#halloween sucks

[oncamelliastreet]

i hate halloween. i hate never getting invited to do group costumes. i hate never getting invited to parties or anything like it. i hate spending every year sitting on my couch eating candy i bought from the store alone. i hate opening socials just to see all the people i thought were my friends doing things together. i hate that nobody has asked me if i’d like to do anything with them in 7 years. i hate that friends always choose their partners over you. i hate that i’m not likeable enough or cute enough to get a partner. i hate that im the loser who spends every halloween on the couch with her parents. i hate halloween.

[betty-talks]

I actually hate all my friends and myself with a passion

[ramicorn]

Halloween is over Americanized and shit i absolutely hate it like why go out on the streets after dark to get sugar when SHOPS EXIST the original idea for Halloween is fine but i fucking hate the new version whats the benefit you people get out of it??? like go buy food don't go knocking on doors for it if some kid rocked up to your place on a spring night and went, "hey *insert preferred term here*, got any food. you would be like either "fuck off" or really concerned plus like its kinda asking for a kidnapping when Halloween comes ima just buy my lollies also what is the fun in the shitty decorations they aren't scary and i'd rather watch a horror movie or play a game then go to a fake haunted thing

[louisbxne]

MEGAN THEE STALLION in HOTTIEWEEN

Episode 2 - "Suck A Neck" (2019) Dir. Teyana Taylor

[nicofromparamore]

[ipetitesissy]

[fallenneziah]

Summary: Ghost's breeding instincts kick in on a cold night at the fire, and tension-turned arousal leaves you with one more body to feed.

CW: Dubcon, handjobs. Morbidly gross. Monsterfucking, Zombie! Ghost, breeding, cock swelling, deteriorating body parts, spit, Simon tries to be gentle, Ghost is there to breed. Cum inflation, cock warming. Slight angst. He tries to take care of you, but it's not really his main priority.

The zombie apocalypse has taken over the world. And you are stuck in the middle of nowhere. With no telecommunications, you were left to your own devices when your mission was sidetracked by the affected. You happened to be out with Simon when it happened, which ended in him getting bitten while you both were caught off guard.

And now you were stuck out here. Having moved from another safe haven from a lack of supplies and shelter.

Simon moaned from his broken maw, reaching out his hand lazily to the warm, crackling fire. His cold skin longed for warmth, the dark, bleak night providing you both no comfort. You gently moved his hand away, placing it back down. "Don't, You'll hurt yourself."

Simon moaned again, shifting and slouching, his glazed-over eyes staring into the fire hopelessly. Like he was lost. Feeling anxious again. He felt more anxious than you most times. But how could he not after the bite didn't fully rot away his brain?

The sound of wind and fire crackling filled the silence.

Simon huffed, his cold hand finding his slacks, still gazing into the fire as his palm dug against the seam along his crotch.

If he had done this when he was fully intact, you probably would have found it much hotter. But you knew Simon did this because he was anxious. You weren't entirely sure why he was anxious, but you gave him his space.

His hips shifted, whining against his palm while you pulled your jacket on tighter, feeling the fire whip and crackle.

‟Easy buddy, you're ok.”

Simon whined again, this time shifting his whole body as he pressed his palm harder into himself, almost like he wanted to tear his dick off. You got up and walked over to him, pulling his hand away. His head snapped at you, growling lightly. You ignored him, reaching over to rub his shoulders.

"It's alright, I'm here."

You felt him tense up a bit as you rubbed before he began to relax.

"I'll take care of you," you whispered, rubbing the back of his neck, making sure he could feel your touch. "Don't worry."

You reached down to his slacks and undid them, pulling down his zipper and letting his cock free from its confines.

He whined, squirming against your warm hand. You just wanted to help him. Seeing his swollen, puffy cock. Dripping with stagnant, thick white goo from the head of his cock. Black veins puffing out from the length and twitching.

You gripped it softly, feeling the cold, leathery skin in your hands. He moaned, eyes fluttering closed as he leaned back against the tree behind him. You rubbed the precum around with your thumb, feeling it stick between your fingers as you did.

You had to admit that it was kinda gross, but at the same time, you couldn't deny how much it turned you on.

Simon's glazed eyes followed you, trying to hump into your hand, needing the release. He was anxious, wirey, he wanted it out of him so badly. His instincts and his body told him.

Slowly sliding your hand up and down his cock, pulling the skin down over his head and then dragging back up. He moaned, his broken jaw lolling against the stretched skin. Watching with heavy, unfocused eyes as you stroked his puffy cock.

His cock twitched, dripping more ooze down the shaft.

"Good boy, Simon." You said softly, continuing to rub him. "Just let it all out."

Simon's breathing quickened, his hips moving erratically, trying to get as much friction as he could. His head lolled to one side, a cold hand grabbing your shoulder, the warmth of your palm was intoxicating him. He wanted you so badly. His cock desperately weeping from build-up and frustration.

You tried to keep him still, but he still struggled each way he wanted. His broken jaw hung, and moans flooded from his exhausted, deteriorating vocal cords.

He whined.

His hips jerked again, and you knew he was close.

You continued to stroke him, feeling the heat build in your stomach, making you feel flushed and warm. His glazed eyes searched around, humping your hand with vigour, breathing heavily, one hand digging his blunt, black nails into the dirt.

You squeezed the head of his cock, your thumb rubbing the leaking precum around so it would flow freely.

"Let it all out. Just release."

He whined, his cock twitching and bobbing as you squeezed the head tightly.

"Just let it all out. I'm here to help you, Simon."

The pressure built, his cock throbbing against your hand.

Spurting from the head in a stream of thick, white goo. He moaned and squirmed, gasping for air as his body slowly let him relax. The cum dripped from his cock to the ground, a large puddle growing around it.

His eyes fluttered, looking at you with a glazed expression. His cock didn't go down at all, oozing a little more. His fist came up, dirt-covered hand grabbing your wrist, pulling you toward him, craning his head up toward you. You leaned back a little, his cold breath coming out ragged. His thumb ran over your bottom lip, looking at you with an almost human expression. One he'd been lacking for months.

He let out another inhuman noise that strained your heart. He pulled away again, his cock still desperately hard for your warmth. He wanted you. He's always wanted you. And yet he's ended up here. He released your hand, palming his crotch again as if telling you to leave. That you could go now.

You were tempted to pull away. You could leave him. Let him deal with himself. But, you also didn't want to do that.

You sighed.

"Alright. You win." You said, getting up and going over to your pack.

You sat back by the fire. Pulling out a ration of canned food, cracking it open and pouring it into the old pot you had rummaged from an abandoned house.

Simon watched you from by the tree. His insides wanted you so badly. His cock twitched, throbbing from being unattended. He wanted you. Your warm hand on his cold, dead skin. He felt no warmth anymore, and he wanted it. He craved it.

And his resolve crumbled quickly when he found himself struggling with the open buckle of his tattered military pants. Crawling over to you and whining, nuzzling against your side.

He couldn't communicate, only make those horrible, grotesque noises.

But you understood what he wanted. You knew he was begging you to help him.

His cock dripping, humping his cock into the air, just shy of your body. You looked at how desperate he was. Gurgling and whining, fists clenching in the dirt. You reached out, wrapping your hand around his cock again, but you could tell he wanted more.

His cock twitched, pulsating, desperate for attention. He grabbed the pot, throwing it aside as he climbed onto your lap, straddling you. He pushed your head up, forcing your gaze to his face. His eyes were still glossy, his jaw hanging, his face still grey and rotten.

He was still dead.

But you knew what he was doing. He was trying to be dominant.

You didn't fight back, allowing him to lead.

He held his cock in his hand, stroking it, moaning as the head rubbed against your lips. You opened your mouth, feeling the cold, leathery skin on your tongue.

He was shaking as you found yourself sucking on his cock. Letting his precum dribble down your throat, making your throat burn. His cock grew, throbbing against your tongue and the back of your throat.

He was gentle, forcing you down further on his cock, making your throat bulge.

You gagged, your eyes watering, your throat burning.

And he released your head, letting you up for air.

You coughed, taking stock of the situation. He'd forced you down.

You relaxed, letting him push you back down again. And again.

A warm, wet place to empty himself. And he needed it. Badly.

In the back of your mind, you knew that he didn't mean to be forceful. He was just so desperate to get his human warmth. To get his sexual release. He didn't know what he was doing. He was just following his instincts.

His cock glistened in the firelight, throbbing as it leaked that thick, white goo.

He tugged your hair, moaning as you felt his cock press against the back of your throat. He wanted to cum. He wanted to flood your mouth with his dead, thick cum.

You gagged, pulling off his cock. You'd never gone blowjob far with him before. You just jerked him off or let him hump you, never actually sucked him. He didn't seem to mind, taking this as permission to fuck your face.

His cock stayed firm, the head brushing against your lips as he jerked his hips.

"Come on," you said, swallowing his precum, "cum for me."

You opened your mouth, letting him push the head of his cock inside. It was big. Bigger than anything you'd ever taken. His hand fell to one side again, his helmet slipping a little, tight slacks pulling up his thighs, boots chaffing his ankles. He growled hollowly, another orgasm spurting from his cock across your face and into your mouth.

You probably should have been prepared for it to taste disgusting, but you hadn't.

You gagged a little, spitting it out as much as you could, having to swallow the rest, your eyes watering a bit from the taste.

He moved one leg off you, you attempted to roll over and get up, but he grabbed your belt. You grunted as he pulled you to the ground, dragging you back over to him. He leaned over you, hooking his leg back over your thighs, cock pressing to your ass. His hands dug into your stomach, pulling you back up into him. Getting you under him, he blindly and desperately tries to find your belt.

You're not sure how to react.

He finally grabs your belt and starts yanking it, trying to force you onto your hands and knees.

"S-Simon… what are you doing?"

He grunted, yanking again.

You pushed him away.

"Simon! No!"

He grabbed your shoulders, forcing you back down.

He's too strong. You can't stop him.

You've always thought about this with him. But you were more worried about him in this form. Of what.. could happen. Worried about possible repercussions. But he kept you down, finding the buckle and struggling to get it off.

He whined, trying to tell you to relax, that you'd be okay, and he just needed this once, but he couldn't. He held you down, getting your pants down over your ass, cold hand digging under your panties, your scent filling him.

Simon had smelled your arousal before, but now it was closer. He could smell the arousal in your thighs and the warmth of your pretty cunt.

It made him want you. Made him feel a desire for you.

He was a bit clumsy, fumbling around and trying to get a grip on his dick.

You whimpered, reaching back and pushing his hand away.

His fingers wrapped around his cock, giving you a final chance to stop him. You whimpered, hoping he'd let this go.

But he couldn't. His cock grew, throbbing, pressing against your ass. He held you down, letting you know he wasn't going to let you go. You were his. His toy. His anything.

The head slipped into you, your soaking wet labia spreading around his cock.

He held still, cock throbbing and leaking precum. You let out a gasp of air, pain running through your body.

Simon whined in reply, wanting you to relax. To be ok. He wanted to breed you. He needed to fuck you so badly. The warmth of your insides was so intoxicating that he needed it. But he could tell you were struggling. He wanted to comfort you in any way he could.

He didn't dare try to push himself in further, his cock was throbbing and sensitive, and he didn't want to hurt himself. You didn't want to do this right now, but he needed a release. And you knew it would make him happy to cum. He'd be more docile afterwards.

He pulled out, rubbing the head against your clit, your body shuddering.

He knew this was what you wanted. He pulled out, body shaking as he grabbed your hips, pulling you back against him. He pushed in again, grunting from the pleasure of feeling you, the warmth pressing to him.

He pushed into you, groaning as your tight walls pressed to him. He could feel every fold of your insides, every irregular surface. His cock throbbed, his body growing hot and cold at the same time.

He pulled out, groaning as your wetness dragged over his head and pulled you back into him. His cock thrusting, the warmth and wetness of you pulling at him. He could feel every inch of you throbbing against you.

He pulled out, groaning as your body brushed his cock. And rammed into you, your wetness coating him.

"S-Simon… don't…"

He grunted, slamming into you. Your cervix was the only thing left keeping him out. You moaned around his cock, back arching as his speed increased. His blunt fingernails dug into your hips, head lolling, grunting and making grotesque noises as his cock fucked deep into your cunt.

You knew you couldn't keep him away, and the way he plunged into you, brushing the sweet bud deep inside you slowly unravelled you.

His body was rigid, the only thing he was concerned about was getting off.

He didn't care how many times he came, or how many times he'd cum on you. All that mattered was fucking his cock into your cunt.

"Simon!"

He slammed into you again, grunting. You moaned, head falling forward, your pussy dripping with arousal. You could barely control yourself, feeling your orgasm building up inside you. His cock hit you right where you needed it. As if he knew you in and out.

Simon could smell your arousal. He could practically smell your orgasm.

His cock pulsated inside you, his eyes rolling into the back of his head.

Your legs quivered, feeling your orgasm approaching.

His hands squeezed your hips, cock pounding into you, hitting your g-spot.

"Simon! I'm…"

He slammed in again, his tip brushing your cervix, your body tensing up, legs shaking.

Your body shook as you squirted, coating his cock with your juices.

The smell made his head swim, his hands digging into your hips. He fucked you harder, his cock losing control. Your pussy tightened, pulling at Simon's cock, spasms running through your body, hot fluids flowing.

His cock throbbed, pulsating as it slapped against your pussy.

You rolled your head, moaning and rolling in pleasure as he slammed into you harder.

And he held you there, his orgasm tearing through him. His arms quivered as he pushed into you, cum spurting deep inside you as his orgasm hit.

Your breathing was ragged, hips falling into his with each thrust.

He snarled and moaned with a hollow tone against your ear, breathing harsh, fingernails digging in deeper. He pressed you to the cold ground, hips plunging deep inside you without remorse.

You cried, your legs locking again as he drove you insane.

His cock pumped cum deep inside you, coating your insides.

He panted, his cock twitching as the last of his cum dripped from his cock.

Your legs were shaking, his cock twitching, still buried deep in you. He held you there. Your head fell to the dirt, tilting back to look at him. He stared off into nothing, whining and then looking down at you.

He laid down, cock still deep inside you as his chest pressed to your back. He laid his head in the crook of your neck, gurgling softly. An apology.

You sighed, reaching back and running your hand over his cold cheek.

"I-It's okay… I understand."

His breath hitched, his jaw brushing your neck. He was scared.

You gently took his hand, placing it on your stomach. "We'll figure it out. We'll work it out together."

He whined softly, nuzzling his face against yours. Nestling you close, staring into the still crackling fire as you rested on the cold ground. His cock was warm inside you, and he had zero intention of leaving so quickly.

[girlboyburger]

bites you bites you bites you bites y

[skully-drawls]

Damn, it really be like that, Maurice?

[naturecalls111]

Vampire / Monster Hunter AU from @billdenbrough that I'm obsessed and in love with...

[thefrogman]

Waiting for my ride...

Happy Halloween!

[wittymumbledon]

When you take a break from drawing GF fanart...by drawing more GF fanart

I've actually wanted to draw these two for ages but couldn't come up with an excuse to do it but I'VE FINALLY GOT IT--and I thought of it BEFORE summerhalloween was over instead of AFTER--

Seriously though this was so fun--I even tweaked the way I draw Ford a bit to fit Spooky's style better :]

the FixerUpperAU, the human bill design, and the post that inspired all of this all belong to @1spooky2me <3

(original post:)

Link to the post itself lol

[im-totally-not-an-alien-2]

Halloween prompts year 2 day 15

Hood remained silent, even as he clenched the gun tightly in his hand. He hadn't even seen a hint of green portals or blond elfs but 200 witnesses couldn't all be wrong.

All of them had stated that a white haired meta with a gas mask was working with a blond elf with a leaf mask and that they had been the ones kidnapping the kids and teens of Gotham.

Jason had heard stories of fairies snatching kids and infants, sometimes swapping them out with a sickly one of thier own. But there were no trades that Jason knew of. Only missing kids.

Hell, all of the biggest child gangs around Crime Alley and the Narrows were gone.

As in gone gone. Not a single member was left nor any trace of where they could have been taken to. As much as he hated to admit it, he might need to ask for help from the Justice League Dark...

---

Link stared down at the kids from his rooftop perch.

They looked...cleaner. Happier. They had gained a healthy amount of weight, no longer stick thin and weak looking. They had season appropriate clothing without holes and others hidden away in chests and armours for the coming seasons far off from now.

His spirit friend, Phantom, had panicked a bit after he realized what they were doing was trafficking, but calmed down once he pointed out that these kids would have a much better life in Hyrule than they would have had in the rotting trashpit that was Gotham.

If they would have lived much longer at all

Still, thier presence here was mutually beneficial. Hyrule had lost over 80% of its population in the Great Calamity and they were no where close to regaining the population they once had. All of thier forts, training areas, ect were specifically targeted and destroyed in the attacks and gardians and monsters were left in the ruins to ensure they could not rebuild what was lost

Which led to the bigger issues at hand. All the empty occupations.

The castle, and thus castle town, were ground zero for the disaster that wiped out the Hylian peoples. With it many businesses and trades were lost. Hyrule had few soldiers and those they did have desperately needed armor, weapons and training.

That wasn't all. Hudson construction had attempted to repair Castle town and eventually the castle, but they were wood workers, not stone masons. They knew little of the craft that was needed.

There were lessons and information in the castle archives covering most of the jobs and trades, as well as how to proform them, but the princess didn't see it as a priority. They didn't have the people necessary to teach these crafts and the castle and town surrounding wasn't really a priority anyway. Not with all the people who still needed help around the kingdom.

Phantom helped a lot too. Other than helping them build towns for the kids (the child gangs actually really liked having a town all to themselves) he did a lot of other random jobs around the kingdom, much like Link himself.

Unfortunately, his next trip to Gotham lead to a run in with the "Red Hood" and the phrase, "Was that a fucking fruit grenade?!" Link did not know what the word "Fucking" meant but the Hood man would not tell him. He is learning a lot of new words from this guy, words that Phantom appearently didn't like cause he loudly scolded Red Hood like a naughty child the first time they met. It was hilarious to see this tiny 15 year old tell off a giant tank of a man.

Link couldn't see the mans expression due to the odd red helm the man wore, but he could tell he was cowed, even if just a bit. Then he began speaking to someone who wasn't there while pressing his finger to the side of his helm where his ear should be. Is Red Hood ill? Does he have a mind sickness like the ones Phantom told him of when describing his parents? Or is this something Link doesn't yet understand...either way he doesn't think he's getting more children for Hyrules future in this trip...or anytime soon if those ominous masked people landing on the rooftops around them had any say in the matter.

[macfrog]

if patrick bateman were a woman

cowboy like me [bonus chapter]

surprise!! happy halloween!!!! may your day be spooky and your sex be filthy. here's a bonus chapter of clm to celebrate. love y'all !!! despite being cowboy joel and his reader, this is not canon. does not happen in the cowboy like me series. i wish. it's just a little bit of spooky szn fun with my two favorite star-crossed lovers. !!!

pairing: dbf!joel miller x fem!reader

summary: sarah throws a halloween party. you and joel have a little too much fun.

warnings: as pwp as a macfrog fic can get, age gap (reader is 23, joel is 48), lil bit titty appreciation, a singular daddy mention, a single slice of degradation, but also praise kink, unprotected piv sex, creampie, it's set on halloween, alcohol consumption, cursing

word count: 4k

series masterlist | main masterlist | playlist | follow @macfroglets w notifs on to be the first to hear when i post 🧡

Ice, pretzels, lime juice. Ice, pretzels, lime juice.

I’m giving you one job. Ice, pretzels, lime juice. That’s it.

That sounds like three jobs, you’d said.

Sarah ignored you. Be here at seven, alright? Ice – pretzels – lime juice!

It’s seven thirty. You’re finally on her front porch. The tiny section of bare skin between your stockings and black skirt is pimpled with goosebumps. With each inhale you suck in the sickly-sweet scent of fake blood, splattered across your face. You have a bag of ice slung over one arm, a bag of pretzels balanced on top, a bottle of juice hanging from your fingers and an axe under your elbow.

Only – it’s not lime juice. And the axe is plastic.

Sarah opens the door and spots your blunder instantly. “That’s lemon.”

“I know. They didn’t have any lime.”

“They didn’t have any lime? Where the hell did you go?”

“It’s Halloween, Sarah. Everybody and their fucking grandma is drinking tonight. Lemon tastes the exact –”

“Ah!” She holds a finger up. Her red cape flutters in the breeze. “It does not taste the same. Otherwise, why would it be two separate things?”

“Hey, Wonder Woman,” you drone, “mind letting me in? I’m fucking freezing.”

She scoffs, and steps aside. Mutters, “’s not the same thing,” as you pass.

You click down the hall, head rolling to check out her decorating. The living room and kitchen are lit by constellations of tiny tealights, flickering and blinking and casting tall, warped shadows across the walls. There’s a purple neon sign sat against the wall that reads Spooky. By the fireplace sit the two pumpkins she and her boyfriend carved last night; she’d sent you photos and asked you to pick a winner. When you chose the Iron Man head over the silhouette of Tinkerbell, she sent back a middle finger emoji.

Y: It’s cleaner cut. What do you expect? Shoddy work, Miller.

S: asshole.

Sarah’s slotting the ice into the freezer. Struggling, by the sound of it. You swing back into the kitchen to find Wonder Woman on her ass, hammering her fist against the frozen pack to fit it in.

You’re about to offer help, when someone else does it for you. Someone lower, gravellier. A voice like thunder in the distance, a storm approaching.

“You need a hand?” he asks, and when you turn, you almost drop your fucking axe.

He glances to you as he emerges from the dark hallway, the warm glow licking at his graying flicks of hair, nestling in the deep-set lines on his face. His eyes dart down to where your fingers now clutch the plastic handle, holding it against the hem of your skirt like it’ll do anything to cover your modesty.

Your modesty, meaning – the line of sexy black lace curling around your thighs, snug against the supple skin.

What the fuck are you doing here? you mouth, as Joel paces across the kitchen towards his daughter.

He shrugs, palms outstretched. It’s my house?

You roll your eyes, run your tongue like lightning across your scarlet lips. Sarah straightens up, huffs hair from her face and stares blankly at Joel.

He bends, takes the entire bag in one huge palm, and reorganizes the drawer with the other. Your eye drifts to his bicep, flexing under the tight seam of a dark tee. The bag of ice cradled in his arm leaves weak little droplets, running down the tan skin to the crook of his elbow. You want to fucking lick them up, gather the frozen beads on your tongue, hike up up up to the curve of his shoulder, the crook of his neck, the –

“Hey.” Sarah clicks her fingers in front of your face. “You hearin’ me?”

“Huh? No, yeah. No. I wasn’t lis– What did you say?”

She sighs again. Joel groans as he pushes off his knee and stands tall behind her. Wipes the water from his arm with one swipe of his palm.

“Would you put these in a bowl?” his daughter asks, shoving the bag of pretzels into your suited chest. She shuffles off, announcing she’s going to pick a playlist for the night.

Suited is perhaps giving you too much credit. You’re in a mini skirt and waistcoat, a red tie slung loose around your neck. You’ve a clear poncho draped over your shoulders, but with the heat from the million and one fucking candles – and the flush that the forty-something-year-old with his wide frame and fitted sweatpants and toned chest and his big fucking hands has cast over you – it’ll soon be discarded to the newel post.

But when you reach up for the bowl on the top shelf of the cabinet, pushing forward with a palm on the countertop, the marble digging into your pelvis and forcing your ass to jut out – you think yourself pretty fucking smug to be in a skirt that hugs your cheeks and not much else.

You turn, the lip of the bowl in your fingers, and smile sweetly at Joel, whose gaze returns north as you approach him.

“You got nothin’ better to do with your night than babysit a bunch of twenty-five-year-olds?” you murmur, spilling the bag into the blue bowl. You place a pretzel on your tongue, humming at the taste.

Joel smiles, popping the cap off his beer. He spills the amber liquid into his mouth. “I’ll be in my room.”

Your eyebrows lift. “That so? You need any company in there?”

“Nope. Rangers game is on. I’ll be busy.”

The words ghost across your lips. You’ll be busy, you breathe. Joel nods. Then looks you up and down.

“American Psycho?”

“What?”

He flicks his wrist up and down your figure. “What’s his name, again? Pat–”

“Patrick Bateman,” you say together. You nod.

“That’s the one.” Then he turns, leans his jaw nearer until his lips line with your ear. Your eyes shoot across to the empty doorway. Sarah’s skipping song after song in the living room.

Joel’s finger slips beneath the lace trim of your stockings, tugging gently. “I don’t remember ‘im in these, though,” he says, voice low.

You gulp. Swallow to push your heart back into place. “Well,” you glance down, lifting your thigh closer to him, “if he were a woman, he woulda dressed like this.”

“That’s somethin’ I’d like to see,” Joel murmurs, eyes locked on the place where lace separates from skin.

“Yeah?”

He nods. Growls, “Yeah.”

And then he’s walking away.

Within an hour, the house is jumping. Literally. Almost.

You sit at the kitchen island, sipping on a beer, staring down the hall at the sea of bodies – of nylon and polyester, of purples and oranges, of headbands and props and cloaks and hats. There are a lot more than forty people here – a lot more than Sarah intended to turn up.

A lot more than you know, too. She’s barely even four years younger than you, but most of these kids look like they just walked out of middle school. Of the handful of faces you recognize, one is sat opposite you, his arm draped over Sarah’s shoulder, her hand locked in his. She and Ty have been dating for a year now, surviving long-distance when she jets back off to school every few months.

The other you know, unfortunately for you, is swaying by your side. Leaning a little too heavily into you. Asking you questions about college, and then talking over your answers to tell you stories about his college. Asking you questions about films you like, and then interrupting to gawk at the titles you reel off. The only times he doesn’t jump in over your answer, are the times he’s asking who you think might win in a fight between prime Mike Tyson and prime Muhammad Ali. And that’s only because you don’t have an answer to give him.

Jace. Ty’s best friend. Fucking – loser.

“And who the fuck are you s’posed to be, anyways?” he asks, slinging a heavy arm over your shoulder. He reeks of beer, warm and stale. His jaw’s swinging, cheeks popping and suckling on a shriveled piece of gum.

You scowl, shrugging the uncomfortable weight from the nape of your neck. “Patrick Bateman,” you mutter.

“Who?”

“Christian Bale. You know, when he –” Sarah mimes lifting an axe over her shoulder, takes a swing through the air, across the island to Jace.

“No fucking idea,” he says, shaking his head. You’re not surprised.

“Where’s your axe?” Ty asks, as Sarah nuzzles back into his side.

You shrug. “Saw someone using it to stir the punch earlier. ‘s probably in the toilet or something.”

He laughs, flashing his dimpled cheeks. He’s got glistening eyes beneath long, black eyelashes. He’s handsome. Sharp jaw, full lips. Sarah links her fingers at his side, plants her cheek against his shoulder. She’s comfortable. She’s safe. Your chest warms at the sight.

He squeezes her arm, and they share a meaningful glance before there’s a yell from across the kitchen, and their attention is diverted.

When they turn to watch two of Sarah’s high school friends sword-fighting, wielding a plastic lightsaber and your axe, you slink off, swiping two beers from the fridge. Swift and silent, you scale the stairs and fade into the darkened hallway at the top, in pursuit of your own dark-eyed, sharp-jawed comfort.

The sliver of light at the end of the hall draws you in, footsteps silent along the soft carpet. Up here, tucked away in the corner of the house, far from the rattling music and rumble of boisterous chatter – you can hear the soft roar of a crowd, the crack of ball against bat.

Your hip nudges the door open, trickle of condensation running over your knuckles. Joel’s eyes are already on you. He’s laying on his bed, legs outstretched, knee cocked. One arm lies idly on his thigh. You get the feeling he shifted it quickly when he saw the door move.

He balances his chin on the end of the remote, purses his lips and lifts his head. “Now,” he mumbles, “you’re s’posed to be downstairs.”

You shrug, holding the bottles up. “Thought you might need a top-up.”

His eyes thin. He sits up straight, swings his legs over the edge of the bed. You come to a stop between his knees, holding the beer down to him. He hums, taking it with his eyes locked on yours.

“Thanks, darlin’,” he says, and his eyes begin to drift down.

You tilt your head back at the same time he does, lifting the lip of your own bottle. The cold drink washes over your tongue, bitter and blunt in its taste, leaving a furry feeling on your gums. When your chin lowers again, Joel’s hand is on the back of your thigh.

He’s staring at the two knolls between you – your breasts round, nipples peaking under the tight waistcoat.

“Welcome,” you reply, swirling the liquid around in the curved glass. Your voice is barely there. But he hears you, and he must hear the want laced deep through that one quiet word, because he instantly slides his beer onto his nightstand.

He curves both hands around your thighs, fingers lifting higher and higher between your legs until they’re crossing over lace and onto bare skin.

You shuffle forward, leaning your arms on his shoulders and propping your knees on the bed either side of his body. Your skirt rides up, exposing the shard of shocking red lace beneath the pinstripe material.

Joel sees it. Like it’s a rag and he’s a bull. It charges something deep inside him. Something that awakens beneath the thin line of fabric between your legs.

You can feel your pulse in your clit. Fluttering, fucking – hammering. Your cunt feels painfully empty, clenching around nothing. Joel’s palms surf across the tops of your thighs until his fingers are teetering along the hem of your skirt.

“Off,” he instructs, swatting the poncho away.

You shake it from your shoulders the same way you shook the blond downstairs off. Joel nods as the material crumples to the floor. He hooks a hand under your knee and yanks your body closer to his. You almost throw the beer bottle across his bed.

“J– fucking hell, my –”

“Shut up,” he clips, and grabs the beer from your grasp to deposit it alongside his own.

His hands find the tiny buttons of your waistcoat, fingers slip through the gaps between them where your skin peeks through. You can feel his hot breath on your chest. A wave of need washes over you, a desire from deep within your marrow to feel him everywhere. His breath, his tongue, his hands. All of him.

Your entire body weight rests on his shoulders, your fingers locking his shirt in two tight fists. Joel doesn’t seem to mind. Barely seems to notice. He pulls apart the first button, watches with a dark gaze as your breasts spill over. The second button pops open easily, and they bounce lower. When he unhooks the third, they drop into place, nipples pointed, welcoming him in between them.

“Dirty fuckin’ girl,” he whispers as he leans in, mouth flattening against the smooth skin between them. “No bra or nothin’.”

“Knew you’d be here,” you reply, head rolling back as he licks a trail across to the darker flesh of your nipple. His lips close around it and he suckles gently. Your nails dig into his scalp.

He pushes the waistcoat over your shoulders and it drops to the carpet, pooled inside the shell of poncho. As soon as it falls, his hands begin the climb up the seam of your thigh, resting on the brush of red – where he feels the quickly dampening mark on the fabric.

“Thought as much,” he says, head cocking to watch your expression warp as he rubs slow circles into your clit. His voice is as soft as his touch, innocent almost, when he asks, “She like that?”

“Ye-ah,” you choke, leaning back.

“Yeah,” he agrees, and uses his other hand to fish beneath his sweatpants. He rubs himself under the gray cotton, watches as your fingers clutch at the waistband to tug it down, releasing him.

His heavy cock springs up between your bodies, dabs precome on the pointed tail of your tie. You giggle, loosening the knot and pulling the thin silk over your head. Your hands wrap around him, twisting and pumping and dragging the milky arousal from his slit down the smooth, warm skin. Joel’s breath catches when your thumbs swipe across his head.

His fingers slip behind your knees and pull them apart, pull them wider on the mattress. You lean forward, chest brushing against his parted lips, taking your panties in one hand and guiding him along your slit with the other.

You cover him in your arousal, the veined skin soon slick and pearlescent. His wide head slips between your opening, notching against your entrance and forcing the breath from your lungs.

His hands sit firmly on your waist, pushing down on your hips, pushing and pushing until he sinks snug into your cunt. When he pauses, his mouth agape and eyes stuck on the sight of his body connecting to yours, you whine.

“More,” you mewl, voice dripping with need, drizzling all over him.

“We gotta –”

“More.”

“Baby,” Joel says, voice flat but crumbling. “We gotta go slow. I’m gonna – You’re gonna make me come, dressed like that, if we go too quick.”

But fuck, you want to feel him. Want him to buck his hips and fill you in one go – fuck the pain. Fuck the discomfort, fuck the way your walls would clamp in a vice grip around him. You want him to fuck you. Want to be fucked so good that you have to time your moaning with the bassline of the music downstairs, unable to contain the sounds in your throat. Fucked so good that you waddle out of the room, that you fling yourself back onto the couch and wince in pain, a sharp memory of the breadth of him shooting between your legs.

Your hips circle, the heat of your cunt swirling around and around on his tip. He groans, hands tightening on your waist to hold you still.

“Stop it, darlin’,” he growls, the words clawing from between his teeth.

“F-fuck me, then,” you moan, curling your back to slowly edge down on him.

“Ask nicer.”

You smile, heavy lids falling closed. “Please?”

His hands roam around the curve of your ass. He starts to push again. “Nicer.”

Your mouth opens wider the further he slides into you. The more he claims of your body, the further you open for him, the warmer your welcome. Your head tips back, eyes tighten until you see stars. When you feel a weight around your neck, you flutter your lashes open, blink the cyan-colored sparkles from your vision.

Joel pulls your jaw back down to face him. Squeezes on your pulse, holding you between his middle finger and thumb.

“Nicer,” he demands.

You lean in, small hands linking around his thick wrist. “Fuck me, please, daddy,” you whisper.

And he smiles like a fucking devil. Eyes drawn black like ink. He pulls you in until your chin brushes against the rough bristle of his own, lines his bottom lip with yours.

Into your mouth, he asks, “You think you can take it, babygirl? Think it’ll fit?”

You nod desperately, anchoring yourself on his wrist. “Know it will.”

He’s only halfway in. Your heartbeat is thudding around your body, focusing hardest on your clit. Your hips move again, and Joel allows it, sitting back to watch as you sink down further.

“Go on,” he says, watching your body slowly attach to his, “’f you think you can do it. Be a big girl ‘n take it. Slow.”

Something caught between a laugh and a whimper drags between your painted lips – something dripping in desire, built from a need to prove yourself to him, to take all of him inside your body, to feel him in the deepest parts of yourself. You push on him, loosen his grip around your neck and flatten your palms on his chest. And you curve your back, pushing him deeper.

“’s my girl,” Joel says, quietly, as if to himself. “This what you wanted? Comin’ up here, dressed like that?”

Your teeth hold onto your bottom lip. “Like what?” you purr, leaning forward until your noses brush.

Joel tips his chin up, lips flush against yours. “Like a little fuckin’ slut.”

You laugh weakly, feeling him finally in his entirety. “Fuck.”

Joel’s hands take your waist, pushing you down until the pain sends bolts of lightning across your vision. The bruising feeling of his head against your cervix. The sweet stretch of your skin opening around his.

“Beggin’ for it, weren’t ya? ‘n now look, you can’t hardly take it.”

“I can take it,” you hiss back, bracing yourself on the mattress. Your hips lift, holding onto him, bouncing up and down steadily. “I can take it,” you repeat, like a mantra, like the only thing keeping you in the room still. The only thing reminding your body to keep moving.

Joel holds a palm steady against the bottom of your stomach, rubs his thumb delicately against your skin. “So deep, baby. ‘m so fuckin’ deep inside you. That feel nice?”

The meat of your ass slaps against the tops of his thighs. You’re quickening, eyes screwing shut. He feels so good. Fills you up so fucking good. Your legs start to loosen, knees weakening the more you fuck yourself on him. Your head drops between your shoulders when his thumb lowers, circles gently at your clit.

“Keep – keep doing that. Fuck, Joel – touch me. Keep touching me.”

“’boutta come, ain’t you?”

“Sh-shut up.”

“Yeah,” he says, “she’s about to come.”

“Shut up,” you hiss, hips rolling now, losing rhythm between the split of his cock inside you and the lull of his thumb on your clit. Your back arches, vision begins to blur. Your lungs close in on themselves as you give one final gasp to the ceiling, and let go.

Your walls clamp hard around him, and in one swift movement, your bodies are flipped. When you open your eyes again, you’re on your back, Joel’s figure towering over you.

“’attagirl,” he mutters, palms flat against the underside of your thighs. He pushes them flat, folding you in two, your knees resting by your shoulders. “So close, darlin’. Ain’t gonna last.”

You’re shaking your head, holding onto his neck, thighs trembling. “I – can’t, Joel.”

“Yeah, you can. You can,” he assures, dipping his head to place his lips on yours. Your mouth opens up for him, tongue falls against his own. It’s barely a kiss – you’re licking at one another, sure, but there’s nothing tender or gentle about it. Joel pulls away only to glance down and guide himself back inside you. “Gonna be my good girl, aren’t you? Gonna make me come.”

With one seamless thrust, he’s back inside you, pressing your legs harder against your torso. You whine, a blur of pain and pleasure mixing where he fucks you.

“Good girl,” he says, tongue skimming along his top lip. “Nice ‘n wide, that’s it.”

Your back arches into him, arms tighten around his neck, lips settle curved around his own. You’re moaning, his name releasing itself from your mouth in shots of breath. Joel takes your knee and hooks it over his shoulder, letting the other fall to his hip. The angle forces him deeper. Deeper and harder.

But he’s starting to jump. Bucking randomly. He’s panting your name, teeth grazing against your neck in attempt to hold on just a little longer, feel you squeeze him a little more.

“You’re close,” you slur.

“’m close,” he says.

“Gonna come in me –?”

“Baby –”

“– ’n send me – ah – back downstairs full of you? Runnin’ outta me?”

Joel’s head shakes. His eyes tighten. “Fuck, darlin’. Dirty fuckin’ mouth.”

“C’mon,” you beg, “give it to – m-me.”

His hips hammer against yours, punching against the edge of your cunt harshly. You sob out, nails digging into his shoulders, until he halts, and you feel the warmth of him spurting deep inside your body. Feel the way he tenses, empties, and stills.

Your head falls back against the mattress. Joel’s still nuzzled against your neck, breathing labored, lips soaking wet against your skin. You sift your fingers through his hair, combing through it as he comes to.

His chest rocks against yours. Feeling starts to sharpen again, the orgasmic haze starting to bleed into the past. The walls of the house thud with the music from downstairs. You feel the weight of his body on top of yours again.

“Up,” you groan, pushing on his shoulders.

Joel scoffs, pushing against the mattress and rolling over beside you. He slips out, his spend seeping out and spilling onto your thigh.

Your fingers intertwine with his by your side, your nails scrawling into his knuckles.

“I miss you, when you ain’t around,” Joel whispers, glossy eyes blinking at the ceiling. “I’m bored up here.”

You roll onto your side, run your fingers over the halo of sweat around the collar of his shirt. “Good think I ain’t far, then. ‘m only downstairs.”

He smiles. “Downstairs is too far.”

You lean over him and place a soft kiss on his rough cheek. “Just have to keep you at my hip then, don’t I?”

His head turns and his lips find yours. He cups the globe of your head, pulls you harder against his jaw, runs his tongue along your teeth. When you pull away, you shift the damp hair from his glistening forehead.

“You ruined my tie, by the way,” you tell him. “The hell am I supposed to say that is?”

Joel shrugs. “If Patrick Bateman were a woman, ‘n all that.”

[comfortzonelol]

♠️

[ipetitesissy]