let him sleep while you thought about raising two kids in this perfect house.

As soon as your alarm chimed, you were shaking your husband awake and straddling his hips. "Daddy. It's baby day!"

He squeezed his eyes shut tighter and grimaced in response. "What time is it?"

"Time to go see the baby," you whispered loudly, and now Skittles was up and pawing at the bed. "Come on."

"You know," he groaned, "for someone who doesn't care if we're having a boy or a girl, you're really excited right now."

"I just want to know," you whined, leaning down to kiss him along his stubble. "And then we can decorate the tree and order presents online later."

Bradley sat up with you all over him. "I don't even have any decorations for the tree, Baby."

You weren't deterred in the least. "Noah and I are going to make them. And I guess you can help, too."

"Your generosity amazes me," he whispered before kissing you so well, you wanted to push him back down onto the bed, but you pulled away instead.

"Stop trying to distract me. Let's get Noah ready so we can go."

When the three of you eventually dropped him off at preschool, you greeted Casey with a bright smile. She only focused on Noah and Bradley, but you didn't even care about her shitty attitude anymore. "Have a nice day, Casey!" You managed to get a scowl in return.

Bradley chuckled as you yanked him back to the Bronco. "Why did you have to instigate with her?"

"I was being nice!" you insisted as he started driving to your appointment. "It's not entirely her fault that you're hot and Noah is sweet. The Bradshaw boys are tempting."

He shook his head and said, "The Bradshaw boys are a mess. Or we were. Not anymore, I suppose." Your husband reached for your hand while he drove. You played with his fingers, absolutely buzzing with excitement. You had to keep reminding yourself that he'd already been through all of these things before when Meredith was pregnant with Noah, but he surprised you when he parked at the medical complex.

"Let's go, Daddy," you said, shoving his hand back at him so you could climb out, but he held on tight. When you looked back at him, his face looked serious. "What's wrong?"

All he said was, "Thank you." When you shrugged and scooted closer to him with a puzzled look on your face, he added, "Thank you for never shutting me out."

You didn't ask him to elaborate. You knew he'd been underappreciated in the past, and you'd grown enough to realize that you had been as well. Part of the appeal of being with an older man was knowing you were valued, and that was never going to change. But he surprised you again when you checked in for your appointment with his arm wrapped around your lower back, because he leaned in and whispered, "I wasn't there for Noah's anatomy scan. This is... I guess... I didn't realize how much shit I missed out on with him until this time around."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

As a nurse led you up to the exam room, he said, "I'm telling you now, Princess. Every day with you is exciting, because you let me show you how much I love you. How much I love all three of you."

There were still some tears in your eyes as Bradley stood next to you, holding your hand while the technician performed the scan. You were mesmerized by the images of tiny hands and feet on the monitor that was mounted to the wall. The soft shape of your baby moving around slightly was almost too much for your heart to handle, but then you were asked the question, "Do you want to know the sex?"

You looked up at Bradley, and you kept your eyes focused on him. "Go ahead, Daddy," you coaxed as he brushed his thumb along your knuckles. 

"Yeah," he rasped, voice deep with excitement. "We want to know."

His brown eyes lit up as you heard the words, "It's a girl." Then your husband's lips came crashing to yours while you were still processing everything. A little girl? First you got to be around to raise Noah, and you got to have a little girl, too?

"Bradley," you gasped when he released your lips. "A girl."

He was nodding, impossibly handsome in his uniform as his smile grew wider. "A purple nursery is it. She's gonna love the color just like her Mommy." You pulled him in for another kiss and another one, and you weren't sure why you thought you couldn't do this. You could handle anything with this man.

"I can't wait to tell Noah," you told him as tears blurred your vision.

Bradley kissed your forehead. "Can we tell him tonight? After I get home from work?"

"That would make me so happy."

---------------------------

You were bubbling with excitement when Bradley got home that evening, and it was clearly rubbing off on Noah. The house smelled like dinner and fresh baked cookies, and there was already a strand of colorful lights on the Christmas tree. There was even some music playing. The area rug was littered with colorful bits of construction paper and two pairs of scissors, and in an instant, Bradley had you and his son in his arms while Skittles barked for attention.

"Can we tell him?" you asked softly, pushing Noah's hair back from his forehead. "I want to tell him."

Your eyes were bright, and you looked so young with your bump pressed to Bradley's hip. "You don't want to wait until after dinner?" he teased, already knowing he'd agree to anything you said. A little pout found your lips, and he kissed it away.

"I want us to tell him now," you said, chasing him for another kiss. "Please?"

Bradley scooped Noah up into his arms, and he pointed at the tree. "Mommy let me pick the colorful lights, because we are making colorful decorations." Then Bradley noticed that there were already a few construction paper candy canes and gingerbreads tucked into the tree branches.

"Looks good, Bub," he said, kissing his son's cheek before sinking down to the floor amidst the mess with Noah on his lap. He looked up at you and patted his thigh as he said, "Mommy wants to tell you something special."

You sucked in a breath as your eyes went wider, and Bradley helped you down onto the floor at his side. "You want me to tell him?" you asked, one hand coming to rest on his thigh as you brushed your fingers along Noah's cheek. Bradley looked at his son who was always well loved and happy now; he had a dad who was trying his best and a mom who more than made up the deficit. 

"Yeah. You tell him, Princess."

"What?" Noah asked, his brown eyes reflecting the multicolored lights. "What, Mommy?"

You bit your lip and made an adorable noise before you said, "Sweet Noah, remember how we said this week was an exciting one because I'm going to adopt you? Well it's even more exciting, because we found out a few hours ago that the baby is a girl. You'll have a little sister soon!"

He stared at you for a beat before looking at Bradley, and then he asked, "Can we make her a crown, too?"

"Oh," you whispered, tears filling your eyes as you reached for him. "That's a great idea." Bradley carefully handed Noah to you and then watched you snuggle him in your arms. "What color do you think she would like?"

As Bradley stood up, Noah flipped through the stack of paper and said, "Probably red, so she knows we love her."

"That's perfect," you told him, but then you looked up at Bradley. "Where are you going?"

"I'll be right back. You two get started on her crown."

Bradley went right to his bedroom and plucked your worn out purple paper crown from the bedpost. It took him a minute of hunting, because they always seemed to end up all over the house, but eventually he found the other two crowns in Noah's room. When he returned to the living room, everything just made sense. There was a smaller red crown in Noah's hands, and you were carefully taping it together.

"Perfect," you crooned, kissing the top of his head as he held it up to show Bradley.

"I have an idea, Bub," he said, setting the green crown on his own head and the purple one on yours. After placing the yellow one on Noah's head, he scooped him up and reached for your hand. "Let's decorate the tree with it since your sister can't wear it yet."

With your cheek resting on his chest and your hand rubbing his abs, Bradley held Noah up high enough that he was able to set the crown on the top of the tree where a star would traditionally belong. But he liked this so much better. He'd take crowns and babysitters over stars any day.

---------------------------

You and Noah were so excited for Christmas, it was ridiculous. Even though it was nearly seventy degrees in San Diego, you made mugs of hot chocolate and blasted Christmas carols through the house on Christmas Eve. The tree was absolutely covered in ornaments, some store bought but most homemade. You kept playing YouTube videos of snow, which Noah had never seen in real life, and you convinced Bradley to take you both back to Big Bear Lake in January.

Nat and Javy stopped by with a pile of presents for Noah along with some baby girl clothing that had you melting as soon as you unwrapped it. Tomorrow morning, the three of you would be heading over to spend the day with Mav, Penny and Amelia, but tonight was just for the three of you. 

Bradley had already assembled Noah's bike and used an entire roll of wrapping paper to cover it, and while you took Noah to the kitchen to decorate the cookies you made, he carried it out to put it under the tree along with the collection of coloring books, colored pencils and crayons you bought for him. There were a few other gifts for him as well, but you and Bradley agreed not to exchange gifts with each other. He already spent every day of the year spoiling you, and you didn't need or want anything anyway. You already had it all.

"I need a hot chocolate refill," Bradley said, popping into the kitchen with his Noah's Dad mug in one hand and a smug smile on his face. "And then we can open presents."

"More presents?!" Noah asked, nearly dropping a cookie onto the floor as he scrambled down from his chair. 

"More presents," Bradley confirmed. "You ready?"

Noah left the two of you in the dust which gave you a few seconds to wrap your arms around your husband's neck and press your ever growing belly against him. "Thanks for letting me spoil Noah with your credit card," you whispered, letting your fingers trail down his chest until they were slipping into the waistband of his sweatpants. "Maybe later you'll let me spoil you?"

His smirk grew. "Oh, that's what I'm counting on, Baby."

"Mommy!" Noah shouted, and you pulled Bradley along with you by the drawstrings on his pants. "Look!"

When you walked into the living room, he was holding up a wrapped gift in each hand. Once you were settled on the couch with Skittles on your lap, Bradley joined Noah on the floor with his mug. "Go ahead and open them up, Bub."

You watched him tear into the paper while Bradley rooted around under the tree. Noah was holding up each coloring book and commenting on the themes as Bradley picked up a small, purple box and set it down next to your thigh. 

"What's this?"

He licked his lips and gave you a very innocent expression as he said, "Why don't you go ahead and open it and find out?"

It took you a few seconds to untie the little ribbon, and then you lifted the lid from the box and gasped as Noah moved on to unwrap his bike. "Daddy," you whispered, running your fingers along the shiny treat he bought for you, knowing full well that he'd enjoy it, too.

"You like it?" His voice was raspy and needy as you tipped the box a little bit to the side, and then you had to stifle a moan.

"I do," you told him, letting the heavy, stainless steel butt plug roll onto your palm. Mrs. Bradshaw was inscribed on the base.

Your heart was skipping around in your chest as you met his big, brown eyes. "You gonna spoil me, Princess?"

"As soon as Noah goes to bed."

After that, it didn't take long before Bradley was hauling him off to bed with the promise that he could try out his new bike first thing in the morning before leaving for Penny's house.

------------------------

Your best gift came after Christmas. It was two days into the new year when you were on your way home from work and got a phone call from the county clerk's office. In your excitement, you had to pull over so you didn't wreck when you heard the words, "You can come in to see the judge and have your adoption of Noah Bradshaw finalized."

"Bradley!" you screamed when you finally got home. He and Noah were already working on undecorating the tree, and now he had a panicked look on his face.

"What happened?" he asked, meeting you at the door and reaching for your belly.

"We're fine," you insisted loudly, scrambling into his arms as you shook from excitement. "I just got a phone call, and Noah's mine! He's really going to be mine!"

"Yeah?" Bradley asked as a smile bloomed across his face. "We're going to see the judge?"

"On Thursday!" you shrieked.

"This week?"

"This week!"

When Noah tried to reach for you as tears slid down your cheeks, Bradley picked him up. "Why are you crying, Mommy?" he asked, worry creasing his brow.

You kissed him and whispered, "Because I love you so much."

And that's exactly how you stood on Thursday afternoon, with Bradley next to you and Noah in his arms while you signed so many papers in front of the judge. Each swipe of the pen brought you a little bit closer to where you wanted to be, and when you reached the final sheet, your fingers shook. There was a little blot of ink next to your name, and you smiled down at it before pushing the papers across the table and looking expectantly at the judge.

He signed his own name a few times, handed everything over to someone else and then declared you Noah's legal guardian and parent. You let yourself sob against Bradley while you held Noah's small hand in yours. This is where you belonged. This is where you felt safe. This was your family. 

"It's official," you whispered to Noah, your voice raw from emotion. "I'm your Mommy."

Bradley kissed the top of your head half a dozen times and said, "You've been Noah's Mommy for months, Baby. Collect that piece of paper so we can go home."

You would have framed it, because it meant that much to you. And there was a chance you still would. But not yet. You needed to have it with you when you took Noah to preschool on your way to work a few weeks later. You left with plenty of time to spare so you'd be able to savor every moment. The baby was squirming around like crazy as you walked into the lobby with Noah's hand tucked into yours, and that's when you saw Casey.

"Good morning," you said brightly, and she tried her best to ignore you as she set the clipboard down for you to sign. You scribbled your brand new name on the line, kissed Noah's cheek, and then you watched her lead him inside to his classroom where he started to hang up his bag.

When Casey returned to find you were still there with your left hand resting on your belly, her eyes fell to your rings. They were stunning, and you knew it. She was jealous that you married Bradley, and you knew it. 

"What do you need?" she asked, crossing her arms over her chest.

You smiled. "I need to fill out a second set of paperwork for Noah."

Casey rolled her eyes. "No. You don't. His dad's paperwork will still suffice. You're already listed as someone who is allowed to drop his son off and pick him up."

"Oh, but he's my son, too," you replied immediately, and you were met with stony silence. "I have the adoption paperwork here to prove it. And also, you'll need to update my last name in your records. It's Bradshaw now. I have the paperwork to prove that, too."

Without a single word, Casey pulled a new set of registration paperwork for you to fill out, and you took your time, standing there on the other side of the counter, neatly writing every last word. You hummed while you filled in your marital status and said, "It's funny how it turned out, huh? I started out as just the babysitter. What a wild world. But now you can call me Mrs. Bradshaw when you see me."

Her cheeks were bright red as you signed your name on the last sheet, gave her a bland look and added, "I'll be back to pick up my son later today." And then you walked outside into the cool January sunlight, and you really did feel like a Princess even without your crown on.

---------------------------

Bradley pulled his Bronco into his driveway, smiling at the sight of his son's bike parked crooked on the porch and the chalk art covering the walkway. His mind felt so much calmer than it had just a year ago, because he wasn't constantly rushing around, and he knew what he was going to find when he opened the door.

Armed with pizza, a salad, and a decaf coffee with Mrs. Bradshaw written on the side, he walked in and was greeted by Skittles running to him. Then he saw you and Noah sitting on the floor together, your back leaning against the couch. You had Noah cradled against your belly, his hands and ear pressed against your shirt.

"Daddy!" he called out. "She's kicking!"

"Yeah?" Bradley asked with a smile, setting everything on the TV stand before dropping down to the carpet. 

You reached for his hand as he crawled over, and he let you place it high on your belly. "Feel her?" you whispered, almost like you were afraid to break the magic that you'd somehow cast on all of them. There she was, moving around just like the previous night and last week. Bradley would never tire of this feeling.

He curled up with Noah, unwilling to move until his daughter wore herself out. Your fingers combed gently through his hair, and even Noah didn't seem in much of a rush to get to his dinner while his tiny sister was making him giggle. Every day was practically perfect now because of you, and it was just going to keep getting better. He looked up at your beautiful face and said, "You're the best thing that ever happened to us, Princess."

"I know, Daddy."

----------------------------

Omg, this family makes me so happy! Noah is thriving, and he's going to have a baby sister. Bradley is such a Daddy, and Princess is entering Mommy era for real. Up next is the EPILOGUE. I can't thank you enough, especially if you have been here reading since last MARCH! Big thanks to @beyondthesefourwalls

PART 63

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[laniluvsuu]

Pony.

Southern Ony&Southern Eren x Blackfemreader!

Warnings: smut!!! Threesome, Creampie, Oral (M. Receiving), Riding. Language, Slapping/Spanking. Choking/neck gripping. Maybe some misspelled words. I think that’s it srry if I missed anything😣!

You felt eyes on you, eyes to your right to be exact. They’ve been looking at you this whole time, you’ve made eye contact once or twice.

“You boys know it’s rude to stare?” You said turning your head and meeting the eyes once again. Two sets, one pair was dark brown the other was emerald.

“Our fault pretty. It’s sure as hell hard not to when you look so gorgeous.” The man directly next to you said, while the one in the back nodded his head in agreement as he fixed his hat and placed his drink back down on the counter.

“I’m Eren.” He said with a smirk on his face, placing his hand out for you to shake. Eren was fine. With his long shoulder length dark brown hair, his emerald green eyes that never left your face, and the many tattoos that covered his arms.

“Hi Eren, im Y/N.” You said placing your hand into his to shake it, he didn’t shake your hand just held it while looking you in your eyes. There was a deep chuckle before you could get another word out and it was from the other man. He was now moving to the other side of you.

“Let’s not be selfish Eren. Im Onyankopon, but you can call me Ony.” He said as he took a seat next to you with his back facing the counter and his legs spread out while he lifted his hand up to you with a soft smirk. Ony looked good almost too good, with his cornrows, and his mustache and goatee combo that complimented his face. His gold nose ring that decorated his right nostril, the tattoos all over his arms and hands.

“Well then Ony, Eren. What y’all got planned for the night?” You said after shaking Erens hand and now placing your hand into Onys, waiting for their answer.

“You tell us Mama.” Ony said moving his head to lay on his shoulder, looking at the side of your face while holding your hand in his.

“Mmm..I wanted to give the bull a ride before the night was over.” You said reaching your free hand over to Eren’s head to grab his hat and place it on your head. Eren smirked at your actions, and then gave Ony a knowing look when the bull was brought up.

“Oh? We’ll make sure you get a ride before the night ends pumpkin.”

And they sure as hell did, took them back to your apartment and now you’re bouncing up and down on Onys dick your back facing his chest while Eren was standing infront of you, his dick touching your throat, all you could see was his ink covered chest and pelvis.

“Oh yeah darlin, just like that all the way down.” Eren groaned out as he let his blunt sit in his mouth as he moved his hands to the back of your head pushing you all the way down, your nose meeting with his pelvis. You gripped onto Onys legs beneath you as you stopped your movements on his dick and focused on Eren as tears spilled out of your eyes.

“Don’t stop, you know better.” Ony said as he slapped your ass and moved his hands to your waist moving you up and down. His thumbs pushing into your dermal piercings making you squeal out around Erens dick.

“Ohhh my god. F—fuck!!” You yelled out as soon as Eren let you go, you rested you head on Erens thigh and kept your hand stroking his dick while Ony fucked up into you, and moved his hand up to mess with your clit. “Nope mama. Head up. Don’t fucking drop your hat.” Ony said reaching his hand up to grip on your neck and force you to look up at Eren. Since you wanted to play with hats so bad earlier Onys making you wear his hat until y’all are done.

“Ouuhh..I’m g—gonna cum again!” You cried out to them feeling your lower stomach get hotter and that knot tightening, Eren moved his hand down to grip your face, and force you to look him in the eyes, he also passed the blunt that was once in his mouth into Onys hand that was once around your neck.

“You gonna cum for us babygirl?” He said as he tilted his head, and narrowed his eyes while he looked down at you, he grabbed his dick and tapped his tip on your lips twice. “You look so fucking gorgeous bouncing on his dick with my dick in your face. You’re such a fucking slut.” Eren groaned out at the sight below him.

“S-she’s so fucking tight. O-oh fuck!” Ony said as he looked down at where you two were connected, your pussy was practically drooling all over his dick, squeezing him so hard it felt like you were tryna milk him dry. The white ring around his dick from your pussy made him feel dizzy.

“O-ohh..she’s fucking creaming on my shit. Holy fuck. I’m gonna cum.” Ony said as he threw his head back, moving your hips harder and faster chasing his climax once he felt the coil in his stomach get tighter and hotter.

“You heard him babydoll, he’s gonna cum where you want it?” Eren said as he stroked his dick still looking at your face, smiling once he heard you moan out. “I-insidee…! Daddy please! Mmph!” Eren quickly put his dick back in your mouth before groaning at the feeling, squeezing his eyes shut once you moaned around his dick.

“You heard babygirl Ony, fill her pussy up while I work on her mouth.”

[kneelingshadowsalome]

I have an odd request… perhaps a captain price fic where the reader is much younger and edgy- likeee covered in tats and stuff,, and price isn’t rly used to that but finds it hot as hell… idk maybe they work together ?? Smut ensues …

IDK I have tatts and wonder what he’d think of that 👹👹

Just an idea 💡❤️😫

Fire it Up (John Price x F!Reader)

Word count: 7.8 k

Tags/warnings: Smut 🔞 mutual pining, flirting, swearing, older man/younger woman dynamic, forbidden love, smoking & drinking, voice kink, a tiny brat taming kink squeezed itself in here too. Reader has tattoos and works as a coder at the base. Rough ~10yrs age gap described, reader is of age I hope to god it goes without saying (Price is canonically 37) Also: no use of 'daddy' in this fic

A/N: I'm so glad for this request anon and I hope you like what I made! Also people please be gentle, this is my first Price fic 🥹 God I wish I could attach the fat scent of cigar here to give you the full experience. 

You don't know what caught your attention first.

The cigar, perhaps. Or the beard? Might be his hips, the ass that tells you this man can fuck a woman for hours.

Or maybe it's the fact that he's too old for you.

No, not too old…

Just older than you. A decade, perhaps, if you were being gentle with him and lenient with yourself.

He certainly isn't old enough to be your father, but he wasn't the type of man your eyes usually drifted on either.

He looks like someone who's supposed to be fishing in Alaska, sucking that fat cigar while taking in the view of mountains while trying to catch wild fish in some wide, free stream. 

He's supposed to come home to a remote cabin: to his little wife who pours him a scotch after he has shown her what he caught today. Make sweet love to her while stars shoot and speckle the indigo night.

He looks like someone who makes love to women.

You, on the other hand, want to ride with him to the sunset on the back of a Harley, clutch his jacket as he drives you to some bizarre highway motel. You want to watch him drink that scotch from your navel. 

You'd do all kinds of crazy shit with him, keep his head between your legs with both hands, grind all over that mustache, and see how wet it gets. You want him to pound you with those narrow hips, take you from behind while you look back with parted, swollen lips and relish the sight of what must be a grown man's hardened body, covered with hair and scars and–

"The bug's still there."

You return to reality, look at the code on your screen, and then at your colleague, a 20-something bloke who looks at you with the lethargic stare that only belongs to techies. You've just been caught daydreaming your eyes off in the middle of a lazy afternoon. Coffee doesn't do shit after 2 PM…

"Yeah I know. I'm working on it," you say. But when the dude leaves, you decide it's time for a creative break. You tell yourself it's only because the code jumps on the screen, not because you hope to catch a certain someone smoking outside. 

The leather jacket is a little too much these days, but you throw it on out of pure habit. You realize the weight of your mistake when you go outside from the ventilated building and notice the sweltering heat. Spring has finally turned into summer.

Coffee doesn’t do shit, but it’s time for another kind of wakey-wakey. And butterflies are a funny term for something that mainly feels like it’s eating your insides out of pure excitement. 

Because he's here too.

Jonathan Price, although no one calls him Jonathan. Few call him John, either. 

Mostly, he goes by the title Captain.

He's stressed; you can tell. But his eyes soften immediately when they fall on you, a brief look to the side, just to know who else comes out to have a breath of fresh air or a smoke. He looks like he's been expecting you, but that might only be a silly girl's daydream. You two share a vice, and you've never been more grateful for your bad habit before this place and him.

And you wouldn't call it necessarily a bad habit. It's simply stress relief if you do it once or twice every few weeks. It's not like you smoke two packs a day. It's not like you even smoke one cig per day. 

Although ever since you started this odd little job in this odd little place, you've smoked one or two nearly every day… And it's not because of the stress.

It's because of Price. 

John. You’d like to see his reaction to you moaning that word in his ear…

"How long have you been here?"

His eyes are still on you, mouth covered by a hand as he makes love to his cigar. And that bedroom voice always gets you. It's better than the upcoming slow drag of nicotine. You're not here for tobacco at all.

"Two weeks." You reach for your excuse and try to prevent your hands from trembling as you light the cig. Usually, you're not this shy with people. Not with men, anyway. But with him, your wits and words disappear. 

You blow the smoke through the air with a quick, lively wisp where he lets it roll out his tongue in a heavy cloud. He's still watching you as if to weigh what kind of woman you are exactly.

"How about you?" You continue the small talk with nervous ease.

He chuckles; the little smile even shows a flash of teeth as he steals a look at the clouds, calculating years with those surprisingly lively eyebrows curled up toward the sky.

"Ages."

He's not that old. Perhaps well over his thirties, might be knocking his forties. The statement is merely an underline of his stress today. You can only wonder what kind of pressure the captain of Task Force 141 is under when you get sleepless nights from a stupid source code. There are a few wrinkles around his eyes, but they only tell you that this man smiles a lot. He might be the only one in this compound who smiles a lot.

"Have you ever tried a cigar?"

There's a glint in his eyes as he offers the thick roll of tobacco to you. It's suddenly difficult to breathe, difficult to even keep your thoughts together.

"No," you shake your head as if your answer wasn't enough to tell him he's the first person ever to offer you such a thing. Then you realize the word does not precisely deliver your eagerness to try that stout cigar.

"Would love to," you hurry to add with a soft smile. "Can I have a taste?"

He walks to you slowly, and your eyes drop to those hips, which sway like he's purposely trying to seduce you.

Fu–ck…

Then your eyes sink even lower, between his legs, to his fucking junk, and it's too fucking late–

Jesus–get your shit together…

You force your eyes back to his and see the little glimmer in them gain a surprised spark – you're totally caught red-handed on checking him out.

Fuck. How can you be so stu–

"Gently then, kid."

You swallow your heart and thoughts down and take the offered cigar; of course, your first thought is how thick and heavy it is. And somehow, you decide right then and there that you will no longer be the nervous, hot-cheeked woman on the corner.

It's time to make him flustered.

So you take a hollow-cheeked, slow suck on the fat cigar. A chaste, savory taste, more like, but there's nothing chaste in the way you raise your eyes to his, putting every ounce of soft seduction in that stare.

He draws breath slowly – his face is full of expression for an allegedly cold-hearted elite soldier. You don't know how often women flirt with this hunk of a man, but he sure looks taken aback by your sudden play. Probably thinks you're too young for him – and you curse the second time you put that jacket on. You want to see his reaction to your sleeves.

"Mm. It's thicker than I thought," you weigh the cigar between your fingertips and let the smoke roll out your mouth. The man switches his weight from one foot to another, speechless, and you suppress a big beam of a smile.

"The taste," you emphasize as if innocent, as if you didn't see that shocked little shift. "Round, and… god, it's almost sweet."

You smile as you give it back, and he chuffs an approving laugh through his nose – those eyes are bear-warm playful now, his mouth curves into an easy smile.

"Nice," you look him up and down as if you're talking about the man and not the cigar.

"Beats those little sticks." 

His voice drops down a few notes; it's almost a husky growl. You barely make out the words he's saying. The tension in the air could form little balls of lightning around you, the flirt is over the roof, and there's even no roof because you're outside – and you take your jacket off, slowly, to make it clear it's summer and not spring.

His eyes fall on the ink immediately, and he blinks a few times, draws some more breath – you tweet your thanks accompanied by another smile and go back inside.

You know he's checking your ass in those black jeans as you walk away.

….....

It doesn't end there.

You see him again and again and again, and at some point you realize he has to walk almost 100 meters from the other end of the base to get to the little corner where the two of you smoke. 

He's intrigued but decent. Holds a distance, never says anything that could be taken in the wrong way – or even in the right way. But he's fucking you with his eyes. 

No… making love to you.

And it drives you crazy.

You don't want that. You don't need that. To be that little wife in the cabin. Pouring him a drink, climbing in his lap, ghosting a finger down the stubble on his chin, see how wide and proud it makes him smile to hold you like you're his and his alone...

God. When did it come to this?

You suck on his fat cigar every now and then. Look him in the eyes while you do it. Once, it makes his tongue dart out, it wets his bottom lip, and then he does that thing with his mouth... the thing where he kind of purses his lips and it makes the mustache dip, and you realize, you learn it's a sign that he's restless, he's flustered.

You make the big, burly captain of Task Force 141 flustered.

And he doesn't smell like the people inside smell. Of stale coder sweat and Joy Division and soft drinks and mommy's home-cooked meals. He smells of rich forest and fine bourbon and half-burnt gasoline. Maybe Saxon on vinyl. Definitely beats those little sticks that are your nerdy co-workers at the hacker department, as you call it.

He may have a flask somewhere; perhaps he takes a sip or two every now and then, whether at work or not. And you don't blame him. Even with those laugh lines and that brown bear benevolence, you can tell he's seen things. 

You wonder what he's like out there in the field. Brutal? Or just efficient?

He never asks about your tattoos, but he eyes them often. There's a certain admiring esteem in his stare. He's checking you out, scratches his chin, and rips his eyes off when they start to drift down. He forces his eyes to stay above your neckline no matter the cost. You mourn that you got rid of the septum a few years ago: you're pretty sure he would've liked that, too. After all, it's a piercing that screams 'warrior' the most. Break after break, you return to your desk, aroused and giddy and surrounded by the rich, masculine aroma of his cigar.

One night, he drives by when you're walking home after what was supposed to be one or two pints.

The car is a big, black pick-up, and when it slows down and starts to inch by your side, your first reaction is a silent curse of why the fuck don't you carry some pepper spray in your pocket.

"Hey, you ok?"

Your head rises from the asphalt the second you recognize that smooth, pleasant voice of a man you had compared every guy to at the pub that evening. The whole man is brimming with burnt sienna, he's hard alcohol with no ice…

You stop and turn, a little wobbly from the pint turned to two or three. Or four.

"Yeah. Had a little girl's night out."

The car rumbles softly, not two meters away, and the sound reminds you of his voice. A soft purr that can turn into a growl, even a roar if he wants to. 

He looks like he's going fishing, even without the boonie hat. The dark hair is cut short, so you won't have anything to tug if he ever ends up between your legs. But you don't really mourn that fact, because he looks so damn good.

He looks you up and down, and you notice the briefest blob of his Adam's apple before he gives you another offer.

"Want me to give you a ride?"

Would love a ride.

Would fucking love to ride you.

"Sure. That's kind of you." 

Your eyes must be sparkling like the fucking stars.

"No problem at all," he leans his elbow on the open window and waits while you round the car and get in. You try to tone down your drunken state, but your moves are a little too brash for a calm and collected coder lady this man has usually caught leaning against the wall of the workplace you two share.

"Did you have fun?"

He sounds like a dad picking up his girl from a school disco, and you purse your lips in slight distaste and amusement.

"Yeah. You know how it is when someone asks you for a pint."

He gives a short laugh and starts to drive. "That never ends well."

You smile and turn to look at him.

"Mm… This one kinda did."

You enjoy the brief look out the window, the sight of someone so formidable and robust and experienced trying to find his way out by feigning something caught his attention in the black, empty distance of a quiet city.

"Glad I could be of service," he brushes off your flirt like it's nothing more than a speckle of dust on his coat.

The rest of the ride is silent, too silent. He turns the music off in case it "bothers you," and it turns into an awkward, overly polite fight about whether to keep it on or not. 

It's a minor shock to notice he was listening to some classical. Not 80's rock, not country, not even BBC. He was just soothing his nerves.

You can't put your finger on what makes you feel so sheepish around this man – usually, you put men on a leash with a few dry jokes and a hearty laugh or two. Now, your flirting is shy and does nothing: there's a wall built up, and from behind that wall, only a few stolen looks…

The pick-up is humming, the engine is running at idle next to your place far too soon, and it's time you get off the car – but you have vehemently decided you will knock down that fucking wall even if you have to drag him to your bed. 

"You wanna come up and have a nightcap?"

Another look out the window as he raises his hand over his mouth, fiddles with his mustache, and avoids the rising heat between you two.

"Thanks, kid. But you need to sleep."

Your heart is pumping, and you feel like a harasser as you place your hand on his thigh.

He doesn't move, but you can hear the audible swallow this time. He doesn't move a single finger even when you slide your palm down that leg, then drag it over to the inner thigh, and start to drift back up slowly, slowly, to give him the time and space to stop you before you reach….

….the visible bulge between those legs, the absolutely gorgeous, ample bump pulling at those pants, something so delicious that you must fight tooth and nail not to race your hand up there and give it a fond grope.

His hand falls over yours just before you reach it.

"Kid. Let's leave it here and call it a night."

His voice is strained and tight, and he's still looking out the window. You don't move your hand away because he doesn't move it away. His warmth stays there, keeping you against him, and you feel like shit for thinking it's not a no… That it's a yes when he seems to hold your hand as a prisoner, wanting to feel your dainty little palm against him.

Your fingers curl slightly, a hopeful gesture to imagine how it would feel to curl and claw at his hips and that ass while he's fucking you.

"Listen. You're a nice girl. A very nice–"

You give a heavy, demonstrative sigh and finally draw your hand away.

"Come on Cap… You're seriously going to give me the "you're a nice girl" talk?"

Finally, he turns. His nostrils quiver as he tries to keep his breaths calm. Your lips part like it's a whole caress he just gave you – and his gaze drops to your mouth instantly. You start to see where the problem is.

You're too young. 

You're forbidden.

"I offered you a nightcap," you tilt your head slightly. "You can come up or you can go home."

You wet your lips, give the bottom lip a tiny little bite, and offer him the last, inviting, soft smile. It must hold an equal amount of sorrow because you can't drown the bitter feeling of rejection, no matter how many drinks you've had that night. No matter how much he seems to want you, it doesn't change the fact that he's apparently decided to stay strong and keep his hands off the cookie jar.

You turn and get out of the car, lean on the door for the final fucking time...

"Didn't know I'd only get to suck your cigar... You're all smoke and no fire, Price."

The door flies closed with a louder slam than you originally meant. 

Now that was a little bit passive-aggressive, you have to admit. But you're drunk, and he's being a pain in the ass, calling you a kid, looking at you like that, having a fucking hard-on and giving you nothing.

…But it does the trick. 

You smile like an idiot when you walk to your place and hear the purr of the engine stop. Another car door opens, then closes, wide footsteps follow you…

A nightcap it is, then.

He looks even bigger when inside a place with walls and a roof. He stands inside your apartment tall and wide as if he's waiting to call attention. Those large hands are over his crotch, concealing the swell of erection you already saw in the car. 

You know the tank top you wear reveals even more skin covered in tats as you throw your jacket away and go get him that drink. The glasses glide on your table, slide nearly to the floor, and the bottle of Jim Beam meets the counter with a devastating clank. You look at the excuse to get him into your place and sigh. 

"You know what… Fuck this."

Offering cheap bourbon to someone like him seems a bit ridiculous. So you offer him something he might actually like. Something he actually came here for. 

You walk to him and throw your hands around him – he stiffens from the middle but looks down at you with a heated glimmer in those eyes. You could've sworn they were charred brown, the same color as his cigar, but up close you see they're actually molten iron. Mercurial.

"You sure about this?" He asks softly.

"Why wouldn't I be?"

He unclasps those hands from over his groin, and the warmest weight falls to rest on your waist, even steals a caress to your hip. You want to hurl yourself at him, press yourself against his crotch and grind until you bleed from just that tiny touch he finally gives you.

"You've had one too many, love."

Love…

Shit.

The warmth spreads from his eyes, from that hand, from the word that rolls out of his mouth like a beautiful puff of smoke. It unfurls inside your heart, swells inside your throat, plummets to your groin, and you switch the weight to your other leg to feel how that hand gains more weight as it gets pressed more firmly against you.

"Doesn't change the fact that I want you."

Your voice is nothing short of a purr. When have you ever purred like that to a man? You sound like a housecat, tame and adoring, waiting for a gourmet meal.

"You really want an old man?"

He still has that reserve in his eyes, decent and distant, but underneath, you sense a terrible heat, like the glow of a cigar lit in darkness, an adamant smolder that never dies out.

"You're not that old." 

Your purr turns into a deprived meow. You dangle from his neck, and the smoke, the fire that surrounds him, blends into the gentle scent of a man, the musk of a mature beast. You know he's hairy under those clothes; he fucking has to be. The vision of how his cock must look, surrounded by untame, coarse fur, has tormented you night after night.

And now he's finally here. In your apartment.

You skate your hands over his chest while slowly dropping into a squat, then languidly kneeling in front of his crotch.

He doesn't stop you, not even when you open his belt and the zipper and crawl your fingers down the waistband of his underwear. You have to stifle a delighted gasp upon seeing how his cock springs free and stands proud in front of you in all its glory. And fuck yes he's hairy – the hairiest man you've ever had. 

Cigars feel like tiny little sticks when you wrap one hand around him and lick the weeping slit like it's your favorite ice cream. The groan that follows is a husky eruption above you and gets stuck in his throat as you take him in your mouth.

"Fucking hell, kid…"

He's thick, broad, and the musk fills your nostrils, but what he just said makes you pull back and whisper on the bulbous tip–

"Don't call me a kid," you breathe on his cock, swirl your tongue around him, and his thighs bunch. "Old man."

You finally manage to push some buttons.

The back of his hand brushes your cheek, then slides over to your throat. He's gentle but firm as he forces a thumb under your chin, curls fingers around your neck as if you're a cat who's about to be force-fed some medicine that's only good for her.

"Is that how you wanna play it?"

His thumb brushes down the ridge of your throat. Tentative, promising.

"Perhaps," your lips quiver with anticipation as you smile; your voice is a pitched vibrato before it drops, just to give him a reason to put you in your place... "Old gum–"

The hand pulls up, the grip tightens just enough to guide you back to your feet and up to meet his face.

"Didn't know you asked me here to tame a brat."

Fuck…

You almost moan. 

The hand doesn't choke you; it makes love to you. Claims you as his. 

"Really…?" You sigh. Flash him a filthy, guiltless smile.

The fire surges forth and nearly buckles your knees. His eyes flash in rhythm with your grin, like a sudden flicker of a campfire in the middle of a dark, parched forest.

"This what you want? Hmm?"

The rumble reminds you of the engine of a Harley roaring to life. His throat is burned from the fire of his cigars, the hand on your throat is used to squeezing dead metal and pulling pins from frigid grenades. But even they can't stand a chance against his woodland fire and sycamore smoke. He could bring a cold, inanimate rock back to life with all that fire.

"Yes. I want it. John."

His name on your tongue is a cat's meow. It has the exact effect you hoped for.

"Let's get the brat tamed, then."

"Hah," you finally moan. "Promises, prom–"

The fingers around your throat pull you to his mouth with a python strength. His lips spread yours with soft devouring as he coats you in fire. The coarse beard smells of sweet tobacco – nothing like a pungent cigarette. It's like an old memory: safe and sturdy and strong. Male.

You moan in his mouth – god, what will it be like when he's inside you? – and he capes both arms around you and crushes you against him. Broad shoulders envelop you like a shroud of thick smoke, the cock gets trapped between you like a hot spear, and you mewl like a slut.

Your pussy clenches, just from his warm mouth, the rich velvet of his lips. He takes everything with that kiss, and you're weak in his arms as he bends and molds you against him just the way he wants, opens your mouth with his own and breathes you, samples you like those puffs of smoke he sucks from his cigar.

Your brain short-circuits, you barely notice how your top slides up as his hands go under it. It's dragged up, up, over your breasts and then over your head as he detaches just enough to rip that piece of clothing away. 

You look at him like he's Christmas, then reach for your bra while he opens his pants more to get them down. Your jeans are accursedly tight, and he's breathless, too: the whole room is dark and filled with heavy breathing and rustle of clothes as you claw your socks off, slide your strings down and away, watch him get out of his shirt and throw it on the floor too, all propriety gone.

And then…

Jesusfuck–

He picks you up, lifts you from the ground like you're nothing but a leaf, and strides with you in his lap until your back meets a wall.

The barrel-like chest presses the air out of your lungs while your back travels up – you don't know if his arms or chest do the lifting, but you're being positioned for his cock to enter. Your hands try to grasp something solid before it's too late – his back and neck – your legs wrap around him, feet hooking over his ass as the thick of his tip pokes your soaked folds, and after a few seconds of probing, slides in. 

"F–uck…" you gasp, sounding so needy that it could be a voiceline from a bad porno movie. His lips find the place between your ear and neck immediately.

"Be good for me now," he gruffs, dark and round like the sweetest bourbon, although you know he's the finest single malt in the world. "Be good…"

"Ah–John…"

I'll be good… 

Just for you, I'll be so, so good.

He pants heavy on your neck, grunts as he starts to fuck you against that wall. You knew he might be intense, but apparently, you had no idea. The man is needy as fuck, and has concealed it up until this point. 

You could cry, scream from joy from the thickness that spreads you, fills you with every fat glide of a thrust. The sex borders on rough but is so incredibly tender too, so needy it makes your heart collapse, compress into a taut knot in your chest. It's the softest rocking, the gentlest fucking as he retreats, then ruts into you again and again with sharp, rusty moans. You're in a slow but steady rodeo with this man, your breasts pressed against a solid chest covered with hair, and it tickles, even if his pecs threaten to crush your ribcage.

"You're one hell of a girl," he gruffs in your ear, beard grazing up and down your neck. "Taking me so– Fucking hell, look at you…"

His eyes are embers as they sweep over you: your abundant ink, the helpless, adoring look in your eyes, the little mouth that opens with a gasp, the trickle of sweat that forms between your breasts and meets the hair on his chest. 

He doesn't have to look down to see how greedy your cunt is for him. He can feel it.

"This is what you wanted the whole time? Huh?"

He's all smoke. All fire.

"Yes…"

"Wanted me to take you against a fucking wall? Eh?"

"Yes…just, just take me," you moan and purr some more, giving him everything he wants. "Fuh–fuck me good…"

"Ahh shit..."

You know you're a drug to certain decent men. But to him, you're a forbidden fruit in all its aspects. 

A calm, collected captain who enjoys wide respect, eyeing an edgy, younger woman from the tech department? That's not how this was supposed to go. Thirsting for someone who did what they wanted, looked just the way they wanted, walked this earth like a dark fairy – that's not his usual go, surely. He was supposed to settle down with a proper lady. If he were to settle down at all.

"I've dreamed of this," you whisper in his ear, lips moving just enough to deliver your secret to him.

"Yeah..? Me too," he gives your throat more love with a velvet growl. "Know I shouldn't, but–"

"Shh. Don't–don't…" You grip him tighter, taste the spruce and salt as you breathe his neck. "It's good. It's all good."

He rumbles in approval. Your skin is raw from his beard; even the coarse hair dusting his thighs feels too rough on your skin. And your skin is used to being needled, shot full of ink right inside the dermis. But this… This is branding.

You're silk in his rough embrace, and plundered with no remorse. You sigh and moan, hug him... And then he dares to stop, panting and throbbing inside you.

"Darlin'. Where's the bed?"

The soft question makes you panic. If you go to bed and let him push inside you while you're lying on your back, if you brave a look into those eyes while he takes you, you'll develop more than just a horrid lust for this man. If he collapses on top of you, spent and spoiled while you're at your most vulnerable, you'll tie a string from your heart to his, and you can't, you just can't allow that to happen.

Because he's untamed too. He's not a man who settles down, he's not up for domestication; he's a wandering fire.

"No–no bed," you pant on his muscles, the shoulder that keeps you safely pinned on the wall. "John…? Please."

He's breathing wild too, disguises his surprise well.

"Alright."

He sounds disappointed, and it's not because he doesn't have the strength to maul you against that wall. The rejection stings him too. It makes you want to offer a truce, a little something. When he rocks you again, you graze your fingers up the back of his neck, knowing he will feel ripples across his scalp from your caress.

"We can smoke a cigar after," you propose, not knowing why your voice still comes out as an airy whisper. "Together. I'll pour you that drink…"

His chest swells with a deep breath, he huffs fire on the hollow trench between your collarbones.

"Fuck, woman…" 

It's dense syrup that surrounds you much like those shoulders and arms, that coarse hair, that bold male want.

"And after that I want you to…" You catch your breath and sound like a mouse with your next shy question. "Would you go down on me, John?"

It's like you're under a bear attack, but he stills; his head tilts a little to the side and meets your temple. 

"You wouldn't tease a man like this," he says. A soft warning, brimstone coated in velour, but the core of it is despair. So much need, so much forbidden, distant want… 

"Right? No more teasing."

He's still thinking that you're teasing him… That it's some kind of a joke that you want him.

"I'm serious... I want your mouth on me. I need your–"

"I'll put my mouth on you as soon as we're done here, love."

You have to bite your lips, suck them between your teeth to prevent another deprived moan from escaping.

"Want you to fuck me all night," you continue to whisper on his neck. You should shut the fuck up because it doesn't take a bed to tie that string from your heart to his. After all, they're right there, beating against each other through bone and skin and chest.

"Yeah? That's what you want?"

"Want you to… F-fuck me slow and good from behind and–"

You sniff. Whimper.

You should be ashamed: mewling for more when he's already buried inside you. What kind of a brat are you, wrapping your thighs around that narrow waist like you never want him to pull out?

And you're not crying. 

It's just that the cock inside you is throbbing against your walls as if he's making a home there, his hands dig into your ass cheeks like you're his already, the breath upon your sweat and skin feels far too affectionate. When exactly did a raw wall-fuck turn into such an affectionate, gentle taste of love?

And it's not enough. You want to climb on top of him every morning, ride him slowly and watch him unravel as the sun climbs the sky and coats that fur in gold.

"Could you do that? Please… John, please," you whimper and whine, beg like you're tame already. 

"I'll fuck you all night if that's what you want. Fill this pretty, tight cunt up every way you like."

It's coarse smoke. It caresses you until your legs start to shake. He adjusts his grip, drags the pull-outs like he drags those pulls from his tobacco. Keeps you nicely in place for him to drive back in–

"I'll fuck you 'till you cry, love. Yeah?"

He punctuates that promise with another good, fat thrust. You moan all tame now – a rippling stream, laughing and crying in his molten hold.

His cock fills you while your thighs quiver and tremble in his hands. Your pussy throbs; it sucks him already, the orgasm is seconds away, and your fingertips search for support but only slip over sweaty, hard muscle.

John. John.

"Fuh-…"

He spreads you a little. Those arms are pure iron as they mold you for him to plow. You know he can feel the waves, the way your cunt grips him with longer, deeper pulls as you start to sound downright pathetic.

"Just like that, just like… hah…"

"M-hm. Yeah," he bends the vowels, daubs them with smoke. "That's it. You're doing good. Doing so well my love."

He huffs between the thrusts that have turned into slow, intense love-making. He's making love to you – god, why does he have to be like this…

"Cum for me. Nice and pretty, yeah? Come on."

He encourages you with words, but you can't hear them anymore.

Heat coils in the pit of your core just before you burst with a heady scream.

The spasm is so sudden you almost hit your head on the wall. He's at your throat the minute it's exposed, and your scream turns into a weak wail when his tongue grazes your skin. It's blazing, and dips into the hollow between your collarbones like it's a shot glass full of scotch. Next thing you feel is fire, even some teeth on your neck.

And you thought Price might, just might be intense…

Your head drops as the blunt of the orgasm leaves you. Your feet unclasp, and next up would be some soft waves, but the man continues to fuck your shattered cunt and marshmallow soul with a good, intense pace. The words that pour out of your mouth are those of a brainless person.

"Ah–hah, God–"

"Where's that cheek now, mm..? Pretty little thing."

"John–h…"

The thrusts rub you against that wall like he wants to staple you there.

"So nice and good for me now, ain't ya? Cummin' on command…" An amused chuff right on your poor, chafed skin… "Begging for my mouth and cock."

You travel up and down in a limp heap, trying to hold on to him with weak limbs as he drives into you with a tight series of half-thrusts. Your legs hang loosely on the side, but he has no trouble carrying the full weight of you.

"Slow–slowly, Cap…" 

"Ahh fuck–"

He swears on your ink, right on the trotting pulse on your neck. Through the vapor of man sweat and rich smoke and a whiff of cedar trees bending in the wind, you feel him tense and thicken.

"The fucking things you do to me…" he pants with a low growl, hushed but intense. Your pussy answers with a good, demanding pull. 

"Fuck… fuck–!"

You're a limp doll between him and the wall when he comes. Pressed between a rock and a hard place, literally. His chest being the rock, an entire boulder that whips the oxygen from your lungs as he drives deep, his balls giving a few taut pulls against your ass as he empties himself into you with a satisfied, dry moan. A dark, ripe blossom, shooting straight to your core while you're sealed tight around him.

The world goes still after that; the only thing that moves is your breath and his, a refreshing hot breeze coursing through the stale air. The darkness of the room isn't half as snug as the safety of his arms.

Your fingers find his neck, the short-cut hair and the skin pounding with a rush of blood. He lets you go reluctantly, bends a little to set your feet back to the solid ground. He doesn't pull out, keeps huffing all over you even when you're returned back to the earth. 

And you never want to come back. Your cunt still throbs around him and cries a tiny, thick stream down your thigh. His upper body still pins you against that wall, his breaths still mist your skin, caress the red burns of his beard.

He feels so good. Too good…

When he pulls out, he does so with intense care. He gives you some space to catch your breath, and you finally notice he has fucked your legs into splinters.

"I'm…" You break the hush of heavy breathing with a soft laugh. More viscous load pushes out of you with it. "I don't think I can stand."

"Yeah? Tried to take you to bed," he muses softly, sounding annoyingly content with his achievements.

"Gotta admit it was a good idea."

"As was the nightcap," he rasps, voice drenched in soft smoke.

"We'll get there eventually."

"I have no doubt about that."

You give him a soft, warm chuckle as you cast your eyes between the crest of his pecs. Rough, tight muscle meets your soft breasts with heaving breaths, and teases your nipples to taut little points. The wet hair on his chest looks good paired with your inked, smooth skin… You two look so goddamn fine together.

"I hope I didn't make you deaf with that scream."

He stands at his full height, but tilts his head down and slightly to the side as if you were a new, interesting species he's just found on his travels.

"Wouldn't complain, love," he says. More wet syrup, just for you. He weighs you with his stare, curious and appeased, and you feel shy. For fuck's sake, you still feel shy even though this man was inside you just a moment ago. 

"The bed. Now be a good girl and tell me where it is."

"Down the…hallway." 

A delicate little whisper, again.

It's laughable, how the veteran of Task Force 141 turns you into something so dainty and meek. Captain John Price takes you against a wall like you're nothing but a doll, makes you purr and beg, reassembles you into a weak-willed woman who gets carried to bed. 

This is not how it was supposed to go...

He lifts you back in his lap while you continue to hold onto him like he's your prince Charming. A laugh spills on your lips when he tries to lay you gently on the bed and you manage to pull him down with you. You end up tumbling there in a sweaty, messy heap. 

"Knew you were trouble," he's smiling too as he settles beside you. You curl and wrap yourself around him, your bodies mold and curve together like they're made for each other.

He's so solid, so warm, the kind of man you'd love to fall asleep on every night. No more cold sides of the pillow, no more tossing and turning and trying to get the code out of your head. Just… this chest, those ember eyes burning in the night. Some soft breathing, a roaring engine standing still, waiting for you, just for you…

"I hope this wasn't a one time only occasion," you test the waters.

"No." He shifts a little, disentangles from you slightly. "Unless you–"

"No."

You bend in his arms like a young willow, cut his doubts off with a kiss. It's passionate, and so sloppy it threatens to make the same sounds as your cunt and his cock a while ago.

The hand on your hip tows you closer, then steals its way down your leg. You hike your thigh up, perfectly willing. You're a sticky mess, but so is he: his rock-hard thigh meets your still soaked pussy like these two have always belonged together. And this man's full fire has escaped you until now. There are so many hidden, wild things in him too. 

He would look so good on a Harley… He would look good on a motel bed after riding for days and days with you attached to him like an eloped dark bride. The nights would be smeared with hot sex and cinder and smoke, a dash of scotch on top, he could drink it from your lips. You would serve it to him from your mouth, round the taste a bit so that it wouldn't burn so much…

"Have you ever been to Alaska?" 

The liquor is leaving you, but you don't feel any more sober. The lava in your veins has only been replaced by another kind of fire.

"No."

"Would you like to go?"

"What'ya mean," he murmurs on your tongue, and you know he's hard again just from the thick lust coating his voice. "What kind of question is that?"

"I was just thinking."

"What were you thinkin', kid..?"

"Don't… call me that," you laugh. In truth, you're growing quite fond of it. It reminds you of old movies. "Here's looking at you, kid" and all that.

His laugh is a charred roll in his chest. To him, you're a brat – an unruly kitten – no matter what you say. 

"Kid. Why Alaska?"

He's curious. Borderline hooked. You steal a peek into those vulcan eyes. 

"You'd look good in Alaska. Old man."

"Really," he rumbles a soft purr against your heart. 

Another soft kiss follows. Affectionate… He plays time, but he's also a probing, scanning. You bloom in his embrace, unfurl on his lips like he just wrenched you wide. He could haul you to the cabin right now and you would only cook him dinner.

It's too late, even if you try to shift after such a kiss. Escape to press your cheek against that place between his pecs, the spot where the hair is darkest and thickest. You want to lick that valley where his heart meets his musk. That scent must be born from a good, stout heart.

"Would you take me with you…? If you ever decide to go."

It's a fragile question. A baring of the heart. It holds so much more than an inquiry about whether he would whisk you away on a secret leave. It's strings, pulling from your heart to his, taking root.

"Sure. But you're quite a handful, love."

"Is that so…?" 

You crawl over him as gracefully as you can. He allows you to straddle him, and of course he does. You're no threat; you're only a one woman show. The only thing he's probably missing right now is a glass of scotch and a thick roll of tobacco. 

He takes in the view with hunger: not satiated by that pent-up fuck, just like you're not... 

But then his hands come to rest on your thighs to check if they're still shaking. The touch bleeds possessiveness: it's a thoroughly absent-minded, instinctual attempt to reach for you. It tells you you're exactly where you belong. 

"You seem like the kind of woman who's not for the faint of heart," he says like you didn't just mewl in his arms like the tamest fucking housecat.

And perhaps that's what intrigues him. Contrasts. And even more than that, the odd place where black fuses into white, the gray area where everything is possible. The split-second moment when the skin accepts the ink and traps it in. 

Everyone always says you get buried with your tattoos. That you should think twice before staining your skin with such permanent hookups.

But the thing is, you get addicted to it. It's like standing on the edge of a cliff before a bungee jump. You know you'll never be the same person after you jump, and you know you can't leave that cliff without jumping. It's a stalemate until you clear your mind of doubt and just plunge.

And you don't want to leave this earth without getting stained and sweaty, without dipping your soul into the full experience. You're supposed to get a little dirty. This is Earth, after all.

Your fingers disappear somewhere in his slick fur. Sunrise is hours away, but his eyes spark aflame. They're always, always smoldering like the butt of his cigar. He's a man who causes wildfires at the end of the world – he's a reckoning, a flicker in the dark forest, roaring into a bonfire as soon as the wind passes through the trees.

And you've always loved fire. Wild, and free. The only thing that competes with such freedom is a wide, wild stream. 

"But you can handle me. Right?" Your fingers curl softly around the hair surrounding his navel. "Tame me and everything?" 

It's an offering that causes even fire to tilt its head in curiosity. In the end, you're not sure who tamed who.

"Someone has to," he grabs your hips with rich promise. 

You'll pour him that drink. Light him a cigar after his mouth is full of your taste, see how well it pairs with fire and smoke. You'll toast to the Harley, the crazy motel… 

And Alaska. 

[eddiegettingshot]

we're all doing a disservice to mr ryan guzman right now by not writing mustache eddie porn fast enough. you KNOW he's been refreshing ao3 since those pics dropped

I KNOW I KNOW FUCK I CAN’T THINK OF ANY IDEAS 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭 OR I WOULD TRY DESPITE MY WRITER’S BLOCK