#it's so crisp and clean and those ROLL-OFFS

[akkivee]

hey there! since you were (are?) a fellow Sonic fan, how do you feel about the new game?

hiya!!!! still am a sonic fan and absOLUTELY STOKED ABOUT THE SHADOW(X SONIC) GAME LMAO

did you see the steam page for the game???? this part in particular

tells me that they’re revamping shadow’s character like we got with amy, tails and knux in frontiers and that’s so exciting!!!!! esp since we haven’t had a proper look at who shadow is since 2006 GRAAAAAAAAAAAHH!!!!!!❤️🖤❤️🖤❤️🖤❤️🖤

[strang3lov3]

Bedridden

If you had cough syrup, you’d use that to put his ass to sleep. But you don’t, so you decide to utilize a different technique, one that always successfully incapacitates a man. 🍆💦❤️‍🔥

Joel is sick and refuses to rest, so you knock him out the best way you know how. (5.4k)

Tags - smut, lotsa sexual tension, blow jobs, pussy pronouns, teasing, fingering, unprotected piv, riding the sick old man’s cock, creampie, non-graphic descriptions of being sick. JOEL DOES THE DAD SNEEZE. coughing, fevers. That’s all. Joel is stubborn and grumpy while you take care of his old as fuck ass. Arguing with the old man, forcing the old man to bathe, forcing the old man to eat and drink, forcing a thermometer in the old man’s mouth. Joel bitching you out the whole time. Joel is kind of exactly like Dennis in IASIP when the gang gets quarantined. Fic Help - My usuals! @beefrobeefcal, your unhinged comments on the doc were the best part. and @endlessthxxghts thank you for your help <3 A/N - Heyyyyyyy. I promised this fic yesterday and then didn’t deliver. Sorry. It just needed to marinate in the doc a little longer or something. It’s been a bullshit ass few days and I’m,,,,handling it. Anyway, I’ve been sick as balls so that’s how this fic came about. Everybody wash your hands 🧼

There’s a fine point late in the year, right after summer turns to fall. You can fall asleep with the window over your bed cracked open just an inch to let the crisp, cool air blow over your face as you cocoon yourself in blankets. In the mornings you wake to that same breeze and the birds chirping, though less and less as they fly south for the upcoming winter. 

Not this morning, though. This morning, you’re awoken by a chesty, hacking cough coming from outside your window. You sigh as you get out of bed and push the curtains away from the window to get a better look at what the hell is going on out there. 

And it’s just your neighbor, Joel. You should have guessed it’d be him, you heard his earth shattering, deafening sneeze the other day when you waved to him as you walked by his house. Joel waved back at you with the same hand he sneezed into. Ew. 

Everyone’s getting sick lately, it goes around quickly in Jackson. Always does - it starts with the kids and works its way through the community, and a good four to six weeks are filled with endless sneezing and coughing and mucus.

Joel’s coughing up his lungs as he rakes up the leaves in your yard, a job he’s seemingly assigned himself, because you sure as shit didn’t ask him to do this. He has a habit of taking on your chores and home maintenance out of his own frustration. 

You pull a robe over your pajamas and slide on a pair of slippers, then leave out of the front door to greet Joel. “Good morning, Joel.” 

Joel clears his throat. “S’actually noon, lazy ass. ‘Bout time ya woke up.”

“Wanna tell me what you’re doing?”

“Exactly what it looks like.” He sniffles and wipes his nose on his sleeve. Gross. “M’workin’.” 

“Yeah, I see that. But you sound sick.” 

Joel ignores the accusation, “Your yard looks like shit, by the way,” he says. “Wouldn’t kill ya to rake once in a while. ‘Stead of makin’ me do it.” 

“You choose to do this. I don’t make you do anything,” you argue, rolling your eyes. It’s funny, though. Joel’s turning into the caricature of the old man angrily shaking his fist at kids playing on his lawn. All crotchety and pissed off about nothing. You step closer to him and wrap your hand around the handle of the rake, pulling it towards yourself. “Besides, Mother Nature put those leaves there for a reason,” you add. 

“Sure, smartass. For you to ignore and for me to clean up. Now, give it,” Joel tugs the rake back. Whatever. You let him. Joel rakes more of your leaves into the pile he’s created, then doubles over in another coughing fit. You rub your palm on his back, patting him gently. He’s sweating through his flannel. “Oh, Christ. Fuck me.” 

“Joel, you look awful.”

You help him stand up, “You’re a terrible flirt, darlin’,” Joel replies dryly. But he knows you’re not wrong. He saw in the mirror how pale he looked this morning, the dark circles around his eyes. 

“Oh, shut up.” You press the back of your hand against Joel’s forehead, all sweaty and warm. “You’re burning up, Joel. You’re sick.” 

“I am not sick,” Joel protests through another cough. “I’m fine. How ‘bout you worry ‘bout yourself ‘stead of fussin’ over me.”

“You’re hacking up a lung in my yard. I’ll worry about you all I want, thank you.”

In response, Joel grumbles something you can’t quite make out. You roll your eyes and take the rake from him, dropping it on the grass. “My rake,” Joel murmurs, annoyed and defeated. With your work clearly cut out for you, you take his hand and lead him into your house. “Aw, hell. What’re you doin’ to me.” 

“Taking care of you,” you reply.

“Didn’t sign up for this bullshit,” Joel complains. “I don’t need takin’ care of.”

Oh, he’s a peach. Most men, when sick, are total babies - pathetically crying about their headaches and stomachaches to women who deal with the same symptoms on a monthly basis. It’s charming, truly. But not Joel, though. In his stubbornness, Joel refuses to ever admit when he’s sick, like he’s got something to prove. Can never let himself be taken care of, because that’s his job - to take care of others. Always has been. 

Once inside, you have Joel take off his boots, then usher him to the bathroom with a hand on his back, his flannel damp with sweat. “Sit.” You reach for Joel’s shoulders and push him down, forcing him onto the lidded toilet. You crouch down at the bathtub and plug the drain with the stopper, then turn the water on - not too hot, not too cold. “Yeah, this is good. This’ll make you feel so much better.” 

“Oh, c’mon. Turn off the damn water. I’m not takin’ a bath.” 

“You are, too.” 

“Am not.” 

“Joel,” you bite. Joel parrots your name back in the same threatening tone.

“We’re breaking that fever one way or another, Joel. So you bathe yourself, or I’ll do it.” 

Joel cocks an eyebrow. “Oh, will ya, now?”

You go quiet, no retort to his comment. Heat rises to your cheeks and you focus on the bathtub filling with water to avoid Joel’s taunting gaze. After a long enough silence passes, Joel changes the subject. “I don’t have any clean clothes, y’know.” 

“Then I’ll grab you some from your house,” you mumble.

“Mm,” Joel grunts. “Got an answer for everything, don’tcha?”

You glare. Joel glares too. You fold your arms across your chest and raise your eyebrows at him. You are not losing this battle. 

Joel sighs in defeat. “Alright, go on an’ get, then. I’ll take the fuckin’ bath if it’ll get me fifteen minutes away from you obsessin’ over me. There. Happy?” 

“Happy.”

You leave Joel in the bathroom to bathe himself, closing the door behind you. Still wearing nothing but pajamas and a robe, you change quickly into a hoodie and jeans, then leave through your front door for the second time.

Joel’s house is right next to yours, so it’s not a long walk. Mentally, you’re kicking yourself for your stupid threat to bathe Joel. The way he responded to it, ‘Oh, will ya?’ and how bashful that made you, the embarrassment written all over your face in big, black, permanent marker. Your crush on the older man is obvious, and Joel, never the gentleman, will jump at any opportunity to make you squirm. Like when he catches your eyes lingering on him for a little too long, he’ll tease you for it. “S’rude to stare, y’know,” he’ll taunt, always with that stupid fucking grin on his face. Smile lines framing his cheeks, crows feet handsomely peeking at the corners of his eyes. You really need to stop setting yourself up for these things. 

Once in Joel’s house, you head upstairs for his bedroom and rifle through his dresser drawers for some comfy clothes. You pick out a pair of plaid boxers, some gray sweatpants, and a navy waffle-knit henley. You bunch up his clothes and inhale, Joel’s natural smell still lingering in the clothes, even washed. 

In his kitchen, you notice some vegetables sitting out on his countertops. Carrots, potatoes, onions. You grab those too, then check the fridge for leftover chicken or turkey or something. He usually has some, and usually brings it to you after he’s had his fill. “This is for you, trouble. Cause y’don’t eat enough,” he’ll gruff. “Would you like me to heat it up for ya?” And whether you say yes or no, he always does. It seems to make him happy or fulfill him somehow, so you let him take care of you like that. If only he’d let you return the favor.

Bingo. There’s chicken in old Tupperware right on the top shelf, and yesterday’s date written in Joel’s terrible handwriting from an old, dried up Sharpie. You take that too, then go back home. 

You leave Joel’s food you stole on the kitchen table and stop at your linen closet for a fresh towel. You knock on the bathroom door, “Joel?”

“Yeah, darlin’.”

“I have your clothes. And a towel.”

“Good. I need those,” Joel says. “C’mon in, then.” 

You open the door, averting your eyes from Joel’s naked body in the bathtub. “Relax. M’not gonna let you see somethin’ you ain’t ‘sposed to.” He’s got his hands covering his manhood, the rest of himself on display - toned biceps, veined forearms. His belly is pillowy and hairy and his legs look so long, all bare like this. His toes peeking out of the soapy bathwater. You set the towel and his clothes down on the toilet, stealing an even longer look at him when you think he doesn’t notice. “I see ya snoopin’, trouble. Wanna take a picture?”

You roll your eyes and ignore the offer, turning your attention to Joel but keeping your eyes focused on his face. His hair is slicked back, and his grays pop out against the rest of his dark hair, little ringlet curls at his neck. The asshole is criminally handsome. 

“Are you feeling better?”

“I feel fine. Like I’ve felt all day,” Joel lies. His body betrays him instantly when another cough wracks through him. 

“Right. Well, you smell better, at least.” 

Joel rolls his eyes, “Nice one, sweetheart. Thanks. Now scram, so I can get dressed.” 

You leave the bathroom, shutting the door behind yourself again. You can hear the sound of the bathtub draining and Joel getting out of the tub as you stop at the linen closet again, this time grabbing some queen sized sheets and pillowcases. 

In your living room, you pull some cushions off of your sofa and pull out the built-in bed, then dress it with the sheets and an old floral quilt. You cover your own pillows in the pillowcases, then fluff them nicely and set them up for Joel, who’s leaving the bathroom now, combing his hair back.

“Stole your comb,” he says, tossing it for you to catch. He stops in the living room and looks at the pull-out bed that you made up, the corners of the sheets tucked in and everything. “The hell’s all this?”

“Exactly what it looks like,” You mock his words from earlier. “Your bed.”

“You’re bein’ ridiculous. I ain’t even sick.”

You ignore Joel and point to the bed. “Get in.”

Joel rolls his eyes but gets in the bed anyway, springs squeaking under his weight. “M’not gettin’ in this bed ‘cause I’m sick or ‘cause you’re makin’ me. Just feel like sittin’.” 

“Sure, Joel,” you sigh. “How much water have you had today?”

“Plenty.”

“How much is plenty?”

“It’s enough,” he snaps impatiently. You leave him just for a second to fill a glass with some water, then bring it to him. Joel pushes the glass away, “I said I’ve had enough.” 

“I’ll decide what’s enough, now here–” you put the glass into his hand, “Drink.” 

Joel drinks the entirety of the glass, glaring at you the entire time. Good god, if looks could fucking kill. The cool water soothes his scratchy, sore throat, but Joel won’t tell you that. “You’re a tyrant, sweetheart,” he tells you, voice raspy and low. What he doesn’t tell you, however, is that if the shoe were on the other foot and you were the sick one right now, he'd be just as overbearing over your health. Probably worse. 

You pout mockingly at Joel as you take his glass. “Stay here. Don’t get up.” 

You get up from the bed to go into the kitchen and begin preparing a soup for Joel to soothe his aching throat. You start by dicing onions, then chopping some carrots. You toss them in a large pot with some butter, letting the vegetables soften. You’ve even got some leftover bread you made yesterday, so you turn on your oven to heat it up. You can hear Joel getting restless, tossing and turning in the less than comfortable bed. Probably should have turned on a movie for him, left him a book or something to occupy his restless mind. “You okay?”

“M’fine. Mind your business.” 

You open Joel’s Tupperware and chop up his chicken into little bits. When you look up, Joel’s out of bed. You scoff. He’s forcing open your window, grunting as it squeaks. “Joel, what did I tell you? Get your ass back in that bed.”

“Relax, would ya? M’tryin’ to get some air in here.” Joel successfully forces the window open, and cool air blows into your tediously warmed home. “House is a fuckin’ oven.”

“Yeah, well, that’s probably your fever talking, dumbass. Put my window down.” 

“I really outta fix this window for ya. Ain’t good to leave it like this. I’ll get my tools an’ I–”

You march across the kitchen and into the living room, knife in hand and using it to point to the bed. “Joel.”

“You scare me,” Joel mumbles, raising his arms in surrender. He closes the sticky window for you, then you march him back to the pullout. Before Joel lays down, he glances in the kitchen at what you’ve been cooking. He heard the sounds of you chopping, but with his nose all congested he can’t smell enough to hazard a guess as to what you’ve been making. Joel narrows his eyes at the stolen Tupperware on your table, the carrots and onion peels to the side, and recognizes it all as his. “Is that my…?” 

“Just lay down, Joel.” 

“Did you take that from my fridge?” 

“I did.”

You’re completely shameless about this, there’s not even a half-assed attempt at lying your way out, and Joel’s beside himself. “You stole from me, you little–” You urge Joel into bed, fluffing the pillows behind him as you ignore his tantrum. “You are unbelievable. I could throttle you, you know that?”

“Go ahead, Joel,” you challenge. A slight breeze could knock this sick old man down to his knees. You tuck Joel into the sheets, then adjust the quilt over him again. And this time before leaving him, you grab an old book of word searches in a basket under an end table. “Here.” You toss it to him along with a dull pencil. That should keep him busy.

Back in the kitchen, you’re still working on Joel’s soup. It’s bubbling away on the stove, and you’ve just finished making egg noodles to make the dish a little heartier. Something to stick to his ribs. It hits you then, that you don’t hear sniffling or coughing. Joel’s gone quiet, suspiciously so. 

And lo and be-fucking-hold, Joel’s up again. This time, with tools. Tools that you don’t have, tools that he must have snuck out and grabbed from his home at some point. “Joel!” 

“There,” Joel says, moving your window up and down seamlessly. “Window’s fixed.” 

“How many times do I have to say it?” 

“How about you try a ‘thank you’, huh?” Joel shoots back.

You shoo him back to bed. You slice a bit of warm bread, then ladle some soup into a bowl and bring it to him with a spoon. “Eat,” you tell him. 

Joel eats a spoonful, and it’s written all over his face how much he enjoys it, the warm broth relieving his sore throat. “So what’d you poison it with, huh?”

“Oh, you’re such a dick.” 

Joel smiles, only teasing. “M’sorry. S’just that you shouldn’t be doin’ all this for me, s’all.” Joel squeezes your knee comfortingly. “Thank you. I mean it, darlin’.” He’ll let you feed him, but no more than that. You’re too sweet for your own good. “S’good soup.”

“I’m glad you like it, you asshole.” You smile too, and push some of Joel’s hair out of his face. He finishes his bowl of soup, even has a second one. You take his bowl away and wash it at the sink.

“Should let me do that,” Joel says, following you into the kitchen. “Ain’t that how it works? One cooks, the other cleans.” Joel bumps you to the side and takes the soapy dish from your hands.

“Maybe another time,” you offer, attempting to take back the bowl. “Don’t want your germs on my dinnerware.” But Joel holds on tight, so you let him wash the dish. Since he wants to die on this hill. So you dry your hands, then feel his forehead once again. You frown, displeased that the bath didn’t work at curbing his fever at all. He’s still burning up. “I’ll be right back.” 

You go to your bathroom and open the cabinet vanity, where you have an old Walgreens thermometer, the paint all smudged off. You wash it with soap and water in the sink, then return to Joel. Amazingly, you find him in the bed doing his word search puzzle, and you didn’t even have to tell him to go lay down this time. 

The bed creaks under you as you sit down next to him. You put his book down, “Open,” you tell him, thermometer in hand.

“Oh, c’mon now,” Joel complains. “Get that thermometer outta my face.”  

You shake your head no, and tug on Joel's chin so that he opens his mouth. You place the thermometer under his tongue and he closes his lips around it, staring daggers at you the entire time thermometer reads his temperature. 

He’s so handsome. Big, sparkling brown eyes underneath brows knit together in irritation. Pouting lips. Age looks good on him, perfectly both softens and enhances his rougher edges.

The thermometer beeps. You read the temperature, 102.3°F. Why Joel’s even upright with a fever like this is a mystery, but that’s men for you. Fucking idiots. “That’s a hell of a fever you’re running, Joel.”

“You’re full’a shit. Gimme that.” Joel sniffles and snatches the thermometer from you to read the number for himself. He shrugs. “S’old. Probably faulty. Can’t trust it.” Joel covers his mouth with his elbow and coughs loudly. 

“You’re old and faulty too, Joel. Look at you.” You offer him a handkerchief to wipe his nose. “You’re falling apart.” 

Joel scowls at you before blowing his nose. You leave him once more, this time to bring him a cool, damp rag. You press it against his forehead, and Joel closes his eyes. “Does that feel nice?”

“No. Quit that.” 

But Joel’s body betrays him. He’s sighing in relief, and his tensed muscles loosen. His breathing, while still shallow, has slowed as much as it can, soft belly rising and falling with steady breaths.

“Are you falling asleep?” 

“No, I’m not. M’not tired,” Joel argues. He tries adjusting the now lukewarm rag, warmed by his body heat.

“You should sleep.”

“Nah.”

 You take the damp rag off of Joel’s forehead and flip it so that the cooler side soothes his hot, feverish skin. “You know, Joel, I think this is why god made women. To take care of stupid, sick men like you.”

“Hm. Could be so. But I think he sent you to me as a punishment of sorts.” 

“Is that so? A punishment?”

“S’right. An’ some day, you’ll fool some poor man into marryin’ you and he’ll have to put up with this same shit the rest of his life. I don’t envy that sorry bastard one bit.” 

“Oh, I know,” you coo, wiping away a droplet of water that rolls down his temple. “You tell me all about it, Joel. Tell me how terrible it is.”

“Oh, I intend to.” Joel continues his tirade, bitching and moaning about how you're doing too much, that none of this is necessary. ‘Quit fussin’ over me’ and so on.

You know that after this, Joel will try to leave you, go home and fiddle with things in his home that aren’t broken - or worse yet, he’ll tinker with the things in yours that he deems in need of fixing. Squeaky door, creaky floor panels. You listen to his slight wheezing, his sniffling, his voice all raspy and broken. He really does need to rest, the poor man. 

If you had cough syrup, you’d use that to put his ass to sleep. But you don’t, so you decide to utilize a different technique, one that always successfully incapacitates a man. 

You remove the damp rag from Joel’s head and set it on the coffee table behind you. Joel’s eyes are shut as he takes shallow breaths, and you trace lazy patterns on his stomach, inching your way down, down, until you’re rubbing his warm bulge, feeling him stiffen beneath your touch. “Goddamnit, what the hell are you doin’ t’me, now?” Joel groans. He takes your wrist and squeezes it gently in his grip.

“Nothing, Joel,” you answer innocently.

 “Bullshit, it’s - you’re - oh, fuck.” Joel bucks into your palm. You slide your hand beneath his sweatpants to touch his bare cock, amused at how Joel decided against wearing boxers today. “You’re killin’ me, sweetheart. You gotta, you can’t–”

“Shhh,” you hush him. You drag your nails through his patch of coarse hair, playing with those long and wiry hairs. You palm his cock again, half hard and growing harder by the second. Before this goes further, you tug his sweatpants down his thighs. “Lift up for me, Joel.”

Joel lifts his hips and you tug his sweats down the rest of the way, then continue touching him. You spit into your hand and pump him from top to bottom, taking special care to gently massage his balls when you reach the base of his cock. “Ohh, darlin’. Oh lord.” 

Joel’s stiffened to full length now. You kiss the tip of his cock, all the way down his shaft before licking your way back up, one long, fat stripe. You swirl your tongue around the head and dip your head, teasing him with it as you bob your head up and down, taking more and more of him down your throat with each pass.

Joel moans, his sick voice breaking a little. He keeps a heavy hand on your bobbing hand and wonders what the hell he did to deserve this from you. He should have stopped fighting his sickness long ago if this is what was in the cards for him. 

Realization dawns on Joel. It all makes sense, why you’re sucking him off at this particular moment. You’re trying to put him to bed, you goddamn deviant. “You’re trouble,” he accuses. “I know exactly what you’re doin’.” 

“Hmm?” You turn your head to Joel, his cock still in your mouth. You bounce it against your inner cheek, and Joel groans at the lewd image of his cockhead bulging in your mouth.

“Yeah,” Joel says. “And let me - oh, fuck-” You drop your head low, taking all of him into your mouth. So deep that your nose is buried in his pubic hair. “Let me tell ya, darlin’, what you’re doin - it ain’t gonna work on me.”

You pull off of his cock with a pop. “It won’t?”

Joel shakes his head. “Mm-mm. You’re wastin’ your time.” 

“Oh. Well, I should stop, then.” 

You begin to pull off of his cock, but Joel forces you back down. “Nah, you don’t have t - you gotta give it your best shot, right?”

You smile with Joel’s cock in your mouth. What a fucking guy. You pull off of him only momentarily, garnering a protesting groan spilling from his lips. You take off your shirt and unbutton your pants. “Lemme help you with that, c’mere, darlin’,” Joel says, pulling your pants and panties down your legs. He unclasps your bra next, then sheds his own clothing. 

You take him right back into your mouth, hollowing your cheeks as you suck his length. This time, though, you play with your pussy. As you move up and down Joel’s shaft, you slip through your folds, dipping down to your wet hole to gather your arousal on your fingertips. You circle your clit a couple of times, then push your fingers in and out of your pussy. 

“You fuckin’ yourself on your fingers, sweetheart?”

“Mm-hm,” you hum, mouth stuffed full of Joel’s cock.

Joel pulls your hand away and replaces your fingers with his own, much thicker and longer ones. “Let me,” he says. “S’my job. Shouldn’t have t’do that to yourself, ‘less you wanna. Or if I say so.” 

Joel spreads your thighs wider. He moves his pointer and middle fingers up and down, exploring your slick, velvety pussy. He sucks those two fingers and then his thumb and rubs tight circles around the sensitive nub, all swollen and wet with your arousal. You moan at the action, the vibration of your voice traveling right down his shaft and to his balls. He bucks himself into your mouth.

Joel inserts his middle and ring fingers into your pussy, pumping in and out slowly before curling them upward, stroking right where you need him to. “Got a nice fuckin’ pussy,” he purrs with his hoarse, gravelly voice. You pulse around his fingers, and Joel admires the way your tight hole hugs him as he moves in and out of you. “She’s makin’ such a mess, drippin’ all over me.” 

You twist your fist up and down Joel’s shaft as you suck him, working him closer and closer to the edge. Joel’s content with this, the prospect of coming down your throat and fucking you with his fingers. But you have a different idea, and when his balls are tightening and his shaft is twitching, his breathing quickening, you pull off of him. 

Joel groans in frustration, but his anger is quickly eased when you straddle his hips. You reach between your legs for his cock and stroke it, dragging the tip through your folds, up and down, up and down, dipping it in and out of yourself to tease him. “You’re fightin’ dirty.” 

 Joel’s exercised enough self control today and doesn’t let you tease him for long. He puts both of his large, weathered, and masculine hands on your waist and pulls you right down on his cock, the initial penetration causing a stretch so intense you see stars for a second. “Oh god, Joel,” you moan, clutching his shoulders. 

“I know, I know,” Joel whispers, rubbing your back. “You good, sweetheart? You need a minute?”

 “Just - just a second.”

 “Take your time. Know it’s a lot, you’ll get used to it.” 

Joel gives you a second, then inches you up and down on his cock to get you adjusted to the sensation of being so full of him. Soon enough, the ache dissipates and is replaced with pleasure, nothing but pure pleasure. You rest against his hot body, rocking your hips to grind against his pubic bone. 

You know that by the way he bucked his hips into your mouth, how he pulled you down on his cock, how even now he moves you, that he’ll tire himself out. Your plan was simply to make him come to knock him out, but this - this works too. Exhaust his body, get yourself off in the process. Killing two birds with one stone. 

Joel fucks you harder now, hands on your ass to move you up and down on his cock. He bends his legs at the knee for more leverage, bouncing you on his lap. “That’s it, sweetheart,” he grunts. He moves you so that your chest is right above his face, and one at a time, sucks your nipples into his mouth, teeth lightly grazing them. 

You hold onto Joel’s broad shoulders to steady yourself, looking down at him as he fucks himself into you. He’s so handsome, cheeks and chest all flushed red, a sheen of sweat glittering at his hairline, his graying curls damp. Joel’s eyebrows are knit together as he fucks you, tracing your curves with his gaze. He pulls you against his chest as he ruts against you, his scruff scratching your skin so deliciously. “Takin’ me so good. Look so pretty on my cock like this.” 

You move at his will. Joel’s underneath you, rocking himself  in and out of your dripping, tight pussy. His thrusts are getting sloppy, hips stuttering in a non-rhythm as he pushes himself inside you over and over. He must be getting close now. 

“Up, sweetheart. Lean back f’me.” 

You peel yourself off of Joel’s middle, all slick with his sweat. Joel spits into his hand and presses the calloused pads of his fingertips against your clit. You roll your hips against him, savoring that much-needed friction against your clit.

“Like that, darlin’. Jus’ like that. Fuck yourself on my cock,” Joel says, rubbing your sensitive bud with tight circles. “Gonna watch you come all over me.” 

“Yeah,” you moan, “Wanna come for you.” 

Joel loves you like this. Your face contorted in pleasure, mouth agape, body quivering and twitching on top of him. He steadily massages your wet, swollen clit and wears a crooked smile when he feels your cunt start to pulse around him. And you think you’re pulling one over on him, but look at you, all fucked out and delirious. You’ll probably crash after this, and Joel will go right back to fixing up your house. There’s a door hinge that’s been squeaking…

“Oh my - Joel, I’m - I’m gonna -” 

“Know you are, sweetheart. Let me have it,” he groans, voice all broken and hoarse. “Come all over my cock, darlin’. Let go f’me.” 

That hot, sticky pleasure in your gut begins to intensify rapidly. You go quiet just before it happens, then let out a long, whimpering moan when your orgasm takes over your body. You shudder and jerk as Joel fucks you through your release, and once you’ve ridden it out, Joel pulls you tight against his chest. 

While you come down from your high, Joel frantically fucks you, slamming his hips against yours as he chases his own climax, balls tightening and his belly filling with warmth. “Oh, goddamn. Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Joel pants as he comes, painting your insides with his hot seed, the warmth of his release and the pulsing of his cock so satisfying. 

Coming down from his orgasm, a wave of exhaustion hits Joel. He finds himself unable to move, unable to open his heavy eyelids. He might’ve been wrong, because napping away the rest of the afternoon doesn’t sound quite so bad, now.

You pull your body off of Joel’s and he lets out a sighing grunt when his softening cock slides out of your body, the mess he created with you spilling all over his lap. You grab that washrag you held against his forehead and clean him up and then yourself, then get up to dispose of it. 

Joel grabs you by the arm, his grip weak. “Don’t you go anywhere, trouble,” he grumbles. 

“But I’ve gotta take care of this, Joel,” you protest. 

“Deal with it later. Just -” Joel yawns and pulls you down and holds you tight against his chest, as tight as he can, anyway. “Jus’ stay with me a minute.” 

Joel’s eyes are still shut, and his breathing becomes slow and rhythmic. It’s laughable how quickly sleep is taking over his sick, exhausted body, having used what little life he had in himself to fuck you stupid. Like that last burst of energy from a dying star. “I thought you weren’t tired,” you tease.

Joel sniffles. “M’not.” 

“Mhm. Sure.” 

“Just checkin’ my eyelids for holes.”

You push some curls out of Joel’s face and hold your palm against his cheek, still hot with his fever. He’s so peaceful looking like this, plump lips pouting as he breathes through his mouth. You bring your face close to his and close the gap by pressing a little kiss against his lips. 

“What’re you kissin’ me for, hm?” 

“I want to,” you reply, kissing him again.

“Gonna get yourself sick,” Joel murmurs groggily, eyes still closed. “Which means in a couple days, I get to do all this right back to you. S'payback, darlin’.”

You chuckle. And in just a few short seconds, Joel’s snoring lightly, dead to the world.

If you enjoyed, please please please reblog with thoughts or comment or hop in my inbox! Your kind words go farther than you know in keeping me motivated to write 💕

[tadpolesonalgae]

Resting Time

Eris x reader

For Day 1 of @acotar-omegaverse-week — Nesting: Surely there’s a perfectly normal, completely unsuspicious reason they’re feeling an irresistible urge to arrange and rearrange the blankets and pillows…. right?

word count: 1,233

——————————————————————————————————————————————

“Are you done?” Eris asks, shoulder pressing to one of the four thick, dark-wooden posts that make up your grand-sized bed. 

You take a few steps back, looking over the covers: the sheets are a dark red; the duvet and pillowcases are in a lighter shade, edged with maroon coloured inch-thick hems; the thin blanket that goes atop the duvet has a floral pattern on its underside, with burnished gold stitching embroidering vines onto its topside; the five pillows are stacked symmetrically, two on each side with one in the middle. The pillows at the bottom of the pile are square, each case matching the colour of the duvet, while the two atop the square ones are rectangular and have the matching floral pattern of the blanket, and the smallest pillow propped atop the other four is a flattened cylinder, with golden tassels hanging off its circumferences. 

Teeth chew your lower lip. You shake your head, starting forward. “No, the rectangular cushions should be below the square ones, so they’re propped up at a diagonal.” 

“Honey, we’re going to take them off anyway to sleep.” 

“You most certainly will not—wait!”

A pair of broad palms have slid around your waist, turning you half a circle before lifting you effortlessly to the air and tossing you into the plush centre of the bed, your body sinking into the plush duvet and mattress. “Eris, you’ve ruined it,” you whine, looking at the wrinkles that are now pressed into the freshly ironed sheets. But your mate follows, hovering over you, his two powerful arms settling either side of your head, muscles shifting beneath the crisp, pale linen of his shirt as he dips down, nosing at your throat. 

Heat warms your cheeks, lips curving at the ticklish lick of breath fanning across your neck, his tongue tentatively licking once, twice, over your skin. His hair falls forward from his shoulders, brushing your collarbones, bringing a wave of his scent to your attention. He smells good. Fresh, and crisp, and clean. Like an autumn day but perhaps without the dampness of morning dew. Just that fresh, hazelnut scent. Golden sugar dusted over fire-roasted chestnuts. Pecans and marzipan. Warm spices and woodsmoke. 

“You smell good,” you mumble, arms lethargically pulling themselves up over his back, wanting to bring him down to your level to better feel him. 

“Fawn,” Eris begins, pulling up from your body, making you whine. “Are you nesting?” 

Your brows furrow. “I can be particular about how things should be displayed without it meaning I’m nesting, Eris. Don’t you want things to look nice?” 

“You spent ten minutes rearranging your breakfast this morning…” 

“I just wanted it to look appetising. And I wasn’t that hungry then.” 

“And changing all the covers on the cushions in our living chambers? And the parlour?” 

“They hadn’t been changed in months. Don’t you think they look good?” 

“They look lovely. But what about the painting yesterday? And now the bedsheets?”

You glance sideways at the bedsheets, worrying your lower lip. “I thought so too. I should have chosen the maroon ones instead… Wait, we have pale duvet covers don’t we? The ones with the black and rouge trimmings? Those would look much better.” You make to scramble out from beneath him, but he lays one palm firmly over your hip, keeping you still. “Honey…” 

“I’m not nesting.” You grumble, glaring at him playfully. Eris’ expression is a portrait of skeptical doubt. Your brows furrow. “I’m not.” 

“Mhmm.” 

Your tongue clicks, half rolling your eyes. “I think I would know, Eris,” you remind, folding your arms across your chest. “But if it’s bothering you…” 

“It’s not bothering me. What’s bothering me is that it’s half eleven at night and you’re wanting to change the covers again. They look perfect.” He adds on swiftly when you make to glance at the sheets again. “You’ve done a lovely job. Now let’s go to sleep.” 

Lips pressing together, you avert your gaze. “You really think they’re perfect?” 

“Yes. They look wonderful—so good I want nothing more than to sleep in them.” 

“Are you sure?” 

“Believe me, I’m sure.” He presses a kiss to your forehead. “They’re perfect. Now please can we sleep?” 

Reluctantly you give a nod of your head. “Alright…sorry for keeping you awake so long…” Eris’ lips curve faintly, a soft twinkle in his eyes. “I’m sure I’ve kept you up for much longer in the past, for different reasons.” Heat flutters in your lower tummy, eyes flicking down to the collar of his shirt, the pale skin it’s showing off with the slight V-neck. Your eyes do feel pretty heavy…

Eris chuckles. “See? You’re tired too. You need to rest.” 

“Okay…” 

You clamp down on a complaint when he pulls the duvet back, disrupting the smoothness you’d so carefully aimed for. “Come over here,” Eris instructs, a note of affection in his fatigued voice. You grumble, but roll to your allocated side of the bed, allowing him to tuck you in properly before he slides in beside you. 

Without a second’s delay you’ve squashed yourself up to his front, pressing your face into his chest, dragging his scent down in lungfuls. He really smells good.

Eris pauses, before he’s shifting his arms to be around you, a palm pulling hair out from under you. “Sweet little omega.” You hear him murmur to the crown of your head, stroking your skin soothingly. You eagerly squeeze closer, so you’re pressed together from your feet to your head, your legs having twined with his. Fingers curl in the fabric of his shirt, pulling it to your nose to take a full inhale. 

“I’m wearing this tomorrow,” you mumble, crawling a few inches further up his body so you can take his scent from his skin, wanting to lick up his flavour; wrap yourself in him. His reply is muffled. “It’ll be going in the wash tomorrow. This is the third night I’ve worn it.”

“I’ll take it out before it can be washed.” 

“I’m telling you,” he sighs, exasperation underlying his voice, “you’re—”

“I’m not,” you huff, lips curved in a smile. “I would know. Besides, it shouldn’t be happening for another month.” 

“Maybe it’s coming early.” 

“It’s not,” you mumble, mouth slurring your words together. “You’re just seeing what your alpha mind wants you to.” 

“Mhmm. Because it’s happening right before my keen alpha eyes.” 

You shoot him a withering glare, able to hear his deadpan drawl. He offers a sleepy smirk, and your temper is mellowed almost instantly, clutching tighter to him. “I’m just saying I know my omega well. The Mother knows I’d have no quarrel with you starting to nest earlier than we expected.” 

“That’s lovely, but I assure you I’m not.” 

“We’ll see,” he laughs softly, tucking the crown of your head beneath his chin, large palm stroking across your back. 

A beat of silence passes, and you’re on the verge of falling asleep when he speaks again. “I’d be happy to give you my shirt tomorrow if you were nesting, though.” 

“You won’t be leaving the bed if I am,” you mumble back. “I’ll be burying us together beneath all your clothes.” 

Eris groans, but beneath your palm you can feel as his pulse quickens, his heart betraying his true emotion. 

Maybe you are starting earlier than you thought…

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general taglist: @myheartfollower @tcris2020 @mali22 @slut4acotar @sfhsgrad-blog @needylilgal022 @hannzoaks @hnyclover @skyesayshi @nyotamalfoy @decomposing-writer @soph1644 @lilah-asteria @nighttimemoonlover @mrsjna

[gojonanami]

ARMED AND DANGEROUS - NANAMI KENTO

✴︎ summary: nanami's arms were always so nice around your throat, but you never tried having his arm between your legs before, until now. ✴︎ contents: 18+ only, pure filth, arm riding, light choking, arm/hand kink, groping, pet names (sweetheart, baby, pretty girl) ✴︎ wc: 1,157

“What are you doing?” Kento Nanami’s voice cuts through your thoughts, a book in his hand while the other was in his lap as he lounged on his couch. His blue shirt was unbuttoned a few buttons lower than usual and the normally crisp shirt creased, his tie and glasses already pulled off from the day, and his sleeves deliciously rolled up exposing his forearms. 

And those forearms were the main cause of the ache between your thighs at the moment. And it was nothing new that you loved Kento’s arms — your fingers always grasping and sliding up them, before he wrapped them around your waist, but your fascination mostly had laid with his hands. The way his hand closed around your throat when he fucked you, holding you in place on his lap as he thrusted upwards, deeper and deeper, as he muttered praise under his breath. The way he pressed his fingers into your mouth when he fucked you from behind, pressing your back against his chest, making you suck at the digits, the same that he had bullied your messy cunt with earlier. 

But now…

“Nothing,” you wave him off, chewing on your lip, trying to busy yourself with your phone, trying to ignore the ache between your legs — he was so tired, he had just come back from a mission, you couldn’t bother him with this — and it was — it was embarrassing, “go back to reading, Kento,” 

“You want something,” and he’s leaning against the very thing you were thinking about having between your legs, “you don’t have to hold back with me, baby,” and you can see the gears turning in his head as he tries to figure out what’s gotten you bothered, as his arms shift to cross across his chest, your thighs squeeze all too tellingly. His eyes flicker down to his exposed forearms, “is this what’s gotten you all worked up?” 

And you pout, his lips curling in an easy smile that you were so privileged to see, “Well—” 

“Come,” he gestures, uncrossing his legs, as he tilts his head, his arms resting on either armrest, as he raises an eyebrow when he hesitates, “or do I need to make you?” 

You’re shaking your head as you find your way into his lap, and his arms are pulling you even closer, clothed cunt grazing against his already tenting erection, and you whimper. 

“I need you to tell me what you want,” his words are always so straightforward — as he handled all aspects of his life — clean cut, just the way he exorcised curses, but the heat that laid underneath his words were just for you, as your lips part but no words leave them, “come on, sweetheart, I know you can do better than that,” 

“I want to—” your sentence cuts off for a moment, “I wanna ride you—” 

And he chuckles, raising an eyebrow,  “Is that all?” and you’re shaking your head, as you swallow thickly, cheeks burning. 

“I want to ride your arm,” and you can’t meet his gaze, eyes settling on his chest, before his fingers are tilting your chin up to find his gaze darkened. 

“Is that all?” and your mouth is dry, as you’re wondering if you heard him right, or the heady blood pounding in your ears, his fingers cupping your chin, his lips grazing yours, as he urges you up,  “then do it,” and he’s tugging your shorts off, leaving your panties on, thick fingers snapping the elastic against your skin, as his large hands skimming against the curve of your ass. 

He rests his arms on the armchair, lips curling as you rise and climb onto his arm, settling on his thick forearm, the metal of his watch barely brushing your ass. He hums as the wet patch of your underwear, “So wet already? We haven’t even started yet,” and you whimper as he shifts his arm, rubbing lightly against your aching cunt, “now, be a good girl, and fuck yourself on my arm, baby,” 

You start to roll your hips against his forearm, a small moan pulled from your lips as you begin to soak through your panties, your fingers finding purchase on his shoulders, as your needy cunt rubs against his forearm — and you swear — you could feel very vein and ridge of his arm as you clench around nothing as you begin to move faster — needing more as you chased your high. 

“That’s it, faster, sweetheart,” he grunts, as your eyes squeeze shut a moment, before opening to catch a glimpse of his hand palming his erection tenting in his pant — and fuck—you’re even wetter now. His arm begins to flex as your hips snap against him, making the cold metal of his watch brush against your bunching underwear, pulling a delicious shiver from your lips, “come on, I know you have more pretty sounds for me,” and he’s easing his arm away, making you whine, as he’s pulling the crotch of your ruined underwear aside, “Want to feel your cum drip down my arm,” 

And his arm meanly rubs against you, urging you to fuck yourself harder on him, wanting to feel your walls ache for him to fill you. So you do, sloppy squelching against his arm as you begin to moan in earnest, your cum drenching his forearm, and he knew he’d smell like your cum later. 

Your legs were nearly jelly at his point, beginning to shake from your nearing orgasm, and he only redoubles his efforts, flexing his arm again and again and again. 

His other hand reaches to wrap around your throat lightly, his thumb brushing against the hollow of your throat, a noise leaving your lips between a gasp and a moan, as he gauges your reaction and waits for the nod he needs to see before continuing. 

“That’s it, pretty girl,” he’s squeezing the sides of your throat, making your cunt even wetter if that was possible, as his arm continues to ride against you. Your eyes glaze over with lust, as you can only hear his sweet words and the blood roaring in your ears, as pleasure coils tighter and tighter. 

“S’close, Kento, I’m—” and that’s all he needs to press his arm into you even harder, rubbing against your clit, his thick fingers around your throat, as you come undone. 

But he doesn’t stop as you do, the lewd noises of your orgasm evident as his arm still rubs against you as your release drips down his arm and onto the armchair itself. 

“Such a messy girl,” he hums, as he leans forward to kiss you sweetly, as you come down from your high, practically panting into his mouth, “but so good for me,” And he’s undoing the belt of his slacks, urging both his pants and boxers down, letting his cock out, before he’s shifting onto his lap, “let’s see how good you can be for me.” 

✴︎ a/n: so this is @lemonpoppy-seed's fault and the new episode's fault. nanami got me acting up.

✴︎ tag list (based on who interacted w/ my post): @vorschlaghannah, @karazorel7, @jade-jax, @chosoilysm, @sweetlittlegirlworldsblog, @unohanaswetdream, @scentedneckbasketballzipper, @tnnik0, @bee-sidiomycete, @no4waifu, @justanotherhawkssimp, @dixonsunicorn

[cuubism]

as a certified horse obsessed freak i'm obliged to have an equestrian au so here's an equestrian au. make it olympics flavored for relevance. but there will be no sex in hay!! EVER!!!

it is smutty though.

--

Dream Endleas’s reputation for being difficult preceded him. His critical eye, his adherence to perfection, his crisp turnout and refusal to ever appear the slightest bit disheveled even after competing in the summer heat; his family, his money, his luxury-brand sponsorships—Hob had seen enough videos of Dream’s Grand Prix tests to be prepared for all of it. But he wasn’t prepared for the force of seeing it in person.

Dream in person was somehow even more perfect and posh than he appeared on video. Hob hadn’t actually spoken to him yet, had only communicated through his groom, Matthew, while getting the horses settled in—but God, he looked like such a prat. He looked like the type of snotty kid Hob had seen around the yard growing up, the type who thought they could ride because their parents had bought them a fifty-thousand pound pony. The type that persisted into adulthood, rolling up in a Range Rover to get on an already tacked horse, later handing their fancy horse back to the groom before stalking back out of the stable in pristine white breeches, leaving all the care to others.

Hob might have had a bit of a chip on his shoulder about that sort of thing.

It would have been easy to hate Dream, except that, fancy horse or not, he actually could ride, exceedingly well at that, and—and Hob was feeling very betrayed by his dick on this one—he was also blisteringly hot.

Dressage competition wear was, by and large, not one’s first choice of clothes that would be considered “sexy.” The combination of “business formal” and “cavalry officer on parade” wasn’t exactly giving come hither, but Hob took one look at Dream stalking down the center aisle of the barn in his clean white breeches and his high boots and his black coat with its little fucking Union Jack embroidery and he wanted. It was a good thing thoughts were an internal situation because it was embarrassing how quickly he went to I want those skinny little thighs wrapped around my head. Mortifying, really.

He was thinking about it so hard he didn’t immediately realize Dream was coming for him.

“You,” Dream said, stopping before him. “You are the stable manager.”

“That’s me,” Hob agreed. Regretting it more every minute, too. Managing the horses for the Olympic team had sounded like a good gig in theory…

“Why have the horses not been turned out?” Dream demanded.

“Aren’t you competing in—” Hob checked his watch— “an hour? Why are you asking me this now?”

“Because it came to my attention that things were mismanaged,” Dream said, unrepentant, then stood, waiting for his answer.

Hob sighed. “They didn’t provide us any turnout space.”

“They did not provide—” Dream started, then stopped, apparently flummoxed. “That is unacceptable.”

Hob had to grudgingly admit that it was to his credit that he cared. Not everyone did. “Tell me about it. But if you hadn’t noticed, we’re in a several hundred year old stable and they weren’t about to revamp the entire situation for us.”

“As per usual, horse welfare comes last,” Dream said, narrowing his eyes. Jesus Christ, Hob thought, he’s wearing eyeliner. “Be advised that I will be paying close attention going forward—” he looked at Hob’s name badge— “Hob Gadling.”

And with that ominous statement, he turned and stalked off.

“Good luck with your test,” Hob offered, half-heartedly, to Dream’s retreating back. Then, to himself, “Really? That prick’s the one you want?”

He could hardly be angry with Dream for being upset about it, though. Hob certainly had a bone to pick with the organizers about the horses being stalled 24/7. But he doubted that the people who managed The Palace of Versailles gave a fuck what he thought.

It did mean less for Hob to do, though. So once he’d done another round of their team’s wing of the stables he headed out to the arena to watch Dream’s test. There was no way Hob was going to miss watching him ride after a performance like that. If you were going to live up to your reputation of being rude and difficult you had damn well better live up to your reputation for skill as well.

Unfortunately for Hob, Dream did in fact live up to that reputation. He and Jessamy were gorgeous together. She was a smaller and lighter horse than many of the others and seemed to practically float across the ring. Dream made it look so easy when Hob knew damn well it was not. Hob could have watched him for hours, though of course the test was only a few minutes long.

In addition to watching Dream’s test, he was keeping an eye on the horses going in and out of the stable, keeping up to date on any injuries or soreness, though each had its own groom who was responsible for the horse’s immediate care. At the conclusion of Dream’s test, Hob expected him to hand Jessamy off to Matthew, but instead Dream just dropped his stirrups, letting Jessamy steer on a long rein as he wandered off towards the grassy area past the border of the dressage arena.

“Oi!” Hob called, catching up to him. “Where are you going?”

“I am going for a hack,” Dream said, hardly sparing him a passing glance.

Hob followed the direction he was headed. “On the cross-country course?”

“They aren’t using it,” Dream said, uncaring. “We”—presumably he meant himself and the horse—“are sick of being in the stable.”

So saying, he started off again, Jessamy’s ears pricked forward in interest as she picked her way across the grass.

Hob doubted he could stop him. And he had to admit it was probably more entertaining for the horse to go for a walk than to sit in her stall. It seemed a strange thing for Dream to do, though, wander off across the grass, legs swinging free out of the stirrups, instead of maintaining a strict training regimen in the arena.

Dream stopped before he was too far away, turning over his shoulder to call out: “I will be back before the final test is complete. If scheduling concerns you.”

So there was some recognition of the fact that it would be Hob’s neck if the horses weren’t where they were supposed to be when they were supposed to be. “Don’t worry about it,” he said, waving a hand. “Though given your score, I’d imagine you want to be back before they announce the medals.”

He got a half-smile from Dream for this, and then he was wandering off again, sitting comfortably in the saddle with the reins long, Jessamy’s tail swishing away the summer flies.

Hob watched his retreating back for a long moment, then turned back to the ring to keep an eye on the rest of the horses.

As Hob had predicted, Dream did win gold. He showed up just in time for it, finally giving Jessamy back to Matthew to take inside. She’d picked up some grass stains on her white socks, though Dream’s clothes were as pristine as ever. He seemed immune to dishevelment. He accepted his medal with predictable stoicism and bore the obligatory photos with grace and poise but what seemed to Hob like resignation rather than enjoyment of the attention.

Hob didn’t see where he ended up next. He had horses to feed and water and tack to be sure was in order for tomorrow’s events. In fact, he doubted he’d see Dream again at all. It should have been a good thing, for all Dream was a source of frustration for him. Instead, he found himself feeling disappointed. 

Hob was always the last one in the barn at night. Partly out of obsessiveness, partly due to the fact that unlike the riders, his lodgings were actually on the stable grounds. So he did his final round looking in on the horses at around 9 p.m. Not that there was much to do—check water, throw a little hay, make sure none of the horses had managed to keel over in the last two hours since he’d seen them—but it was a soothing ritual, making sure everything was shut up tight before going to bed himself.

Or it would have been soothing, if there wasn’t somebody else there.

The distant sound of a stall door sliding open had Hob immediately on edge. No one else had cause to be here this late, and at such a high profile event, he couldn’t rule out the possibility of ill intentions—or just of a horse getting out past an improperly latched door. He walked quickly towards that wing of the stable, though there had been no more sounds since—

Oh. It was Jessamy’s stall. Hopefully that meant it was Dream, or at least Matthew, because otherwise Dream would be royally fucking pissed.

Hob peered around the door where it was cracked open. And then just stood there, frozen, because it was Dream, crouched down in the shavings cleaning the grass stains from Jessamy’s leg—but not Dream like Hob had ever seen him.

For one, he was wearing shorts. Actual jean shorts that fell to mid-thigh, legs bare down to his paddock boots. Legs which were just as wiry and pale as Hob had imagined under his breeches, but covered in dust, with a streak of mud across one knee and a small bruise on the other thigh of the type you inevitably get when you spend enough time in the barn. Instead of his crisp white shirt and black jacket of earlier, he was wearing a loose black t-shirt spotted with water across the chest—watching the way Jessamy was sloshing about in her water bucket, now full of hydrating additives, Hob could just about guess how that had occurred. Dream even had a piece of hay stuck in his hair.

It was all so shocking Hob didn’t realize Dream was calling his name until he’d said it a second time.

“Hob Gadling. Do you require something, or can I be left in peace for the first time today?”

“You’re wearing shorts,” Hob said, dumbfounded.

Dream raised an eyebrow. “It is very hot out, if you hadn’t noticed.”

“I just— I can’t imagine you in shorts.” Or covered in dirt, for that matter. Dream was so pristine, so refined. Except for now, when he was at least fifty percent dust.

“Do you imagine me frequently?” Dream asked, and Hob was grateful that the low lighting disguised the way his cheeks flushed.

“No, I—” he did, though. He’d imagined Dream constantly since first seeing him. Since first learning they’d be crossing paths at the Olympics, really. “Maybe.”

Dream smirked, and stood, stepping out of the stall and perching instead on his tack trunk in the aisle, latching the door behind him. “What about me makes you think I do not own shorts?”

Hob was definitely blushing now. “You just. Always look so put together. And now you’re…” he gestured to the various bits of grime sticking to Dream.

“Of course I am put together at a show, Hob,” Dream said, rolling his eyes. “You could hardly expect me to show up to the Olympic final with mud smeared across my face.”

This was a good point, actually.

“I did not intend to be seen like this at all,” Dream added, giving him a pointed look.

Hob found it charming, though. The fact that Dream’s relative familiarity in being sticky with sweat and hay dust meant he did at least some of his own horse care regularly. The fact he didn’t just show up to get on and off.

“Why are you here so late?” Hob asked, glancing over at Jessamy. “I think she’ll survive with some grass stains until tomorrow. You’re done competing anyway.”

Dream’s brow pinched. “The amount of socializing at this event is stressful. And there is no reprieve in my rooms.”

This made Hob grin. “Not having fun in the Olympic Village?”

Dream wrinkled his nose. “I do not like having a roommate,” he said, and Hob had to laugh at the disgust in his tone. “I considered booking my own hotel room, but was informed this was not demonstrative of team spirit.”

“Oh no, you had to be part of a team at a team event, that’s terrible,” Hob said, still grinning. “Poor Dream.”

Dream’s lips twitched into a half-smile, but it did reach his eyes, Hob saw it. “Terrible,” he agreed. “Hence, I am hiding in the barn.”

“And you wanted to check on your horse,” Hob guessed, softening. He had finally reached the conclusion that he had been wrong about the type of horseman Dream was likely to be. And shouldn’t have assumed it in the first place.

“I worry about them overheating,” Dream said. “This barn has poor airflow.”

“You’ve got better at your place back home?”

“My horses live outside,” Dream said.

Hob had really been wrong about the type of horseman Dream was.

“Now you will tell me they will break themselves in the field,” Dream sighed, apparently well-used to the argument.

“Nope,” said Hob. “So do mine.”

Then, Dream looked at him in surprise and, if Hob wasn’t mistaken, a new hint of grudging respect.

“Mine aren’t as expensive as yours, of course,” Hob teased. He could only guess at the price tag on Dream’s Grand Prix dressage horses.

“They are insured,” Dream said, dismissively. “I care little for how much they cost me. They are happier out of their stalls.”

Hob smiled, and felt the softness of it on his own face. Goddammit. Now he wasn’t only finding Dream hot, which he could maybe have coped with, but going soft on him, too. “I really am sorry about the turnout situation here. There’s just not much we can do about it. I did ask.”

“It’s no matter.” He’d apparently decided to give up on his annoyance with Hob about it. “I may bring her home early. Though I doubt they will let me leave until the end.”

“No one’s ever been less excited to be at the Olympics than you, Dream,” Hob said, laughing, and Dream cracked another smile. He was very pretty when he smiled. He was pretty when he was stern and focused, too. Really, all of him was doing it for Hob.

“I am not very good at dealing with people,” Dream admitted.

Hob felt abruptly bad for him and the reputation he’d developed. Not that Dream hadn’t done anything to justify it. But it couldn’t make it any easier to make friends. He looked so much smaller, too, sitting on the tack trunk in his shorts and t-shirt, covered in dust and hay. Far from the stern and unapproachable Dream Hob had seen earlier.

“Come take a walk with me,” he suggested. “We’ll finish checking in on the horses and then, I don’t know. Get a drink or something.”

It felt too bold a suggestion as soon as Hob suggested it, but Dream sighed and stood, dusting off his shorts. “I suppose I should try not to sequester myself.”

“That’s the enthusiasm I like to see,” Hob said, and got another smile out of Dream. He was quickly becoming addicted to getting those smiles.

Dream followed as Hob checked in on the remaining horses, helping him top off waters and throw hay. By the end Hob was just as covered in dust as Dream, t-shirt drenched in sweat, and had tied up his hair in a bun to get it off the back of his neck, not that it helped much. Dream had been right, the barn was poorly ventilated, and they were both suffering the results of that.

When he turned from tying up his hair, he found Dream watching him, gaze tracking the movement of Hob’s hands, the fall of his hair, then back to his face.

“What?” Hob asked.

“I—” Dream swallowed, throat catching. “Was I. Wrong. To think I caught you looking before?”

Somehow Hob knew exactly what he meant. He probably should have felt embarrassed about it—but it was hard to when Dream was looking at him like that now. Dust sticking to his hair, sweat gleaming along his neck, and he was looking at Hob like he’d suddenly found something very compelling to cut through the weariness of the day.

“No,” Hob said. “Did it bother you?”

Dream shook his head. “No one looks at me like that.”

“Seriously? But you’re gorgeous.”

Dream’s mouth popped open, and even in the semi-dark Hob thought he saw his eyes dilate. “Am I?”

“Maybe they’re all just too intimidated by you to show it,” Hob said, taking a step closer to him.

“And are you?” Dream asked. “Am I so terrifying?”

“I think I can handle it,” Hob said, and closed the remaining distance between them, sparing one moment to think I can’t believe I’m fucking doing this before he took Dream’s face between his hands and kissed him.

Dream whimpered into the kiss, clutching at Hob’s wrists. He opened his mouth to Hob, head tipping back. Dream had such a strong presence that Hob hadn’t realized there was a slight height difference between them, but he took full advantage of it now, pressing him back, letting go of his face to catch him around the waist.

Dream pulled away long enough to take a breath, then dove back immediately into the kiss, sucking on Hob’s lower lip, digging his fingers into Hob’s hair. Hob steered him back, half-blind for kissing, until they stumbled into one of the empty stalls being used to store extra tack, where he pushed Dream down to sit on one of the tack trunks.

Dream’s breath caught, his pulse hammering where Hob set his lips and teeth to it, sucking a mark into his throat on his way to kneeling between Dream’s spread thighs. “I was thinking about you as well,” Dream admitted, once Hob had detached from his neck and dropped fully to kneel on the floor, grinding dirt into his knees. “Seeing you. Carrying bags of feed over your shoulder like they weighed nothing. Mmm. Your shoulders.”

“Oh, yeah?” That was heady to think about, Dream watching him like that. Hob undid the button on his shorts, skimming them and his underwear down and off over his paddock boots. This revealed Dream’s pretty pink cock, already plumping up as he leaned back on his hands on the tack trunk. Hob nosed at the base, taking in the sweat and musk of him, hearing Dream’s breath hitch. “You know what I was thinking about?”

“What?”

“Doing this.” Hob took the head of Dream’s cock in his mouth, pulling a wrenching cry from Dream as he twitched where he sat, thighs trembling. Hob bobbed his head, sucked up the length of him, pulling off with a pop and saying, “This is exactly where I wanted you.”

“Indeed?” The word was shaky. Dream’s fingers twitched on the wood of the trunk.

“Go on,” Hob told him, and Dream’s hands went to his hair, pulling it from its bun, directing Hob back down onto his cock. Hob took him deep, pressing his nose into the hair at the base of Dream’s pelvis. The weight of Dream in his mouth was addicting, and then Dream’s legs shifted and he tucked them up and over Hob’s shoulders, thighs pressing in against his head—yes, perfect.

Dream pulled him close, thrust his hips up into Hob’s mouth, hesitant at first then bolder when Hob hummed in encouragement. Dream’s fingers combed through his hair, not quite pulling but tugging and tangling in little pinpricks of delicious pain, and Hob closed his eyes, surrendering to the experience of satisfying him, so hard in his own jeans but ignoring it for now—it only made everything feel more vivid, anyway.

“Hob,” Dream cried, cock twitching, pre-come spilling over Hob’s tongue. Hob didn't let up, only took him deeper, Dream bumping against the back of his throat as he swallowed.

Dream cried out as he came, hands clenching to the point of pain in Hob’s hair, legs tightening around Hob’s head. Hob nearly came himself at the feeling. Instead he swallowed again, sucking on Dream’s cock as it softened until Dream whimpered from overstimulation, and then Hob carefully let him go, finally able to take a full breath as Dream curled around his head, thighs trembling against Hob’s cheeks.

Hob turned his head to kiss his thigh, grazing his teeth over the small bruise he’d seen earlier, making Dream gasp. He uncurled himself from Hob, letting go of his death grip on Hob’s hair to instead caress his cheeks, run his thumb over Hob’s wet lower lip. Hob looked up, met his gaze, nearly perished at the look of blown-out pleasure there. He could live on that look, he thought, feed himself on it every day.

“Come here,” Dream ordered. Hob was helpless but to obey. He let Dream draw him up, disentangle them so Dream’s legs were around his waist instead of over his shoulders, and Dream plucked open the button on Hob’s jeans, pushed his underwear down far enough to take him out. Dream took him in hand, humming in appreciation.

“Like what you see?” Hob teased, but it came out far breathier than he intended, all of him going taut with Dream's hand on him. Dream only smiled slowly, stroking Hob, slow but firm.

“I do,” he said, and drew Hob in with his other hand wrapped around the back of Hob’s neck, sticking in the new sweat that had beaded along his skin, letting Hob rut into his fist. Hob kissed up the side of his neck, leaving marks, breath catching when Dream hooked a leg around the back of his thigh to pull him even closer.

“So perfect for me,” Dream praised, hand sliding up to curl in his hair while his other kept expertly working Hob’s cock. “Mmm. Later, I want you to fuck me properly. I want that gorgeous cock inside me. I know you will fill me so well. I want to feel you.”

All it really took was Dream’s sweet words to send Hob’s arousal boiling over. He gasped into Dream’s throat as he came, hips stuttering into Dream’s fist. Dream pet his hair as he came down from the high, wiping his hand off on his shirt. Hob kissed the side of his neck once more for good measure, tasting the sweat there, before finally pulling away.

“You really want me to fuck you?” he asked. “You going to—”

Dream laid a finger over his lips. “If you make a joke about me riding you I will walk out of this stable and never return.”

Hob broke down laughing, pressing his forehead against Dream’s shoulder. “You get that one a lot?”

“Constantly.”

“I’ll bet.”

Dream was chuckling, too, chest rumbling against Hob’s body. Hob liked the sound of it.

“Cross my heart, I swear I won’t make any jokes,” Hob promised.

He liked this. Leaning against Dream. Touching him. Sharing a soft moment. He liked it a lot.

Dream tipped his face back up with a fingertip under his chin. “I do still want you to fuck me,” he said, watching Hob with dark eyes. Hob swallowed hard. “Will you take me back to your rooms? For we are certainly not going back to mine.”

“Don’t want to involve your roommate?” Hob teased, and Dream sighed.

“Don’t make fun of my indignities,” he complained, and Hob laughed.

“I’m sorry, darling. You suffer so much. Your life is terribly difficult.”

“And you are making it worse by making me wait,” Dream complained.

Hob certainly didn’t want that. So he stood, tucking himself away again, and rearranged Dream in his shorts, helping him up. He paused then, wondering just how far this burgeoning thing between them went, before deciding, fuck it, and pulled Dream in for a soft kiss, hands light on his lower back. Hob was feeling very fond of him right then. He might as well show it.

Dream hummed into the kiss, sinking into him. When they separated, his lips curved into a soft smile.

“Perhaps you might make me breakfast in the morning, too,” he said, taking Hob’s hand.

“If you’re willing to wake up at six,” Hob said. “Because that’s when the horses get breakfast.”

Dream groaned dramatically, but didn’t let go of Hob’s hand, and as Hob tugged him out past the stall door and towards his lodgings at the far end of the stable, he was smiling, eyes bright. And Hob thought waking up to him before sunrise might be very beautiful indeed.

[senseofnewness]

what are your own like personal headcanons about art donaldson!!! i love hearing about silly thoughts people have <333 (i love your writing btw!!)

(thank you bby <3)

random art donaldson headcanons

• at 31 years old, art donaldson still can't grow a full mustache. it's as if god took all the body hairs meant for him and gave them to patrick zweig instead.

• art wears tom ford’s azure lime, a fragrance that is fresh and crisp, with none of the heavy muskiness you might expect. some might say it smells a bit feminine, but it suits him well, at least, it always smells clean.

• he named his daughter lily after his grandmother, liliane. although she didn't raise him, they shared a special bond. it was liliane who introduced him to tennis.

• he is a secret fan of the lord of the rings and occasionally quotes gollum, much to tashi’s annoyance, who rolls her eyes at the nerdy side of her husband.

• his favorite food is lasagna, but not the kind you'd expect. he doesn't crave the gourmet freshly made lasagna his personal chef prepares. what he really loves is the store-brand frozen lasagna, the kind that comes in a box and is microwaved. tashi only allows him to eat it on his birthday.

• out of all his body parts, hands are probably his favorite. which is why he finds holding hands to be one of the most intimate gestures. he prefers sturdy hands with slender fingers and manicured nails.

• art had never blocked patrick’s number all those years, just so he could one day say "the phone works both ways" if patrick ever tried to blame him for their falling out.

• he has an irrational fear of spiders. if he spots one in a room, he cannot bring himself to sleep in there, even if tashi has killed the spider for him. in his mind, the spider’s family might be plotting revenge, and that thought is enough to keep him awake at night.

• art donaldson hates the taste of coffee, no matter how many times he had tried to like it in an effort to appear more mature. to him, it always tastes like straight-up dirt. he prefers to stick with vanilla milk.

• he has tried the curly girl method countless times, hoping to restore the curly texture his hair once had as a teenager. despite his efforts and the many products he has tried, his hair remains persistently straight.

• art chews his nails when nervous. and he will chew on anything else he can get a grip on as well. tashi tries to break this habit by painting his nails with bitter nail polish but it doesn't stop him from biting them, it just tastes like shit now.

• art rarely swears or gets angry, but when he does, tashi knows he will spend the entire day brooding. it's all about muttered complaints and scowls. the only thing that typically soothes him is a warm bath.

• when lily was born, art sobbed so loudly that the nurses had to ask him to quiet down to avoid disturbing the other babies in the hospital wing. tashi was so mortified that she pretended not to know him.

[nsfw]

• he wears those tiny underwears because he doesn't feel supported in anything else. he needs his pink fuzzy balls to be secured on the court. a lesson he learned the hard way. when he was fifteen, one of his balls slipped through the leg of his loose boxers during a match, and patrick teased him about it for months. ever since that day, he has sworn off boxers entirely.

• when patrick taught art how to jerk off, art waited for patrick to be asleep to look closely at the sock patrick had used. he studied the slimy stains, comparing the cum to his own, just to make sure everything was normal with him.

• he isn’t a fan of quickies. he prefers to take his time with tashi, believing that making love is about enjoying every moment and taking the time to bring her to the edge. to him, it’s not really making love if she doesn’t climax too. however, there are times when he becomes so horny after a particularly intense practice session, where tashi had pushed him harder than usual, that a quickie becomes necessary.

• he has incredibly sensitive nipples and gets easily aroused when they’re touched or teased. when tashi wants to make him shut up during an argument, she just pinches them and he starts whimpering.

• sometimes he can't help but think about the fact that patrick had been with tashi before him, and it turns him on. the thought of them together becomes a driving force, turning into a personal competition. he feels the need to prove to tashi that he is the best sex she will ever have.

• tashi used threats of her strap-on as a way to motivate him during his matches, but now, instead of fear, it has become a source of excitement. art knows that each victory means tashi is waiting for him at home with her silicone cock, ready to celebrate.

[ghoulfuckersincorporated]

something tells me our ghoulie would be fond of period sex (i’ll go to horny jail now)

Bloodletting

Pairing: Cooper Howard/The Ghoul x Female Reader

Word Count: 2,839

Warnings: smut (18+), blood play, bloody cunnilingus/bloody kisses, period sex, masturbation (male), rough sex, creampie, biting.

Notes: Can't lie, this was my immediate thought watching him tear into that bloody chunk of meat for the first time. I usually try to include at least a little plot, but this is basically all porn. Very fun submission to write; thank you! Please save a good seat for me on the bench in horny jail, I'll be in promptly.

Fun fact: orgasms can help relieve period cramps for some people.

Today had been a poor choice of start point for this long walk.

Normally, trekking across the bombed out western seaboard was strenuous and uncomfortable enough, the deadly sun baking seemingly the entire planet to a crisp, the cloying dehydration, the constant danger that something or someone was around the corner, ready to eat you. It was a far cry from the safety and monotony of the vault you'd grown up in. Usually, you were able to find lots of beauty on the surface, plenty of things to appreciate. But right now everything was just awful and uncomfortable.

Menstruation was such a nightmare topside. The proper products were apparently incredibly difficult to find anymore, leaving you to make the best of things with old torn pieces of clothing and less-than-ideal medical supplies. But these things didn't provide the absorption you'd long been accustomed to, and you kept having accidents the last few days, the result of a heavier-than-average flow. Normally, these things wouldn't bother you, but it was insanely annoying to constantly feel as if you were bleeding through basically the only clothes you had, doubly so when there was no place to clean them or bathe yourself most of the time. Besides, these pants chaffed terribly when they were damp.

Months back, you'd made the choice to ditch the vault suit. It was surreal and sort of sad feeling, packing away what had truly been a symbol of your identity for so long. However, it attracted far too much attention and caused trouble when people assumed they could take advantage of you, so you'd opted to start dressing like a proper Wastelander, boiled leather armor and denim pants. Right now, however, you desperately wished you'd been wearing the suit. The absorbent liner would have saved you some of this embarrassment.

The old ghoul had been telling you some story or another as you mounted a steep hill, your mind tuning in and out in frustration. You were sweaty, cramping, bloated, and bleeding on yourself, and all you wanted was a chance to clean yourself up and sit down for a minute. Eventually, the two of you came across what looked to be the abandoned skeleton of an old repair garage, just barely maintaining its tall stance against the horizon. As the two of you began to pass it by, you paused.

"I need to stop for a bit." you said, frowning at him as he turned his gaze to the position of the sun in the sky and back to you, confusion plain on his face.

"Whassa' matter?" he asked, "You're not usually this pussy about the sun anymore. Been long enough."

He was right, you were usually able to soldier on better than this. Today wasn't one of those days, though.

"I need like ten minutes alone, okay?" you snapped, short of patience. "I just...need it."

Your companion held up his hands in a silent, play-offended gesture of surrender, stepping aside to let you walk into the ramshackle little garage.

"Ten minutes!" he called teasingly behind you, prompting you to roll your eyes despite him not being able to see it.

Dropping your bag against the wall, you quickly toed your boots off so you could shuck your pants to the ground, groaning quietly at the bloody mess between your thighs. Digging some dirty rags out of your bag, you checked the spare canteen you kept undrinkable water in. Almost empty. You wanted to cry.

You could always ask Coop for some of his, since he was prone to drinking from questionable sources. He might even give you some, close as you'd become lately, thanks to a night of whiskey and Jet by the fire that had led to other forms of entertainment.

But you'd rather not have to explain this to him. As you did your best to scrub away the rusty red covering your skin, you wondered if he even remembered that this was something that happened to women. You had no idea what you were going to do with your pants.

Apparently, time had slipped away from you, as he appeared suddenly in the doorway a moment or two later, already speaking to you like he'd been standing there the entire time.

"It's been fifteen minutes, girlie. I'll have you know--" came his halted snark, quickly cut off as the two of you made eye contact, as he took in your nakedness below the waist. You felt a creeping sense of panic, a desire to flee out the broken window to your side. Neither of you said a word, and after a moment, he stepped forward towards you, softly gripping your wrist in his hand and holding it up to examine it. His honeyed eyes flicked back and forth between the soiled rag in your bloodied hand and where you'd been attempting to clean yourself up, briefly moving over to where your pants lay crumpled up on the floor.

"I'm--" you began, wanting to explain that you were fine, but you were quickly and decisively cut off from speaking when he lifted your bloody fingers to his mouth, sucking them between his lips with an obscene sigh. Your jaw fell slack as you watched him lick them clean, feeling like you were having some sort of erotic fever dream you'd wake up from any moment. Your hormones must've been working in tandem with the sun to drive you crazy.

However, it only continued to escalate as he seized you by the wrist, dragging you a few feet forward towards the rickety, grimy couch that leaned against the back wall, shoving you just enough to make you sit right in the center, a stale plume of desert dust filling the air around you as he rucked your hips up against his chest, your calves hooking over his shoulders. One of your flailing, still-socked feet knocked his hat clear off his head, sending it tumbling down to the floor, but he didn't even seem to notice, too preoccupied with running his hands along your inner thighs, smearing through the patches of drying blood there with fascination.

Your whole face burned white-hot, but you continued to watch him closely as his hands converged at your mound, one thumb tracing lightly over your now-swollen slit, just barely grazing your bud and drawing a hiss from between your teeth. However, instead of touching you there again, as you'd hoped he would, both thumbs traced down the line of your labia, parting them softly and spreading you open for his hungry eyes to see.

This new kind of attention made you squirm a bit at its intensity, the movement making your abdominal muscles clench just right to draw a trickle of warmth from between your legs, your face reaching supernova in embarrassment, but before you could pull away, he dove forward, his mouth sealing itself over your cunt and lapping wildly. The feeling was electric and ticklish and sent you clamoring to grab onto anything for leverage, letting out a screech that was half giggle and half moan.

He had done this before, gone down between your legs and licked and tasted and teased you until you couldn't handle it anymore, and always with great enthusiasm (and more than a little smugness, frankly), but never with a hunger like this. His thick tongue traced back and forth along your folds, seeking out every sanguine drop before dipping back down to your entrance, the wriggling muscle slipping inside with ease, drawing out another cry from you.

You were on fire, being teased more than you could handle; his tongue felt amazing, but largely avoided where you really wanted it to be, leaving you pushing and grinding your hips against his face as best as you could in your strange, folded over position. With one proper swivel, you managed to brush your clit against the bony ridge that sat at the top of where his nose would have been, scraping just right and sending you bucking right back at the same angle. The rough way you pushed against him was met by his hands curling under your ass, attempting to yank you even closer to his face as you felt that knot in your gut begin to tighten.

"Oh god, Coop, I'm gonna cum." you gasped, nails digging into his scalp as your thighs pulsed around his head. The older man, typically quite silent for most of the performance, let out a rather loud groan at that, and the sound was enough to push you right into a tense, crying orgasm, your little mewls ringing off the ancient concrete walls. If he were any other man, you'd worry about smothering him between your damp thighs, your scrambling hands pressing into the back of his head.

Fortunately, Cooper Howard wasn't just any man.

He continued to fuck you with his tongue through your climax, dragging it out for what felt like minutes. However, once you finally came down from that euphoric peak, he didn't stop, his tongue continuing to slather across you in full, wide strokes, his fingers moving up to tease at your oversensitive clit.

This, too, he had done before, this beautiful torture of keeping you constantly on the verge of a new orgasm despite still riding the wave of your current one. You both loved and hated it, feeling like every nerve in your body was alive with electricity, but simultaneously on the verge of pain from all the sensation. Presently, you loved it a lot more than you hated it, feeling the tight, cramping muscles in your belly relax just a little with your release. Glimpsing down at him once more, you could see that he'd tugged his hard cock free from its confines, jerking himself enthusiastically.

The ghoul's lips wrapped back around your clit, long, nimble fingers probing your saliva-slicked entrance. Two of them slid inside to the hilt before you even really registered their presence, causing you to hiss at the slight burn of the rad-rough flesh against your sensitive insides. The suction on your bud soothed the burn, allowing you to relax, and soon a third was added alongside the first two, quickly pushing you into another sudden and intense climax, washing over you like a tidal wave as he stretched you. When he eventually pulled his hand away, it was half-covered in red.

You were still trembling hard as he quickly worked his way back down your thighs, swiping up anything he may have missed. The sensation of his tongue running along your plush flesh made you giggle, earnest and breathless, but the sound was immediately cut off with a whine when he suddenly turned and viciously sunk his teeth into the meat of your inner thigh, not hard enough to break the skin, but damn near.

This, he had never done before.

Of course, you knew the man was intimately familiar with sinking his teeth into human flesh, but feeling them against you didn't frighten you as you expected it might, the sensation exhilarating and primal. The searing, pinching pain made you squeal, and one of his ungloved hands jammed up against your lips to silence you, filling your nose with the smell of iron and gunpowder. Come the morning, you'd be sporting a gnarly bruise there. The knowledge sent another hot tremble down your spine.

Unlatching his jaw from your leg, he pulled himself up to his full kneeling height, right even with you, a wild look in his eyes you weren't sure you'd seen before. So often he had the brim of his hat to obscure them, but now they stared, wide and glassy, into your own.

His fingers fisted into the already wild hair at the back of your head, pulling your forward into a passionate, metallic-tasting kiss. You could feel the way your face attempted to stick to his where he'd smeared your blood around your mouth with his hand. Quickly, he began to lean forward over you, pressing you into the mildew covered cushions as he pulled himself on top of you. The dry-rotted frame of the couch groaned loudly in protest at the additional weight, squeaking and sighing out curses as he repositioned your legs along his hips, falling right into place to rub his throbbing prick against you. Another throaty noise left you, strangled and awkward, but you were past being able to be embarrassed right now.

It distracted you just enough when the old cowboy dropped his head into the crook of your neck, his lips dancing along your pulse point, that you didn't tense when he pushed his way inside you, burying himself nearly to the hilt in one push. Both of you let out soft, satisfied groans as you stretched taut around him, clenching hotly already after all the attention he'd given you, his heavy breathing in your ear making every hair on your body stand on end.

For a short moment, he allowed you to adjust to his girth, warm hands pushing your shirt up to expose your breasts to him. His bare hands felt like they were everywhere, swiping affectionately against your face, tugging and pinching at your nipples, eventually settling into your hair, holding your head steady and forcing you to look at him as he began to fuck you. It didn't take long before he had you built right back up, the rub of his pelvic bone against you too good.

"Go on, gimme one more, baby. I know you can." he huffed, his warm breath tickling you just right. His thumb was suddenly strumming against your puffy, sore clit again, and tears brimmed in your eyes as your muscles seized once again, whimpering almost pitifully as you gave him what he wanted.

"Attagirl." he praised, running the blunted edge of his teeth along your throat as your body tugged at him. Your breathing was hard to control, making you see spots as he shifted your calves back over his shoulders, basically folding you in half once more as he pulled himself up higher and began to rut into you in earnest. The blunt head of his cock slammed into your tender cervix like this, making you jump and whine, but your legs only tightened around his shoulders, pulling him closer as he used your body to get himself off.

Suddenly, there was a loud crack, and the entire couch frame collapsed into a plume of dust, even worse than before, making you screech in shock. Cooper, however, seemed to barely notice, his pace not even slowing as he shifted you a few inches away from a busted 2x4 sticking out in your direction, pressing you harder into the cushions that were now trapped beneath you. Nevertheless, he did seem to be making sure you were okay in his own way, his wild eyes and insistent hands checking over every visible inch as he continued to pump between your thighs. When he dropped his mouth to your breasts, you throbbed around him, cooing as he sucked and nipped at your breasts.

"Fuck." he growled at the sensation, his hips slapping against you even harder, but in less coordinated strokes, his head heavily dropping back into the crook of your neck again, his entire weight resting on you now.

As you felt him begin to throb inside you, signaling his own release, you also felt those strong teeth latch onto the sensitive skin where your neck met your shoulder, digging deep into the smooth muscle as you screamed. You could hear your lover groaning loudly as he gave you a few more rough strokes, his teeth keeping firm at your neck as he pulsed every last drop of himself inside you. Beyond the pinching pain repeating itself, you could feel the burn of him sucking hard on the flesh between his teeth, trying to mark you up as visibly as possible. Remarkably, this was enough to push your oversensitive body into one last muted orgasm, leaving you shuddering against his chest.

Once his teeth released you, his strong arms wrapped around your body, carefully flipping you so that you laid across his chest, the leather of his clothing sticking eagerly to your sweaty skin. No one said anything for a few minutes, his fingers dancing along your spine, tracing the outline of the bite on your shoulder and earning a small whimper, which he chuckled at. Things were strangely blissful.

"Yeah, I think I'm gonna need another fifteen minutes, boss." you sighed eventually, snuggling your face against the smooth leather of his vest and breathing in the smell of violence and sex.

"You can have ten." he responded, drawing a look from you until the hand that had been kneading away at your ass cheek slipped down further, rough fingers teasing at your abused entrance once more, pushing what was leaking out of you back inside.

"Oh? And what happens then?" you asked, trying hard to keep your hips still against his sinful hand and failing.

"Then we're going again."

[avocado-writing]

i hope u know im chewing on ur good omens work like a cat does with those matatabi sticks ,,,, ANYWAY do u mind writing an aziraphale x reader [gn] x crowley w a recurring fruit means love metaphor ? like sharing a lil clementine or getting ur hands all gross n sticky from cutting smthn open [cough cough a peach . i had 2 stick my fingers in one 2 separate it n get the pit out n it was ,,, mildly uncomfortable] n the other person sucks the juice off their fingers ,,,,,,,,, just very intimate n cute things like that :] thanx !!

so I’m sorry this is less love as fruit and more uhhh lust as fruit please forgive me

Crowley x reader x Aziraphale (good omens)

From his place sorting books he never intends to sell into one of his many already-cramped shelves, Aziraphale watches you in the break room. 

You’re waiting for the kettle to boil, eating an apple while you grab a mug and teabag. Even from here Aziraphale can hear the pop-hiss as you take a bite from the crisp skin. Your teeth sink into the flesh and juice rolls down your chin onto the counter. You wipe it away absent-mindedly with the back of your hand.  

You might be the one eating, but it’s Aziraphale who swallows. 

You lick your lips, thumbing the sweet stickiness from your face and sucking it clean. Aziraphale wonders what it tastes like.

He wonders if he could do it for you. 

🍎 

“Crowley, you want a bit of tangerine?”

Crowley looks up from where he’s been idly scrolling through his phone - tiktok! Credit where it’s due, hell did a great job on that one - right into your smiling face. He’s not much of an eater (that’s more Aziraphale’s speed) but your eagerness enraptures him. 

“Oh, go on then.”

It’s so human, to share a little bit of your food with someone. It shows you care about them; want them nourished. Crowley’s gaze falls to where your fingers begin to work the orange skin. 

There’s something entrancing about the way you work it. Something almost illicit. The juice dripping from you as your thumb accidentally slides its way through a segment. You curse quietly and work on the other half, your fingertips gliding across the folds of fruit. 

There’s something that trips from being suggestive into lewd. 

He’s glad when you finally manage to pass him a piece, because his mouth has gone utterly dry. 

🍊 

They find you in the shared kitchen, sucking the flesh from a mango. Your eyes dart up from the sticky mess you’ve made on your hands and face. 

“Sorry,” you mutter through your bite, “I promise I’ll clean up in a moment, just—”

You don’t get to finish because they descend upon you. 

Aziraphale licks it from your lips, moaning in the back of his throat at the combined taste of your sweetness. Crowley grabs your hand and takes your whole thumb into his mouth, tongue dancing around the soft pad. 

Their mouths don’t leave you for the next couple of hours. 

[justadino-ig]

fyostein + “enough.”

fyostein + “i’m yours.”

sorry fyostein on the mind rn

fyostein <3 here are the terribles for you. the second was not supposed to be so long.

fyostein + “enough.”

The body is bloodied, bruised, and looks like a garden, now. Flowers blooming and vines curling up like an extension of the hair, roots soaking up red and stems looking like veins, now. Steinbeck has a grin on his face that reminds Fyodor of a hunting dog. It's a stark contrast from Nathaniel, whose face was always either that of disgust or annoyance; now it's just blank, of course. "Enough." Fyodor interrupts, black boots crunching the crisp leaves under xer feet as xe strolls to just shy of being at Steinbeck's side, staying just a bit behind him. "Aw, cmon-" Steinbeck blinks those blue eyes at xer to no avail. "John." Xer tone dips into a curter one. "Enough." The man sighs, relenting, plantlife dipping back into the earth, dragging the body with. Come tomorrow, there will be no indictator that there's anything there. And if they dig, they will find nothing but bones. And it will not be a full set.

fyostein + “i’m yours.”

There are many animals that mimic, whether to hunt or to hide. Steinbeck is the latter, of course. His hair is bright like the sun, and his eyes a pleasant blue, and he's always had a cheery air. (The margay—leopardus wiedii—has a particular talent for vocal mimicry.) "Hey!" Steinbeck is dressed in a suit that fits his form just right, and his smile is adjusted just right. It sits comfortably on his face like blood so often does. (When it needs to eat, it copies the sound of its most common prey.) The Special Divison's agent that he's found on a day off stares, and tries to place if they know this man or not. He speaks as if he must, but they cannot remember. (The prey, not knowing any better, follows the sound thinking it's one of their own.) "Can I help you?" They smile politely, though something squirms in their chest. Something feels off. (And when the unfortunate animal does-) Steinbeck grins, slinging his arm over their shoulder as if they're old friends. This part of town is empty, quiet- abandoned on a grey day like this. "You can, actually! See, I wanted to ask about some things-" (The margay goes for the kill.) -- "You must stop trailing blood in on my carpet." Fyodor states, not even looking at Steinbeck as he steps in. He leans his head on Fyodor's shoulder as Fyodor sits in xer chair. Steinbeck's chin is dripping with gore, some dribbling onto Fyodor's shirt. Xe couldn't care less, really, but xe has a reputation to uphold. "Eh, you know how to clean it." Steinbeck hums, closing his eyes to wrap his arms around Fyodor's waist. Even through the clothes, he can feel xer ribs. Fyodor sighs. "I have not the time." "Your loss." Steinbeck teases back, tracing one hand up Fyodor's chest. "You should really eat better." Fyodor's cold hand snatches Steinbeck's, pushing it back down just before he can reach xer neck. "I did not offer for you to join this operation for health advice." "I'm just saying." Steinbeck wraps his hand around Fyodor's in a mockery of a sweet gesture, squeezing it. It's not gentle; Steinbeck is capable of that despite all the bloodshed, but Fyodor has never cared for soft. "Could make you foood now and then.. would you like that?" "I did not hire a chef." Fyodor states simply, still not looking at him. Steinbeck laughs. His tone dips into something lower. "I know you didn't. Just offering a benefit." "The only benefit I'd enjoy from you is you cleaning up your mess." Fyodor rolls xer eyes. Steinbeck leans against xer more. Fyodor is cold, as if a living corpse, and it's tantalizing. "I'm sure," He murmurs into xer ear, "Both could be arranged." Fyodor clicks xer tongue, and finally takes xer other hand off the keyboard, grasping Steinbeck's chin to tilt his head as xe meets his eyes. Steinbeck stares back with a look full of bloodlust, adoration, and fangs. He has never said it out loud, only showing what they both know in actions. I'm yours. And Fyodor would not have it any other way. Steinbeck tastes like freshly butchered meat, and sunlight on a winter's day where nothing living shows its face, and newly grown crops reaching out of the earth. He's xers. In a way that Nikolai could never be, in a way that Nikolai would never want to be. He's xers. In a way that Nathaniel would never be, in a way that Nathaniel only was when he hated it. He's xers, in the way the first vulture is to a death.

[treedaddymcpuffpuff]

imagine… julian mercer x fem reader ; tw(blood, fear, nsfw), dr julian is not what he seems. chase gif by @scarlettspectra

on a lovely getaway to a very secluded cabin in the mountains.

you get inside, marveling and cooing about the woody fresh bookcase that seems to be stocked with all your favorite reads, the sprawling kitchen with the skylight that illuminates the cozy boho theme—he’s even bought some new plants for you, and no doubt the fridge is prepared with chicken and cream and fresh veggies so he can conjure a delicious meal tonight with those magic hands.

your boyfriend is just short of a saint. holds doors open, cooks and cleans, carries both suitcases, takes your strappy sandals off for you and places them by the doorway. the just short part entails the way he fucks, or rather the way he prefers to have you while fucking. you’re starting to really like it, though, being tied up to his bed and at his total mercy even if maybe he bites or smacks or pinches too hard sometimes.

“what would you like to do, darling?” he asks, wrapping his arms around your waist from behind and kissing the top of your head. “we could watch a spooky movie, go for a hike, take a bath, hm?”

you giggle at him, and it feels strange in your throat. not because it’s not genuine, but because before him you weren’t such a girlish, blushing idiot. of course, before him you genuinely also thought you could win a fight. but when he’s pinning you down effortlessly with one big hand wrapped around both your wrists, it’s hard to keep that confidence hot.

“let’s watch a creepy movie,” you suggest. “not too scary, though.”

“oh, honey,” he coos, playfully nipping at your cartilage. “i’ll protect you from the monsters.”

“you promise?” you ask, batting your eyelashes at him, playing along. “you won’t let them eat me?”

“the only monster that’s going to be eating you is me,” he grumbles against your hairline, somehow encapsulating soothing and terrifying with his voice all at once. shivers pimple over your skin, and he laughs at the squirming you don’t realize you’re doing.

seems he likes that idea—eating you—because his teeth gnash the air right above your jugular, and for some reason you have the vivid vision of him ripping it out of your neck and juicy red blood spurting over the polished oak walls.

you push him away, laughing nervously, backing up towards the couch. “julian, we just got here.”

he takes a long minute to roll the sleeves of his crisp button down up, putting on a show with those beautiful thick forearms. “you’re right,” he says, his eyes shiny black, wet and hungry. “how silly of me, to forget that it needs to be christened properly.”

“j-julian,” you warn through bubbling nervous giggles, hand up in front of you in flimsy self defense. too slow, too late. he’s inching forward, eyes narrowed, sly cat grin sitting so sinisterly on his handsome face.

he lets you get to the bed before he tackles you, those long legs tangling with yours, his hips pressing you down into the give of the pillowy mattress.

hysterical laughter screams and dies in your throat, paving way for little breathy whines and huffs when he pins your hands up above your head. “oh, come on.”

“i plan to,” he muses, sizing you up, “just where is the question.” he pretends to look at your for a minute and really think about it, eyes taking in everywhere from your painted toes to your pretty puffed cheeks. “hmm, what do you think honey? maybe your tits? or perhaps the soft little tummy she tries to hide from me—oh no, don’t you pout…you want me to bruise your ass or cum on it?”

“julian,” you admonish, eyes unable to keep his own as such filthy words roll off his posh tongue.

“oh,” he murmurs, pitch dropping your heart into your stomach. “i think i have a better idea.”

you look back at him, and his grin has flipped on a sharp axis. his face is strangely calm, eyes wide and unblinking, matte black. you worry for a minute that you’ve fallen into some mirror world, some upside down alternate reality where your boyfriend has turned into a statue that will keep you pinned on this bed until your heart beats it’s finale and your body rots to bone.

when your friends and family used to balk about your overactive imagination, they were never really wrong. that’s why you can’t trust yourself when you get too afraid of julian, when you start thinking he’s not so nice—because he is, and he’s never done anything to prove you wrong. jesus, the poor guy just can’t catch a break around you.

julian begins operating again, like someone slipped a coin into his slot, face starting in a slow upturn that hastens your heartbeat. he tilts his head at you, and it would look adorable in another circumstance.

no, you’re being ridiculous. julian is your boyfriend, probably the love of your life, if you’re being honest. he’s perfect. a man that could have been a famous actor, with women throwing themselves at his feet, and playgirl magazine begging him for a front cover spread. instead, he chose to help people, get his hands dirty and become one of the best doctors on long island’s golden coast. so what, he likes kinky shit. we all have our vices.

“we should play a game,” he suggests. you feel him shaking on top of you, and quickly realize it’s because he’s excited, adrenalized, giddy.

eager to please, you smile timidly. “oh yeah?”

“hide and seek,” he tells you, leaning down to lay a soft kiss on your top lip. “make our own little horror flick—x rated, of course.”

“who’s hiding and who’s seeking?” you ask.

he chuckles, and it ties your belly up in knots. your brain doesn’t know whether to be scared or turned on, so it settles for a torturous mixture of both. “noes goes.”

he keeps both your wrists pinned above your head with one of his hands while he touches his index finger to his own perfect nose. “looks like you’re hiding.”

“jerk!” you laugh, squirming under him. “and what do I get if I win, huh?”

“when i win,” he teases, running his pointer across the goose flesh on your collar. “i get to do what i want to you, whatever i want.”

“and if i win?” you ask.

his smile widens just a little too much at that silly notion. “same deal.”

getting to tie him up and pay him back for some of the wicked things he’s done to you doesn’t sound too bad, and you did excel at this game as a kid…

“deal,” you say.

tbc…

this is all thanks to @johnwickb1tsch and @sweetwolfcupcake for being diabolical gremlins. please, anyone feel free to continue… 😈

[marleyybluu]

Thinkin’ Bout You

Spooky Diaz x fem!reader

Word count: 1.2k

Content warning: 18+, gets a little hot at the end, overall fluff and mush, everyone’s in love and high, reader smokes weed, reader described to have thick thighs (of course tf), pretty sure I'm missing some sorry

A/N: I took a break from my break to post this lol I was gonna leave this as a stand-alone(it can still be read as such) but honestly? it’s giving two and counting lore… so I’ll put it as a part of that series.

(not mine, got it off pinterest but awooogaa!)

Friday. What a glorious day to be off work. You slept in, hell you'd say you deserved putting up all those work hours at the hospital, and after finally crawling out of bed you rolled a small joint for the morning, and smoked it on the balcony outside your bedroom. The neighbourhood was quiet, the air was crisp and a bit cold but it's nothing one of Spooky's sweaters couldn't fix. You wrap your arms around you, the sweater is warm and it smelt like his cologne, you close your eyes and smile at just the mere thought of him. You always think about him it was crazy how one man consumed your entire being but you were so glad it was him.

You wished he was home, wished he was here to smoke with you but he got called into work earlier than usual, you didn't even get a goodbye kiss which you were missing right now, the vacancy of those lips— soft as a cloud and always on top of yours so delicately— depending on the context of course.

Without him here the day seemed to pass on slower, you checked the time what seemed like every ten minutes which also didn't help. To distract yourself you clean and cook, call your mom until she is ready to, quote, "Go and do her own thing." And hung up on you.

You lay upside down on the couch, feet crossed as they hang over the back of the couch and your head hangs off the seat cushions, Living Single reruns consumed your screen. You were well distracted until you heard a car door slam and various keys jingling together, you sat up and gripped the back of the couch for dear life.

The lock turns. The door opens. And there he is. You scream with excitement. "Hi, babyyyyy."

He chuckles, not even ten seconds inside and you already had him smiling. "Hola mi corazón."

You roll off the sofa and run over to your man, leaping and wrapping your arms around his neck and your legs around his waist. He squeezes you so tightly you swear he'd crack a few bones but in the name of love, you wouldn't care. You pepper his face with kisses before you finally land on his lips and you mould into him, his hands firmly grasping your ass that barely fits in your shorts.

He smiles in the middle of your kiss and it's an instant chain reaction. "Missed me that much?"

"You have no idea."

He gives you another small kiss before he puts you down and you fight the urge to pout and demand to be picked back up, you just want to live in his skin 24/7, but you let him catch his breath. Let him put away his things, grab a Corona while you ogle him and the way his enormous arms flexed when he twisted the cap off and the foaming bubbles sliding their way to the top... almost spilling over... but then he saves it with tongue. You lick your bottom lip and zoom in on the involuntarily sexual act, oh, and the way his Adam's apple bobbed with every sip... fuck.

"Bebita," He calls. You slowly nod, still in your love-stricken daze. "You're droolin' a little bit ma."

You rub your chin and frown at him, there is no drool. He winks at you and you turn your face to the side to avoid any more butterflies in your stomach. "You smoke already?"

You nod. "Wanna smoke again or you good?" He sat his blunt, which magically appeared from his jeans, between his lips and nodded to the back door. "Nah, I'll smoke with you."

"Good, vamos."

••••• Your head lays in his lap, his hand cupped your cheek and his thumb caressed your skin. After you two smoked, you ate and had a blissfully shared shower, now you were sprawled out on the sofa still high as fuck watching Bridget Jones's Diary, he remembered you uttered something about wanting to watch a rom-com for once. You were in the mood to watch a love story, "or something."

But you were hardly paying attention to the screen, so lost in your own world of love, you pinch his chin aiming his at an angle so he'd look down at you. Make eye contact.

"Do you think about me?" A question asked so innocently. "Course I do, baby."

You run your finger down the column of his neck, over the lump of his Adam's apple. "What do you think about?"

He pauses the movie and focuses on you. "What's this about?"

"Nothing."

"You pregnant?"

You hit him. "Spooky! No!" He was obsessed with the idea of a baby. "Just answer my question."

He sighs, nostrils flair, he hated telling his deepest feelings but, "I think about you... and me, and what our life could be like. We could get married, could have a couple of kids. I always thought about gettin' like a summer house or something. Hit it every summer with them."

You smiled. "You think about all that?"

"Fuck yeah. I see us dropping them off on their tío, he watches them... we still get to have some us time, dates, trips...whatever you want."

You swear he makes you fall in love with him all over again at least once a week. "You think I haven't pictured the wedding? I know what I'll say in my vows already."

"Liar," You teased.

"Mi amor, the day I saw you-"

You quickly cover his mouth it'd be like spoiling a movie you hadn't seen yet. He licked your palm but you were quick to wipe it on his face. "Puta." He muttered. "Bastardo." You retaliated. "So how many kids do we have?" You sit up and adjust yourself so that you are now sitting with your back against the support of the couch and drape your legs over his thighs, the cold metal of his rings hits your hot skin when his hand contacts your leg. "Five."

"Are you out of your fucking mind?" You exclaim. "I've seen childbirth live and I think we can have one and a dog." He rolls his eyes. "Fine, whatever."

He leans over to kiss your forehead. "You think about me?"

"Once in a while." You joke, his jaw drops. "Once in a while!? That's how you feel? Ay, cariño, you're breaking mi corazón."

You place your hand over his and offer him a side smile before you kiss his cheek. "The way I jumped on you when you came home isn't proof enough."

He pulls you on top of him, your legs now sitting on each side of him with his hands gleefully squeezing every pound of flesh that makes up your thunder thighs that spread every time you sit and it makes him call them pancakes sometimes. "I might need a refresher."

"Oh, getting short-term memory already, Diaz?" You hum pressing your lips to his. "Just a little bit." He answers. Your hands fumble with the bottom of his shirt, he raises his arms and you break the kiss for just a second before you're back with tongues in each others throats and you're making out as if you're life depended on it, as if he's being shipped off to war and you don't know if he's coming back. Now it was your turn to pull back in need of some air. His smile is shaky, almost like a shy expression.

"Still kinda hazy."

You rid yourself of your top, with nothing under it.

"Oh don't worry," You lean in. "I'm about to make it real clear."

Not tagging anyone in this, I'm just testing something. if you liked this fic, feel free to like this fic, reblogs and comments are appreciated. peace and love, see you in the next one🤙🏾

[liminalpebble]

Jump Scares

AO3 Link

Eddie Munson x Femme reader. They just began dating and have only kissed so far. One-shot.

Movie night with Eddie comes with a new game from the dungeon master himself, and no matter who wins, Eddie's pretty sure you'll both come out of this with some Halloween thrills.

P.s. Sorry it's a little late for Halloween. I tried to write it sooner, but life interfered. I hope this is a nice relaxing treat (especially if you are also American and VERY anxious today, as I am). Anyway, I hope you enjoy it!

Cw: very light discussion of horror movie violence. Fingering and male masturbation.

When you knock on the flimsy trailer door, you can already see a warm glow from the living room, filtered through the woven fabric of the curtains. The soft light illuminates decals of ghosts, demons, pumpkins and vampires stuck haphazardly across the pane of glass. You smirk. It's clearly Eddie's chaotic handiwork. It has him written all over it.

You're also curious. It's not often that Eddie is particular about drawing the blinds, and you wonder, with a sugary sweet buzz of anticipation, what he might be planning, what he might want to keep prying eyes from peeking at tonight.

You knock, then hear a low ruckus within. It sounds like a particularly gangly great Dane is tumbling through the house, but that's Eddie for ya. The door swings open violently, and there he is; all flushed cheeks, messy milk chocolate curls, and a dimpled grin that could charm anyone into absolutely anything.

“Hey Sweetheart!” he blurts and then drawls, “right on time.”

You giggle and kiss his warm face, lingering a little as his exothermic warmth thaws your chilly nose.

“What the hell is going on in there? A tornado?”

“Nah. Just Hurricane Eddie, at your service.”

His balmy hands find your cheeks and rub gently as he say, “Jesus, you're freezing, get in here!”

You were freezing. You knew it was really too cold to wear a skirt, but you couldn't resist the temptation of teasing Eddie with the sight of your curves, flattered by the garment. He takes your coat for you and hangs it up carefully (because he might be a chaos goblin but Wayne also raised him to be a gentleman).

As your coat slips off, you get exactly the reaction you hoped for. Those big dark eyes go wide, drinking in the sight of you in that cute little skirt and knee socks.

“Damn,” he gasps. His mouth hangs open as he struggles to retrieve the brain cells to elaborate.

You take pity on him and fill the void.

“You like it?”

“Like it? Baby, come on. You're killing me here. Those teens in the slasher flick might not be the only ones slain before the night is over.”

Then he dramatically rolls his eyes and clutches his heart, wobbling into a fake faint. You catch him by his skinny waist and hug it tightly, pulling him against you. You inhale deeply. He smells like Old Spice, and faintly of cigarettes, and the breath mints he chewed a little while ago in a weak attempt to mask it for you.

But you don't mind. It's the cocktail of him; tobacco, leather, the clean tangs of spearmint and cheap detergent, and the crisp autumn air he'd been out in most of the day, raking leaves.

“Did you just...sniff me,” he said with an amused chuckled.

“Yeah. I can't help it. I just love your smell.”

He nuzzles into your hair, returning the gesture with a deep inhale of his own.

“You little freak,” he says affectionately, and you give him a playful smack on the arm. “Anywayyy. I have a spectacular movie night planned for us, m'lady. Popcorn, candy, warm beverages and blankets...the works.”

Your heart melts as you notice the little coffee table in front of the sofa, loaded with a smorgasbord of buttery, salty popcorn, colorful gummies, and rich chocolates all arranged neatly in black and orange party bowls.

“Wow...Eddie...this...this is great!” Stunned, you turn to him and smother him in another grateful lip-lock. He breaks the kiss reluctantly and you whimper at the loss.

“Hold that thought!” he orders, as he scrambles to the VCR and gleefully pops in some Halloween-themed, heavy metal, B movie.

-------

It's a predictable campy slasher which neither of you will remember the name of. You certainly won't, not with his soft full lips on your neck the way they are now. You're both breathing heavy; handsy and eager as you make out.

“AHHHH!”

A prom queen screams as she falls victim to a plastic knife and spurts some suspiciously ketchupy looking blood.

You both jump at the blood-curdling screech, then laugh. “I'm so ashamed! I can't believe it actually made me jump! There goes my horror connoisseur cred, huh?” you bemoan to Eddie.

“Hey...give yourself a break. You were caught a little off-guard.” He pauses to kiss you languidly, his long candy-flavored tongue swirling deliciously in your mouth.

“You know...you, a little distracted and vulnerable. It's actually kind of cute. You're not usually the jumpy type but this is...I dunno...this is doing something to me. I...hmmm.”

His eyes go wide and he gives you that crooked grin, the one that says he's on to something, the one that no one on the planet could resist.

He rushes the words out, “I have an idea. Com'er.”

His warm broad palm finds its way to your waist as he tugs you close beside him, practically sitting you on his thigh facing the grainy flicker of the screen in the darkness. You squeak with surprise.

He gives a filthy little chuckle, “Sorry to manhandle you there, sweetness.”

“Mmm. I don't mind. Now what the fuck are you doing?”

He brings his lips close to your ear, kissing just beneath it then nipping playfully at the lobe, coaxing out a shudder. That warm hand with the chunky rings glides over the soft skin of your thigh, squeezes, then stills. You give him a quizzical look.

“Eyes ahead, baby,” he whispers, “Now, listen. Here's the rules of the game. Every time you jump, this hand...” he squeezes again, then runs the calloused tips of his fingers in relaxing circles over the soft flesh, “...will move justttt a little bit.”

He moves your hair gently with his nose and kisses that vulnerable spot just between your neck and shoulder. The move renders you helplessly limp against him, like a vampire's damsel victim in a black and white film.

“We'll see who's screaming by the end, hmm? Wanna play?”

You gasp then, smiling and nodding, squirming at the anticipation and tension.

“Alright, sweetheart. Let the games begin.”

To an outside observer, it would just look like a couple watching a movie together, innocently side by side swaddled in a shared blanket. That is, until you're startled a second time and his deft fingers slide up the fret board of your thigh, ever so slightly closer to where he's dying to play.

Then, the third jump scare. His hand moves further still, warm and solid and coming inexorably closer like the villain on screen, stalking his prey. The hand around your waist finds the hem of your sweater and toys with it, parts it like a theater curtain to draw soothing little shapes over your stomach, then your breastbone, like a wizard carving runes, casting a lulling enchantment. It's working beautifully on you and feels like sinking into a warm bath of tactile sensation.

His fingers find the little bow nestled between the cups of your bra. Eddie lets out a little snicker of laughter.

“Cute. Did you get this just for me? Be honest.”

“Uh huh,” you gasp, suddenly unable to form words.

“Mmm. I'm a lucky man then, but I hope you don't mind that I'm a lot more interest in what's underneath it.” He tilts your face so your eyes meet his, deep and dark as ink in the glow of the TV. “Can I touch you?”

“Please,” you hiss, in a high breathy voice of arousal you hardly recognize as your own.

His hand slides behind you. the clasps release one at a time with a gentle snap until he can slide beneath the silky band to your even silkier skin. Eddie groans with need, a deep rumble that you can feel where his chest is pressed against your back.

You close your eyes, head leaning back against him as he massages and teases the sensitive flesh. He leans over kissing you deeply, desperately, as his fingers toy with your stiff nipples, drawing out the most desperate sounds from you.

He pulls you closer and your legs fall wider, his thigh now nestled snugly between them. Denim rubs roughly against the slick material and the dripping lips underneath. Eddie groans again, canting his hips up against you until you feel his erection pressing hard against the curve of your ass.

“Feel what you do to me, baby? How hard you always make me? Did you know before we were even dating, as soon as you'd leave with everyone else, I'd run off to my room to handle this? Christ, I couldn't slam the door fast enough so I could jack off thinking of you.”

“Really?” you ask, preening and flattered at the high praise.

“Yeah,” he purrs, “Every fucking time. Surprised I never came in my pants like some horny little perv before I even managed to find some privacy.”

You whimper at his confession, the dampness growing between your legs. You're soaked, swollen and needy beneath your clothes.

“AHHHHH!” screams a doomed cheerleader onscreen, and you flinch.

A split second later, Eddie's hand eagerly buries itself between your legs. First, he kneads at your inner thigh, just outside of fabric of your underwear, and is delighted to feel your wetness has leaked there, giving him a luscious preview of what to expect.

“Ohhhh, good girl. You're so wet for me that it's spilling out. Jesus Christ, you're so hot.”

Eddie doesn't wait for another jump scare. He can't resist any longer and your needy squirms and moans only egg him on. He traces gently up your damp, shuddering thigh and slips under the hem of your ruined panties.

“AHHHHH!”

“Ahhhh!” you both echo in union and is seems like the movie is screaming it with you.

It's heaven, pure bliss, the way his clever fingertips swim against your contours, the lips of your pussy. You're blossoming open, dewy and ripe for him, inviting further.

“Lean over the table, honey,” he commands, and you oblige, parting the sea of plastic bowls as you make room to lay down, your ass exposed for him like a submissive animal.

A sharp smack finds your pliant flesh. You yelp and giggle with surprise as he kneads and massages. He slides your panties down and suddenly a wave of self-consciousness washes over you. You realize how totally exposed and vulnerable you are like this.

“Is...is it okay, Eddie?”

“Sweetheart,” he moans in awe, “it's absolutely perfect. God, you're perfect.”

It's surprisingly reverent, as are his fingers as he slides them inside of you, pumping and easing within. Then his finger finally finds your clit, drawing little circling presses. You melt onto the cool plastic surface while he fucks you with his talented hand.

You close your eyes and grip hard at the table, beginning to buck backwards, riding his fingers as your cunt grips around them .

“Mmm. Yeah...just like that. That's perfect. I gotta touch myself. I'm dying here.”

“Please. I wanna see you do it.”

He leans over and kisses you. “God, could you be anymore perfect, you little freak,” he mumbles against your lips.

You look over your shoulder to see Eddie, working at his belt, easing the edges of it down his hipbones along with those silly plaid boxers. You take it all in; the v of his slender hips, the sight of him gripping his thick flushed cock, the pattern of dark hair around it. It's beautiful.

He closes his eyes and does a few languish strokes against the engorged, sensitive skin. The tip is already leaking and he knows he won't last long, but then again, neither will you.

“Wanna come with me...hmmm? Want me to paint your skin with cum while I fuck you with my hand?”

“Yes yes yessss,” you whine. God, you need it and you need it now.

The final jock wails as he's slain, and you and Eddie scream with him. You clench like a vice, twitching and shuddering around his fingers. No sooner than you come, you hear the rhythmic thump of Eddie fist furiously pumping his cock as he groans and gasps, shooting ropes of cum over the skin of your ass, the curving small of your back.

For a moment, almost unbelievably, Eddie-never-shuts-the-fuck-up-Munson says nothing. You both just collapse and pant, catching your breath.

After awhile he chuckles and says, “sorry...wait a minute,” and cleans you up with some very festive paper napkins. You laugh with him.

Before long your snuggled back together on the couch under the cozy blanket, basking in afterglow while the credits roll. Eddie takes a deep satisfied breath and hugs you closer as you tenderly recuperate.

Then, to your surprise, he slide lower on the sofa until he's looking up at you from between your thighs, those dark eyes and toothy grin full oozing mischief.

“Waddaya say, pretty girl? Wanna make this a double feature?”

@sweetsigyn @leelei1980 @word-wytch @veemoon @elegantkoalapaper @ladyofthestayingpower @bettyfrommars @userchai @fairyysoup @babygorewhore @somnambulic-thing @munson-blurbs @hellfirenacht @take-everything-you-can @msgexymunson

[antimonyandthyme]

1k, prosenna

warnings: references to character death, grief/mourning

There were hands smoothing down the wrinkles in the sheets by his legs.

“Go away,” he said. “You are dead.”

Ayrton rolled his eyes. “Of course,” he said, and went back to adjusting the blanket.

Ludicrous. Ghost Ayrton was trying to tuck him in. Alain was losing his mind.

“So even in death, you seek to drive me mad.”

Ayrton pulled back, like that stung. Actually stung, physically. Which made no sense. Alain was talking to a shade his mind had cobbled up, in rejection of the reality. Some people had no business lying still. So, his imagination made them move.

“I’m trying to make you comfortable.”

“I am quite comfortable, thank you.”

“Then why can’t you sleep?” Ayrton said softly.

Alain stared down at his hands, tangled in the sheets by his waist. He had lost faith in the veins running along his body to carry blood. If he looked in the mirror, he knew what he’d find. Haunted eyes, and a tiredness that stuck to flesh like wet film. Why couldn’t he sleep?

“Because you left,” Alain said. “Without so much as a goodbye.”

Ayrton’s face seemed whiter than before, if that were even possible. Even now, when nothing between them mattered any more—even now, they hurt each other.

“I am trying,” Ayrton said, “to right this wrong, can you understand that?”

“Then let me sleep,” Alain said.

It was close to eleven when Alain awoke. His alarm had been switched off. He did not remember doing that. There was a hand on his shoulder, shaking him awake. Ayrton had not left.

“Now, to the shops,” Ayrton announced, sounding so much like it was the tallest order of the day. “Get dressed, Alain.”

“No,” Alain said. He had not left the house in—weeks. Since Imola.

Ayrton pursed his lips and squinted. It was all so familiar. He used to make that expression right before they argued. Alain could close his eyes and conjure it up, every frown line etched in its precise position. He supposed he was getting exceedingly good at recreating Ayrton from memory.

“Get dressed,” Ayrton said menacingly, “or I will dress you.”

Alain barked out a laugh. It grated against his ears like metal on metal, a crash on the track. He hadn’t heard himself in what seemed like eons. Fine, fine. He could humour Ayrton, if only because he had made him laugh.

Ayrton watched with satisfaction as Alain drew clean clothes on. It didn’t seem strange that Ayrton watched him while he changed, with something in his eyes Alain couldn’t quite place. Or rather, something Alain couldn’t bear to place, now that the something was no longer within reach.

They went to the market.

“Why can't they see you?”

Ayrton scoffed. “Why would I choose to appear to them?”

Alain shook his head. “Why would you choose to appear to me?”

Ayrton looked at him as if Alain were deliberately being obtuse. Which was just typical. And comforting enough for the crack in his heart to tear open and bleed freely.

The shopkeepers must certainly think him mad. He was holding up produce for Ayrton to inspect. He was holding them up to thin air.

“Pah,” Ayrton said. “You call those oranges?”

Alain inspected the offending fruit. “What would you call them?”

“Those are yellows at best. This is what you’ve been eating? No wonder you’ve grown so thin.”

The weather was crisp, and Alain’s lips cracked when he smiled. He poked his tongue out to get at the blood, and let himself be bullied into purchasing grapefruit instead.

There was a light drizzle when they were finally done. Alain kept his walking pace while Ayrton seethed behind him. By the grace of the universe, Alain had been spared an apparition that could touch. If Alain could imagine the feel of Ayrton against him, then. Well. He wouldn’t survive this.

“Walk faster,” Ayrton demanded. Every time he tried to push at Alain, his hands went clean through. “You are getting soaked.”

“I don’t mind,” Alain said. The chill of the air was refreshing, actually.

“I do,” Ayrton said. “Come on, your house is just around the corner.”

But Alain would not listen. He stood under the clouds as the sky opened up and mourned for Senna.

“Come in from the rain,” Ayrton pleaded with him.

Alain stayed, like a madman who would not be swayed. The immovable object to Ayrton’s now very stoppable force. The paper bag holding his groceries tore, and the grapefruit thudded to the ground, coming to rest in puddles. He was allowed to relish in the anguish he was inflicting upon Ayrton. In return for the sorrow that now bound his every waking moment.

“What would you have me do?” Ayrton was shouting now. The rain adhered to his cheeks like tears. “For you to come inside, Alain, what would you have me do?”

“Come back,” Alain said to the storm.

The rain kept falling. Alain did not know for how long. Could have been seconds. Or years. Alain was looking his grief right in the face. He was dimly aware that he was shivering wildly, that his teeth were chattering.

“I will never forgive you,” Ayrton said, his final attempt at moving Alain. “If you allowed this to break you, I will never forgive you. You will never see peace, Alain, for I will never leave you.”

“What if,” he said, sounding for all the world like a child, lost and pathetic, “I wanted that?”

“You are a fool,” Ayrton said harshly. His hands hovered a mere millimeter above Alain’s cheeks. He looked so much like he wanted to stroke Alain. It looked like pain, that he couldn’t. “Come in from the rain, Prost, and live.”

Alain looked up. The sky was clearing. The earth continued to spin, as she always did. Alain crouched down, and picked up his fallen fruit. He took his time. Dragged it out. Allowed himself the taste of longing. When he turned to go home, Ayrton was no longer there.

[materassassino]

For the ask thing, Dinluke 💛💖🤎 pwease?

(I'm assuming you gave three options so I could choose one.)

💛 reunion kiss / relief

(Set in the same AU as Those Hands of Yours, That Count the Nights, but approximately two-and-a-half years later.)

Word spreads through the Hoth base like wildfire, hot enough to thaw the walls: they’ve been hailed by a Mandalorian ship. Everyone knows the Mandalorians are nominal allies, and everyone knows what happened to Mandalore a year ago. The fact one is taking refuge here is momentous, and they have the clearance. They’ve been let through.

A crowd has gathered in the hangar, dense enough that Luke has to politely but firmly elbow his way through to the front, to stand beside Leia and Han. Han looks sour, like he does most of the time at the moment. Leia has her arms folded, brows drawn.

“Well?” Luke asks, slightly breathless.

She gives him a small, sad look. “A woman hailed. She gave the right codes but…”

The intimation is unvoiced: don’t get your hopes up.

He tries not to, he really does, but he is made of hope, and always has been.

Like the clean stab of a vibroblade, the Kom’rk fighter/transport slides home into the hangar, coming to a crisp stop and easing off the turbolifts until she settles in a soft cloud of shifted ice crystals. Elegantly done with such a sizeable ship. Han pouts at it like it’s done him great personal wrong.

Even though his heart thuds in his chest, Luke tries to take a deep breath. It could be anyone on that ship: despite Mandalore’s fate, there are thousands of Mandalorians in the galaxy, and all of them are valued allies. He’ll be happy to see anyone who steps off it. All warriors are welcome, especially those of such renown as—

His feet move before he realises. He can sense him, after the horrid, sickening void he’s felt for two years. He catches himself with the Force before he can slip, and is halfway up the loading ramp before anyone has time to notice, to stop him. There is ringing silver in the Force, the most beautiful song in the galaxy.

He grabs the middle figure’s arms, unable to stop himself from breaking into a wide, joyous grin. Immediately a forest of blasters in on him, loaded and ready to fire.

“Din,” he breathes, aware of them but ignoring them. “You’re alive.”

“Luke?” Din chokes out, and a woman with a blue and white helmet gestures for the guards around them to lower their weapons with a roll of her helmet.

Distantly Luke hears Leia let out a sound of pure delight, but it barely registers. Ignoring the crowd, ignoring propriety, Luke surges up. Din meets him halfway, and it’s cold beskar to warm(ish) skin and hair, Luke’s eyes sliding closed.

He’d been on a low simmer of dread for two years, since they separated all that time ago, since they found out about Mandalore, with no inkling Din was actually safe. He’d tried to move on, to let go, but he couldn’t. Some small, perhaps foolish, fragment of hope remained in him.

It’s paid off.

They pull back, and Luke sags with relief. He doesn’t even know what to say. His emotions are in turmoil, and all he can do is stare as the familiar, beloved lines of Din’s helmet, and superimpose the holograph he’s stared at every night.

“Oh, I have good news,” Din says.

“What?”

Din steps slightly to the side, pressing something on his pauldron. A hoverpram floats forward.

“We’re fathers, now,” he says, and the hoverpram opens.

[the-fiction-witch]

Little Doll

Media - The Artful Dodger Character - Jack Dawkins Couple - Jack X Reader Reader - Miss Y/n Y/l/n (Porceline Skin China doll look) Rating - Sweet AF Word Count - 4638

Jack finished up with his work in the theatre heading out as he pushed the sleeves of his white long-sleeved shirt under his blue waistcoat up to his elbows and ran a hand through his messy blonde hair. However, he immediately met his eyes with a familiar sight.

Miss Y/n Y/L/N, stood in the main figure of the hospital. She was wearing a pair of tall black boots laced up tightly, a long plaid lavender skirt with a large bird cage crinoline underneath, a white button-down blouse, with a belt tightly around her corseted waist with a silver moth buckle, crisp white gloves, tight waves of Y/H/C curls, with a bow of the same lavender plaid of her skirt, pale porcelain skin with perfectly placed freckles across her nose and cheekbones, and large emerald eyes. Her leather-bound notebook clutched to her chest.

Jack chuckled to himself as he saw her, seeing her made him feel bubbly as she reminded him of one of those beautiful porcelain dolls dressed up and set perfectly. He knew why she was here, and what she wanted. “Morning Miss Y/L/N,”

“Doctor Dawkins!” She turned excitedly, “Just the gentleman I was looking for,”

“Where are you now?” He raised an eyebrow,

“Could I have a word, please?”

“Go on Miss Y/L/N, tell me what you need and quickly I’m a busy man,” He said as he headed through the corridors towards his ward,

“Well firstly, have you given any more thought to allowing me to shadow your surgery silently?” she smiled as she happily followed behind him her skirt bouncing a little as she walked,

“I’ve already told you, you're not allowed in the surgical theatre.” He told her, “I don’t let little girls into surgery,”

“I see.” She nodded, “But secondly, would it be possible for me to shadow an autopsy in the morgue? Please,”

He rolled his eyes and sighed, “Alright, But you’re quiet the whole time.”

“I will I promise,”

“Alright come on,”

Jack headed down to the morgue with Y/n following behind him like an excited puppy, Jack began to set things up tying his leather apron around his waist and gathering his clean tools. Y/n closed the door and happily hopped onto an empty table. But Jack merely glared her down and she hopped off the table again,

“Sorry,” She gulped,

“Thank you,” He warned, “Get a stool if you want to sit Miss Y/L/N,”

She nodded excitedly adjusting her skirt as she fetched a stool, bringing it over to the table across from Jack sitting kicking her feet, a smile as wide as a kid on Christmas,

Jack would sighed, and continued working the corpse. "You're excited about this? Aren’t you?"

Y/n shrugged, "I find it all so fascinating" She smiled

"Well if you find this all so fascinating, why don't you get in close and watch my hands closely?"

She giggled and put the books down shuffling her stool over to sit closer to him her nose almost an inch from his hands her eyes wide with excitement,

Jack pointed at the lungs and spoke, "Now these are the lungs, they are what is used to supply the blood with fresh oxygen for the heart to supply the rest of the body. Notice their dark colour, that's a result of the disease. As the disease infected the lungs, it stopped supplying the blood with oxygen." He smiled down at her, "Do you understand?"

"… But how do you know they go that colour because of the disease and is not simply because they're dead?" She asked,

Jack thought on it for a moment, "You sure are a curious one. You're correct it could simply be due to death, but I'm making an educated guess based on prior knowledge. The man we're cutting open had died due to infection, and in turn, I would figure that his lungs would be infected as well due to the way he was coughing. And lo and behold the lungs are dark, that and dark coloured lungs would generally suggest infection."

"but you don't know that you didn't take his lungs out while he was alive,"

"That's a fair point. But as you see his lungs are collapsed. That wouldn't be the case if he was alive, they would be inflated like balloons." He'd poke one of the lungs, "As you can see, they're collapsed, and thus I am making the educated guess that they are infected."

"hummm…" She nodded,

Jack would look down at her, "Are you familiar with Occam's Razor?"

"…no?"

"Occam's Razor is a philosophy that states that you should assume the simplest explanation for something unless further evidence suggests otherwise." Jack explained, "So Occam's Razor in this situation says, the lungs are dark due to infection. I don't have further evidence to suggest otherwise, so therefore… The lungs are dark due to the infection."

"… Whenever you eliminate the impossible whatever remains however improbable must be the truth"

"Precisely. You catch on quite easily." Jack paused for a moment, "Didn't take you for that type."

"I like to read, one of the few things I enjoy father hasn't taken away… And I think that's only because he can't be bothered to read my books to check their subject matter," she explained her fingers wiggling itching to poke, prod and investigate

Jack chuckled at her comment, "You're father sounds like a real charmer." he would say sarcastically. "What, if you had to guess, do you think this man died from?" Jack asked,

"well… You made a point about the darkness of his lungs due to infection however due to the elasticity of the lungs so late Into this stage in the morgue the body didn't die from the lungs giving out, there was scaring in his nose and his eye sockets are swollen out instead of being sunk in. This means the lung infection began as a meer sinus and chest infection which he ignored. And he smoked. Given the discolouration in his nails… I'm going to say he choked to death trying to smoke while having a lung infection" she explained

Jack was stunned by her level of deduction, even going to the level of checking the fingernails. "How in the?" Jack would ask. "Yes that was my observation as well, but your observation about his nails. How could you tell he was a smoker, and how can you tell he was smoking whilst infected?"

"… Tobacco stains the ends of your fingertips yellow over time and causes your nails to turn very sickly due to the lack of good health collagen in the body. He isn't a very old man so he had a thick habit makes sense he'd want to still smoke"

Jack was extremely impressed by her observation, "I can see why you enjoy reading, You're a very good detective. Most women your age are getting married, not reading about murder mysteries!"

"I don't know whether I should be flattered or insulted…" She said "I know most ladies are off at their debutant balls and popping out babies but I don't know, men don't find me very palatable" she said her fingers stroking the exposed rib but she saw him looking so pulled back,

Jack tilted his head, "Men don't find you palatable? That's a shock to me. Most would fall head over heels at first sight." Jack smiled down at her, "Maybe they can read how clever you are, and they're put off at the idea of a young woman being smarter than them."

"Perhaps… I think a lot of it is my… More macabre interests, most men are put off by such things"

"And what exactly are your morbid interests? Are they that offputting?" Jack questioned. He certainly didn't care, if anything he had a rather morbid view of life as well.

"I'm sitting watching an autopsy for fun?" She answered

Jack chuckled, "That's considered off-putting? Sounds like normal curiosity to me." He smirked at her, "I'm curious to know other interests. What else is considered morbid?"

"I read a lot of horrors, a lot of crime stories, I like to research the occult and supernatural, I used to collect small bones but… Father put a stop to that"

Jack chuckled, "What's wrong with collecting bones? Sounds like a perfectly normal hobby. If anything, it sounds kinda cute."

"I used to have a frame filled with bird wing bones that I collected all laid out with diagrams and names but father didn't like it so… He made me burn it"

Jack grimaced at the thought of such a beautiful display burnt to ash. "Did he give a reason for making you burn it?" Jack asked, looking confused "He just sounds like a control freak from what you say."

"he said such things are not becoming of a young lady"

Jack rolled his eyes. "Seems like an excuse for a control freak to burn something you loved. Are there any other interests your father ruined for you?"

"he said I couldn't use and or own a planchette board"

Jack looked down at Y/n, "That spiritual board thing? Why would he not want you using that? Scared you'll find a ghost in the house?"

"ohh I did several they were nice but I think seeing it move freaked him out"

Jack smirked, "Wait, you got them to work?" He asked, sounding quite surprised, "And what about the ghosts you found? What were they like?"

"They were all very nice, I met a nice lady who died in the town in 1656. They burned her as a witch but she's very nice"

Jack tilted his head, "A nice ghost eh?” He chuckled, He thought, "Wait, how in the hell were you using a Phancheeetty- or whatever board that young? You're twenty-four. Did you get one instead of a rocking horse?" he asked jokingly.

"I made one.." she answered sheepishly

Jack looked surprised, "Now that's impressive! Most people would need years and years of supernatural study to get something like that to work, but let me guess. Is that another thing your father burned?" He sounded slightly annoyed on her behalf at the idea of burning it,

"mhm" she nodded

"This father of yours sounds more like a dictator than a father." Jack sighed, "Does he also burn your horror books?"

"no, but I don't tell him what is in the books and he's too lazy to read them and find out"

"At this point, I'm starting to think laziness is a blessing from this tyrant father of yours." Jack paused for a moment, thinking. "Is there anything he hasn't tried to burn?"

"…I'd say me… But he's threatened it before"

Jack's eyes widened at her response, "Wait, you mean to tell me that your FATHER has threatened to burn you?" He was slightly taken aback, he couldn't understand a parent being so abusive.

"he was worried I was becoming a witch"

Jack's face darkened. "I have a feeling this man should never have been allowed to have children."

His face lightened slightly, "Have you been intrigued by the supernatural since you were a child?"

"mhm, I don't know why I find it all so fascinating. I suppose it's just another form of religion at the end of the day. Some people read the bible every day, go to church, sit in their room read tarot cards and go for walks in the graveyard secretly hoping they can find a pet bat"

Jack's lips twitch at the idea of Y/n with a bat as a pet, "That is quite a lovely analogy. Most women would probably be disgusted at the idea of walking through a graveyard. But you love it." He smiled down at her, "You're an interesting one Y/n Y/L/N."

"thank you Doctor Dawkins" she giggled as she happily poked at the heart

Jack's eyes widened slightly as she called him Doctor Dawkins, it felt nice to hear, instead of Doctor Jack or just plain Jack. "No problem, Y/n." He smiled down at her, it felt nice to speak with her.

"So what is your opinion on supernatural and ghosts and all that?" Jack would ask in a curious tone.

“My Maid says I use to talk to ghosts when I was little say things I couldn't have known any other way, it makes sense I mean… Humans sort of exist in two parts the body and the soul, when he body dies soul has to go somewhere"

"That's not a common belief you know Y/n. Most people would say you're insane or crazy for thinking that the dead can linger around in ghost form." Jack smiled, "I think you're very intelligent, seeing the world as it really is. What about the supernatural? Does that exist?"

"I suppose the undead are possible if a soul was to re-enter a dead body. Demons and spirits seem possible just higher ranking ghosts, cryptids make sense too I mean I wouldn't be that surprised to hear a large yeti thing exists, some big bear that walks on its legs covered In white fur and fangs, when you think about it a tall long neck spotted creature with thin legs is just how anyone would describe a giraffe"

Jack found himself nodding at her explanation. "I've never had anyone else look at the supernatural so… Logically. You certainly have a unique view on the world." He smiled, "And what of the idea of vampires. Do you think they could exist?"

"people are weird I'm sure someone out there as licked blood, liked it, and kept doing it" she shurgged

Jack snorted at her response, "True that. I can think of many things worse than a blood fetish. You seem to have a very logical view on the supernatural, as if magic can be explained with science."

"I think all magic is just science we have yet to explain. I'm sure one day the human soul and where it goes well be explained by science and maybe it does linger on a way we would call a ghost we're just not there yet. I mean a few thousand years ago they probably thought tiny people can clockworks machines inside us to make or organs work" she giggled looking at the body he worked on with such thrill and excitement

Jack smiled down at her, she really was a unique one. Logical yet curious. She had a sort of endearing personality. "That is probably one of the most unique and interesting takes on science and magic I've ever heard." Jack chuckled softly, "You’d make a very good doctor Miss Y/L/N, You certainly have the mind for it, and the curiosity of a child."

"father wouldn't allow it, the only reason I'm allowed to linger in the hospital is because I lied to father. He thinks I'm at dance classes"

Jack rolled his eyes at that. "Again, I can't blame you. He sounds like quite the dictator. What exactly does he want you to become? A baby factory?"

"a trade for a business deal I suppose, and then a baby factory."

Jack grimaced at Y/n's response. "You're father sounds like a real piece of work." Jack was quite frustrated at the father, just the way Y/n spoke about him made him infuriated.

"he's old fashioned is all" she shurgged "not a very modern man." She giggled

Jack looked at her with a slightly stern expression, "You shouldn't make excuses for him. That man's a control freak and a dictator." Jack was slightly annoyed at her shrugging and laughing her fathers faults off.

"I suppose…" She said too focused on her fun she was having with the body

Jacks sighed, he couldn't force her to get angry. "You certainly have a way of not letting the mood get grim, don't you." He smirked, "How are you even having fun in a morgue with corpses around you?"

"I did say I was morbid"

Jacks chuckled, "No kidding, you seem more fascinated by a corpse than I do, and it's my job to look at them."

"you see them everyday, I imagine surgery must be fascinating" she smiled

Jack smirked slightly when she mentioned surgery, it was something his was passionate about, and Y/n clearly had some interest. He looked down at her with a curious expression, "Why do you sound sad? Did you want to watch a surgery? You know hospitals don't allow young ladies in the surgery theatre."

"I know… But I'd like to, it's not fair the men all get to pay a penny and watch I'd pay a whole shilling"

Jacks snorted with laughter at her response, she certainly had an adorable innocence to her. He gave her a fond smile, "That would be quite the sight to see you sitting beside some gentlemen in a theatre next to a surgery. But Y/n, aren't ladies meant to be fainting at the sight of blood?"

"ladies see more blood then men" she answered

Jacks eyes widened slightly, but then he started laughing, "You really are quite unlike other girls. And you are certainly observant." Jack looked at her, "If you don't mind me asking, how much blood have you seen? Other then that which comes from a period."

"… Some" she answered sheepishly

Jacks smirked softly, he could guess how she would have seen more then most girls. "You make me wonder if most girls would faint at the sight of my work. Though you seem quite interested."

"I'm sure most would"

Jack chuckled softly, "Most likely, you might be the only one who could handle the sight of a surgery. Though most ladies would either faint or be horrified." He smiled, "What would your father think of you if you had an aptitude for surgery and medicine?"

"… Lock me in my room I imagine"

Jacks expression darkened, "That man really is a monster isn't he." His tone was dark as he spat the word monster, a wave of anger washed over him at the image of Y/n being locked away in her room for having an interest her father didn't like.

"… He's… Protective I suppose"

Jacks expression immediately lightened when she responded, and he shook his head with a chuckle, "You're too kind. Just the idea of that man locking you in your room for enjoying something he didn't like made me enraged and you call that protective?"

"I guess so… Don't know what else to call it" she explained as the autopsy was now finished with "doctor Dawkins?"

Jack raised an eyebrow slightly, "What is it Y/n?" He inquired curiously.

"can… Can I sew it up? I'll be ever so careful I promise."

Jack smirked slightly, "You want to try stitching it up?" He inquired. He found the idea of Y/n suturing a stitched up corpse quite endearing, she certainly was an eccentric young lady.

she nodded excitedly

Jack smiled, "All right. You can try stitching the body up."

He began to instruct her on what to do, as he prepared surgical thread and surgical needle to try and make the process a bit easier for Y/n.

she giggled and happily sat taking the needle and thread she was slow and careful stitching like fabric she needed to be corrected a few times but he just loomed over her shoulder watching her inhaling her soft lavender perfume

Jack inhaled her gentle lavender scent, finding it quite soothing. It wasn't often a lady with a perfume walked into a morgue and happily tried to suture a body.

Jack couldn't help but softly smirk she was quite the sight, the sweet young lady sat on the stool her feet didn't even touch the floor, her sweet Lilac skirt around her, her beuatiful curls pulled back with a matching bow, needle in her bloody hands, a somewhat wicked smile on her lips and a gentle humming in her throat she was so happy she smiled and even hummed a little song as she sutured the body to perfection Jack couldn't help but watch Y/n, it was an amusing and endearing sight seeing her happily sat on the stool, stitching up the body. And even more amused by the sight of a bloody needle in her dainty little hands.

A thought suddenly struck Jack, "What if your father saw you like this? Working beside a me, cutting into a body with a bloody needle. How do you think he would react?" Jack inquired with a smirk.

"he'd lock me in my room, have a preacher stand outside and shout bible verses at me. Or sell me off to India"

Jack snorted with laughter at Y/n's response. He knew he probably shouldn't Laugh because it wasn't a joke to Y/n. But for some reason, the idea of Y/n being locked away in a room with a preacher standing outside shouting bible verses at her sounded humorous. Maybe it was because he found Y/n such an interesting young lady. "What a lovely father you have Miss Y/L/N." Jack commented sarcastically, his tone dripping with sarcasm.

"he's not good but he's mine"

Jack smirked slightly at Y/n's response, he understood why she defended her father. It was normal to want to defend someone despite their flaws and behaviour. but he couldn't help but wonder what kind of father would treat his daughter like Y/n's father did. Locking her away for having an interest, treating her like she's just for baby making… Jack couldn't help but feel disdain towards Y/n's father,

Jack glanced at Y/n again, he couldn't help but let out a slight chuckle when he saw the amount of blood on her hands. Some had even splattered on the delicate material of her outfit. Jack found it both endearing and amusing. He knew that a lady like her wouldn't want blood on her clothes but at the same time there was something captivating about seeing a doll like her with bloodied hands. A doll he pondered, she reminds him of a doll, the sweet polcerline and china dolls lined in toy store windows in sweet dresses with perfect hair. But now she looked like a haunted doll covered in blood with a wicked little smile, Jack continued working, still observing Y/n with mild amusement.

she happily sat watching him work, "hummm…" She ponders "sorry… I'll be quiet doctor Dawkins"

Jack shook his head, no longer laughing as Y/n tried to apologise.

"No, no, Y/n no apologies." He gave her a fond smile, "Don't apologise or get shy for your enjoyment. iT’S fascinating, especially when you don't hide them as much as most girls do." He glanced at Y/n, "If I was to be honest, your unique thoughts is probably why I find you so fascinating. The way you think isn't like most ladies. And I honestly find it endearing, especially your thoughts on corpses and science."

she blushed a little

"That's that done." Jack said with a smile.

she nodded "all done, slightly disappointing to put all that work in just to bury him"

Jack looked down at the body and nodded, he couldn't disagree with her there. "Yes, it is a strange thing. We spend all that time looking into a dead body, yet at the end we just bury them and move on to the next mystery." Jack then looked at Y/n, "There's something I've been wanting to ask you."

"yes doctor Dawkins?" She asked cleaning off her hands

Jack smirked as he watched Y/n clean her hands of blood. He knew most ladies wouldn't even want to touch blood with a ten foot pole, and yet Y/n was happy to just sit with her hands in blood, cutting up a body. If it was any other woman, Jack would find it unsettling. But on Y/n it just seemed endearing. "I have noticed that you have a very interesting way of thinking Y/n. In regard to the supernatural and life." He commented.

"I do?"

Jacks nodded, his smirk widening, "Yes you do. You don't seem to be afraid of the mysteriousness of life. I've also noticed you have an interest in death and corpses." His tone was gentle, he was still slightly amused by the amount of dried blood on the dainty young lady. He couldn't help but find her doll like appearance coupled with her thoughts endearing. "You are definitely not like most young ladies."

"I guess not…" She said but her tone turned sad as she finished cleaning her hands even if the blood had left a slight red stain on her pale skin "your going to tell me it's unbecoming of a lady too? Tell me I should use my wine to find a good husband…" She sighed "I wouldn't bother you anymore if you don't want me to doctor Dawkins"

Jacks expression immediately darkened at her response and he reached out and cupped Y/n's cheeks with his hands. He couldn't stand her being sad. "Please don't ever think for a second that I wish for you to stop coming here. You're a fascinating girl. I look forward to your visits." Now his tone was softer and slightly affectionate, "And don't you dare think that you're unbecoming of a lady, you're perfect just how you are. Don't listen to anyone who says otherwise."

she blushed hard her freckled cheeks turned pink, but she stepped back so his hands left her cheeks "thank you doctor Dawkins…"

Jack smiled gently as Y/n blushed at his compliment. He hoped he had managed to prevent her from feeling upset. However, he couldn't help but feel slight disappointment when she stepped back, it felt nice holding her cheek and seeing her blush. "You're welcome Miss Y/L/N." His smile widened and then he smirked, "I do hope you still come and visit my morgue."

"I hope to doctor Dawkins" she nodded "thank you so much for such a lovely day, I hope you have a nice rest of your evening" she smiled

Jacks smiled once more in response and watched as Y/n prepared to exit the morgue. He couldn't help but feel slightly… Disappointed she was leaving already. Sure Jack was normally glad when work was over, but this time he felt like he didn't want it to end and for Y/n to leave. He was starting to become fascinated with the unique and adorable young woman more and more.

She picked up her parasol and her small hat giving him a small polite curtsy before she heads out the morgue.

Jack watches her as she goes watching how her crinoline causes her lilac skirt to sway side to side as she walks, her Y/H/C curls and her little bow, he couldn't help thinking of her lavender scent, of her happy excited smile, of all the words they shared… Of the sight of her sewing the body, hands covered in blood, smiling and humming. Y/n… His little doll

He can't help thinking of her as his morbid macabre haunted little doll

Jacks stood watching Y/n leave the morgue, he couldn't help his eyes following her. As she left the room he felt something strange. He missed her already, and he couldn't help but notice how adorable she was when she did her little curtsy. How beautiful her dress swayed with her crinoline. He loved hearing her sweet little voice, every word she said fascinated him, and of course he couldn't help notice the way her hair fell slightly loose with her bow sitting just perfect.

… And then the realisation hit him. Oh dear.

Jacks felt an icy cold realisation wash over him as he stood there still watching the door Y/n had just left through. Oh…. No…. Not good… No….

Now he realised what this weird feeling was for Y/n.

He realised why he got so protective whenever Y/n mentioned her father.

He realised why he found her thoughts fascinating.

He… He…

He was starting to have feelings for Y/n.

Jack was completely dumbfounded by his recent realisation, and he felt a mixture of emotions.

Panic. Because if Y/n's father found out that he had feelings for her he would kill him.

Fear. Because he knew Y/n's father was the type of man to cause Y/n a lot of suffering for having feelings for someone he didn't approve of.

And… Hope? Because Jack knew that if he managed to win Y/n over he could possibly bring her away from that horrid man and into his arms where he could hold her close and let her watch autopsies and surgeries to the content of her morbid little haunted doll heart.

Oh… He definitely had feelings for Y/n.

[chris-continues]

You irk me, yet again…

Basically: Knives in a turtleneck + glasses + messed up hair. Aka, “OH NO!! HES HOT!!”

TYSM TO MY AMAZING FRIEND FOR INSPIRING THIS PIECE @bansshi UR ART IS GORG

Knives is the image of perfection.

Well, curated closely to it, you’d say.

Ironed shirts, crisp lines, set face, clear tone. Neat, clean, proper, just distinctly Nai.

So even a hair out of place irks him, a small stubborn baby hair draping over his forehead and setting asymmetrical values to his face. Besides his mole, of course. He continued to intently read the document you’d shared, after you’d become each other's official unofficial proofreaders for assignments.

He huffed frustratedly, attempting to tuck it back into place atop his head.

“Everything ok?” You looked up from spare notes you were perusing over from last lecture. Knives only adjusted his reading glasses, biting the inside of his cheek. “Adequate.” He pauses, looking over to you. “It’s not your work, if that’s what you’re fretting over.”

“Good to know.” You truly just wanted to see how he was feeling, but it wasn’t a bad feeling to have your work praised by him. Was praise even the right word?

“Mm.” He hummed, continuing to read despite his annoyed glare. His voice reverberated through his chest, and every silent groan and huff would show through his turtleneck. “You felt awfully dressy today.” You scroll down the document you wrote during class, adding onto the notes in contemplation. “It looks nice.” Maybe paying back the.. compliment? (If that’s what it was).

His jaw clenched in response, looking at you from over his glasses, eyes ever so attentive.

“Lounging in sleepwear all day isn’t my ideal wardrobe.” He scoffed.

“Tell that to your brother, I think I’ve seen the same Star Wars pj pants at least once, if not twice a week.” You could draw them, if you wanted to. Lightsabers with Chewbacca and a, ‘in a galaxy far, far away,’ phrase printed here and there. Nai had to do his laundry for him every now and then if he didn’t want Vash to live in those pants.

His only retort was an exaggerated roll of his eyes, forearms flexing when he fixed that very, very annoying hair that draped over his forehead.

“You don’t look improper today yourself.” He typed a small comment off to the side, gifting you constructive criticism.

Was that a..

“Was that a compliment?” You lit up, hopes getting the best of you. When did you get so excited over his praise? Just a few months ago you’d found him upright and a bit of a prick, and he still was, just a bit more of an interesting uptight prick.

“If you see it that way.” He clears his throat, “I’m done proofreading, check it when you’re ready.”

“Thanks again.”

“Mhm.” And then he continued his work,

Irked by your comment and the small hair on his forehead.