#literally in love with this fic

[attempting-to-reblog]

THIS MADE ME SMILE SO GOD DAMN WIDE. ITS SO SOFT AND I LOVE THIS. STILES STILINSKI IS ACTUALLY MY FAVOURITE CHARACTER EVER AND THIS FIC JUST SOLIDIFIES WHY

Parental Guidance || Stiles Stilinski x Reader

Summary: Coach Finstock introduces a very unwanted assignment in his Sex Ed class, resulting in a week of domesticity for Stiles and Y/N.

Words: 4607k

Warnings: fluffff, brief swearing

Notes: just something fun and cute okay?? btw the reader and stiles are in a friendship in this, not an established relationship

MONDAY - 10:47AM

Mindless chatter bounced between the walls of Coach Finstock's Economics classroom, every seat warmed by a preoccupied student. Lucky for you, the Supernatural had quietened down for a brief moment of tranquility and normalcy - you needed this, you all needed this. It was fifteen minutes into your period and Coach was still nowhere to be seen, not that anybody besides a few of you even noticed. Your eyes squinted as you looked at Scott, your body half-turned in your chair in order to see him behind you. His head laid on top of his arms as the faintest of snores escaped through his lips. You were amazed at how quickly he situated himself and fell into such a deep slumber, but at the same time, the quiet snorts and sleepy chortles were getting on your nerves.

Your arm twitched as you desired to reach out and shake his shoulder to wake him up, but the sudden realization that this was the most sleep he'd probably gotten in the last few months deterred you and provoked you to pull away with a soft smile. Your sympathy obviously wasn't matched as it was Stiles' turn to reach across to your sleeping friend, only with a thick black marker in his hand and a devilish expression contorting his facial features. You rolled your eyes as he peered over to you, a heavy wink falling from his eye, his arm not needing to go far as the two best friends were situated next to one another. You mouthed the word 'NO' at Stiles, but he was never one to listen, his tongue poking through the creased corners of his lips in concentration.

The tip of the marker began to stain Scott's tanned skin before it was dragged haphazardly across his cheek in a state of fright from a sudden loud noise, a cringing chime of guilt pressing through Stiles. With your teeth pulling your bottom lip, you couldn't help but muffle your laugh within your cupped hands, Malia joining in from beside you with just as much enjoyment.

Coach's voice continued to boom between all four walls of the classroom the further he entered, the trolley of basketballs usually found tucked inside the Gym now in his tow. He stood at the front of the room with hands on his hips, his eyes scanning all of the class' patrons before landing on Scott. Coach grumbled, eyes rolling back to his hairline before he moved forward between the rows of seats. His body managed to shuffle between you and Lydia before his fist slammed against the wood of Scott's desk, your friend flying backward with such force that he nearly tipped his chair over.

Coach chuckled with the utmost accomplishment, "Gotta lay off those late lonely nights, McCall. I've got a class to run."

It didn't take long before Scott brought himself back to the land of the conscious, the gears in his head ticking at Coach's choice of words. Scott's lopsided jaw lifted into a smug smile, his eyes flicking to the boy on his right-hand side, "That's more of a Stiles thing, Coach." There was no delay in your awkward friend lifting his eye into another wink toward Scott, forcing a gag from Coach before he took his place but at the head of the room. Your werewolf friend laughed loudly at the reaction before his smile dropped flat, his hand ghosting over his marked cheek.

Scott now frowned, "Is there something on my face?"

Your body was still turned in your chair as your lips pursed, eyes flicking to Lydia and Malia on either side of you before they landed on Stiles' mischievous whisky swirls - he was trying to hold in a laugh of his own. Simultaneously, you all said 'nope' and looked away from Scott, pretending that Stiles' little art lesson didn't happen.

"Alright you delinquents, listen up. Every senior at some point in this class has to go through this assignment. It sucks, but frankly, I don't have to do it so I don't care." He stated, hands reaching into the basketball trolley and pulling out a plastic toy resembling the shape and size of a six-month-old baby. Echos of groans and protests erupted almost immediately - some of those noises coming from your own mouth. The 'baby simulator' assignment was never anybody's favorite; they always cried, always needed attention. You could still distinctly hear the cries of multiple babies as they walked down the halls of Beacon Hills High ever since you arrived in freshman year. This assignment could possibly be worse than the supernatural.

"That's right, you're officially parents. Don't screw this up... I can see how many times this little pain in the ass cries, what you do to fix it, and all other sorts of intellectual crap. You'll be paired up and given one of these with an introductory manual... but don't think it'll give you answers on how to stop the crying, that's all on you kids. At the end of the week, I take 'em back and grade you depending on the information I get from these things. Once again, DON'T. SCREW. THIS. UP". Coach's brows were furrowed in his usual fashion, small particles of spit attached to his final words of warning - you were glad that you chose to sit toward the back of the class now, and not in the splash zone of the front row.

Coach cleared his throat as a way to cease the ongoing sounds of complaints before resorting to slamming his fist against another tabletop. You could feel Scott shudder at the reminder of his rude awakening only moments ago. Your teacher pinched the bridge of his nose as his head slightly fell, a sigh accompanying his tone, "This is supposed to teach you about what happens when you abandon safe sex. I'm not gonna tell you, hooligans, how to... well, you get it, okay? If you don't know, then too bad, I'm not gonna tell you either about the birds and bees crap. That's a job for your poor parents. I'm just here to pass out these damn dolls and silently judge you all later on whether you are physically capable of looking after another human being, besides yourselves, if anything." You didn't miss the way his eyes directly locked onto Stiles with those final few words, your own looking over your shoulder toward him and witnessing his face screw up at Coach.

"Alright. This took me little to no time to write up, if you don't like your partner - take a guess... I don't care". Coach reached behind him for a clipboard, his tongue darting out to lick the tip of the semi-broken pen before names were being called. He cringed at the first name as it sat on the end of his tongue.

"Greenburg, you're with... Tate."

Malia audibly groaned, her head falling into her hands. She didn't have anything against him, to say the least, but she knew that anybody would be cursed when it came to pairing with Greenburg during a Coach Finstock class. She continued to groan as more names were read off.

"Mahealani, you're paired with Martin."

Lydia didn't think anything too poorly about her chosen partner as she looked across the room, catching eyes with Danny and smiling as he gave her a quick thumbs up.

"McCall with Andrew."

Scott sighed in relief, happy to be partnered with someone who was both a friendly face and academically proficient. He looked toward the front of the room to where Sydney sat, her old-school camera being fiddled with on her desk. It was as if she could sense his gaze as she turned with a gentle grin.

"Y/L/N, you are paired with... Stilinski? Dear god, you poor girl."

You snickered behind your hand as another protest from Stiles protruded through the silence of the room, his hand-thrown forward and eyebrows crossed in a frown. "Seriously, Coach, have I done something to you because this reprimanding is getting kinda old-"

"You took every damn screw out of my office furniture and left them in a poorly wrapped gift box. You fail horribly at Lacrosse twenty-four-seven. I've never met a damn more sarcastic little ruffian in my damn life. I don't like your face-"

"Okay, yes, fine, fair enough. Just stop, please..." Stiles groaned his head hanging behind him, over the back of his chair.

----------

MONDAY - 11:35AM

You flicked through the introductory manual with your back against your locker, humming softly as you skimmed over the information regarding how the baby works and what information is stored. Stiles, however, was standing beside you with his arms ou straight, your new baby daughter held away from his body. He had already explained that he was nervous about setting the damn thing off in case you both couldn't silence it; it made you laugh. You looked over the edge of the binder and smiled at him, "So..." you started, lowering the combined pages as he looked over to you, "What are we gonna name her?"

"No. Once you name it, you grow attached." Stiles announced, his head shaking with each word.

"Stiles, it's a doll, not a stray puppy. Besides, I'm not going to spend the next week referring to our temporary plastic child as 'it'. She's getting a name." With a raised eyebrow you stood your ground, the intensity of your stare fighting his as a silent battle for who will cave first. As both of your eyebrows shifted to form silent words, you huffed, "We can call her Leia?"

He straightened up almost immediately as his face fell flat, with the addition of widened realizing eyes. Stiles looked back to the doll and brought her closer to his chest, "Leia Stilinski does have a nice ring to it." He admitted with a growing smile, causing you to smile in return.

You nodded with another soft hum, eyes briefly gazing over the constellation of moles across his left jawline. "Do you still have that marker from class?" You asked him, lips now pursed in thought.

"Uh, yeah?"

You took the marker from his lengthy fingers, ignoring the look of confusion in his caramelized eyes. Very lightly, you pressed the tip of the marker to the doll's cheek, recreating the pattern found on Stiles. You sighed in accomplishment as you looked back to him, beaming brightly, "There. Now she's a Stilinski." You slipped it back into Stiles' pocket as he chuckled at your alteration, the tip of his finger dragging softly across the new marks.

"Coach is gonna fucking kill you for drawing on Leia." He stated, finding comfort in now cradling her in his arms as if she were a real child. It was a sight to see Stiles suddenly act so paternal - his arms carefully wrapped around the doll's body as he rocked it slightly back and forth, a strange twinkle in his eye. You bit your lip at how well it suited him.

The bell above you rung loudly, shaking the metal lockers behind your perched frame. You reached down to grab your backpack before turning to Stiles again, "You called her Leia, you know? Not doll. Not it. Leia." Your arms slipped through the straps before securing them on your shoulders, your hands patting down the pockets of your jean shorts to make sure your phone was there.

"Well, of course I'm going to call our daughter by her name, Y/N. I'm not a deadbeat dad, I'm a fantastic dad."

You clicked your tongue at his self-proclamation, "Are you going soft on me, Stilinski?" You asked, your bodies still pressed against the old metal as the students of Beacon Hills High moved around you. He scoffed loudly, head flailing as if what you said was utterly preposterous. He was still rocking the doll when you raised an eyebrow in anticipation of his reply.

"I'm anything but soft, Y/N. I'm hard. I'm the hardest." Stiles proclaimed, gathering strange looks from passers-by on the way to their classes. His comment provoked your eyes to grow and lips to seal into a thin line, your focus slipping down his body toward his lower region. Stiles followed your gaze until he realized where you were looking, and what he said to make you look there. He groaned, "Seriously? You're turning this into a sexual innuendo in front of our child?" His head fell into a heavy shake before he spoke again, this time, toward the doll still within his arms, "I'm sorry, baby. Sorry that your momma's obsessed with my body."

"Eww, come on, Stiles. Too far." You looked away from him as your hand grasped his forearm, tugging his tall and lanky body behind you as you both fell into step on your way to Chemistry.

----------

TUESDAY - 12:52PM

Lydia's eyes were squinted as she stared across the table, her fork hardly hanging from her mouth with a lettuce leaf attached. She was too busy watching Malia to focus on eating, and you found the utmost amusement from the entire thing. Malia's arm was strung outward to the side as far as she could reach, her crying doll hanging from one foot that she was barely holding - she was disgusted and scared, begging for it to stop. The pack was trying not to let the ongoing screams go to their heads, but you could tell that the Weres had it a bit harder with their sensitive hearing.

You held Leia comfortably to your chest in one arm as you slipped a potato chip into your mouth. You were faintly bouncing her as if you'd been doing this for months already, the actions subconscious after only a day. You looked up as Malia whined, her eyes already boring into yours and the control you had over your doll. She scrunched her face, "why are you so good at this? Is mine defective? Did fucking Greenburg break this thing because I've barely touched it!"

You let out a small laugh, lips curling into a grand smile even more so at Lydia's sigh. You could tell what she wanted to say - that she really just wanted to tell Malia to stop being a baby herself and just try. She had gone a long way since you both began to talk in your freshman year, which is why she remained silent and kept her blunt opinions to herself. Stiles gently kicked you under the metal table of the cafeteria, causing your focus to shift toward him. He was chewing his food as he sent a silent message to you with the flick of his eyes as they looked down to Leia and back to yours. Your smile remained as you nodded, carefully removing the doll from your supportive hold and passed it across t Stiles' large splayed hands. He playfully cooed at the doll with a smile, "Hey little Leia, dadda's got you." It was hard to miss the fake gag from Liam and the strange judgemental look from Scott at the simple paternal action.

"Lia, gimme the doll." You spoke, your hands reached out in front of you with a grabbing movement. She quickly threw it toward you, lucky that you managed to catch it before it faceplanted onto the hardened floor. You laid it in your arm and began to rock it, your spare hand reaching toward a fake baby bottle on the table that was usually reserved for Leia - only made obvious by the poorly drawn baby Yoda and Star Wars quote sketched across it 'may the force be with you'. You lifted it to the doll's mouth as you continued to rock and bounce, the crying quietening substantially. After a few more minutes, it would be silent again.

Until then, you looked up at the absence of your friend's conversations - their eyes were trained on you in shock and surprise, even a little bit of gratefulness from Liam and Lydia. Stiles was the odd one out with his wide and prideful smirk, already knowing that you could easily get it under control. If these past twenty-four hours have taught you anything, it's that you and Stiles have much more faith in each other than originally thought. You offered him a quick wink as a part of your silent exchange.

Malia's jaw dropped and her brows had furrowed as she noticed how simple this was for you. Her hands pressed firmly against the table-top with another Malia-signature groan, "How the hell did you even do that?! He's been crying all day!" You couldn't help but pass another chuckle her way before standing up and walking to the end of your bench and by Malia's side.

"Hold your arms like mine, I'm gonna put him in place, okay?" You advised before waiting for her to follow, a few trials and errors before she got it spot on. You passed the doll back to her and saw her flinch out of your peripheral vision. "Remember, Lia..." you started, taking a step back and crossing your arms triumphantly, "It's just a doll. It won't bite. Just rock it and feed it and you'll pass Finstock's class, easy. Or you can go a step further and act like it's the real deal, like Stiles, and not cut any slack on the fact that it can't hear or see anything you do."

"Hey! If going full-on dad mode means I get a decent grade in this stupid class, then that's what I'm gonna do. Don't pretend that I don't make a decent DILF, Y/N, It's my true calling."

Your eyes were pointed at him, your expression clearly indicating that you thought he was an idiot. "You're insufferable. I can't believe I have a child with you."

He chortled, "Yeah, yeah. your family loves you too."

----------

FRIDAY - 11:10PM

"They were studying last time I saw 'em." The voice of Sheriff Stilinski spoke into the receiver of his phone, the weight of his footsteps provoking the stairs beneath him to creak as he ascended them. He continued to make small noises of acknowledgment when his feet stopped outside of his son's bedroom, the door still open a crack. He leaned in with his uncovered ear to listen for any sort of noise, alas, it was quiet. Sheriff nudged the door open with his foot before his head peaked into the darkness, the only source of light being the lamp on the bedside table that shone across the doona cover and the two bodies sleeping upon it. Sheriff laughed under his breath, "No, no. They're fine, just sleeping. Yeah - yeah, I'll let Y/N know in the morning. Yep... yep, certainly. Alright, 'night Adam." His eyes flickered down to the time flashing on the home screen of his phone - 11:13pm - he shook his head with a smile before gently shutting the door behind him, careful to not let the click echo too loudly.

The addition of Leia in your daily and sleep schedules created exhaustion that you've only ever experienced when dealing with unknown supernatural entities trying to come for your pack's lives. The week had gone quickly, however, it still knocked you out around the 9pm mark that Friday evening, Stiles following only mere moments after. Your body was currently curled up against one of Stiles' pillows, your back facing the wall and your face nuzzled against the familiar smelling fabric. He was laying against his stomach at the foot of the bed, a pursed bottom lip, with one arm reaching out just far enough to sit over Lea's plastic stomach - it was a sight to see if anything.

The sudden screeching of an automated cry was enough to make you jump back against his dark blue wall, just as Stiles sprung up and rolled off the bed. You both groaned in a mixture of pain and frustration from the intruding wake-up call. You were the first to begin crawling toward the doll, your hands slipping under the doll's frame and lifting her into your arms. You bounced her, rocking her side to side as you usually do. "Stiles..." you murmured, only to be met with a murmur as a reply. Your eyes managed to open slightly to see him slipping back down to the floor in a sleepy daze. You pressed louder, "Stiles! The bottle, I need the bottle."

He whimpered as his hand fished the small plastic cylinder from his pocket, holding it out and up toward you as one hand pushed him across the floorboards. Stiles' chin sat on the edge of his bed with a large and dopey smile as you took the bottle from him, a quiet 'thank you' spilling from your lips in a tired manner. You pressed the nipple to Leia's lips and sighed in content as the crying shortly stopped. You definitely weren't going to miss the jagged sleeping patterns from this week when you returned your assignment on Monday morning.

"Okay, sleep time." You concluded, slowly crawling back to your original position. You released a contented moan as your head hit the pillow, hands now grasping the covers and pulling them over your body. Stiles didn't even question you making yourself comfortable as he was used to you and Scott crashing at his house after a study session or a night of supernatural investigation. It was a simple event that had been happening for almost six years now.

Stiles carefully shifted Leia to the center of the bed so that he could slip under the covers beside you. He felt your head shift as his arm burrowed under both of your pillows, the other laying across Leia once again before allowing his hand to comfortably sit on your waist. It provoked your sleepy body to shuffle closer to his until you could feel the hard plastic of the doll press into your torso.

Shamelessly flirting in a playful manner in front of your friends was your form of banter - others poked fun at one another, but yours extended past just that. When you were alone, however, and in a sleepy state much like now... you and Stiles unconsciously exercised a more domestic and 'cuddly' approach as it was what made you both comfortable. He liked having his hands on something, or tangled in something, to settle the hype of his ADD. You liked the warmth and heaviness of the touch, it made you feel safe. It was a perfect match.

Stiles hummed as he lent forward a little, his lips freshly wettened by his tongue pressed a gentle kiss against your forehead. You moaned sleepily as he laughed, both of your eyes closed in content. "G'night, baby momma."

"Goodnight, Stiles."

----------

MONDAY - 10:33AM

"Paperwork on the desk, doll in the trolley. Make sure the I.D numbers are secured, for the sake of god. The last thing I want to do today is track down which idiots forgot to pair their doll with their information papers. Do I honestly look like I don't have better things to do?" Coach boomed, his rhetorical question about to be answered before his hand was thrown up, head shaking, "Shut up, Greenburg! Don't answer that!"

You chuckled as Malia happily tossed the doll into the trolley, ignoring the confused glares of Coach as she walked away. Scott and Sydney joked around as they said their goodbyes to little Georgie, and Lydia made sure that she and Danny left the baby just the way they found her. When you and Stiles reached the trolley, it was almost full. His arm slung around your shoulders lazily as he looked at Leia, his lips pouting from having to part from her so soon.

"Bye, munchkin. May we meet again in another life." He cooed, patting her head. You smiled through a sigh, tapping her nose, "Goodbye, sweetheart. Miss you already. Stay a good girl, make us proud." You spoke softly, practically hearing Malia gag from across the room. You placed Leia down and began to walk away before Coach stopped you both.

"The hell? STILINSKI! Did you draw on my damn doll?"

"Well, she may have fallen, on my marker. Multiple times." He replied to your teacher, face scrunching up and cringing for the shitstorm about to come his way.

Coach's mouth opened with his finger pointed Stiles' way before you stepped forward, "It was actually me. Just an inside joke about her looking like Stiles."

Coach's hand instantly retracted and curled into a fist, falling by his side as his anger pushed through his nose. He groaned quietly and shook his head, "Really, Y/LN? Just don't do it again, okay?" His teeth were gritted as he spoke and you curled in your lips to prevent a laugh.

"Yes, sir."

----------

MONDAY - 11:42AM

"You know, it feels weird not having to worry about caring for a child", Stiles mentioned as you looked through your locker, gathering the right books for your Chemistry class coming up next. You never would have thought a week ago that Stiles Stilinski would have withdrawal issues over a doll. He clicked his tongue, fingers stretching out from a closed fist position until small cracks were heard. You rolled your eyes at his fidgeting behavior before holding out your hand, his mumbling voice barely above a whisper as he thanked you and grasped it within his own, instantly playing with your fingers.

"You getting clucky there, Stiles? Missing being a dad already?" You quipped, now piling your necessary books single-handedly and sliding them into your backpack. When the metal door closed, you could see a slight pout on his lips, his eyebrows furrowed in thought.

His voice was quiet again, "I think I just miss being able to focus on something that isn't Supernatural for once, you know, the normalcy?" You didn't mean to, but the look on your face presented slight pity and sympathy toward his statement. Before you could reply with feel-good words and reassurance, he smiled, "and yeah, maybe I miss being Leia's favorite parent, too."

This caused you to scoff, loudly. You knew that he wanted to move away from the mushiness of the conversation, so you let him and instead played into his little comment. "Hardly. Moms always have the best deepest connection with their children."

"You know how many times she woke up during the night when I had her? Twice, over three nights, Y/N."

"Stiles she is a doll, that doesn't mean anything."

"That's what somebody in denial would say."

Your eyes rolled, the school bell shortly echoing through the halls, indicating that your next class was starting soon. Stiles laughed at your lack of response as he squeezed your hand, pulling you to follow him toward the Chemistry classroom.

"You know, Y/N, for the record you'd make a badass mom. Like... seriously, badass. All the other moms couldn't hold anything against just how good you'd be."

"And you'd make a killer, DILF, Stiles."

His large strides paused briefly as he pulled you in front of his frame, a curling smirk playing on his lips at your statement. You clearly boosted his ego. "You really think I'd be a good DILF?"

"Oh yeah, hands down. Look at you, and with a baby? Damn." Your eyes crinkled in the corner and your nose scrunched as giggled escaped you, Stiles squeezing your hand once more as he laughed along with you. His tongue dragged across the ends of his pointed teeth before biting the inside of his cheek. He remained silent as he continued your walk across the school.

"Okay, I'll be the DILF and you can be the MILF, make all the other parents jealous as shit of how cool and attractive we are."

"Deal, Stilinski."

[ayyy-pee]

waking up freezing and shivering, teeth chattering every night because your husband is a blanket hog. you know it's not on purpose. he just can't help it. doesn't even know he does it most times. you'd think after years together you'd be used to it, but waking up curled into the fetal position as you try to retain even a smidge of warmth is something you don't think you'll ever adjust to.

so you reach behind you, feeling your spouses large form wrapped snug as a bug in your shared blanket and you grip onto the fabric. you pull as hard as you can but you don't manage to move him even an inch. you try once more...same result.

"ken..." you whisper, wrapping your arms around yourself. no response. "kento..."

he doesn't budge. you're tempted to just get up and go grab another blanket, but your husband, despite his seriousness, can get quite pouty when you do that. so you tap him hard instead sure to jab him in the spot you know is his most sensitive. this seems to do the trick as he grunts in response.

"I'm cold," you tell nanami and he sits up quickly, realizing what he's done. his pajama top hangs off one shoulder. his blonde hair is pointing every which way and sleep is heavy on his eyelids, threatening to weigh him down again any minute.

"I'm sorry, love," nanami speaks, voice rough and deep with exhaustion, but the sincerity in his apology clear.

then he's throwing the blanket back over you both. only he adds in a little extra warmth as he wraps his arm around your waist and throws a large leg over your body.

nanami buries his face in your neck, adjusting himself so that he can be as close to you as possible. only a few seconds pass before you hear his light snoring behind you. and you know the warmth you feel is from more than just his touch.

[sceletaflores]

HEAVY METAL LOVER!

pair: logan howlett x bartender!reader wc: 4.2k

contains: 18+ SMUT MDNI, drinking, swearing, motorcycle rides, p in v, unprotected sex, rough sex, fingering (fem!receiving), creampie, wolverine's hairy tits, the claws show up ofc, porn with plot, no use of y/n. author’s note: watched deadpool & wolverine twice in theaters, started rewatching the x-men movies, pondered many different thoughts, sat down and wrote this. i need him to breed me. title from lady gaga's 'heavy metal lover' cause it's literally his song.

the wolverine is a regular at your bar…

You're shining glasses behind the bar when you hear it, the gruff sound of Logan’s voice turning away yet another girl that worked up the courage to come up to him. It’s his third rejection of the night, not that you were counting.

You were, you always do. You pay more attention to that side of the bar than you normally would when he’s here, which is nearly everyday for the past three weeks. He's not like any of your other regulars. He's almost always alone, and he never talks to you except when he calls for another drink. 

The only reason you even know his real name at all is because Wade told you one of the nights he tagged along, leaning his elbows on the bar to whisper over the sugared rim of his "Piña Colada. Extra creamy please, you know how I like it..." like he was telling you a secret.

"Don't let him hurt your feels honey bunch. That's just classic Logan for you, a man of few words. Huge case of blue balls by the way." 

You remember the way he let the obvious innuendo hang in the air, the knowing look he gave you as he spun the little paper umbrella floating in his drink. You didn’t think you were being that obvious, that someone as socially inept as Wade was able to pick up on the way your eyes would linger a little too long on the broad width of Logan’s shoulders, on the way his arms would strain against the fabric of his flannels. 

You’d seen him on the news, thick corded muscles all wrapped in blue and yellow leather. It haunted you for days, playing in your mind on a constant loop of sweaty biceps until you finally gave in and pulled out your favorite vibrator. 

Even with that, there’s just something about the jeans and flannels he wears outside of the suit that make you want to jump over the bar and drop down to your knees right in front of him. Your mouth open wide and waiting.

The dull ‘thunk’ of Logan placing his empty glass on the bartop grabs your attention, two quick raps of his knuckles against the wood ripping you from your thoughts. “Another,” he says briskly, not looking away from the peeling backsplash on the wall behind you.

You usually snapped at men who’d bark orders at you, but The Wolverine isn’t just any man. He's certainly the only man you'd ever take orders from willingly, happily.

You grin, tossing your towel over your shoulder as you grab the whiskey bottle off the shelf and slide over to him, tipping the amber colored bottle over to start refilling his glass. “That’s the third one tonight,” you say casually, casting your eyes over his shoulder to the girl from before retreating back to her friends. “I take it you don’t come here looking for company?”

Logan’s eyes flick to yours, it’s the first time he’s looked at you all night. You look back, lips pulled into a small smile as more whiskey than you’d usually pour splashes against the sides of his glass. The music playing from the speakers fades into a dull hum around you.

He holds your gaze for a second longer, a flash of something you can't quite read passing through his eyes before he’s looking away again. “Not the kind you’re thinking of,” he replies, his voice a low rumble that has something warm zinging up your spine.

You set the bottle down next to him, brow piqued in curiosity. “And what kind is that?”

He doesn't respond right away, just raises the now full glass to his lips to take a slow sip. You almost think he’s going to ignore you again, but then he speaks, “You ask everyone that comes in here personal questions, bub?” 

There’s the barest hint of amusement lacing his words that has you biting your bottom lip to try and contain the absolute giddiness blooming in your chest. It’s not much, but it’s more than he’s ever given you before. Encouraged, you step in a little closer, hoping to draw him out further.

“Only the ones with their asses practically fused to my stools,” you shrug, a playful glint sparkling in your eyes. “So what is it, you got some poor wife you leave at home every time you come here? Because the ‘tall, dark, and kind of morally ambiguous’ thing is obviously working for you.”

Logan turns his eyes to you again, his brow raised in amusement. You’re close enough that you can see the way his lips turn up at the corners. He seems to consider your question, gaze slowly trailing along your face before flicking back to your eyes. "No wife," he replies, the words slow and deliberate. "No home to leave her at either.”

His response hangs in the air between you, heavier than you anticipated. You let out a soft breath, lips parting ever so slightly. You can practically feel the weight of his gaze settling over you, leaving your whole body warm and tingly. The heat swirling deep in your gut slipping down to pool wet and sticky in your panties. Logan’s eyes blink shut for just a second, the bridge of his nose twitching lightly.

You almost can’t believe this is really happening, that the angry guy at the end of your bar you’ve seen turn away pretty girl after pretty girl is flirting with you. It makes you feel dizzy with power, like you could do anything, but it’s also one of the most intimidating things you’ve ever experienced. You didn’t realize what it meant to be the center of Logan’s attention until now, but you refuse to back down.

 He gives an inch, so you take a mile.

Your grin widens as you lean your elbows on the bar, resting your chin on the heels of your hands. Logan doesn’t react to you invading his space, just keeps his eyes on you with a passive look on his face, but you don’t miss the way his gaze darts down to the low cut of your top.

“So…” you say slowly, voice dipping into a softer more intimate tone, “that means you’re free later tonight?” You tilt your head to the side coyly, allowing your hair to cascade over your shoulder, the movement drawing his gaze.

Logan’s eyes widen the tiniest bit, a surprised huff leaving his lips. He raises his glass, taking another long drink. Your eyes trace the sharp line of his jaw to where his adam’s apple bobs enticingly as he swallows. Your lips tingle with the need to mark up the tan column of his throat, to sink your teeth in the skin there, to taste.

The neckline of his undershirt dips low enough that you can see the dark hair scattered across his chest, dog tags dangling from a chain around his neck to sit in the center.

You drag your eyes back up to his face, flushing when you see that he's already looking at you over the rim of his drink. He sets his half drained glass down, a skeptical look on his face. “How old are you, kid?”

You shake your head with a soft laugh, dropping your palms to lay flat on the bartop. If that makes your top dip a little lower to flash more of your cleavage in Logan’s eyeline, then that’s just a bonus. “Old enough to be here,” you reply after a short pause, gazing up at him from under your lashes, “Old enough to know what I want.”

Logan’s eyes darken, the warm brown of them seeming deeper and even more intense than before. The dim overhead lights cast shadows across his rugged features, highlighting the scruff on his jaw. You can’t help but imagine the rough scratch of it brushing up against your inner thighs.

Logan pushes his glass away, leaning in with a soft grunt, his eyes drop to your lips. You suck in a shocked breath, your whole body lighting up at being so close to him. Your heart is racing in your chest, a quick ba-dum ba-dum ba-dum ba-dum ba-dum ba-dum that echoes in your ears.

His lips turn up in a sly grin, the sharp canines of his teeth on display. “Is that so?” He asks, voice going all husky like gravel and honey. He meets your eyes and you swear you can see the sparks going off in the air between you, everything else in the bar completely fizzling out as his breath mingles with yours. “Careful what you wish for,” he says, his voice a low rumble that makes your knees weak. “You might just get it.”

Your lips curve into a mischievous smile, the heat between you palpable. “I’m counting on it,” you reply, your voice dripping with promise. It takes everything in you to straighten up and pull away from Logan, stepping back with the forgotten bottle in your hand. “My shift ends at eleven,” you say with a small shrug, jerking your head to a door across the room, “staff leaves through the alley door.” 

It’s a clear invitation, one that Logan easily picks up on. His hungry gaze follows every move you make as you shelf the whiskey.

Before he can say anything, someone calls you from across the bar, shaking their empty glass impatiently. You throw him one last smile over your shoulder, mouthing ‘eleven‘ again with a quick nod of your head. You aren’t sure if it’s supposed to reassure you or him.

Logan smirks nonetheless, standing from the bar before draining the rest of his drink and throwing a few bills down. The air crackles as you watch him make his way towards the exit, eyes lingering on the way his jeans hug the thick muscles of his legs before someone is snapping their fingers at you to serve them.

The rest of your shift drags by, but the excitement and hope swirling in your stomach doesn’t fade. You’re practically thrumming with excitement by the time eleven rolls around, anticipation coursing through your veins as you clock out and grab your bag from your locker.

You pull the door to the alley open, the heavy metal creaking with the swing. The gravel crunches under your shoes as you step outside, eyes eagerly searching the space in search of Logan. The light mounted above the door shines around you, but you don’t see him anywhere. 

Just as disappointment starts to settle in your chest, you hear a loud rumble coming from the down the street. A bright light shines across the road as it gets closer and closer until there’s a motorcycle pulled up against the alley’s opening.

Logan kicks the bike’s stand down, leaning over to hold out a helmet in offering. “You coming or not?” he calls out, voice deep and teasing, “I’m not known for my patience.”

You can’t help but laugh, a mix of exhilaration and nervousness bubbling up inside you. With a confident stride, you walk toward him, the loud growl of the bike reverberates through your body like thunder with every step. “You’re just full of surprises tonight, aren’t you?” 

You take the helmet from his hand, but he doesn't let go right away, making your fingers brush against his in a way that sends a shiver up your arm. You meet his gaze, the smirk on his lips matching the dangerous glint in his eyes.

He drops his hand down to the bike’s handle, jerking his head back to the empty space behind him. “Hop on.”

You straddle the bike, the leather seat warm from the rumbling engine beneath you. You give Logan your address as you slip the helmet on. His body is warm and solid against your front, you can’t help but press a little closer, your hands falling to rest on his waist. The leather of his jacket is smooth under your fingertips.

Logan turns his head to the side, the street lights shine along the side of his face in a warm yellow glow. “Hang on,” he says, voice barely audible over the roar of the bike’s engine starting up.

The sudden rush of wind as he pulls off paired with the thrillingly intense vibration of the engine revving under you is exhilarating. You wrap your arms tight around his waist, fingers digging in slightly as you lean into the curve of his body. 

The city blurs into a whirlwind of colorful lights as Logan navigates the streets with a confident ease. The cool night air whips past you, every turn and acceleration pumping more adrenaline through your veins. You cling to Logan’s waist like it’s a lifeline– there’s a sense of freedom and excitement that comes with being on the bike, but you think the real thrill is being pressed against him like this, feeling the power of his strength under you.

The ride seems like it takes both hours and seconds all at once when Logan pulls up to your house's gate. He kills the engine, the sudden silence a stark contrast from the roaring bike. Your heart pounds in your chest, pulse thumping as you slide the helmet off.

Logan takes it from your hands, eyes scanning over your house. “Nice place,” he comments casually, swinging his leg over the bike to stand next to you. 

"Thanks," you say, your voice a tad breathless. You can’t help but feel a little self-conscious as you dig for your keys in your bag, nerves finally starting to set in. The air is cold against your flushed skin, and you’re hyper aware of Logan’s presence behind you as you unlock the gate and push it open.

He doesn’t touch you as the two of you walk up the steps to your house, infuriatingly keeping his distance with his hands shoved deep in the pockets of his jeans.

Your legs shake with every step, you can’t tell if it’s left over adrenaline from the ride or the building anticipation for the ride you know is waiting for you beyond your front door. Your hands tremble as you fumble with the lock, opening the door and stepping into the darkness of your living room. 

You’re barely a foot inside before a pair of strong hands pull you backwards, getting whirled around by your waist until your back hits your closed front door mute thud. You don’t have any time to react before Logan’s crowding up against you, his body a solid wall of muscle pressing you hard against the door. His lips crash into yours in a hungry kiss, you can taste the whiskey from earlier sharp and smoky on his tongue.

You respond eagerly, leaning up to wrap your arms around his neck and pull him down even closer. Logan’s hands roam over your body rough and possessive, one sliding up to cup the back of your neck while the other grips your waist, pulling you even closer. His hands leave a trail of fire in their wake, your skin tingling with every brush of his fingers. You can feel the raw power in his touch, a barely there restrained strength that has your heart racing even faster. 

“I could fucking smell you,” he growls agasint your neck, digging his sharp teeth into your collarbone meanly. You can't help but let out a soft moan, your head falling back against the door to give him better access. The rough stubble on his jaw scrapes deliciously against your sensitive skin, sending shivers down your spine. “Could smell how goddamn wet you got, back at the bar.”

His hand slips under the waistband of your jeans, sliding down the front of your panties to brush against your clit. Your mouth drops open with a soft moan, your slick lips still tingling. “Do you have any fuckin’ idea how hard it was not to bend you over, to not rip these things off and fuck you over the bar?” he asks roughly, lips brushing against your skin with every word. “Wanted to take you right, make everyone watch while I made you scream.”

Your breath hitches at his words, a wave of pleasure crashing through you. The rough skin of his fingertips press more firmly against your clit, drawing a broken moan from your lips. “Logan,” you gasp, your hips bucking involuntarily against his hand.Your hands claw at his shoulders, gripping the fabric of his shirt as you try to ground yourself. 

His lips capture yours again in a bruising kiss, sliding two thick fingers into you with a rough thrust. “Atta girl,” he murmurs against your mouth, dragging his tongue across your bottom slip. “That’s it, say my name,” he growls, swallowing your moans as his fingers pump into you with an unrelenting pace. Your walls clench around him, a needy whine escaping your throat as he begins to fuck his fingers in and out of your wet cunt. 

The coil of pleasure deep in your stomach tightens with every thrust of his fingers, your body trembling with the intensity of it all. You can feel the pressure start to build, like a dam threatening to burst, but this isn’t how you want to come. You break the kiss, a thin thread of saliva connecting your lips before it thins and breaks. “Wait,” you say breathlessly, hand slipping down to grip his forearm tightly, “I want to come with you inside me.”

Logan growls, a deep, primal sound that you can feel rumble deep in his chest where it’s pressed against yours. “Bedroom,” he demands, hands dropping to the back of your thighs and lifting. 

You wrap your legs around his waist with a quiet squeal, attacking the skin of his neck with your teeth as he walks the two of you down the dark hallway. “First door on the right,” you whisper, dragging your tongue along the column of his throat. You can feel the thick length of his cock straining against his jeans press into your hip. He sucks in a sharp breath as you roll your hips down, sliding the damp fabric of your clothed cunt over him.

Logan kicks the door open with a force that has it slamming against the wall, the sound barely registering in your lust-addled brain. Logan dumps you on the bed, the force of it bouncing you on the mattress. He rips his white undershirt over his head and drops to his knees in front of you, big hands coming up to grip the waistband of your jeans.

The muscles in his arms don’t even flex as he rips your shorts down the middle, denim and along with lace panties tearing like tissue paper in his hands and falling to the floor in tattered pieces. You gasp at the cold air hitting your hot, aching cunt. 

Logan’s hands run up and down the bare skin of your calves, eyes glued to the soaked skin of your inner thighs. Your thighs start to tremble under his gaze, your patience starting to wear thin. Logan drags his eyes back to you, taking in the pleading look on your face. He smirks, wordlessly rising to his feet to pop open the button of his jeans.

You watch with bated breath as he unzips his fly, eyes glued to the way he starts to push them down his legs just enough that they fall to pool around his ankles. Your mouth drops open, eyes going wide at the sight of him.

He’s so big, so thick and heavy that his cock hangs hard between his hairy thighs instead of slapping up against his stomach. There’s a thick drop of pre-cum leaking from the tip, dripping down a thick vein running along the side.

Your mouth waters with want, the want to bury your nose in the dark thatch of hair surrounding the base, the want to have him fuck your throat raw and red. You can almost feel the ache in your jaw. 

As much as you want to get him in your mouth, you want him inside you even more.

“Get your ass over here,” you demand breathlessly, tearing your shirt off your head in one swift motion. Logan smirks, stepping out of his jeans and making his way across the room. His dog tags jingle with every step, your cunt clenches weakly.

He stalks up the mattress like a predator, eyes ablaze as a cocky smirk plays on his lips. Your legs fall open unconsciously, thighs spreading wide to make enough room for his hips to slot against yours.

You gasp at the thick head of his cock sliding through your wet folds, your body arching off the bed. The sensation is electric, shooting through you like a live wire. "Logan," you breathe, your voice barely more than a whimper. "Please..."

"Please what?" he asks, his lips curving into a smirk against your skin. "You gotta tell me what you want, sweetheart."

Your cheeks flush hot, but the need burning inside you is stronger than any embarrassment. "I want you," you admit, your voice trembling with desire. "I want you to fuck me, Logan."

His growl is low and feral, his fingers teasing you relentlessly as he presses his forehead to yours. "That's a good girl," he rumbles, his breath hot against your lips as he sinks into the tight heat of your cunt in a single thrust. 

The pace he sets is unrelenting, one hand braced on the pillow next to your head while the other grips your bed’s frame for better leverage to fuck down into you. The sting of his cock splitting your cunt open has your nails digging into the flesh of his shoulders. His dog tags hang from his neck, swinging like a pendulum as he starts to thrust.

“Fuck, you’re so tight,” he grates out, brows furrowed in pleasure. His hips speed up, barely pulling out halfway before he plunges back into you. The bed squeaks under you, slamming up against the wall as Logan fucks you.

It’s like Logan surrounds every inch of you, strong arms caged around your head while his body covers yours, metal bonded bones pressing you down into the mattress so there’s nothing you can do but take it. You know that he’s ruined every other man in the world for you as the heavy snap of his hips pounds against the skin of your ass hard enough to bruise. The thick muscles of chest bounces as he moves, the coarse hair scraping against your sensitive nipples.

The head of his cock pounds the soft spot inside of you that has your eyes fluttering closed, mind going hazy as heat starts to pool at the base of your spine.

“Don’t fucking stop,” you beg brokenly, tears sting the corners of your eyes. “God! I’m gonna come, you’re gonna make me come–”

“Come on baby,” Logan goads, dropping down to his fore arm so he can bury his face in the crook of your neck, “Give it to me, come on this cock, show me how much you fucking love it,”

The stinging bite of his sharp canines scraping the fluttering pulse of your neck makes you wail, nails raking down his back hard enough to leave long red welts that heal as you go. Your cunt clenches around the pulsing length of his cock, greedily milking him as you come in a rush of wetness around his cock.

“Fuck,” Logan grits out, his hips faltering. It’s not by much, but just enough for you to notice. The rhythmic smack smack smack of skin stuttering as his breath comes out in fast pants against the sweaty skin of your neck. His cock jerks inside you fiercely, his heavy balls tightening as he gets closer to the edge. You can hear the metal frame of your bed creaking warningly under his grip.

“Come in me,” you beg breathlessly, tightening your ankles around his waist. “Please, Logan I need it–”

Logan lets out a feral growl as his hand drops from your headboard, the sharp metallic sound of his claws unsheathing rings out above you before he slams his fist into the mattress next to your head. He floods your insides, pumping you full of his come as he grunts like a beast on top of you. He gives a few more weak thrusts of his hips, letting the two of you ride out your highs before he finally stills.

You hear the quiet snikt of his claws retracting from your mattress and back into between his knuckles before Logan collapses on top of you, arms braced on either side of your head to take most of his weight. His breath puffs raggedly over the skin of your shoulder, his spent cock still snug in your sore cunt. 

“You owe me a new mattress,” you say breathlessly, digging the heels of your feet into his lower back sharply. 

Logan chuckles into your neck, tipping his head up to look at you with dark eyes. His lips curl into a smirk as he rolls his hips, his still hard cock dragging along the sensitive walls of your cunt makes you gasp. “Yeah?” he asks, low and velvety. His eyes flick to the three holes punched through your sheets.

“You can add it to my tab,” he says with another stronger roll of his hips, “We’re not done here.”

tags are now in the comments! if you want to get tagged for any of my works just fill out this form!

a/n! the actual biggest shout out to @ebodebo for beta reading and listening to my non-stop rambling and horny thoughts about this man. she's a true solider because i have been so annoying about this. mwah mwah mwah.

[astralpenguin]

self care is writing a fic that you’re literally the sole target audience for

[mingycr]

okay first of all THIS WAS SO DAMN AMAZING HELLO?????? WHY ARENT YOU A BIG HIT WRITER IN THE WHOLE WIDE WORLD YET NAWWW

i literally forgot reality existed while reading this 🙏🏻

this was such an cinematic experience for me to read and it was soooo damn nicely written i was overwhelmed with their feelings myself 😭💕

ysl jeonghan was so dreamy and this fic made him much more dreamier i cannot explain in words it’s just too beautiful and the tension between han and oc was too good you wrote it so beautifully detailed !!!

the part of the fic where jeonghan was telling the oc about cupid and psyche’s past was the best part, this made it even better for how much similar their own lives were to cupid and psyches lives 🫶🏻

a bit of a spoiler i hope people doesn’t see this except you i actually cried when jeonghan left the hotel room after oc hurt him again for the second time 😭

it felt like my own world was crashing down for them and after oc ran after jeonghan after the bus episode and apologized, no one was so damn happy like me at that moment! and that one op who rb-ed this is right, this is a masterpiece fr

i’m a huge sucker for these 40s - 90s era fics it just makes me feel so nostalgic for no reason this fic was just IT!! 🫶🏻

i’m literally in love with you and your fics atp thank you sm for writing this i had a really great time reading this 💗

paris

❝You and Jeonghan, jazz-filled corners, hidden history, and the city of love.❞

old hollywood! au | exes to lovers! au | angst, fluff, smut | 50k words

s u m m a r y : disgraced by hollywood for the last time, you, a once superstar-turned-alcoholic, escape to the city of love to seek sanctuary from the ruthless tabloids. your sanctuary comes in the form of film noir superstar yoon jeonghan, the enigmatic man who taught you the art of acting, lust and love before your fame. when he asks to meet you once, just like old times, you cannot refuse. what is meant to be a simple date turns into a path of passion, pain and everything that comes with fooling around with your ex in the jazz-filled corners of paris. 

c o n t e n t s : actor! mc, actor! jeonghan, mc is bitter and makes bad decisions, agent! seungkwan who is tired of fixing them, jeonghan is the suavest, sultriest mf, mentions of parisian landmarks in this fic during the golden hollywood era, also a bit of french peppered throughout, greek mythology art references, tons of fluff which is also layered with angst, quite hurt-comfort mature warnings -> alcohol consumption and abuse, smoking, this is basically sexual tension with plot, making out, oral sex (f. receiving) unprotected sex (refer point to bad decisions), multiple orgasms, jeonghan worships mc fr, praises galore, slightly angsty love-making, basically this is going to be an emotional rollercoaster 

p l a y l i s t : here!

t a g l i s t : at the bottom of the fic

a u t h o r ’ s  n o t e : she is here…finally…longer author’s note at the bottom of the fic but RIP to y’alls tumblr on mobile </3 thank you for reading and thank you ysl jeonghan you will always be the most iconic mf on the planet !! anyways enjoy <33

THE LOS ANGELES MIRROR, 28TH SEPTEMBER, 1954

_____ SEEN FOR THE FIRST TIME AFTER FOX SCANDAL AT LAX!

Scandalised Princess of Hollywood was finally spotted after a week, hurrying into Los Angeles International Airport in the early hours of the morning!

The last time we reported on her was to announce Fox Productions terminating her contract after having a vicious altercation with her movie director and producer. As if showing up on set drunk and high out of your mind is not enough, but lashing your tongue out at the big boys? Our Princess has exceeded too many limits within her Kingdom, and is now running away like a traitor! 

We bring exclusive photos of her interacting with our reporters just before airport security stopped us—though, judging by the expression on her face, and the message on her hand, she may not be too pleased to see us…

Keep reading

[disastersareajoy]

Pussy Drunk Thomas Hewitt - Drabble

Thomas Hewitt x FEM!Reader

Tags: established relationship, cunnilingus, forced orgasms, talk of bruises, wet and messy, squirting, dacryphilia, overstimulation

Word count: 1.1k

fucking obsessed with the idea of Thomas getting absolutely, down bad, pussy-drunk as soon as he gets a taste

like his virgin-ass being too afraid of hurting you to fuck you at first and getting on his knees for you. he gets a taste, kind of pulls back and licks his lips and you can see his pupils dilate and his eyes fucking glaze over and he just falls face first into your pussy

sloppy, wet, spit slick, hungry oral from that man. his teeth bump into you in all the right ways sometimes. one moment he's whimpering into you and the next he's grumbling and trying to get his tongue deeper and deeper into you to taste more

and it does not matter to him when you beg for him to slow down and how you can't cum anymore. because you keep dripping on his face and tongue and making wonderful noises and you just taste so fucking good, how could he stop??

his arms wrap around your thighs and he holds onto them hard and firm and keeps you pulled close to his face. you can feel that it's gonna bruise and you're going to cherish those bruises for days

he doesn't even notice how hard he's gripping you because he's trying to get all of his senses filled with you. he tastes, smells and feels nothing but you. the only thing his ears can focus on are your moans and whimpers. his hands massage your thighs periodically and when he opens his eyes it's just to look at your face, thrown back in pleasure. the only thing better is when you're looking down at him with tears in your eyes, still moaning for him

Tommy is completely drunk off your taste. he loves the feeling of your pussy on his tongue and he loves the little whining groan you let out when he sucks on your clit

now, when he keeps going and going and your hand in his hair trying to push him away finally falls to your side, he doesn't even realize what he's doing next. it's all out of instinct when his hands readjust so his arms stay wrapped around your thighs but his thumbs are spreading open your folds. that's when he really loses it

because he can get his tongue even deeper like that. he can bury it inside you and find the spot that makes you drip a little more and that makes you moan all broken and needy. once he finds it he abuses the fuck out of it. keeps licking over it, poking at it with his tongue and savoring every drop of you that spills into his mouth

and then. his holy grail. you grab his hair again and moan louder. you're sobbing and begging him to slow down because it feels different this time. he doesn't listen of course. all he knows is you're about to do that thing again where he can feel your pussy flutter and twitch and your thighs squeeze around him and your moans get all whimpery

he keeps going until your hips lift up into him. he stays attached to your pussy and keeps doing what he's doing, knowing he can't stop. needs to keep going to get you to do that thing

suddenly you gasp and go completely quiet. then you moan so loud it's almost a scream. a sobbing sort of thing that's absolutely gorgeous to him. on top of that your hips start wildly shaking along with your legs and your pleasure starts gushing out of you

Tommy moans into your juices and gets closer if that's even possible at that point. he shakes his head so he rubs over your clit side to side while he keeps his tongue abusing that spot inside you. and fuck does he get drenched. he swallows down as much as he can of you and whimpers into it. anything he can't get, drips down his face and drenches his shirt and lap

once you come down you realize he's still going and you can't handle it anymore. you start crying more and weakly kicking your legs out which finally makes Tommy look up. he sees your devastated face and while he thinks the sweat mixed with tears and drool, as well as the tortured pleasure in your eyes is a heavenly sight, he listens to your weak pleas

he finally pulls away and you sigh in relief. Tommy stays away from your pussy (as much as he hates it) and spends his time licking your thighs clean. just a minute away from your pussy makes him whimper and look up at you pleadingly. your legs are still shaking and you shake your head at him

so Tommy whines and starts biting your thighs instead, getting closer and closer to your pussy until he's mouthing right next to it. you're shaking and sweating and still losing a coupe tears when he licks flat over your clit once. then your back arches and you gasp, trying not to make too loud a noise

you know if you moan he's gonna start again and you think he might actually kill you that time. he softly licks over your clit again, wraps his lips around it and you slap a hand over your mouth. but Tommy sees your lack of noise as a sign to keep going and starts sucking on your clit. when his teeth graze over it your hand whips away from your mouth to his hair and you yell out a moan that ends with a broken whine

immediately you know you're in for it. Tommy moans happily and grabs your thighs hard once more. he dives into you again and gets back to his sloppy, needy and enthusiastic pace without hesitation. all you can do is moan, whimper and whine as Tommy makes you see stars over and over again

he's obsessed with making you squirt on his face and listening to your whimpers as he tastes you. he loves the feeling of your heartbeat in your clit, pounding against his tongue

sometimes you can't get him off of your pussy until he's had at least a couple hours of his way with you. he's obsessed with your pussy and a single taste makes him entirely lose his mind. he'd do anything to fall to his knees in front of you

he would spend forever between your thighs if it was up to him

your pussy is his paradise and his salvation. every gush of your juices is a baptism of wonder. you are his goddess and he worships you at every turn

Consider leaving a comment or reblog along with your like, they're always lovely to see. Eitherway, thank you for reading! <3

[lazylittledragon]

mombin pt 9!! it's been too long i'm sorry

(1)(2)(3)(4)(5)(6)(7)(8)

[keferon]

“Mistakes on mistakes until” ch 69 spoilers below!

Ahahahahahahah here I go again

Mistakes on mistakes until until I can draw Jazz with my eyes closed

I woke up, checked my phone, woke up for real and decided that whatever plans I had for this day yeah no they can wait a little bit kfkgnfk

Also. Consider listening this while reading. Or don't who am I to tell you what to do~

[troublegoblin]

charles rowland every time edwin opens his mouth:

[a-jasminator]

When your best mate is about to go full vengeful and there's only one way to shock him back to his senses...

Companion piece to my fic Spectral Rage!

[ghostbsuter]

"Quick!" A- a girl? Wraps their arm around Steph's own, dragging her close and shielding their own face. Their eyebrows are knitted together, they're biting their lip.

"Pretend we're out together please– there are some creepy people following me for some time."

Steph's eyes narrow, she scoots closer, practically glueing herself to the strangers side and smiling brightly.

"Gosh," she starts, then lowers her voice, "what should I call you?"

They fumble for a moment too long, and Steph takes a leap of faith.

The blond grins. "It's been so long since we met up again, isn't it, Beatrice!"

The stranger plays along, giggling behind their hand. "I'm sorry, you know I've been terribly busy," they raise an eyebrow at steph, asking for her name silently.

"Agnes," she whispers, and they repeat. "Agnes! My cats have been missing you too, you should come over more."

"I will, I will," Steph promises, peering behind her to watch out, and just like her new friend warned her, there were some weirdos in white lab coats and some in suits walking around, searching.

"Thank you." 'Beatrice' whispers as they walk around a building, leaving the place in the dust.

"No problem." Steph replies with a smile.

They separate once far enough, and 'beatrice' fiddles with something before handing it to her.

"My number," 'beatrice' explains at the bewildered look. "You're pretty cool, I thought– maybe you'd like to stay in contact?"

"Yes!" She jumps at the opportunity, taking the number with care and getting out her phone.

"My name is Danny, He/him." they speak in low tones, steph following right by their side as they continue.

"Steph, She/Her." She shoots him a quick wink before sending a text and hearing the sound of Danny's notification ping.

"I gotta go now. It was really nice to meet you, steph."

"A joy for me as well."

[carrotanikerok]

so Bill had read Statement Abnegation if you had't read it then GO AND DO IT RIGHT NOW. RIGHT NOW I'M SAYING- also ford had read it too.

[sceletaflores]

slippery when wet!

pairing: patrick zweig x fem!reader

summary: “so who fucks better?” he asks bluntly, a bead of sweat dripping down the column of his throat and into the neck of his tank. a shocked laugh bursts from your lips. “what?” you ask, crossing your arms over your chest. “who fucks better?” he repeats slowly, leaning down to meet your eye. “me or art? don’t fucking lie to me and tell me that prissy farmer boy makes you come harder than i do.”

—or: patrick puts you in your place three months later.

word count: 4.3k

contains: 18+ SMUT MDNI, swearing, p in v, fighting as foreplay, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it y’all!), rough sex, semi-public sex, oral sex (m!receiving), fingering...kinda (fem!receiving), very light spanking, choking, degradation, creampie, throat fucking, mean!reader my beloved, art donaldson is there in spirit, patrick is gay for art, porn with a little plot, no use of y/n.

author’s note: no one can stop me from writing rough sex patrick fics. it's all i think about 24/7, and you guys are no help but like i love it so it's fine. i'm here to serve you and this is clearly what you want so who am i to deny you that? thank you to the beautiful anon who requested this, i hope you don't mind that i changed it from a locker room scene to a bathroom scene but that was just calling to me hehe. okay bye! hope you love it! xoxo mwah.

psst! tftw series masterlist!

You’ve been on the court for at least an hour and a half, running drills and trying to sweat out all of your stress. You were the only one in the building, but it was always less busy during finals week. Most people were camped out in their dorms cramming for fifty question tests or four part lab practicals. 

Art politely declined your invite, too busy studying for his business final on Monday. So you rented a tennis machine and worked on your backhand that way. It was a nice distraction, emptying your head enough that all the anxiety of finals started to melt away as you slid into a steady rhythm with the machine.

The door bangs open with a loud creak behind you, bursting the little bubble of tranquility surrounding you. The back of your head burns with the unmistakable feeling of someone glaring at you.

You hear him before you see him, a loud call of your name followed by heavy footsteps quickly coming towards you. The sound of his voice immediately grates on your nerves, all angry and shouty. You choose to ignore it, focusing on hitting each new ball the machine spits out.

It may have been a couple months since you’ve seen Patrick, but you’d always recognize the familiar way his voice wraps around each syllable in your name.

Three months, to be exact. It’s been three months since your big fight over the phone with Patrick. You blocked his number right after you hung up, so you haven’t spoken to him in just as long. He never tried to reach out, never messaged you on AOL or Facebook. The petty fuck actually went out of his way to unfriend you on both, so you knew he wasn’t exactly torn up about your abrupt split. 

“Hey! I’m talking to you,” Patrick shouts over the loud humming, sounding closer to you than he was before. You pointedly keep ignoring him, eyes fixed stubbornly on the machine. “You deaf or something?” he mocks, stepping up so you can see him in your peripheral vision. You say nothing, swinging your racket harder with each hit.

Patrick scoffs, stomping over to the machine and slamming his hand over the stop button. It makes a loud beeping sound, before shutting off completely. “Jesus Christ, you’re such a fucking baby.” you groan, throwing your head back in annoyance. When you finally turn to glare at him, you’re shocked at the state he’s in.

Patrick’s dressed in a tank and the almost too short shorts he’d usually wear to a match, and he’s dripping sweat. Curly black hair plastered to his forehead with it, his cheeks red and blotchy like he’d been in the sun. You raise your brow, looking at him with a confused expression on your face. “Where the hell did you even come from? How did you know I was here?” 

He walks back over to you, hands balled into fists by his side. “I was at a tournament in Mountain View,” he explains, jerking his head in the vague direction he came from, ”it was so close I thought it’d be wrong of me to not stop by and check up on you.”

You laugh, nodding your head lightly. “Okay, so you flunked out of another tournament and hunted me down like a creepy stalker to what? Yell at me some more? Call me a cunt again?” you step closer, lightly swishing your racket through the air dismissively. “I’m not fucking interested in whatever it is you have to say Patrick, we’re over.”

He smirks but you can see the way his jaw clenches, ticking in anger. “But you’re interested in what Art has to say?”

There it is. You really should have known it would all come back to this eventually.

You sigh, casting your eyes to the ceiling in exasperation. “What’s your point?”

Patrick takes a step closer. “My point is that you’re not fucking stupid, and Art can’t lie to save his goddamn life. You knew exactly what he was doing.” His tone is accusatory, his brows pinched together hard enough to crease his skin. 

Your heart beat picks up in your chest, anger beginning to bubble up inside you. “I didn’t need Art’s help to realize that you’re an arrogant piece of shit and a gigantic waste of my time, you made it easy enough to pick up on all by yourself.”

Patrick laughs, loud and abrasive. “No, you just didn’t care.” he states darkly, shaking his head back and forth a few times. You can feel a few drops of sweat fling from his hair to land on the bare skin of your shoulders as he does. “You’re so easy that you’d spread your legs from him to stroke your own ego. You’re only playing into his whole kicked puppy charade to justify acting like a fucking whore, ‘Poor Art, he’s so sad and pathetic, I’ll let him fuck my slutty pussy to help his raise his self esteem!’.” He mocks, voice pitched up in an exaggerated impression of you.

Your grip tightens on the handle of your racket, knuckles turning white with it. You feel hot all over, anger simmering under your sweaty skin. “You’re seriously trying to lecture me about egos? This has nothing to do with Art! This is about you being a bratty little rich boy who’s never been told ‘no’ before so you can’t handle rejection. It’s fucking embarrassing.”

Patrick nostrils flare, brows pinching together in anger. “Art has nothing to do with this, really? You’re delusional if you actually think that he’s just this saint among men or some shit. He’s not, he’s a fucking snake.”

“Trust me, Art doesn’t have to be a saint to be better than you.” you sneer, voice sharp and unwavering. Your hands are shaking, blind rage racking through your body like thunder. “The only redeeming quality you’ll ever have is dangling between your legs so you better get used to this, because sooner or later everyone will leave you once they see past all your bullshit and realize that you’re nothing more than a worthless loser.”

Patrick’s jaw works furiously, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. You think something like hurt flashes through his eyes, but only for a second. It's gone just as fast, replaced by a mocking smirk that stretches over his lips slowly. He crosses his arms in front of him, shamelessly raking his eyes over your body. You can practically see the gears turning in his head. 

“So who fucks better?” he asks bluntly, a bead of sweat dripping down the column of his throat and into the neck of his tank.

A shocked laugh bursts from your lips before you can stop it. “What?” you ask, arms dropping to your sides limply. The completely one-eighty of his mood sends your head reeling. 

Patrick takes another step closer, invading your personal space. “Who fucks better?” he repeats slowly, leaning down to meet your eye. “Me or Art? Don’t fucking lie to me and tell me that prissy farmer boy makes you come harder than I do.”

You laugh again, shaking your head in disbelief. “God, everything is always a dick measuring contest with you. It’s so pathetic like, seriously–”

“Answer the question.” Patrick demands, cutting you off sharply. He’s practically looming over you now, so close that you can smell him. That natural, manly, musky scent he always has after a game that drives you fucking crazy. 

It reminds you of when he’d come back to your dorm fresh off a match, still in the same clothes and not showered. Pumped full of adrenaline and so pent up, needing something to take his energy out on. You were always that something. He’d fuck your mouth like he’d fuck your pussy, like it was just another hole for him drain his balls into. You’d be face down in his crotch for what seemed like hours, right where his smell was the strongest. Forced to breathe it in so deeply you’d feel high off it, your brain turned to mush every time.

Heat swirls deep in your stomach, you haven’t been this close to Patrick in what seems like forever. You kind of forgot how much he affects you, especially like this. The sex was always better when you’d fight before.

“You’re a child.”

“You still haven’t answered the question.”

You huff, narrowing your eyes at him. There’s a sort of crazed look on his face, his pupils blown out and dark. It makes you pause, it’s the look you’d get right before he’d pounce on you. You’ve seen it enough times to know that something is different about it. He looks needier, more hungry. 

It has some of your anger subsiding, twisted amusement swiftly taking its place. If Patrick wants to ambush you like this, after weeks of radio silence, you might as well use it as a chance to fuck with him.

You smirk, cocking your head to the side slightly. “Art,” you say slowly, taking a small step towards Patrick, “is a better fuck than you ever were.”

Patrick pouts like an honest to God child, sticking out his bottom lip in indignation. “I told you not to lie–”

“I’m not lying,” you say innocently, voice dropping down to a whisper as you lean in even closer. You can see the freckles sprinkled across his nose and cheeks, darker than usual thanks to all the sun he’s been getting. “Last night he ate me out for hours, made me squirt all over his fucking tongue.” 

For the first time since you’ve met him, Patrick Zweig is shocked into silence. His eyes darken, you can’t even see the green anymore, the solid black of his pupils swallowing it entirely. “Bullshit,” he says quietly, clipped and skeptical. His breath fans hotly over your lips, it makes your spine start to tingle.

You smile sweetly, giving a small shrug of your shoulders. “I’ll send you the video.”

Patrick physically reels back, blinking slowly with the realization of what you just said. His lips barely part in surprise, pink and enticing. You revel in it, smirking at him smugly. His eyes flit across your face like he’s trying to figure out if you’re lying or not. You stare back at him unrelenting, all the proof you need is sitting in the video gallery of your pink motorola razr. 

Patrick swallows hard, you watch the way his adam’s apple bobs with it. He shifts his lower body subtly, but you’re too close to not notice it. Your eyes immediately dart down, and you’re almost giddy at what you find. 

He’s hard, the fabric of his shorts stretched over the length of his dick obscenely. You can see the faint outline of the tip pressing against the seam, a wet patch seeping through the gray material around it.

“Oh my god, you’re actually getting off on this!” you laugh wickedly, eyes glued to the lewd tent of his dick. “You’re calling me a whore when you’re the one getting wet just thinking about your best friend's mouth on my pussy. That’s fucking pathetic even for you, Ricky.”

Patrick is silent, breathing heavily through his nose as he stares you down so intensely you can almost feel the heavy weight of his eyes as they bore into you. 

It happens in less than a second, Patrick closing the distance between you and taking your arm in his strong hand so he can force you in the direction of the showers. His grip is tight on your bicep, fingers meanly digging into your skin and forcing you to walk with him. You put up a fight, kicking and scratching but he’s stronger than you. Not letting your slaps to his chest or nails sinking into his arm deter him from dragging you across the court. 

“Let me go asshole!” you snap, trying in vain to yank your arm out of his grip while you stumble over your own feet. “You’re such a fucking psycho!” Patrick ignores you, bursting into the men's showers and marching you into the first stall. He drags you inside, whirling you around to shove your back against the door of it roughly. It knocks the wind out of you for a second, the lock digs into your back hard enough to hurt.

“Art doesn’t have any fucking idea how to deal with a bitch like you.” he grates, fisting a handful of your harshly. “He’s too soft. Too busy letting you lead him around by his dick to try putting you in your fucking place.”

The sting of your scalp only adds to the warmth pulsing in your pussy, sticky arousal dripping wet in your panties. You meet his eyes, all the fire and want swirling in them mirror your own. “Art has a bigger dick than you bitch.” You spit, standing on your tiptoes to lessen the distance of him tugging on your hair. It’s a low blow, immature and basic but you don’t care.

Patrick just hum noncommittally, roughly hooking his fingers into your cheeks and dragging you forward until the tip of your nose is touching his. “Then your throat is still nice and stretched out for me.”

He drops his hands to your shoulders, forcing you onto your knees. You hit the ground with a heavy thud, a dull ache blooms in your knees at the force of it. “Fuck,” you hiss, pulling back instinctively but the hard plastic of the shower door pressing onto the back of your head keeps you pinned in place. Your hands fly up to his legs to try and push him away.

Patrick grips your hair tight, tipping your face up to look at him. You have a perfect view of him pushing his shorts down, letting his hard dick slip out as the fabric stretches taught across his thick thighs. “Open your mouth,” he demands, yanking your head to the side meanly.

“Fuck you,” you snarl, teeth bared in anger as you fight to stand up. Patrick’s strong hand on your shoulder keeps you down while the other starts to idly stroke his dick. He’s just as big as you remember, thick and hard only a few inches away from your face.

The tip all red and weepy when he pulls his foreskin back on each tug, a thick vein running up the side that you want to trace with your tongue.

“Don’t be like that, baby,” he coos softly, rubbing his leaking tip across your bottom lip a couple times, smearing his pre-come around your mouth like lip gloss. “We both know you love it.”

He’s so cocky, so sure of himself that you want to keep denying him. But he’s also right, you can feel your resolve slowly start to crack when he pushes the head between your parted lips. The familiar heady taste of him oozing onto your tongue has you sighing contently, jaw relaxing the tiniest bit almost like a reflex.

The second you give Patrick an inch and he’ll take a mile. 

“There we go,” he mutters sweetly, pulling back slightly and then thrusting forward until your nose is buried in the short curls at the base. 

Your whole body tenses, throat constricting over the length of his dick as your fist his shorts in your hands. As quickly as he thrust in, he pulls out, letting you sharply gasp for air before it’s back and pressing insistently on your tongue. You let him in, forcing your throat to relax as he slides forward to press his hips into your face.

“You’re such a fucking brat,” he bites out, thrusting down your throat roughly. “Pussy’s so greedy it jumped on the next dick that perked up around it.”

You could only whine around Patrick’s dick, mouth too full to do anything but try and work your tongue over the throbbing length of him.

Your throat burns, spit flowing down your chin messily along with his pre-come still steadily leaking from the hot tip of his dick.

His big hands have an iron grip on either side of your head, his balls slap against your chin as he thrusts over and over and over. The back of your skull throbs, knocking into the stall with each pump of his hips.

“Fuck,” he groans, dropping his forehead down to the stall with a small thunk. “You look so good like this,” he breathes, looking down at you through half-lidded eyes, “so fucking pretty with my dick down your throat to shut you up.”

Your pussy aches, so empty that you want to shove your hand down your shorts and stuff yourself full of your own fingers to dull the need. Your thighs glide together slickly, the wetness of your arousal soaking through your clothes.

It gets harder to breathe. Your choked off, spluttering gags start loudly echoing off the tile walls. Your hand slaps Patrick’s thigh a few times, he thrusts hard once more before he finally pulls back, smearing spit all over your tongue and out of your mouth.

“God, that was good baby.” he praises, slapping his dick against your right cheek lewdly. “As much as I want to pump this load down your throat,” he says casually, stroking his spit slick dick lazily, ”I want it in your pussy more.”

“I fucking hate you,” you growl weakly, voice absolutley wrecked. The tears sitting in your waterline blur your vision, you blink them away to see Patrick’s smug smile beaming down at you. 

“Then tell me to stop,” he shrugs, tilting his head to the side condescendingly. You glare up at him, but you don’t say anything. He snorts, brow raising in amusement. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.” 

He shoves his shorts the rest of the way down, stepping out of them and hauling you up to your feet. You’re still desperately trying to catch your breath, chest heaving as you cough and gasp.

Patrick rips your shirt over your head, flinging it over the stall along with his own. He turns you by your shoulder, pushing you against the wall as he yanks the shower handle to start the stream.

Water rains down around you, shockingly cold for a few seconds before it finally starts to warm up. Patrick makes quick work of your shorts and panties, yanking them down your legs and off your feet, tossing them in the corner of the stall with a wet thwack.

He kicks your feet further apart, one hand on your shoulder and the other lining his hard dick up with your tight hole, letting the leaking tip press into you with the smallest amount of pressure.

“I know you missed my dick, slut,” he says, bringing his hand down on your ass quickly, kneading the stinging skin roughly. “Art could be the best fuck in the world, he still can’t give it to you like I can.” He pops the head in, groaning quietly before he bullies his thick dick the rest of the way into you.

Your hole shakes around him. Patick is right. Patrick is always right, but you’d never tell him that. You wanted this. You missed this. The burn of Patrick’s dick forcing you open, stretching you so wide your toes curl. Him not giving you even a second to react before he’s pulling back and pounding into you brutally.

You cry out, eyes screwing shut at the sharp sting. You can tell through the haze of you brain that this won’t take long at all, the both of you already so worked up from Patrick fucking your throat. His right hand drops from your shoulder to your hip while his left slides up your torso, sliding along your skin to wrap around the column of your throat firmly. You keen loudly, throwing your head back to give him more room.

“I taught him how to use that fucking dick,” he goads into your ear, grip tightening on your throat. “Did he tell you about that? Huh?” He takes your earlobe between your teeth, biting hard enough to make you squeal into the wall.

The tile digs into your cheek, roughly scraping against your skin every time Patrick fucks back into you. 

You’re hovering over the edge, pussy throbbing with the burning need to come. Your clit pulses, swollen and sensitive but you can’t find the strength to drop your down hand between your thighs.

They’re too busy scrambling for any kind of purchase on the slippery wall of the shower, manicured nails scratching against the tile uselessly.

You gasp for air, fighting to speak up under the intense pressure of his hand, “I could tell,” you choke out, barely audible, “you both fuck like you have something to prove.”

“You think?” he sneers, thrusting harder, your ass stinging each time he slams his hips into you. “Maybe that’s because we do. Maybe that’s because we both like seeing you fucking fall apart like this, seeing you beg for it after you finally stop being a little pissy bitch.” 

Your breath hitches as his other hand drops from your hip, delving between your thighs to slide the calloused pads of his fingertips over your swollen clit.

You moan, thighs clenching together as he rubs fast circles over you. “You like that, don’t you? Being used like a fucking toy.” His hand squeezes just a bit tighter. “Say it. Tell me you love being our little slut.”

The words spill out of your mouth before you can stop them, a mix of desperation and raw honesty, “I love it,” you cry out as loud as you can, “I love being your slut.”

“God, you sound just like him,” Patrick chuckles into your ear, low and sinister. His hold on your throat tightens, cutting off your air entirely. You sputter, hand coming up to clutch his wrist like a vice. Your pulse thunders, hard enough that he can probably feel it against his palm. “Who do you think made him come harder?”

The image alone of Patrick and Art like that sends you flying to the edge. “Ah— Patrick! ” you moan, voice hoarse and strained, “Pat, I’m gonna— fuck—“

“Do it,” he goads, sliding his hand from your clit down to where your pussy is spread open on him. He pushes his thick index finger right up next to his pulsing dick, hooking it inside or you and stretching you that much wider. “Come on my fucking dick like the greedy whore you are.”

You let out a sharp cry as your forehead hits the wall, thighs shaking violently as Patrick’s hips become relentless. Your whole body tensing up as you come so hard your vision blacks out.

You think you’re screaming, but it’s hard to hear anything over the white noise buzzing in your ears. Patrick’s hips don’t stop, fucking your abused pussy into overstimulation as he chases his own orgasm.

His hand drops from your throat to dig into your hip to put more power behind his thrusts. You’re immediately gasping for air, taking in greedy lungfuls of it.

Patrick’s chest is plastered to your back, face buried in your neck as he rambles out more nonsensical obscenities. His dick pulses and twitches in your pussy, so close to filling you up.

An idea pierces through the fog of your brain, an idea so fucking filthy it has your pussy clenching weakly.

You think back to the first night Art fucked you, how he almost came all over Patrick’s pants just because they were his, just because you said his name. How worked up and hard Patrick got when you started talking about Art. 

“When he fucked me for the first time, I was wearing your sweats, the green ones,” your voice is scratchy and quiet, barely audible over the shower’s spray, “he noticed.”

“Fuck– fuck you,” he grates out, hips faltering ever so slightly. “God, gonna come,” his hold on your hip tightens, strong enough that it’ll be sure to bruise.

You keep talking, spurred on by his reaction. “He almost came right there, he wasn’t even inside me yet, just rubbed his dick all over them like he could fucking feel you.”

Patrick gives one final slam of his hips, burying himself as deep as he can in your pussy. His low groans and curses fill the room as he unloads into you, pumping you so full of his come that you can feel each hot splash of it painting the walls of your pussy. 

He slumps down against you, hips twitching as he works through the aftershocks. You can feel his breath puff over the shell of your ear. 

You and Patrick say nothing for a long few minutes, running water the only thing to keep the room from being completely silent. Patrick is still pressed to your back, his chest heaves against your shoulders. You think you’d collapse if his hands weren’t still on your hips, practically holding you up.

You’re the one to break the silence, voice low and wrecked, “Art lasts so much longer than that…”

Patrick snorts against your back. “Fuck you.” he says, biting your shoulder hard and pulling his dick out of you in one swift move. You gasp sharply as his come floods from your puffy, wrecked hole. Thick streams of it dripping down your thighs until the water washes it away to swirl down the drain. 

You turn on unsteady legs, hair plastered to your face with water. Patrick is right there, knees knocking against yours as he shifts the two of you closer to the spray. He looks like a marble statue, water dripping down the tip of his nose and between the hard planes of his abs.

He grins smugly down at you, “I’m staying at a hotel close to campus, unblock my number and I’ll send you my room number,” he wagers, hands sliding up and down the wet skin of your back. “I think you, Art, and I have something we need to work out.”

“Yeah,” you agree, nodding your head with a small grin. “I think we do”

tags are now in the comments! if you want to get tagged for any of my works just fill out this form!

[nibbelraz]

I completely forgot about the second "Daddy Airplane" incident

[tbaluver]

HELLOOOO NEW QUAD BANNER SOOON ?! AND THEYRE CATS goodbye money i wish i had

[giraffenamjoon]

say please (seungcheol x reader)

genre: smut, light angst, romance

summary: you take your bad day out on your best friend, forgetting he has experience dealing with little brats.

word count: 8,707 (WHY DOES THIS KEEP HAPPENING TO ME)

tags: hard dom choi seungcheol, first time subbing reader, brat taming, friends to lovers, spanking, edging, orgasm denial, oral sex, vaginal sex, light angst, cheol is great at aftercare, dirty talk, one use of the word 'slut', romance, ajsfdkjlsfdjadsfjlaf i just lost my mind honestly

read on AO3: say please

comments and reblogs are loved and cherished and welcomed 🥰

playlist: DIE 4 YOU - DEAN | The Killa (I Belong to You) - TOMORROW X TOGETHER | Calico - DPR IAN | Up Late - GEMINI | Pretty Plzzz (ft. B.I) - LEO