#my brain struggles really hard with getting it out on paper

[brain-rot-hour]

Sometimes I remember how to draw

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

MDZS Severance AU: Get me out of here.

[thollandsgirl2013]

𝐇𝐨𝐫𝐧𝐲 𝐋𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐒𝐩𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐫*

Parings → Peter Parker x Reader

Warnings → SMUT!! 18+, mention of period, oral (f receiving), fingering, P in V, aftercare, Peter being a horny little shit, language, College AU

Summary → You're done with your period, after Peter found that out, he couldn't wait any longer.   

You lay in bed, scrolling mindlessly through social media, half-heartedly watching funny cat videos. A faint chuckle escaped your lips, but then suddenly a sudden realization hit you. The pads. Peter had dropped them off earlier before rushing out the door, claiming there was a robbery he had to stop. Sitting up, you grabbed the paper bag he left on your desk and peered inside.

You pulled the pack out, blinked at it, and immediately facepalmed. Extra long night pads with wings.

"Extra long night pads with wings," you muttered, shaking your head in disbelief. Peter always meant well, but his superhero life often left him a bit too distracted for the details. He probably grabbed the first thing he saw.

With a groan, you flopped back on your bed, grabbed your phone, and texted Peter.

You: Peter, I said non-winged pads.

It didn’t take long for him to reply, even though he was probably swinging through the city right now.

Spider-Baby: What did I get you?

You exhaled, already knowing the confusion that was about to unfold.

You: extra long night pads 🙂

The little dots popped up instantly, meaning Peter was scrambling to respond.

Spider-Baby: well, isn't it better? You'll be all secure, no leakage 😎

You let out an amused huff, shaking your head. Secure, no leakage? As if that was his primary concern. You could just imagine the innocent, clueless look on his face as he texted that.

You: babe, I’m on my 5th day, I don't really need them. It’s just for safety when I go out tomorrow.

There was a brief pause.

Spider-Baby: oh

There was a beat, and then:

Spider-Baby: wait.......

Your fingers hovered over the screen, knowing exactly where this conversation was going.

Spider-Baby: your period is done? 👀👀

You rolled your eyes so hard you nearly saw your brain. Of course, that’s where his head was at.

You: I’m gonna lock my window.

Another buzz.

Spider-Baby: noooooo baby please, I didn't get anything for 5 days! Please please please, you said you were horny yesterday too, don't deny it!

You flopped back onto your pillow, laughing despite yourself. He sounded like a desperate kid who’d been grounded for a week.

You: Exasperated sigh

You typed the words with a grin on your face. Peter knew exactly how to get under your skin, but in the sweetest way possible. You knew you could say no and he’d back off, but a part of you enjoyed teasing him.

Spider-Baby: baby, come on, I’ve been patient. Sooo patient. You don't know the struggle. 😩

You rolled your eyes again, imagining him dramatically pacing on a rooftop, phone in hand, giving puppy eyes to the empty space.

You: okay, come over when you're done, you horny little spider.

The response was almost immediate.

Spider-Baby: YES! I love you, see you in a bit.

You couldn’t help but laugh, shaking your head. This boy. Five days apparently felt like an eternity to him.

You: Love you too.

You tossed your phone to the side and stretched out on your bed, a grin still tugging at your lips. Peter acted like he'd been deprived of water in the desert, when really, it was just his hopeless obsession with you that made him this way. You glanced at the window, imagining him swinging through it in his suit later, all buzzing with energy and excitement.

Your mind drifted back to his response; 'sooo patient' and you snickered. Peter and patience didn’t exactly go hand in hand when it came to this. The irony was almost too much.

"He can’t even keep it in his pants for five days," you muttered, shaking your head. But deep down, you loved that part of him. The way he was so infatuated with you, how just the thought of your period ending had him all flustered and eager. He made you feel desired, loved, even if his approach was hilariously obvious.

Five-day prison sentence? To Peter, that’s exactly what it was.

--------

An hour later, you heard the familiar knock on your window. You sighed, already knowing who it was. Standing up, you unlocked the window and slid it open, watching as Peter crawled inside with his usual grace, his mask still on.

Peter pulled it off and pouted dramatically. “You said you wouldn’t lock it,” he whined, tossing the mask aside.

“I never said that,” you corrected, rolling your eyes. “You asked me not to lock it.”

Peter’s pout deepened, his big brown eyes widening in mock hurt. “Same thing!” He protested, making his way over to you, those puppy-dog eyes working their magic. No matter how hard you tried, you could never stay mad at him when he gave you that look.

“Uh-huh,” you muttered, still trying to keep up the act, but the smile on your face gave you away.

Peter took full advantage of that, his lips curling into a grin. “Okay... Sooo... Can I kiss you now?”

Sitting on the edge of your bed, you sighed dramatically but couldn’t help but smile. “Come here, you dork.”

Without missing a beat, Peter pressed the spider emblem on his chest, his suit loosening and pooling around his feet. He stepped out of it, leaving him in nothing but his boxers, nearly tripping over his eagerness, as he crawled onto the bed to hover over you.

His lips met yours in a desperate kiss filled with need and longing.

You could tell immediately just how desperate he was. The way his lips moved, his hands gripping your waist like he was holding on for dear life, it all screamed I’ve been waiting for this for five days.

“God, I missed you,” he murmured, his lips brushing against your neck as he peppered kisses along your skin, trailing down to your collarbone.

You let out a soft laugh, tilting your head to give him better access. “You saw me this morning, Peter.”

“Yeah, but that was before you told me about the whole, you know...” His eyes flicked down between your bodies, clearly hinting at your period being over. The eager grin on his face was almost too much.

You chuckled, shaking your head. “You really can’t go five days without touching me, can you?”

“Not when I’ve got the most beautiful girlfriend in the world,” he replied, his voice low and full of that familiar lovesick tone. His hand rested on your waist, fingers tracing lazy circles over your skin. “I’ve been going crazy thinking about you all day.”

“Alright, alright. You big sap,” you teased, but your smile gave away how much you loved hearing those words from him.

Peter's hands slid under your shirt, his warm palms brushing against your skin as he slowly tugged the fabric up and over your head. Without missing a beat, he unclasped your bra with practiced ease and tossed it aside. His lips found your nipple almost immediately, and you gasped as his mouth worked over your sensitive skin, his tongue flicking teasingly.

"Peter..." you breathed, but he was already lost in his own world, lavishing your chest with attention as if he hadn’t seen you in weeks. One of his hands massaged your other breast, his thumb circling the soft skin while his lips alternated between each side.

"I missed these," he muttered between kisses, moving from one breast to the other. "Your boobs are perfect. I could do this all day."

You let out a soft laugh. "You're such a boob guy."

"Can't help it," Peter mumbled, his voice muffled as he nuzzled against your chest. "They're so soft..." He trailed kisses down your neck and over the swell of your breasts, making you arch into him, a breathless moan escaping your lips.

Peter’s kisses began to trail lower, leaving a wet path down your stomach. He made quick work of your shorts, tugging them off and tossing them to the side, revealing your panties, already damp with arousal. His lips hovered teasingly over your clothed core, his breath hot against the wet fabric.

"Look at you," he murmured, his voice husky and full of desire. “You're already so wet.”

You groaned in embarrassment, your cheeks flushing. “Shut up.”

Peter smirked, pressing his finger over the wet patch on your panties, teasing you with just enough pressure to make you squirm. Slowly, he peeled the panties down your legs, kissing your thighs as he went, drawing out every second. You bit your lip, your breath quickening as the anticipation built.

“Peter…” you whispered, fingers tangling in his messy hair.

He chuckled, clearly enjoying the way you squirmed beneath his touch. "What is it, babe? You sound so... needy."

You let out a frustrated groan. "You're literally the worst. Quit teasing me."

"But I love teasing you. Your little sounds are adorable," he teased, his lips hovering dangerously close to where you wanted him but never quite giving in.

You glared down at him. "Peter, if you don’t stop playing around, I’m gonna ban you from sex."

That got him moving. "Alright, alright. No more teasing." With a mischievous grin, he finally leaned in and pressed a slow, lingering kiss to your core. A gasp escaped your lips, your back arching slightly at the sensation.

“There we go,” Peter muttered, glancing up at you with dark, mischievous eyes. “That’s the sound I’ve been waiting for.”

His lips moved exactly where you needed him the most, and you let out a soft moan as his tongue expertly worked over your most sensitive spot. Your hips bucked involuntarily as the pleasure began to build, and you could feel yourself getting lost in the sensation.

After a few moments, Peter added his fingers, slipping one inside you while his mouth focused on your clit. You gasped at the sensation, your back arching off the bed as he slowly added another finger, curling them just right to hit that perfect spot inside you.

Your body trembled beneath him, the pleasure building quickly as he continued his relentless assault on your senses. Every flick of his tongue against your clit sent sparks of ecstasy shooting through you, making your thighs tremble and your grip on the sheets tighten.

“Peter… oh my God,” you gasped, your hips bucking slightly against his face. He was always so good at this, too good, really. He knew exactly what you liked, how to push you right to the edge but never let you fall until he wanted you to.

His free hand reached up, gently squeezing your breast while his mouth and fingers worked their magic below. The combination of his fingers curling inside you, his tongue flicking against your clit, and the way his other hand toyed with your sensitive nipple was almost too much. You were so close.

Peter’s gaze flicked up to you, and even though his mouth was still busy, you could see that familiar mischievous glint in his eyes. He loved watching you come undone for him. Soon enough you were clenching around his fingers, your legs trembling as he brought you closer and closer to the edge. “You’re so close, aren’t you?” He mumbled between kisses against your inner thigh, pausing just long enough to speak before diving right back in.

You could barely form a coherent thought, let alone a sentence, but you managed to choke out, “Y-yes… oh, fuck, yes.” His fingers pumped faster inside you, curling just right to hit that sweet spot that made you see stars.

The pressure in your core tightened with every stroke of his fingers and every flick of his tongue. “Peter, I—” Your voice broke off into a moan as the pleasure became overwhelming, your whole body shaking.

“Come on, baby,” Peter urged softly, his voice muffled against you. “I want to hear you.”

With one final flick of his tongue, your body tensed, and the wave of pleasure crashed over you. You cried out, gripping the sheets even tighter as you came hard, your entire body trembling as Peter guided you through your orgasm.

“I missed this. Missed the way you taste, the way you sound… You’re perfect,” he whispered, a satisfied grin spreading across his face.

He didn’t stop until you were a panting, quivering mess beneath him, only pulling away when your breathing began to slow. Even then, he pressed soft kisses to your inner thighs, soothing you as you came down from your high.

His lips brushing softly over your clit one last time before he moved up, kissing you softly. You could still taste yourself on him, but it only made the kiss more intimate. “God, I love you,” Peter whispered, his face hovered over yours. His brown eyes were full of adoration, his lips swollen and red.

When he finally pulled back, you watched as he stood and slid off his boxers, your eyes immediately drawn to his hard length.

You always loved admiring him like this, vulnerable, exposed, and completely yours. He was beautiful, every part of him. Peter noticed you staring, his face turning red as he mumbled, "Stop staring."

You grinned, unable to help yourself. "Can't help it, you're hot."

His blush deepened, but he didn’t say anything else as he reached over to your bedside table, pulling out a condom. You watched as he rolled it on, his eyes dark and full of hunger when he looked back at you. He hovered over you again, his body aligning with yours as he kissed you deeply. Then, without further delay, he pushed in, and both of you let out a moan at the sensation.

"Fuck, baby, you're so tight," Peter groaned, his forehead resting against yours as he slowly began to move. You could feel every inch of him stretching you, filling you completely.

You gasped, your arms wrapping around his neck to pull him closer. "I missed you," Peter whispered breathlessly, feeling the familiar heat between your legs intensify with every thrust.

"It was only five days, Peter," you teased, though your voice was shaky, betraying how much you really had missed him too.

"Felt like five years," he panted, his pace quickening as he buried his face in the crook of your neck, his breath hot against your skin.

Peter's movements became more urgent as he buried his face deeper into your neck, his breath coming in hot, uneven puffs against your skin. Each thrust sent waves of pleasure coursing through your body, making it hard to think about anything else. Your nails dug into his back, leaving little crescent-shaped marks on his skin, but he didn’t mind. In fact, it seemed to spur him on, his pace quickening as he angled his hips to hit that perfect spot inside you.

"Fuck, I love you," he muttered against your neck, his lips grazing your skin with each word. His voice was low, rough, filled with so much need that it made your heart skip a beat.

"I love you too," you managed to gasp out between breaths, your body arching into his, chasing every ounce of friction you could get.

Peter pulled back slightly, just enough to look down at you, his eyes clouded with lust but still full of that familiar adoration. "You're perfect," he whispered, his lips brushing against yours in a soft kiss before he picked up the pace again, his hips snapping harder against you.

“Peter…” you gasped, your nails raking lightly down his back as you felt yourself nearing the edge again.

“You feel so good,” he panted, voice thick with emotion.

You could feel that tight knot in your core winding tighter with every thrust. Peter could sense it too, his breathing becoming more erratic as he pushed you both closer to the edge.

"Come for me," he groaned, his voice husky in your ear as he kissed your jawline, his hand slipping between your bodies to rub your clit in quick, circular motions. The added sensation sent you spiraling, your body tensing as your orgasm washed over you. You moaned his name, your legs trembling as waves of pleasure crashed through you.

Peter followed right after, groaning into your neck as he buried himself deep inside you, his thrusts becoming erratic before he finally stilled, his entire body tensing as he reached his peak. His breathing was ragged, his body heavy on top of yours as he rode out the last of his pleasure.

For a few moments, neither of you moved, both of you too caught up in the afterglow to care about anything else. Peter eventually pulled out, discarding the condom before collapsing beside you, pulling you close to his chest.

“Sorry for the whole pad mix-up earlier,” Peter murmured with a soft chuckle, brushing a strand of hair away from your face.

You laughed, snuggling closer to him. “It’s okay. You more than made up for it.”

Peter grinned, “Good. Because I really do love you. And I promise I’ll get the right ones next time.”

He tilted his head and pressed a kiss to your forehead. “You good?”

“More than good,” you replied with a sleepy smile, your body still tingling from the intensity of it all. You let out a content sigh, “You're such a dork.”

“Yeah, but I'm your dork,” he teased, wrapping his arms around you and holding you tightly.

After a moment, Peter got up and headed to the bathroom. You lay there, still catching your breath as the aftershocks of pleasure tingled through your body. When he returned, he had a warm towel in hand, his eyes soft as he knelt beside you.

“Let me take care of you,” he said softly, parting your legs carefully. You shivered at his touch, feeling the warmth of his affection envelop you.

"You're still sensitive," he whispered, kissing your thighs as he gently cleaned you up. His touch was tender, almost reverent, and you let out a soft sigh, feeling a bit of that sensitivity linger.

“You should go pee,” Peter reminded you softly, his lips brushing against your skin as he spoke.

“In a minute,” you said lazily, still too blissed out to move right away. But Peter wasn’t having it.

“Come on, you don’t wanna get infected,” he urged, giving you that playful yet concerned look.

With a groan, you finally pushed yourself up and went to the bathroom, freshening up before crawling back into bed beside him. Peter immediately pulled you into his arms, both of you still naked and cozy under the blankets. His body was warm, and you felt his fingers tracing light patterns on your back.

It didn’t take long for you to start teasing him. "You really couldn’t wait five days, could you?" You said with a grin, poking his chest. "You’re such a horny little spider."

Peter whined like a child, burying his face in the pillow. “It was torture, babe. Five whole days,” he complained dramatically, his voice muffled by the pillow.

You rolled your eyes, laughing. “You act like you were starved or something.”

“I was starved,” Peter insisted, peeking out from the pillow to pout at you. “Do you have any idea how hard it was to not touch you? To not be in you? I was dying, Y/n.”

You couldn't help but laugh harder at his theatrics. “You’re adorable.”

“You love me,” Peter grinned, pulling you closer until your bodies were completely tangled together under the blanket. His hand drifted down to your waist, and he squeezed you gently. “Admit it, you missed me too.”

You pretended to think about it for a moment before nodding. “Maybe just a little,” you teased, but the smile on your face gave you away.

Peter's grin widened as he leaned in to kiss you softly. "I can work with that ."

‎∗ ࣪ ˖༺ 𓆩☆𓆪 ༻˖ ࣪ ∗

[deansbeer]

research and ruin.

minors, for the love of christ, do NOT interact.

୨୧ warning(s). smut | fingering | edging | orgasm denial | dom!dean | mild degrading | light praising | begging | dirty talk | use of 'baby' & 'sweetheart,' | strong language.

୨୧ kari notes. this is very random lmaoo but i hope this helps gets u through a tough exhausting day <3 i'm also dedicating this to my beautiful wife @titsout4jackles for her big girl exam she's taking today <333 + a lil disclaimer. if this does not sit right with u click the fuck off! since nobody with a brain knows how to fucking scroll away. thanks <3

you're supposed to be reading.

that's what he told you—come on, sweetheart, we gotta get through this lore before we roll out. be a good girl and help me out.

but being a good girl is damn near impossible when dean's three fingers deep inside your pussy, knuckles pressing against your walls, stretching you open with slow, lazy strokes that are more taunting than anything else.

your back is pressed against the motel bed, legs spread wide as you clutch the worn lore book in your hands, trying so hard to focus on the passage about whatever monster you're supposed to be hunting. but the words blur together, your brain short-circuiting every time dean curls his fingers just right, pressing against that sweet, aching spot inside you.

he's kneeling at the edge of the bed, his free hand propped on the mattress beside you, his own book cracked open next to him like he's actually reading.

he's not.

not really.

you know he's getting off on this, getting a kick out of watching you struggle, your thighs trembling as you try to keep your breathing steady, as you fight the desperate urge to roll your hips into his hand.

"d-dean," you whimper, your fingers tightening around the pages of the book.

"hmm?" he hums, not even looking at you, his eyes still on whatever useless paragraph he's pretending to read.

your stomach tightens, frustration bubbling up inside you.

"move," you plead, voice breathy, nails digging into the paper. "please, baby."

you don't miss the way his fingers twitch inside you at the word.

baby.

for a second, you think it worked—think you've coaxed your man into giving you what you want.

but then he just smirks.

fucking smirks.

"oh, now you wanna be sweet?" he drawls, voice thick with amusement. his fingers stay buried inside you, still, unmoving, just resting there, filling you up with no relief. "that's cute, sweetheart. real cute."

you whine, dropping the book onto your chest, your head falling back against the pillows.

"de," you try again, more desperate this time. "please, i—i can't—"

"can't what?" he interrupts, finally looking at you, green eyes dark and dangerous.

your breath catches in your throat.

"can't focus?" he taunts. "can't read a couple of goddamn sentences?"

you shake your head quickly, chest heaving. "no-no, i can't, i—"

"huh," he tilts his head, considering. "sounds like a personal problem, baby girl."

his smugness makes you want to scream.

your hips jerk involuntarily, seeking anything, any friction, any relief—but the moment you move, dean pulls his fingers back, just enough to make you gasp, just enough to make your pussy clench down around nothing.

you sob in frustration.

"fuck," you choke out, your fingers tangling in the motel sheets.

dean chuckles, tapping his fingers against your inner thigh, like he's thinking.

"tell you what," he muses. "you read me one full paragraph—without whining, without squirming, without begging—and maybe," he pauses, his fingers slipping back inside you with ease, just barely, just enough to tease, "maybe i'll give you what you want."

you bite your lip, blinking up at him, your body trembling with need.

"deal?" he smirks.

you love hate him.

and you know damn well you're never making it through that paragraph.

[beenbaanbuun]

cockwarming w/ san

words - wordcount? not round here, partner 🤠

genre - fluff, nsfw

warnings - stressed!reader, dom!san, sub!reader, subspace, guidance, soft!san (both him and his penis), cockwarming, clothed, san manspreading…

——————————————————————————

thinking about cockwarming sannie… am i absolutely feral? definitely! ANYWAYS!!!!

you’re sitting on the floor, glasses slipping down your nose as you stare at the documents in front of you

not many of then make sense, but that could just be the tediousness of reading them setting in and slowing down your weary brain

all the words are moulding into one and entire paragraphs are jumbling together as you desperately try and focus

you so desperately want to reach for your phone and give yourself a break

but you remind yourself that you’re just looking for distractions which is really not what you need when you’re struggling to focus anyway

so you start from the top, attempting to read the paper from the beginning

and you don’t get very far when you hear the front door open and your attention once again slips away from the paper

you turn slightly, just enough to see san step into the apartment and take his shoes and coat off

the way his shoulders sink in relaxation is visible and he lets out a long, deep sigh of relief at finally being home

your papers are almost forgotten as you watch him make his way towards the armchair in the corner of the room and take a seat

in fact, as he relaxes, spreading his thighs out until there’s a perfect you-sized gap between them, the papers are the last thing on your mind

“hi, pretty,” he croons as he shuffles to get himself comfy, “good day?”

you nod, mouth going dry at the way his hand naturally falls to rest just inches from his crotch, his pretty fingers flexing a few times before settling against his thigh

his beautiful, thick thigh that is almost fully exposed by those little gym shorts he insists on wearing

you stare at it for a moment or two, noticing the way it flexes slightly against the hem

his honey skin is still slightly shiny from the residual sweat of his evening workout

just the thought of him using his pretty thigh muscles to lift himself up from a squat is enough to send your brain into a dizzy haze

“looks like you’ve been working hard,” he smiles, head dipping to gesture to the pile of forgotten papers on the table, “is that research for your thesis?”

it is, you think to yourself, not that you’d actually learned anything from reading, sorry, trying to read any of it

“yeah,” you answer him, “but it’s all so boring than i can barely even look at it without wanting to die. i’ve been at it for hours and i can’t tell you a single thing i’ve read.”

there’s a pout on your face as you mumble out your complaints; you’re adorable when you’re all moody like this

“learning isn’t linear, baby,” he chuckles, “the fact that nothing’s sticking in that little brain of yours probably my just means you need a break.”

“i’d love a break,” you admit, “but i’d also love to get through this pile of research by the time we go to bed, so…”

“so… take a break and go back to it later,” san shrugs, “not like all that paper is suddenly going to grow legs and run away, right?”

you scoff at his sarcasm and the smug look on his face, but you know he’s right; you probably should take a break…

“but i know if i take a break i won’t want to do it anymore,” you say, although the excuse sounds weak even to you

“then do it tomorrow; it’s not like it needs to be done tonight, honey,” and he’s right, so you nod, and he smiles

but the feeling of stress doesn’t go away as you pile up the sheets of paper in the centre of the coffee table

and it doesn’t go away as you save your thesis draft and close the lid to your laptop

your shoulders are still very stiff, and your head is still feeling weary from just how hard you’d been trying to focus

even when you slip your glasses off, a physical weight lifting from your face, your brain doesn’t slow down

it just doesn’t let you settle like you and san so badly want you to

he watches you fidget with your surroundings, eyes flicking to the pile of papers every so often whilst your fingers drum against the table restlessly

he sighs; clearly you’re going to need some help with this

“baby,” he says softly; you look at him and all he can see is stress written across your features, “do you want me to help you relax?”

your eyes flick over to him, still manspreading in the chair and looking the the picture of masculinity itself

you know it wouldn’t take long for him to silence your brain; not when he already has your brain feeling a little on the foggy side

you nod, mumbling out a small ‘please’ that he can barely hear

“come here then, baby,” he pats the inside of his thigh with his palm, the sound ringing around the room, “come sit with me, yeah?”

it takes a second for you to register what he’s asking you to do, but when it finally does, you feel your breath hitch in your throat

he hasn’t closed his legs for you to sit on, and the hand that rests on his thigh doesn’t shift to make space for you

why would it when there’s already a you-shaped space between his thighs?

you watch as he reaches behind him to grab the cushion from the chair, pulling it out and placing it on the floor between his feet

you cant stop the soft whimper that leaves your throat

“come on, pretty thing,” he coos, “you know it’ll help you.”

and you do know that, you really do

it’s exactly the push you know you need to take your mind off of everything, and holy fuck do you want it

so you shuffle towards him on your knees, inching closer and closer to that spot that seemed to be just made for you

he smiles at you as he watches you settle in on the cushion, the plush material taking the pressure of the cold, hard floorboards off of your delicate knees

you shuffle around a little, trying to get comfy before looking up at him, wide eyes looking into his own

and he can’t help but brush a hand across your cheek, chucking as you lean into his gentle touch

“my precious girl, aren’t you?” he whispers, running a thumb over you cheekbone, “working so hard; you’re so good, aren’t you?”

he shifts his hand until two of his fingers press against your lips

you separate them to allow his digits inside of the warm, wet cavern; he can’t help but fill with pride when he sees just how good you’re being

the tips of his fingers slide to the back of your tongue, caressing it slightly until he feels your throat constrict around them

he pulls them back slightly, instead pushing them down on the centre of your tongue to make your drool puddle up around them

“just let yourself stop thinking, okay?” he says as he plays with your tongue, “you’re too stressed, baby, and it’s not good for you.”

he caresses your wet muscle with his fingertips; you let your eyes flutter closed at the sensation

“turn your brain off for me,” his voice is soft as he talks you down into an all-too-familiar headspace, “be good for your big boy, hm? let me take care of you.”

and with the combination of your position between his legs, the fingers in your mouth, and his pretty words, you find it so incredibly easy to just… slip away

any thought of your thesis is gone and replaced with san

the worries about finishing on time, and the concerns about the reading you don’t quite understand; san

everything is just… san

you let out a small sound as you push your head down onto his hand, taking more of his fingers into your mouth

the weight of them on your tongue was nice, you decide, but not quite enough

they don’t quite hold the warmth and heaviness that your tongue is craving

it’s not quite enough to completely ground you like you know you need

“you want more?” he always has been so good at reading you; you nod around his fingers, “want your big boy’s cock in your mouth?”

you moan at the thought, desperately moving your head up and down to tell him yes

“does my precious girl want to warm her big boy up? is that it?” yes, yes, a million times yes, “want to wrap your pretty lips around me while you relax, hm?”

he chuckles when you pull off of his fingers and sit there looking at him through your lashes with a slack jaw

so pretty, he thinks when you stick your tongue out and blink up at him through those fluttery lashes of yours

pretty enough that you have him wrapped around your pinky finger

he really would do anything to make you happy, and it seems that what would make you happy right now is him in your mouth

so he wastes no time in reaching for his waistband and pushing it down his thighs to reveal his soft cock

he takes it in hand and holds it out for you, waiting patiently as you lean forwards to press a kiss to his pretty pink tip

“no teasing, baby,” he taps the blunt head against your lips, “open for me. warm me up like a good girl.”

his voice is smooth and buttery, and it makes you want to listen

you open you maw, rolling your tongue over your bottom lip and waiting for him to feed himself into your mouth

there’s a hand at the back of your head as his tip makes contact with the pink muscle

the hand pets your hair softly as it guides you onto the cock, pushing you further and further down until your mouth is stuffed almost completely full

“breathe through your nose, baby,” san instructs you as he pushes the tip of his cock to the back of your tongue, “come on, pretty girl; i know you know how.”

you don’t need the reminder, having done this plenty of times before, but you still like the guidance he gives you in that low cadence

you like his voice, and the way he tells you what to do because he knows just how much you don’t want to think right now

you close your eyes as you feel your nose brush against the smooth, sticky skin of his lower stomach

his freshly shaved pubes prickle you, but that’s the least of your concerns when your senses are just overloaded by the comfort of your boyfriend

the smell of his cologne mixed with his natural musk settles in your nostrils filling you to the brim with the familiar scent of home

and the way he sits in your mouth, hot and heavy and full makes you melt against his muscular thigh like it’s your own personal pillow

his hand on your head threads its fingers through your roots, fingernails scraping against your scalp in the most comforting way imaginable

a deep sigh leaves your mouth; one of relaxation and contentment

san hears it and feels his body ease into the chair

“good girl,” he hums, “so good for me.”

[amourane]

smitten

pairing: yoon jeonghan x fem!reader

genre: fluff

w/c: 0.7k

summary: jeonghan is completely smitten for you and he refuses to admit it.

warnings: noneee

a/n: aaa i hope you guys like this <3 i wasn't gonna post two fics in a row but i whipped this one up in about half an hour so i hope you guys enjoy it! not sure if i should make it a mini series, lmk!

Jeonghan found it hard to breathe with you around. He found it hard to focus, to concentrate. He had always been one to keep his cool, to stay calm and collected but ever since he met you all logical thinking had been thrown out of the window. He wasn’t a type of guy that would get nervous and he certainly wasn’t the type of guy that would get distracted. Jeonghan prided himself in being the stoic and very attractive star student at Seoul National University. 

So why did he find himself completely befuddled in front of you?

You who were so beautiful, so pretty, so gorgeous yet so annoying. He had never met another girl who would claw at his bones more than you. Your tinkling laugh and bright shiny eyes. It all made him go positively crazy and he couldn’t do anything to help that. You had this magnetic pull that would drag Jeonghan along despite his protests. 

His friends had all teased him for it. They had seen the way his cheeks would flush whenever you stared at him or the way he would look at you with the most lovesick eyes. Nevertheless, he continued to deny his affections. 

It didn’t matter anyway. You were too dense to notice how everyone seemed to snicker whenever you went up to Jeonghan or the way everyone would peer over their textbooks whenever you asked to partner up with the infamous student. You, who’s smile was so bright, failed to see how everyone could tell how smitten Yoon Jeonghan was for you even if he denied it. 

“Hannie!” Your voice echoed through the hallway and Jeonghan winced at the loud sound. His expression remained neutral as you came bounding up towards him with the most adorable grin on your face. “Guess who just got full marks on her test? Me!”

The test paper you shoved in his face made Jeonghan go cross eyes as he struggled to decipher your scrawled answers and the red pen the professor had marked with. The biggest thing that caught his eyes was the 100 in the top right hand corner. 

“That’s good Y/n.”

“Is that all you have to say?” You pouted as you removed the test paper from his face. “I worked so hard for that Hannie, I pulled all nighters and everything! I didn’t even ask you for any help, isn’t that impressive?”

“Yeah.” Jeonghan felt the cage of butterflies fly open in his stomach and he gulped. “That’s amazing Y/n but you really shouldn’t stay up revising, it actually decreases the chance of taking information in. You can enter sleep deprivation and it has a really high chance of simply going blank in exams and that’s not good at all you know.”

Your smile remained on your face as Jeonghan continued to rattle off the side effects of lack of sleep. You stepped closer towards him, only inches away. Jeonghan’s breath hitched as he stared at your pretty face. His eyes flickered to your lips and then your eyes. The eyes he could stare into forever and not get bored with. 

“Then you help me revise. I could use help from that brain of yours. I actually did go blank in my exam but it wasn’t because of sleep deprivation.”

Jeonghan knew better than to ask what but he couldn’t help the curiosity that was gnawing at his mind like a beast begging to be set free. He stared at you, your bright expression rendering him speechless as he tried to come up with words to say.

“What was it then?” He croaked out, voice trembling at the close proximity. “Why did you get distracted?”

You giggled leaning in closer so that your lips were brushing his ear. “You.”

Jeonghan froze, his whole body stood still like ice and you continued to giggle and he saw the way your smile seemed to grow bigger. His heart pounded in his chest as he watched you step back, the test paper still clutched in your hands. He felt his cheeks burst into flames as his jaw hung open in shock at your words. 

“See you later Hannie! I’ll pop over so we can exchange notes.” 

You waved him goodbye before skipping away as if you hadn’t just caused the poor guy to melt in his shoes. Jeonghan gripped his textbooks tightly and he tried to breathe in through his nose and out through his mouth. The beating of his heart could be heard in his ears and he tried desperately to calm himself down.

You were the only one capable of making Yoon Jeonghan grow completely flustered and he hated it.

[thisapplepielife]

Written for the @corrodedcoffinfest May Mayhem Bingo event.

What Condition My Condition Was In

Prompt: Riches to Rags | Word Count: 2790 | Rating: T | CW: Traumatic Brain Injury, Alcoholism, Housing Insecurity | POV: Eddie | Relationship(s): Pre-Steddie, Background Ronance | Tags: Struggling After The Events of S4, Future Fic, Middle Aged, Finding Each Other, Hurt/Comfort

The fall happens faster than you'd ever imagine. Once the slide has started, it's nearly impossible to stop it. It just snowballs, and no matter how hard Eddie dug in his heels, down, down, down he went. 

Record deal, gone. 

Label, gone. 

Band, gone.

He eventually landed on his feet, but just barely. All that money they made, and he has nothing left to show for it. Not a goddamn dime. Forty-five years old, with jackshit to his name. Working two jobs just to make ends meet is the only thing preventing him from crawling back to Hawkins, tail between his legs. 

He picks up a little session work, his talent only heard as an anonymous guitar on albums that will go on to sell millions of copies. His name, nowhere attached. It's humbling, but at least he gets to play the guitar from time to time, and is even paid for it.

That's better than flipping burgers, or washing dishes. He's done both, hopping all around town, trying to earn enough money to cover rent and some rot gut whiskey.

Tonight, he steps out of the liquor store, bottle tucked under his arm, and drops his change into the box of the guy that often sleeps in the little alcove, tucked back and hidden.

Eddie has it bad, but others still have it worse. He's never not had a place to go every night. Not yet.

"Thanks," the guy says, and Eddie nods towards him. He's seen him dozens of times, but he's never really seen him, he realizes. Never really looked. Nor has he ever spoken.

Lots of nights he's asleep, or has his head tucked between his knees, hooded sweatshirt pulled over his head, tight. Hands over his ears. Like he's trying to block out the world. Eddie gets that desire, fully.

Tonight, he sees him. Hears him. 

And feels like he's in the vicinity of a ghost.

"Steve?" Eddie questions, even if he's sure he's not right. Certain that this isn't Steve Harrington. Just someone with a similar voice. His mind playing tricks on him. But the brown eyes that look up from under his hood to meet his are familiar, way too familiar. Eddie tilts his chin down, more sure this time, "Steve."

"Maybe," Steve says, and at that, Eddie crouches down in front of him. Sitting his brown paper bagged bottle down, taking Steve's face in his hands. He has a fading black eye, and quite the beard that scratches against Eddie's palms.

Steve looks away.

"It's me. It's Eddie, from home," Eddie says. "We had, uh, a spring break together."

That's a bit of an understatement. 

"Yeah, I'm not an idiot," Steve says, looking back at him, and Eddie laughs, delighted that maybe there's nothing irreparably broken in him. Maybe he's just down on his luck. Eddie knows how that goes, all too well.

They're all a little damaged after what they went through. How could they not be?

"Why are you in Chicago?" Eddie asks. Winter is fast approaching, and camping near the entrance to Joe's Liquor ain't gonna cut it. 

Steve just shakes his head. Eddie's immediately mad. Where's Robin? Where's Henderson? Why is he out here, all by himself?

"C'mon," Eddie says, making a decision that is no decision at all. Standing up, and offering Steve his hands, "Up we go."

If a deranged Steve Harrington decides to kill him while he sleeps tonight, so be it. Steve saved him once, so as far as Eddie sees it, his life is Steve's to do with what he wants, anyway. 

Steve lets himself get pulled to his feet, and then Eddie helps him gather up what little he has. It's not much. Steve pauses, "Where are we going?"

"My place," Eddie answers, "that okay?"

And he's relieved when Steve nods.

Eddie leads him into the bathroom, gives him a spare set of towels. They aren't fancy, but they're clean. He shows him the trick to get the right temperature of hot water, an elaborate song and dance, but Eddie's had to learn to perfect it to not get frozen or scalded.

He puts a new disposable razor on the sink, in case he wants it.

When he hears the shower curtain close, Eddie starts making a mental list of everybody's ass he's gonna chew out. Steve Harrington should have people, lots of people, and that he seemingly doesn't is infuriating. 

Eddie never fell through the cracks. Wayne wouldn't let him. Or Gareth. Jeff. Goodie. They didn't stay together as a band, but he could always crash on any of their couches if he needed to. He'd have a safe place to go, where he's loved.

Why isn't Steve on Robin's couch somewhere?

Steve's hands are shaking when he gets out of the shower, and Eddie slides the bottle across the coffee table. Apparently they both have dealt with the shit they've seen in similar ways. Steve just seems to have it worse right now. Eddie's functioning, but it doesn't seem like Steve is if he wound up like this. All alone. 

He looks better, all cleaned up, fresh from the shower. Clean shaven. Hair still wet, and too long. In Eddie's clothes. Fading yellow bruise under his right eye.

Eddie has a thousand questions, but he's too scared he'll run to ask them. So he stays quiet. And they drink the cheap whiskey together, passing the bottle back and forth, in silence.

Eddie makes up the couch for him, but isn't at all surprised when Steve slides in bed with Eddie in the middle of the night. 

There's no reason to comment on it, he remembers exactly how to do this from that first summer, after. They were close then, and Steve stayed planted in his bed for months while they both recovered. Listening to music, reading magazines. Talking about girls, cars and weed. Boy stuff. Surface level stuff. Nothing that was close to uncorking the bottles they'd shoved the goddamn horrors they experienced in the Upside Down into just to survive.

Tonight, Eddie holds out his arm, and Steve curls in close. 

"I'm fucked up," Steve says, and well, Eddie thinks, who ain't? 

"Well, me too. I ain't gonna judge."

Steve nods against Eddie's neck, and then falls asleep, and stays asleep for twelve hours. Eddie just lays there, even if his whole body hurts. He gets stiff. His hips, mainly. Too much damage from the bats.

But he's unwilling to wake him.

Mainly because he's scared he'll disappear as soon as he does. 

Steve stays, and Eddie takes him to work with him the next Monday. He's not sure Steve knows anything about tire repair, but Gus lets Eddie settle him into his own workstation and show him the ropes.

Eddie quickly notices that Steve flinches every time the air compressor fires up to power the impact wrench, his ear coming down towards his shoulder. Digging in the drawers of his assigned tool chest, Eddie finally comes up with a pair of soundproof earmuffs. They're big, and bulky, but Steve nods when Eddie holds them up, making the offer.

Eddie puts them over his ears, and Steve smiles as he adjusts them, then gives Eddie the thumbs up.

Turns out, Steve can change a tire, and fast. He's not as good with the patching jobs, so Eddie takes all those, and just gives Steve the straight swaps. It works well, and they sit a few feet apart, working during the days.

At night, still in their coveralls, they swing by Joe's and get two bottles and go back to Eddie's apartment, where they drink them on the couch. Watching mindless television. Steve enjoys ballgames, and it doesn't bother Eddie. The background noise of them. It reminds him of home, and Wayne.

Eddie still wants to ask: Where's Robin? Where's Nancy? Where's fucking Henderson?

He doesn't.

They drink, and they go to bed, and Eddie lays awake staring at the ceiling, not understanding how this happened. 

It doesn't take long for Eddie to realize that Steve gets migraines. So, Eddie finds a pair of blackout curtains at the thrift store down the block that are actually pretty fucking amazing. There's one little hole, but it's nothing a little duct tape can't fix. He hangs them up, and his whole room is cast in darkness, even as the sun shines brightly outside. 

Eddie gives him earplugs, a glass of water, and leaves him to rest.

Gus understands the days that Steve can't get out of bed and into work. Gus reminds Eddie of Wayne. No nonsense. But fair. And having your head splitting in two isn't nonsense, and therefore is excused without any commentary whatsoever.

It's a little lonelier without Steve in the garage, but Eddie works like he always does. Patching, changing, then rolling the next one in line inside.

After two days, Steve's back, and his workload and mood lightens.

Overall, Steve seems fine. He has more good days than bad, and that's always been Eddie's own personal benchmark for fine. He's funny, and just Steve. The same Steve that Eddie remembers from that spring break, and that summer that followed. Just older, and with a little more baggage. A little more damage.

But at the core of him, he's Steve Harrington.

And Steve Harrington shouldn't be crashing in Eddie Munson's dingy apartment.

In the end, Eddie can't let it go. He's running down to the corner pizza place, because they decided they needed to actually eat something tonight. They can't drink all their calories all the time. And a pizza sounded good, and cheap. Eddie likes cheap.

But, before he makes it to the pizza place, he makes a pit stop into the outdated phone booth. He hopes it still works. It did the last time he used it, but that's been a while.

Nancy Wheeler is the only one he could find a number for, and it has been burning a hole in his pocket. He presses the receiver to his ear, feeds it quarters, dials the number he hopes is good, and listens to it ring. 

"Wheeler," he says when she picks up, and he can hear her wheels turning, trying to figure out who the fuck this is on the other end. He puts her out of his misery, "It's Eddie Munson."

"Eddie!" she says, and she sounds delighted, honestly. She laughs in his ear, and he likes the sound, but also kind of hates her. She let Steve end up on the streets. Alone. All of them are on his fucking shit list right now.

"Hey. I'm trying to get a hold of Buckley, do you have a good number?" he asks.

The line goes quiet, too quiet. Fuck. Is she dead? Is that what's happened? That would make sense, would explain this—

"Have you found him? Jesus, Eddie. Please tell me you've found him," she pleads. 

Eddie didn't even know they were supposed to be looking for him. 

He scrubs his hand across his eyes, brushing away the tears that are suddenly there. They're looking. They're desperate. He knows they are, he can hear it in her voice, and he nods, pressing his face into the glass of the phone booth. There aren't many of them left, and this one has definitely seen better days.

"Eddie," she says again, dragging him out of his stupor.

"What happened?" he asks.

"Eddie," she says, this time a demand.

"I've got him," he admits, and he hears the second her resolve shatters. 

"You've got him," she whispers. Then she's screaming in his ear, a deafening sound, "Robin! Eddie's got him!"

"Where are you? We're coming!" Robin shouts in the distance, but clear as a bell.

Eddie takes a deep breath. They're not. Not if Steve doesn't want that. 

"Uh, let me ask him first. Okay?" Eddie says, and kind of regrets that he didn't do that first. He was just too curious, too mad. Too scared he'd flee.

Nancy's quiet on the other end, and he hears the scuffle, the quiet argument over who's gonna keep the phone, ending with Nancy saying it's okay, he's okay, Eddie's got him.

Eddie's got him.

"He just stopped checking in one day," Nancy says, as if that explains it all. "We couldn't find him after that. We've looked, Eddie, we've all looked everywhere."

He knows they have. Believes that, and can't believe he ever thought they weren't. He feels guilty.

"He has a job, and a place to stay," Eddie says, "He's okay. Don't worry."

Eddie is sure all they've done is worry. 

"Eddie, please," Robin says, muffled by the background noise, and Eddie hates to tell her no. He does. But he's not betraying Steve. He'll ease into it, feel him out. 

"I gotta go," he says, and hangs the phone up before they can argue. 

Eddie puts the pizza down on the coffee table, and Steve flips open the top of the box. He seems good, has seemed good for a while. As good as they can be, in the condition their conditions are in. He smiles to himself, he hasn't thought of that song in a long time. It makes him think of Wayne and his record collection. He needs to call home soon. Or visit, maybe. Depends on how this whole Steve thing goes.

He's scared Steve's gonna run, disappear. As a runner himself, Eddie's scared Steve will be one, too. He'll give chase, they all will. But he doesn't want to spook Steve. 

"Can I ask about Robin?" Eddie asks gently, pulling the band-aid off, and Steve turns and looks at him. Smiling wide. He hasn't looked that happy about anything since he turned up. It catches Eddie by surprise.

"She's good. She's with Nance. Did you know that?" Steve asks, and takes another big bite from his slice of pizza. Like he's unbothered. Does he not know he's missing?

"Uh, no. Good for them. That's real good. And Henderson?" he questions.

"Also good. Married. Two kids. Doing science-y things," Steve says. "Still a smart little shithead."

And now Eddie's confused.

"That's good. Do they know where you are?" Eddie asks, and Steve pauses, like he's thinking about it.

"Probably not. I haven't checked in with them in a while. I should probably do that."

Eddie wants to scream, 'You think?!'

But he doesn't.

"Jesus Christ, Steve," Eddie says instead, laughing as he tosses his slice back into the box. "I thought you ran away from them."

"What? No, I just — they're all settled. Happy. And I'm, well, this," he says, motioning towards himself. "Brain damaged, and a drunk."

No. He's perfect. He's always been perfect. Flawed, and human, but perfect, and so fucking loved by all of them. Does he not know that?

Eddie startles him, he knows he does, when he cups both of Steve's cheeks in his hands. Just like he did crouched on that sidewalk outside of Joe's. Just like Steve did to him, hovering over his bleeding, bat shredded body in the Upside Down. Promising that everything would be okay.

He was right. Everything will be okay.

Eddie looks in Steve's eyes, telling him the truth, "They're worried to death about you. I didn't know what kind of situation was happening here, but I called them. I called Nancy. They're so worried."

"Oh. Shit," Steve says. "Maybe I've been out of contact longer than I've realized."

Eddie is baffled. But mainly he's relieved. Steve's okay. He found him. What if he didn't find him?

What if he wanders off again?

He can't think about that. 

"C'mon," Eddie says, standing up, and shoving his feet into his shoes without untying the laces. Sweeping a handful of loose change into his palm from the table next to the front door. "Let's go call them."

He knows there's a long road ahead for him, for both of them, but this part is an easy fix. If Steve will stay with him, and fuck, Eddie hopes he'll stay, then maybe they can deal with some of their messed up shit together.

They walk down to the payphone, and Eddie really needs to figure out that whole cell phone thing. He will. For both of them. Get them back on the grid.

Eddie hands the receiver to Steve, feeds the slot quarters, and dials the number, then steps back. 

It must connect, because he can hear Steve say into the receiver, "Hey. It's me. I'm sorry. I guess I got a little sidetracked."

Eddie grips the edge of the phone booth door that's still ajar. Holding his breath. Waiting.

Then, Steve laughs.

And Eddie lets out a ragged breath. Smiling.

Everything will be okay.

And if you want to write your own, or see more entries in this pop-up, check out @corrodedcoffinfest to see other entries for the May Mayhem Bingo Event!

Notes: Title from Just Dropped In (To See What Condition My Condition Was In) by The First Edition.

[stylespresleyhearted]

THE MAJOR’S WIFE

warnings: mentions of miscarriage, adultery, nsfw, marital problems, oral (m! receiving), spanking, being turned on even when your brain isn’t in it, bucky in 1x04, bucky married pre-war, slight age gap bc reader can come off slightly immature (i think?) angst, historical inaccuracies, new mediocre writer be nice

summary: John Egan gets to know his wife again

word count: 9.7k

notes: i’m not sure where this came from i wrote it all today and got no part of my research paper done. there’s really no point to it and also irl john egan was actually really close to his mother so i emphasized that here. he wrote to her so much. no disrespect to any of the real people, this is based on the show/show timeline as well.

Lila gets the call on the 2nd of October and her dreams come true.

Not entirely, no. The real dream would be having him home safe and the tragic war being over but she knows how fortunate she is to have the next best thing happen. Her husband’s been granted a few days leave and Colonel Harding believed it would do Major Egan some good to have his sweet, young wife join him during those days overseas. For the good of John’s mental health the Colonel or the President - or whoever was in charge, Lila really had no idea - had agreed to pay for her ticket and their hotel. There was only one thing they asked for in return and although it wasn’t explicitly said, Lila caught their drift: sort your husband out.

Lila knows it would do her no good to sit and wonder how horribly John must be doing in order for them to declare an all expenses paid trip for his spouse. All she does is worry for him anyhow so she forces herself to focus on the one good thing of the entire ordeal - she’s going to see her man.

There’d been letters, although not as many as she liked and she tried not to let it show how it hurt as every other wife received more than one letter at a time. Her John wasn’t the sort, she knew that when she married him. He was the kind of person who needed endless skies and land to maintain his sense of stability. Having him cooped up would do him no good and she partly wondered how much of what he was struggling with was the trauma he witnessed in the air and how much of it was feeling caged on base. At least his plane, good ol’ Mugwump (he wrote about her quite often) offered him the opportunity to head anywhere he wanted.

The only person he wrote consistently and readily to was his mother. It was rare if a week went by and she received no letter. During these instances it was more times than not an issue with the postal service.

Be that as it may, Lila knew who she married and it made her love him no less so she tried not to let it get to her. His mother was a saint. Firm and strong and loving all the same. Lila would have never survived sending John off if his mother wasn’t who and how she was. She held Lila at night when her cries woke her and she let Lila sleep in his old childhood bed. She kept food on their table and ensured everyone got their work done through the worry.

When John first left and Lila was sick to her stomach and vomiting multiple times of the day it was his mother who consoled her through the night when her sheets turned a crimson red and any ideals of having their baby through the war was lost.

Frances Egan was the glue holding them together. All of them, even her son who was an entire ocean way - so no. Lila would not be angry that she was John’s preferred pen-pal.

“You fix him right up,” Mama Egan had said in lieu of goodbye when leaving her at the airport, “you give him the loving he needs as his wife and the smacks he needs from me to get on the straight and narrow before sending him off to continue saving the world. You do it for him, not for any of them war bastards. You hear me?”

All Lila could do was nod. Dropping her bags on the floor and clutching her pseudo mother tightly. She was excited as she was frightened.

They had only gotten two months together before he had been pulled away. She didn’t want to complain, loads of women had gotten less time at all while others had only ever been left with the promise.

But her two months as Mrs. Egan? They’d been a dream. Her man was a romancer. He hadn’t hesitated in introducing her as the newly (and younger) Mrs. Egan, always resulting in an arm slap from his mother, he held open doors and he never stopped courting her; however she thinks the best times were when he was teaching her how to act married.

In their bed, at a home he had spent a year building for them. Using any extra pennies he had to pay off younger boys to help him hurry it along. Giving her the wrap-around porch she had always envisioned.

He showed her how to kiss. How to undress him. He had laid her underneath him, using his large frame to cover her completely, protecting her from the cold as he threw the sheets off them and making her feel tiny compared to him. She had never felt safer.

It had hurt the first time but he had held her through it. Never allowing any inches of space between their bodies; as if telling her they were in it together. She’d always known he was large, everything about him was large in general, but she never thought how much it would hurt to have all of him fit inside her. Lila hadn't wanted to disappoint him so she tried to muffle her tears and whimpers but he had swallowed her cries and gone slow, soft.

“If this is it, it’ll be enough,” he had promised, only about half way inside her and wiping away her tears with his thumbs. As a thank you she had taken that calloused thumb into her mouth and sucked. He allowed her; hiding his face in her neck and pressing wet kisses along there.

And for the first few times that had been it. She couldn’t take all of him and his thrusts couldn’t get too deep so he would only slip inside until her tight hole resisted and pulsed and he’d hump against that spot until reaching his pleasure.

“Do other girls take all of it?” She had asked a couple days later, trying to wrap her head around it.

She was no idiot. John Egan was no virgin.

“Yes.” Lila could always count on him to be honest. At least there was that. Meanwhile she couldn’t even fully pleasure him. She was failing as a wife. “Hey,” he lay facing her and she lay on her back. He tapped her cheek until she turned her face. “You’re my wife. That’s what makes this feel better.”

And she had beamed at his reassurance even though she didn’t feel much better. She knew John would never push her, and he couldn’t stand to see her cry, so if she ever wanted to learn to be a good wife she would have to take it upon herself.

So that’s what she did.

He was always on top and she was always on her back. That’s the first thing she had to change. From her understanding of it, from her talks with friends that always ended in giggles and blushing cheeks and from what she learned from John, it could be done in many different ways.

“I prefer to be in charge,” her school friend, Linda, had admitted to her. “Not like that -” she clarified, cheeks pink, “Just - if I’m gonna take it, I’d rather do it at my pace. Be on top. Some husbands are good like that. They’ll allow it.”

And knowing her husband wasn’t just good, he was great, she knew he would hold no qualms about it. The next time they lay in bed kissing it was easy to turn him over and straddle him. Move her wetness against his belly to let him know there was still more she just needed him to accept it.

Except he thought she was asking him to do it so he flipped her on her back again. And without breaking their kiss, she turned him over again.

It was more like they were wrestling.

Lila pulls away from his mouth, reluctantly, noticing his lips were wet and red and swollen and wondering if hers were much the same. They had been kissing for so long her mouth felt raw.

She loved it.

Straddling him, she reached behind her, feeling him standing straight and hard against her backside in between her cheeks. Sticky.

He gasped, bucking into her fist with a loud, guttural groan. It was so manly she rocked against his stomach again in need.

“Fuck, baby,” he grunted, “what’re you doing?”

“I want to try it like this,” she breathed, leaning over to whisper in his mouth, her tiny hand still wrapped around him and lining her up to her hole. “I want it all.” Lila clarified.

And John allowed it, like she knew he would. Let her take control and go at her pace. Let her swivel her hips on the way down to help with the tightness of being stretched so wide and thick.

Nothing but curses and promises of love leaving his lips. Gasping mine, mine, mine and my perfect fucking wife and I’m gonna fuck you forever.

He felt large inside of her, like if she was being split in two but it felt so good as the tip of him repeatedly hit a spongy part inside that had her coming with no contact to her clit for the first time.

She was beautiful, red splotches appearing on her body from the heat of their love-making, her hair tangled in his fists, her mouth falling open as she threw her head back - all of it was too much. He was flipping her over and pounding into her trying to chase his peak and a second one from her, their headboard banging against the wall in rhythm with his thrusts.

Things changed from then on. Sexually, that is. Becoming aware of how badly she needed to feel like she was pleasing him, John was not above using it against her. Like letting him lick at her.

“Good wives allow their husbands everything,” he would say, lips wide in a smile and eyes bright at the prospect of getting his way but Lila always knew the choice was really hers. He would respect what she wanted.

He was just too damn addicting. She couldn’t stand to tell him no.

His favorite times were when she allowed him to sit her over his face and let him feast. It drowned the outside world for him and he kept at it even after she had reached multiple orgasms and was pulling on his hair and the only thing keeping her up was his forearms locking around her thighs.

Her favorite was when he allowed her to taste him at the same time he was licking her. It was a tie between those times and when he held her down until all of him was in her mouth and she was spluttering, choking, gagging. Knowing she made a filthy vision and he adored it did something to her.

Now she was in London, closer to him than she had been in years, and all their intimacies were within reach. She could almost taste him, feel him petting back her hair and settling a hand at the low of her back. She still remembers the smell of his after shave and sweat, how he’d come into the kitchen asking for some of her homemade lemonade to help with the heat.

Jack Kidd was tasked with picking up Mrs. Egan from the airport and having her arrive at base with him. She remembers meeting him a couple of times before John shipped out early. Originally she was meant to wait for John at their hotel but there had been an issue when planning her flight and she arrived sooner than intended.

“Ma’am,” he greeted, placing a friendly kiss on her cheeks and taking her bags from her. “Bucky’s gonna be happy as hell to see your face.”

The tone in his voice - relief? alleviation? - had some of her happy wife's facade crumbling. How badly was her Johnny hurting that everyone was looking at her at his only chance to remain sane or alive?

Stop it. Maybe everyone’s just aware Johnny misses you. You’re his wife.

“Not as happy as me, I wager,” she returned with a smile. “I’m glad to see you’re doing okay, Jack. Glad to see you still kicking.”

His shrug didn’t soothe her worry but she saw him try to mask it with a smile.

“All we boys can do is pray.”

She placed a hand on his shoulder, gathering his attention. “You boys have got the prayers of our entire country protecting you.”

Jack simply nodded in response.

For the most part the ride to base was quiet. Her bags would be kept in the trunk until her and John were ready to drive out to London in a couple of hours and until then, she’d be his surprise at the officer’s club. Silver Wings, Jack called it. Where all the boys gathered and had drinks and celebrated accomplishments. And where some chose to mourn, too.

Her stomach was turning as she neared the hut, following Jack’s footsteps. There was so much that could go wrong and although this was meant to be a surprise, the U.S Army showing their gratitude towards a brave Major, she suddenly wished she would have called John and told him. She wished he knew so that she wouldn’t have to walk in feeling alone and unwanted.

Not that Lila thought John would turn her away, she simply wanted to have him hold her hand as she walked through the threshold.

“Stick close by,” Jack murmured, being respectful of where he touched her before deciding to lead her by her shoulder. “It gets crowded but I’ll take ya to him.”

As she walked through different groups, she felt the offending eyes of men and women alike. Wondering who she was. With a pang in her heart she realized she had met John’s squadrons before but all these crews were new. The boys she met, most of them at least from what she could tell, hadn’t made it. John never wrote about who passed away (except to inform her of Curt) ; most of their letters were him expressing his love and how he missed her so and asking what she got up to.

Having walked around the roundabout bar in the center of the room, her stomach in knots and fingers tangled in front of her - she caught sight of her husband smack middle in the dance floor. Pressed against a beautiful brunette.

Lila caught sight of him before even Jack did. That’s how connected she was to her husband. Jack whistled from beside her to gain Gale’s attention who was resting against the bar holding his signature ginger ale, also watching John Egan chat up the woman he was swaying with with something like disapproval in his eyes.

His large hands were occupying most of the space of her waist, keeping her body tethered to his as she laughed.

“Lila,” he gasped, eyes wide. He was smart enough to not turn and look at his buddy. To act as if nothing was amiss and she expected nothing less from Gale Cleven, “damn it all to hell. You’re a sight for sore eyes, Mrs. Egan.”

Because he was close to John, he didn’t hesitate in wrapping her up in a tight hug and pressing a kiss to her tinted cheeks. He knew John wouldn’t mind.

When he pulled back she patted his chubby cheek in return, “You still shame the rest of us with your good looks, Gale,” she laughed. “I’ll let Marge know when I see her next.”

Lila also knew she would share with Marge that while Gale was being loyal, standing off to the side her husband was exchanging oxygen with a woman on the dance floor.

His cheeks tinted at the mention of his girl. Buck and Bucky were both aware Lila and Marge wrote to one another and visited each other whenever time made it possible.

“Colonel Harding said Major Egan was in need of something from home,” she said, studying his reaction to see what she could read but Gale had always been aloof, cold. He wasn’t close to her like he was with Marge and John.

Gale thought back to a few moments earlier when John had disrespected their Colonel and all his actions before that too - disrespecting superiors, drinking more consistently, becoming angry - hopelessness in his eyes.

“He’s in need of you Lila,” Gale clarified and it wasn’t lost on either one of them that he they were referring to was currently on the floor wooing another woman.

“Holy shit! It’s Mrs. Egan!” Hambone animatedly announced and suddenly it felt like the eyes of everyone in there were on her. Her cheeks tinted pink, never having been one for the spotlight like her husband.

She was greeted with welcoming cheers and hugs.

John, for his part, disentangled from the woman he was holding at the mention of his missus. He was sober enough to appear sheepish and guilty, but in the next second it was gone as he stalked towards her. Determined. Quick. His smile growing the more he neared like he was becoming more aware she was really there and it wasn’t a fucked up scenario in his head.

“God, Lila,” she managed to hear him say before she was elevated in the air, his arms tight around her waist and lifting her high so they were at face level and he could kiss her. Channeling his love and exuberance and aggression into kissing his wife. “It’s you, it’s you, it’s really you,” he was saying in between smooches, “I missed you. So fucking much, doll.”

Basking in his love she didn’t feel the need to mention the woman that was so kindly keeping him preoccupied before she entered.

She couldn’t help the first tear from falling or the rest from following. It was like the tightness in her chest unlocked as she finally got to hold him and feel his heat surround her. He still smelled of after shave and the same hair gel that was kept in their bathroom at home but he tasted strongly of whiskey and cigarettes and strawberry lipstick.

John tucked his face into her neck, setting her down and bending to her level. Sniffling in there as he continued to hold her.

“None of that,” she did her best to stop her voice from wobbling or breaking, “we’re together. That’s all that matters.” She drew his face out from where he had hidden to pepper him with a few more kisses.

None of it was enough.

The rest of the guys were kind enough to return to the dance floor and act like they couldn’t see them.

“Who? What - why? How?” He was obviously having trouble forming coherent thoughts in between the kisses he continued stealing from her.

She was crying and laughing and trying to return all his touches. It was a terribly difficult ordeal but she had never been happier.

“Colonel Harding called and said you had a weekend leave. He said he talked to some of the higher ups but they couldn’t allow you a leave home so this was the next best thing,” she explained, cupping his cheek as she rubbed her thumb over his cheekbone. He had minor scars that weren’t there before.

She wanted to kiss every single one of them.

He was still bent towards her height, taking her in as she was taking him in.

She forgot how blue his eyes were.

He was whole. Complete. Hers.

“You’re here for the entire weekend?” He asked to confirm and she nodded, laughing when he lifted her again with a loud whoop to celebrate. That got a few of the guys to join in although they had no idea what their Major was celebrating.

“I need you,” his voice suddenly dropped, setting her down as he turned to the door. “Let’s go.” He was buckling up her coat to make sure she was protected from the freezing London air. She was lucky he was too far gone to scold her for arriving with it unbuckled in the first place - she could get sick.

“John, John - relax, my sweet man,” she laughed, cupping his cheek to get his attention. “We can stay for a while. We don’t have to go yet.”

It’s why she was at the officer’s club in the first place. She had arrived early.

John turned stiff in her hold, straightening to his full height as he suddenly loomed over her. “I’ve got you in my arms for the first time and you want to stay here?” His voice was tight. His face stern.

“Yes - no, I -” she was unsure of where she went wrong or how to fix it. She clasped his hands in hers but he didn’t allow her to thread their fingers together so it was just her holding on. “I just meant we’ve got time, John.”

The way he was looking at her made her want to cry. She felt her lower lip quivering.

She felt ashamed, whispering, trying to get him to keep his cool.

“Time? Time?” He laughed loudly. She was mildly aware of Gale breaking away from a group of guys to near them, worried but she was mostly focused on John. The tense lines on his face even as he laughed and the quirked eyebrow even though she found no amusement in their situation. “You think I’ve got time? You have no idea what it’s like up there.”

She shook her head but didn’t try to verbally explain herself. She wasn’t sure she could manage a few words before breaking into tears.

“Come on, Bucky,” that was Gale stepping in to save the day. Perhaps the only person who could get John to listen. “When have you ever left before dancing with your girl? You gotta show these rookies how it’s properly done right?”

With Gale slapping a hand to John’s shoulders, he seemed to snap out of it. Releasing a deep breath and seemingly all the tightness in body with it.

He leaned down again, pressing his forehead against hers. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, clasping a hand around her neck so she wouldn’t pull her head back. As their eyes locked she felt a tear fall again and this one wasn’t happy. “I’m so fucking sorry, baby. It’s this place. It’s fucking with my head.”

And she chose to believe him, nodding her head in understanding and trying not to think about how she wasn’t his preferred person to write letters to or the one who could clear his head.

Maybe the Colonel should have allowed a weekend pass for Gale and John.

Lila swallowed the thought, allowing John to pull her to the dance floor as he lost all anger and aggression and became charming and loving all over again.

“Everyone, this is my wife!” He bellowed and everyone cheered in response. “She’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen and -” he hiccuped and she realized he was drunker than she thought, “and I bet we can out dance any couples here tonight!”

So for the next hour she found herself being twirled around the dance floor by her husband. She almost forgot their prior negative interaction; his love and energy was so infectious. For the slow songs he would hold her close and she would rest her head against his chest, letting it lull her to a relaxing state. He was alive and she was with him. That had to be enough. For the more upbeat songs, he was challenging any couple beside them. Asking those sitting who were better dancers? Who could perform certain dance moves better?

And all throughout, he was like he used to be back home. Loud and happy and the center of attention, keeping everyone entertained. He kept announcing to his boys that his beautiful wife was there and then he’d place a wet kiss on her mouth that had their cheeks (and hers) turning red but all he would do is smile and continue on.

She was finally able to disentangle herself from him when Crosby pulled him in for a conversation. Lila wonders if her state of disheveled hair and panting breaths made him want to aid her in allowing her to sit and grab a refresher.

Once she accepts Crosby’s hug and cheek kiss, she excuses herself to go grab a drink. John only pulls her back once to steal a kiss before she gets too far.

Her lips might be bruised by the time they leave if he kept it up.

She orders a cup of ice water from the man tending the bar, looking back out at her husband as she waits. He’d always been tall and strong, but she notices the change in his posture. The bulges in his arms as he twirled her around and lifted her in the air. His eyes were only bright when he forced it. They had lost their shine and she wishes she brought the picture from back home. Where he looks young and full of life and joyful. Even when he smiles he seems hollow; hopeless.

She’s there but he doesn’t really care because in his head he’s already thinking of when she leaves again.

She wasn’t used to that. Her John only lived in the moment.

“He keepin’ you busy?”

Gale settles up behind her and pushes the glass water towards her. She didn’t even notice when it was put down.

“Dizzy, more like,” she jokes and gets him to crack a smile. She thinks to when she walked in and seen Gale, how he’d been watching the scene unfold but with a disapproving look in his eyes. How he didn’t try to hide the scene from her or excuse it. He let it be. And she knows John has never shied away from attention. He’s always been handsome and charming and girls always swarmed but Lila wasn’t aware she had to be around to keep him loyal. She thought he just was. And she knows it’s not too long before they leave now so she decides to be direct with him. “So, does that happen often?”

She sees Gale’s expression split for a second, like he debates playing dumb before deciding against it and she respects him even more for it.

“I think you should talk to John about it.” He decides on.

“Is it something that needs to be mentioned?” She doesn’t like playing this game with him but she knows at the first words of cheating and adultery Gale is going to excuse himself and her chance will be lost.

She can’t be simple and ask: Does my husband cheat on me?

“Another ginger ale, Marty,” Gale raises two fingers to grab the man’s attention and mutters a thanks as his drink is immediately refilled. He turns his attention back to Lila. “He still loves you, Lila. It’s just - hard. Being out here.”

“You seem to be coping fine.”

She feels bitter. Crazy. There’s a sob she has to choke back.

Lila’s too embarrassed to meet Gale’s gaze. Ashamed that everyone knows what’s been going on and she was the ditzy woman being twirled on the dance floor.

“I think I was used to loneliness. He isn’t.”

And he says nothing else as he leaves her behind heading back to his boys. It’s just Lila and her shattering heart and her husband calling to beckon her back to the dance floor.

Luckily they didn’t stay much longer. She walked over to Bucky but he wasn’t able to pull her back out for a dance - it’s my song, Lila! - because Jack Kidd was approaching, letting them know it was time to leave them at the train station.

Lila waited in the car while Bucky ran into his quarters to pack his bag. He didn’t have many things to take, he would be stuck wearing his uniform anyway. Gale walks him back out to the car and despite the earlier conversation Lila exits the safety of the interior to say her goodbyes.

“Take care of yourself, Major,” she squeezes him, “I need you to stick around after this weekend to look after my man.”

“It’s a hard job but I try,” he replies, both of them ignoring Bucky’s protests.

Besides that, Bucky’s quiet on the ride to the train station. He carries her bag on board but he’s quiet for the duration of the train ride. Lila doesn’t disturb him; he might be tired or hungover or both.

And if she’s honest she’s scared of him snapping at her like the night before.

Instead she takes the time to take him in. He’s handsome in his suit. Tall and big and strong, his sharp jaw and powerful mouth, his eyes blue like a sunny day and his curls coming undone from the gel after all the dancing he did.

Lila doesn’t allow her mind to wander down this path too often but suddenly she can’t help it. Would their baby have looked like him or like her? She wishes more than anything they would have had his ears. She wishes they would have had his heart and his strength - but her loyalty. Her faith in them.

It’s crazy when she stops to think she was nineteen when she married him and now she’s twenty-one. She’s loved him for more than she’s been allowed to have him. She has changed without him like he has without her and it’s frightening to think neither of them could be accepting of those changes. Whatever they may be.

Lila shuts those thoughts out, closing the distance between them to sit on his lap. Passerby’s and his horrible mood and what scares her could be damned to hell - all she wants is her man.

John doesn’t deny her; she admits she was a little scared he would.

“I love you,” she tells him, catching his eyes.

“I know.”

He doesn’t return the words as they continue staring at one another but she refuses to let it get her down. This is her husband. She has the rest of her life to get to know him; new or old habits, she doesn’t care.

So instead, Lila plasters a smile onto her face. “What’re you gonna show me first in London, Major?”

“Well I really wanna show you our hotel room,” he plays along, allowing her to trace the edges of his mustache. She lets out a knowing chortle. “And I really want to show you -” he cuts himself off to look around, making sure no one was near them as he leans in to whisper, “- my cock, Mrs. Egan.”

She turns a bright red, trying to sputter out a proper response for that but all she can do is indignantly scold him. “John Clarence! If your mom were here -” and they both break out in loud laughter at the many possibilities of what his mother would exactly do to him if she heard his wicked mouth.

“Wanna grab some grub first?” He asks instead, knowing she hadn’t eaten at the officers club and before then she had been stuck on a plane. “I know a few places.”

Lila nods happily, pressing a kiss to his mouth. His lips are warm and as plump as she remembers them. His mustache tickles her.

“Let me feed you first, woman!” He groans, trying to be a gentleman. “When’s the last time you ate?”

She puckers her lips to think about it and that’s the only answer he needs: food is definitely first.

When they arrive at the hotel John enters to check them in but he slips a few bills into the bell boy’s hand with strict instructions to leave the bags in their room before pulling her back out to the London streets.

Lila felt underdressed surrounded by women in diamonds and fancy hats, and it didn’t help that John was beside her in his uniform looking dapper and catching the eye of many. They were stopped multiple times on the way to the diner; men wanting to shake his hand and show their gratitude while the women introduced themselves, uncaring of Lila under his right arm.

As long as he wasn’t ignoring or dismissing her she realized she didn’t really care. It wasn’t much different back home; everyone knew and loved John Egan.

The diner he chose was small and cozy and his legs were too long to fit under their table so his boot and his knee kept bumping into her own and she adored it. She wanted to feel close to him and since sitting on his lap currently wasn’t an option she figured this would have to do.

He tells her many stories but none of them are sad or tragic. He only shares the happy ones. He talks about how he convinced the Colonel to allow Buck, Curt, and himself a London weekend pass one time and they had shoved Gale into a haberdashery where he tried on a multitude of top hats worth more money any of them would ever see combined. But because they were soldiers and majors at that, the owner allowed it. There’s a museum nearby he talks about wanting to take her too, it showcases art from as early as the 1400s and he says he’s gotten lost in there plenty of times and it was lovely.

All the while, she listens without hearing him. Choosing to take him in and letting her mind wander to how it would be if things were different. It pains her to think how much older he looks since she last saw him. Looking more like it was ten years instead of the measly two. John’s always been one to smile freely but the wrinkles by his mouth, eyes, and forehead aren’t from smiling or laughing too much.

Lila knows they’re from worrying and stressing and being scared and she hates that she can’t understand him or be there for him. No matter how hard he tries.

“I’m sorry,” she apologizes when a sob breaks free. She curls in over the table and John’s reaching over to rub her shoulders. She grabs a hold of her hand in his. “I just missed you so much.” She presses a kiss to his knuckles. “I don’t think I know how to not miss you.”

John doesn’t say anything but he motions a server over to settle the bill and once that’s done, he’s taking her hand and pulling her out the chair.

“You got enough food in you?”

All she can do is nod.

Her body feels electric on the short walk back to the hotel. He doesn’t do more than hold her hand and she thinks that is what has her nerves jittery, his palm in her hand sets her alight. She can feel his rough skin and the calluses on his fingers and the fingertips he runs over her skin and she bites back a moan.

Moaning in the middle of a bustling London street? She’d be thrown into an asylum she’s sure.

Beside her he’s quiet but his steps are quick. She has to lightly jog to keep up with long strides. He pulls on her hand to help her keep pace. It makes her think he’s as impatient for it as she is so she was surprised when upon closing the hotel room behind him he stays by the door. Not nearing or touching or kissing.

Just - nothing.

Her throat becomes tight again as she remembers the girl from the night before and her conversation with Gale. Is that the reason why?

“You’re so fucking gorgeous,” he says before she can spiral any further. Approaching her and bringing their lips together in a searing kiss, wasting no time in sliding his tongue alongside hers.

“I love you,” she responds and once again he doesn’t say it back. She figured he wouldn’t but she wanted to try. He takes her mouth in his again.

She gets irrationally angry, suddenly feeling the need to claim him so she bites at his bottom lip. He pulls back to press a finger to his lip, wiping the blood there.

Lila pulls on his belt, dropping to her knees right there in the middle of the room.

Mine. He’s mine.

“Make me your wife again,” she’s not sure but it sounds like she’s begging as she manages to unbuckle his belt and pull them around his strong thighs.

“God,” he breathed, “fuck. Look at you.”

Swollen lips parted for him to put to use. John wrapped his fist around her long hair to maintain a good grip, allowing the tip of his cock to hit the back of her throat. There was no resistance, no gag, her body remembering how it was taught to take all of him even though time had passed. John loved that fucking mouth and he found himself angry as thoughts entered his mind - if anyone had fucked her mouth while he’d been away - and he jerks his hips more forcefully. Rough.

This time Lila does gag. Her hand goes to push against his hip but he doesn’t allow her to pull away.

“Did anyone else do this?”

She splutters, eyes on him and confused with a mouthful of cock, unable to talk.

“Did you suck someone else’s cock? This is mine, Lila. Mine.”

He holds her down for a couple of more seconds before allowing her reprieve. She sputters and coughs, looking at him the entire time.

His dick is still hard and long, standing to attention, and he’s not sure whether he should apologize before she’s taking his bobbing dick back into her mouth. To the back of her throat and gulping and fondling his balls. Her nose kissing the coarse hairs on his belly trail and although it feels fucking amazing - he can feel the anger too. Her anger.

How dare he accuse her.

When she pulls off there’s a strand of saliva connecting his prick to her tongue. She has half a mind to go back for more but he’s pulling her back by her hair.

“I’m so lucky to have a wife who’s cock hungry,” he groans, pulling her to her feet by her hair and connecting their mouths in a rough kiss. Their teeths crash and tongues wrestly and he feels fucking crazy that she tastes like him. Simultaneously ripping each other’s clothes off.

Lila didn’t have any warning. One second she was kissing him and ripping open his shirt and the next she was bent over the bed with her ass in the air. John ran a finger over the wet patch on her underwear. The bite on her cheek was also unexpected and she clawed at the sheets, sure she could come from the feeling alone.

“This is mine, Lila,” he leaned in close, burying his face in her underwear. “Mine.”

All she could do was whimper and agree.

John smacked her ass so hard it jiggled. Lila yelled and after the pain ceded, time seemed to stop. Nothing but their rough breathing filling the room. John had never done that before.

She wasn’t sobbing but there were tears escaping. She was sure he didn’t know. He was waiting for a reaction.

Lila wasn’t sure where this side of her husband came from. Had he held back those two months? Did he learn it in Europe? Was that why there was another woman - because she couldn’t satisfy him?

She can’t lose him.

“Please,” she begs, hiding tears in the duvet, “do it again.”

Lies. It was all lies but John believes her and he strikes again. She yelps, fisiting the sheets. He believes it’s in pleasure.

Ten slaps. That’s how many she endures before he begins shushing and petting her again. He runs his fingers through her folds and although she didn’t enjoy the punishment mentally - she did nothing wrong, he was the liar - her body certainly did. She’s sopping wet, she’s gonna have to throw out her underwear because they’re destroyed.

“Did you enjoy that?” He grabs a fistful of her hair to sit her up, her back against his sweaty, matter chest. “You like being spanked, baby?”

“Yes.” It’s only half of a lie.

“Now - now, I’m going to fuck you. Nice and hard, just how you like it,” she wants to scream at him. She wants to hit him. When did she ever like it hard? When was hard ever nice? Who was he thinking about because it wasn’t her.

But at the same time she rocks back against him to feel his cock hard between her cheeks. She can’t say she doesn’t want it. Him. This.

He pushes her back down at her teasing, using his now free hands to spread her cheeks and show her tight asshole. Untouched and pure. He presses the tip of his cock against it but he doesn’t push. He doesn’t move.

She jerks at the pressure. Drools on the mattress as she tries to bite down to temper her screams.

Do it.

No, don’t.

“One day,” he promises, pressing deeper so her hole opens but not deep enough to push. “But today, today I want this.” And without any prepping like she’s used to, without any more warning, he’s sliding down and pushing into her. Hard. Deep.

She screams, can’t help it, claws at the mattress in an attempt to crawl away.

It hurt but it felt so good.

Who was she?

“You think you can go be with other men? Let them use the holes I trained? The ones that belong to me?” He pumps into her deep. Once, twice. She’s so wet the noises filling the room are pornographic, her yelling and his panting and her sopping wet vagina smacking against his thighs and taking his cock so well. “You like it like this, Lila? Like when I fucking own you?”

“Yes, yes,” she swears and this time she isn’t lying. It’s all she can manage; she thinks she’s gone cock dumb. There are no words, no feelings, just the feeling of him filling her.

She clenches tight when he slides out. She wants him inside her forever.

He releases his hold of her hair, stepping away. He’s tired of muffling her moans and words. He’s tired of not being able to see her beautiful face.

John’s favorite face in the entire world.

“Turn around,” he commands.

Lila kneels on wobbly legs as she turns over, having little to no energy and bouncing as her body lands with no grace on the mattress. John grabs one of her jiggling breasts in his large hand, squeezing tightly.

“I fucking missed these.” He takes one in his mouth, biting down on her nipple hard. She shrieks but holds his head to pull him closer.

Her thighs are forced open by his hand and then he’s taking hold of himself and thrusting in deep again. Releasing her breasts from his mouth in order to look at her mouth. Lila’s face when he’s fucking her is as close to heaven as he thinks he’ll ever get. She’s incoherent but she’s begging for more - that much he can make out. She manages to gather the strength to grab hold of him and pull him down, clawing at his back.

He hisses at the pain and bites on her collarbone to reciprocate it.

When she grabs the nape of his neck, the cool touch of her wedding ring against his skin, it gives him pause. This was his wife. His wife.

John has been gone so long he thinks he forgot he was married.

“I love you,” he finally says it, pressing his forehead against hers as he slows down. He sniffles then, leaning down to press a wet open-mouthed kiss against hers and swallow her moans. John can’t believe he forgot he had this; can’t believe he forgot for a minute how lucky he was. She’s gorgeous (and not just externally) and he’s quite sure he somehow managed to dream her up. “I love you,” he swears again.

This time she’s the one who doesn’t say it.

She clutches at neck and pulls him down to take a boob in his mouth. Looking him in the eye hurts too damn much. Why did he have to do this now? She was lost in the pain; she had been taking her punishment.

Lila squeezed her eyes shut, moaning loudly as she thrashed around the bed. Her orgasm taking over her body. She wrapped both legs tighter around John, squeezing and pulsing around him and dragging him to the edge with her.

“Fuck, fuck,” he roared, “so damn tight. Yes, Lila. My perfect wife.”

For a couple of seconds, they lay in the aftermath. Lila could feel the heat of John’s breath against her neck. She counted how many breaths they shared in between one another as they recuperated.

Forty-seven that’s how many breaths they shared as they stayed connected.

Forty-eight that’s when John managed to lift his head and place a peck against her mouth. One she didn’t return.

Forty-nine that’s when John pulled back in concern. Lila was so still.

Fifty. That’s the breath she used to say, “you cheated on me,” looking him right in the eyes as she broke out in uncontrollable sobs.

She cried and cried underneath him. Unable to move because her legs felt like jello and they held no power. Unable to push him off because she didn’t want to let him go. Unable to speak because she was suffocating in her heartbreak.

John watched her until he couldn’t, until he was afraid she was going to choke on her own tears and then he was sitting her up, trying to ignore the way she fought against his touch.

I’m sorry, I’m here, he kept saying.

I hate you, she thought but didn’t say.

Until finally, “don’t touch me!” She yelled when he got too close and made to wrap her up in a hug. “Get away from me, John. Stay away.” She crawled to the edge of the bed and curled herself into a tiny ball. Aware she was fully naked and he was still leaking out of her but she couldn’t find it in herself to do anything except cry.

She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t open her lungs and get any air in. She slapped at the headboard, aware that she was having a panic attack as suddenly everything hit her all at once. It was entirely consuming and she couldn’t do anything to fight against it except cry. All the feelings rushed her at once.

This was going to be it. The weekend of two lovers reunited was the weekend from hell and this was going to be it. She was going to return home in a day and he would stay in Europe and continue to fight the war and seek out other girls and when he returned she wouldn’t be his wife anymore.

Lila would be scornful and full of resentment and miserable and he would leave her. This last time was going to be all she had and she hated him for ruining it.

Why couldn’t he hide his affairs better?

Why did she have to surprise him?

She was perfectly happy not knowing. She was worried and stressed to hell and crying every night missing him but, oh God, all that was better than this.

Lila isn’t sure how long it’s been since she last took a breath but she feels herself fading. She’s shivering and naked in their bed and she can only slightly take in that John’s wrapping her up in the duvet and curling himself around her to warm her up. She’s trying to tell him she can’t breathe, she’s suffocating, at the same time he’s blowing air in her face.

She’s fading when she feels it. A sting on the left side of her face. Hard and sharp and enough to have her gasping for a deep breath.

“Baby, please, wake up,” he’s crying over her, his head on her chest, “wake up. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

Her chest aches. She coughs.

He whips his head up so fast she almost laughs. Almost.

“Lila,” he holds her against his chest, rocking them back and forth on the bed as she takes in her surroundings. She isn’t sure how long she was out or how long she was panicking for. Had the sun been setting while she lost her shit? It was dark outside now. “Don’t leave me, you can’t leave me. Please.”

She taps at his arms to get him to release. She doesn’t think she can talk.

John allows her the space but he doesn’t remove himself from the bed. He stays kneeling, watching her. His hands keep twitching like he wants to reach out and touch her but he’s trying to respect her wishes of not being touched.

She doesn’t lay back down, she stays resting against the headboard. Breathing hurts. She’s scared of suffocating once more. Her left cheek begins burning and she wishes she had the strength to go look in the mirror. Did he mark her? She hopes he did.

Lila’s glad he made it hurt.

“You need to go,” she finally manages to say, ignoring the way he’s already shaking his head in defiance. “Leave me here, John. I want you to go. Get another room.” Find another woman. “I leave in a day.” She wishes she never came to stupid London. She wishes she could forget this entire trip.

“Lila it’s the war,” he starts, shaking in his own tears. “It’s all the shit I see, baby. None of it was because of you okay? None. You don’t fucking know what it’s like up there for us but I stay alive in hopes of coming home to you.” He promises.

She shakes her head, fighting back any more tears. How the hell could she still have any tears left?

“But Gale didn’t cheat,” it bursts out of her before she can stop it and she knows it’s the wrong thing to say entirely.

John stops his apologies, clearing his throat as he gets up and begins dressing into his suit. She doesn’t stop him. She doesn’t take back any of what she said. She gets tired of sitting so she lays on her side, staring out the window and noticing London doesn’t have many stars. Is that why it’s so horrible here? Because there were no stars to wish upon.

She could hear his boots stomping on the ground as he reached the door. “Maybe you should have married Gale fucking Cleven then.” And the door slams shut behind him.

She wonders if he’s angry enough to find a girl and sleep with her. Her eyes blur. The time on the clock is six p.m and London’s already dark. She realizes she hasn’t slept since her plane ride. About 19 hours awake - her and John.

Lila allows her eyes to close, hoping when she wakes everything will be better.

Shadows over her eyelids wake her up. Lila finds she hasn’t moved. She’s in the same position facing the window. Facing London, only now bombs are dropping over it. The prettiest colors burst forward in the window but she knows it's truly only tragedy and loss. Murder.

She recognizes John sitting in the arm chair and she wonders when he got back. He isn’t facing her, he’s watching bomb after bomb drop and land no more than mere miles away from them. He’s holding a whiskey on ice, twirling the ice so it hits against the glass.

Lila wonders then if it was the shadows or the noise that woke her up.

“I must have punched in my card a long time ago,” his voice is strong in the dead of the night, seemingly even louder than when he’s singing in the pub. “It must be the reason for all of this. Karma.” He scoffs.

I deserve this, is what he’s trying to say.

Lila feels her stomach twist and spin and there’s bile sitting in her throat. She closes her eyes to stop herself from imagining John in a plane, dropping a bomb that lands on children. She closes her eyes so she doesn’t have to see the hurt sitting on his shoulders.

She remembers how angry she was when he first signed up. Before they were married. They had been dating for over a month, barely, and she already scribbled ‘Mrs. Egan’ over her notebooks. She’d heard it from his younger sister, Eileen, and she felt her world stop. She hadn’t hesitated to run to the stables he worked at and confront him in front of all the men.

“You’re leaving me,” she had accused him. “You’re gonna leave! I’ll never forgive you, John Egan.”

And in front of everyone he’d knelt down and produced a ring, the one his father had given his mother and said, “Marry me.” He didn’t ask because they both knew it wasn’t a question.

She was already his.

And he was hers.

Lila had forgiven him and promised to love, honor, and obey for the rest of her life.

She doesn’t have the strength to stand so even though her throat burns she speaks. “Lay with me,” she croaks. Her voice is raspy and broken and even clearing it aches.

John shakes his head. “You don’t want me to.”

“Lay with me,” she repeats, firm. “I just want to fall asleep with you.”

He looks at her like he's scared to believe. Trying to figure out whether she’s simply being cruel and going to kick him out in her next breath. Or more likely, he’s scared she’ll lose her shit being near him again.

John, hopeful and never one to look a gift horse in the mouth, sets his drink down and nears the bed. Lila keeps her eyes locked on his and he does the same. Their moves and tension resemble a game of chicken, one of them afraid any sudden change can have the other running off.

“Take off your uniform,” she says when he pushes back the covers while still fully dressed. He jerks his head in confusion and she bites her lip to contain a laugh at his dirty mind. Sex is the last thing on her mind. “I want to feel you, that’s all.”

John does as she asks, setting his cap down and shredding every layer before he’s naked and gorgeous and sliding in beside her. She doesn’t allow herself to think about what it means when she immediately slides closer.

Lila’s the one to wrap her arms around him.

Lila’s the one to intertwine their legs.

John follows her lead, lifting an arm so she can raise her head and use it as a pillow. She scoots her face closer and she nuzzles into her armpit, smelling his deodorant and feeling his hairs poke at her nose. She moves further along, escaping the cocoon of his armpit to press her cheek against his chest. She clutches his dog tags in her palm, tight, so he can’t get up in the middle of the night.

“Can we fall asleep together?” She asks, but when she looks up John’s already there.

The next time Lila wakes up her palm aches. She releases what she’s gripping, remembering how she clung to John’s dog tags when he slid into bed beside her. She lifts her head and finds John already looking at her.

He’s got the saddest eyes she’s ever seen and she hates that she’s partly why.

“We should talk,” her voice is low and cracks from not being used. John nods his head but makes no move to begin.

Lila lays her head back on his chest, lightly picking at his matted, curly chest hair. She presses her lips to a freckle near his nipple and his intake of breath lets her know he felt it,

“I’m not the one you write the most letters too,” she starts, finding it easier to not have to look him in the eye. “You write the most to your mom. And I’m not the one who can calm you down when your anger gets the best of you,” she’s so tired of crying, “that’s Gale. “And I can’t even be here for you at the end of a mission to console you or kiss you or help you forget,” she chokes on a sob. “That’s whoever else.”

I couldn’t even keep our baby healthy, she leaves out.

“What’s your point with all this, Lila?”

Lila lifts her head from his chest, “My point is I’m a horrible wife. I - I don’t know if it was too soon or just not thought out but this - I- ” she can’t get the rest of the words out.

“Don’t say that,” John sits up against the headboard, forcing her up as well. He grabs both her wrists in one of his hands to pull her closer and grab her attention. “Don’t fucking tell me that, Lila.”

“I don’t make you happy,” she shakes her head.

“You do. Everything I do, everything I’m doing - it’s for you Lila.”

“I don’t want to marry Gale. Or someone like him. I love you. Only you. But I’m scared that I don’t make you happy. You deserve better.”

“Oh you dumbass,” John coos, suddenly finding the entire situation amusing. He pulls her in for a hug. “You’re my entire fucking heart, Lila Egan. You don’t think you make me happy? You’re the only thing in my life, in my head, that makes me happy.”

She pulls away to hold his face. “If you’re gonna leave me John you need to tell me now. I don’t care about the girls if all they are is to pass the time. And I don’t care that you write to your mom more than me and I don’t care that Gale is the one you listen to but I just need to be the one you love the most. I need to know I’m making you happy.”

His heart aches at the fact that he made her feel she was ever anything less than the most important person in his life. “Lila,” he presses a kiss to her lips, “Rose,” another kiss, “Egan,” another. “Are my only reason for staying alive.”

[evieelyzabethh]

a college!jayce oneshot would be sooo goood. I love the way u write and the details u add! angsty,fluff,smut i dont mind. Just anything is fine with me 🤞🤞

be warned, this is incredibly self indulgent because I just finished my exams and desperately need to get dicked down by my slightly pervy husband...anyway

collegeau!Jayce is usually the one requesting the rewards for his "hard work", but being the kind, perceptive boyfriend, he has known exactly what you need in these very trying times. When he realized he couldn't talk you down from your all-nighters, he stayed up with you, mini fridge stocked with energy drinks and his coffee machine on stand-by when you got tired of the cold drinks. He's there with you for your hours long library visits, biding his time by making you good luck origami cranes or listening to you teach him the concepts you're studying for practice. If you need silence, he quieter than a mouse, if you need someone to talk to, he's all ears.

By the time his finals are done, yours aren't. There must some cruel force in the universe that mandated not only exams, but papers, projects, and presentations all be placed into your lap with rather constricting due dates and very short turn-around periods. The struggle was manageable enough when you were both going through it, but now that he's reached the end of the tunnel alone, he misses his girlfriend. Now, he sees you eating sleep for dinner and nearly going cross-eyed from the countless hours you've spent going back and forth between your textbook, your laptop, and your notes.

Any word he'd say would be hypocritical. To try and convince you to take it easy and come back to bed would be hilariously insincere considering that the trenches look identical for the both of you. But now his head is clearer, and he's forced to watch your increasingly slouchy posture and hope your poor heart can stomach the insane amounts of caffeine you've ingested in such a short period of time.

Eventually, all the papers have been turned in and he's waiting anxiously for you outside of the lecture hall where your final final just took place, and you look alive for the first time in weeks, but you're still a bit sluggish. Ain't shit funny til those grades populate, so you find it within yourself to smile but there's still a fragile week ahead of you when you really could cry at any given moment if pushed hard enough.

This just won't do, though!!! collegeau!Jayce believes he has thoroughly failed as a boyfriend as he watches you, sprawled out on his bed, some show mindlessly droning on in the background, continuously refreshing your email and course page. So much so, that he plucks the phone right from his hands and throws it into one of his messy drawers. And you try to grab it, though not making it very far as his long strides catch up to you rather quickly and your being hoisted over his shoulders and thrown back onto his bed, exactly where you belong.

See, besides the obvious torture of watching you torture yourself; Jayce has not gotten off in weeks; he would feel guilty if he wasn't able to be there for you because he's too busy jerking off in the bathroom while you're hard at work. So, he was being the good boyfriend, the one who's pleasure is completely derived from your own and he can't even try to make himself feel good if you aren't. But now, the hard times have passed, and he cannot fathom holding off any longer than he already has.

"Jayce-" And thank fuck you decided to wear a skirt today because if he had to fiddle with jeans, he would've lost his damn mind. "Jay, get off." He looks up at you with the biggest, brownest puppy dog eyes you ever did see, hands held where you could see them. "You really want me to stop?" No, of course you don't. "I wanna see if my grades been posted." He rolls his eyes so deeply you'd think he was searching the very wrinkles of his brain for a fuck to give.

His large hands move over your thighs, hypnotizingly playing with the hem of your skirt, the crotch of your terribly thin panties, rubbing his thumb what he's really been craving for the worst part of these past two weeks. "I really don't care." If he weren't so impatient, he would've been smoother. Maybe kissed you until your head got all fuzzy, gave more attention to your tits, maybe he would've bothered to actually remove any of your clothing.

collegeau!Jayce who is just so messy and couldn't be paid to give a shit as he's eating you out through your panties. It catches you by surprise, the voracious way he plunges in, nose knocking at your clothed entrance as he licks and sucks at the growing wet spot forming. You grab at his hair, which only grows his already painfully hard erection. "Ngh.", is all that comes from his mouth. It was initially meant to be some sort of plea, pull it harder, please, but for his request to be heard, he would've had to pull away. He would rather die than do that before you gushed over his tongue.

He's making out with it, aggressive with the way he pushes himself further and further into you and his canines nick at the fabric until it inevitably tears right through. Both of your moan's echo around his walls along with the squeaking of the bed with the sheer force that he ruts his hips into it. "Sometimes, I really think you hate me." The accusation vibrates straight through your pussy, making your body shake before the words even hit your ears. "No -ah, fuck, I don't." He nods into you. "Only explanation for denying me heaven."

collegeau!Jayce who is a munch before all else, his fingers leaving prints on your thighs that are already wrapped tightly around his head, his other hand pressing down on your waist. You had this annoying habit of squirming away from him, cries about it being too much falling on deaf ears. He is a firm believer there is no such thing as too much of a good thing, only people who don't believe they deserve the abundance of good coming to them.

Jayce is that abundance, sucking on your clit until it becomes too much and you shake in his strong hands, your hips fighting against his calm hands that try to rub soothing circles into your skin. "Quit running from it, baby. Jus' want you to feel better. Don't you wanna feel good? Hm?"And the tears eventually start flowing. Your just overwhelmed, you haven't had your brain properly shut off in months. "Jay, too much." But he's not done yet, instead, he tries to indicate through touch what he would whisper in your ear. You can take it. You deserve a little treat, a nice reward. His pretty girl just needs to be loosened up, just needs to think a little less, and as the best boyfriend in the world, he's going to make that happen.

[risuola]

INFINITY — F. READER x GOJO SATORU

When was the last time you slept? You couldn't tell, but Satoru was determined to get you to rest.

cw: slightly angsty if you squint, just idiots in love unable to communicate properly, death mentioned (the usual jjk content) — 1,3k words

a/n: i'm going through my wips, finishing them finally and posting, don't mind me ❥

“When was the last time you slept?”

Satoru’s soft voice entered your mind and brought it back to reality. You were exhausted, having no sleep for few days already. Your eyes felt heavy, your mind was foggy and as you tried to push through the fatigue, you struggled to concentrate on even the simplest tasks. Everything felt like it’s taking twice as much effort as usual and more and more often you were catching yourself at making silly mistakes that you wouldn’t normally do. It was probably the fact you were standing at the little kitchen unit in the hotel room you share with Gojo for the mission, and the cup you were trying to fill with water overflown already.

“Shit,” you cussed quietly, putting down the kettle and grabbing the roll of paper towels, knocking a bottle while you reached next to it. Of course it was open and another portion of liquid spilled all over the counter and the floor.

“Hey, whoa, I’ll deal with it,” the strongest was quick to take everything from your hands, smiling in amusement at the soft groan that escaped your mouth. “So? When did you sleep last time?”

“I don’t remember,” you grumbled, pinching the bridge of your nose. The job you had been assigned was taking everything from you and it wasn’t because it was hard. It really wasn’t much above the ordinary and your partner turns every task into a child’s play, but it was the unpredictability of the curses you were targeting that made you go without sleep for a week already. You had at most four hours of rest, broken into short naps when you just passed out and now, you were awake for 43 hours straight. It was taking a toll on your mind and body, the fatigue was like a weight on your shoulders, making your movements sluggish and your thoughts slow.

You sighed, rubbing your eyes aggressively, a desperate attempt to wipe away the foggy haze from your sight. It’s been some time since you don’t see clearly anymore, your brain was pulling tricks on you and though you couldn’t blame it for that, you also wished it to keep up for just a little longer

“Go to sleep,” Gojo told you, wiping away the water that you spilled all over the kitchen area. “I’ll deal with anything that might pop up,” he reassured, though his tone was everything but caring. He was teasing you, his playful nature and smugness fronting in his behavior as always. He wasn’t bothered by the mission, he was doing his job flawlessly and frankly, you were sent with him only to make sure people around are safe because Satoru has a habit of not caring too much about casualties.

“You know I can’t do that,” a groan from you only made the man chuckle. You were in the middle of war – it felt like it, at least – there was a plague of curses, most of them reaching first grade, day after day appearing in bigger quantities and it was straight up way too dangerous to let yourself to drift away. Last time you managed to close your eyes for a little longer than an hour, one of the demons broke into the hotel you were staying in and nearly killed you. It seemed like they were just waiting for the right moment to attack, when your guard is down and you’re vulnerable and you knew that once you fall asleep, you’re not going to wake up on time. Even if Gojo was volunteering to fight, you were convinced the moment he’d step away from you, you’d be dead. And that was the last position on your wishlist.

“I told you I’ll take care of the curses while you’re sleeping, don’t be so dense,” the strongest just shrugged, seemingly unbothered but the grin was ghosting over his lips, making you wish you could wipe it off his stupid handsome face. While you were suffering, Satoru was sleeping just fine, not caring about a thing because he didn’t need to care about being in danger when he always had a nice, protective layer of damn infinity around himself. The world could be burning and not a single spark would reach his sleeping form. Rest was a luxury he was able to afford during this mission and sadly, you couldn’t because once you’re not awake and ready to protect yourself, you’ll be swiped off the board.

“Why would you even bother, huh?” You snapped, not sparing him a look while you approached the window. The streets seemed oddly calm, now as dark as the sky above them, and you wished it would stay normal for the next hours so you would have one less thing to deal with during the night time.

Truth is, the very fact of sharing a job with Gojo is a curse in itself, one impossible to exorcise and it was taking every bit of professionalism that you had in you to just push through it. Your relation with the honored one is difficult. It’s complicated and straight up unpleasant, it seemed like you were stuck in an endless cycle of bickering. Every conversation seemed to turn into an argument, and every disagreement seemed to escalate into a full-blown fight. It was exhausting, emotionally and mentally, it was straining but no matter how many times you tried, you couldn’t manage to break the pattern and instead, you just kept going around in circles. The words you spoke to each other were getting increasingly cutting and the anger was growing with each passing day. Even when you did manage to reach a solution, it was always a matter of time before another conflict would arise and you’d be back to square one. It was as if you were trapped in a maze, with no clear path to a peaceful co-existence and that was enough reason for you to be convinced that Gojo would be the last person on earth worrying about your well-being.

“I don’t want you to die on me because of the lack of sleep, come one,” he shrugged, throwing away the wet paper towels and joining you near the window. “Rest, I’ll stay awake.”

“I’ll get myself a coffee,” you said, not convinced at all. Truth is, only few times you allowed yourself to pass out was when Satoru was awake, because you wouldn’t dare to close your eyes when he was sleeping himself, but you couldn’t trust him. And you’d feel horrible if you made him stay awake just so you can sleep.

“No, seriously, no coffee for you,” he grabbed you by the wrist and pulled towards the bed.

“Gojo, do you not understand—”

“Shhh,” he hushed, manhandling you onto the mattress, forcing your shoes off and gathering the covers to tuck you in as if you were a child.

“I hate you…” Was all you could mumble. It was a torture. The soft pillows underneath your head and warm comforter were so perfect, so inviting for you to just let yourself drift off. You wished to let the heavy eyelids down, to give your eyes the rest they need and allow your brain to reset and clear. You felt like your body was betraying you, the exhaustion was seeping into your bones, making it impossible to move.

“Yeah, yeah,” to your surprise, Gojo pushed his own boots off as well and in a moment he was in bed with you, sharing sheets and pulling you towards himself. “Now, here. You are now inside my infinity. You’re safe, sleep.”

Infinity. It felt safe, suddenly, but was it because of infinity or the man that now had his arms wrapped around you? You couldn’t tell and frankly, you couldn’t speak either, so you just hummed something in response as the sleep has taken you away.

[fixyourwritinghabits]

Hello. I realize this might be overly personal for this blog but I was wondering if you had any advice for my situation. I'm trying to get back into creative hobbies like drawing and writing and while I made some progress with drawing I've really struggled with writing. It's been about ten years. I struggled with my mental health a lot when I was younger and essentially let my depression/anxiety and ADHD destroy all my creative ability. Logically I know the answer is to just write and write badly, but I'm preemptively disappointed and upset that what I write will be. Well. Shit. Or that I'll never improve. Or that I have no idea what to write. And when I do have an idea what to write it's all just gone from my head the second I sit down to write. So. Er. I guess I'm wondering if you have any advice or resources for people like me? Thank you :)

When you're juggling various different Back-Stabbing Brain issues, various pieces of writing advice - getting up at 5pm, forcing yourself to do it, etc - just doesn't work. For me, it's been a struggle to figure out even in optimal situations, so you're not alone. For me, the following is what worked.

Figure out your peak writing time.

Unfortunately, in our capitalist hellscape, you may not be able to use that time to your advantage. My peak time is from 2pm-5pm, right in the middle of work and fades right when I get home. Not ideal. But I can use that knowledge to take advantage of that time on my free days, and I can strategically time my breaks to do some writing. Or just write while pretending to work. Not that I would ever confess to doing that.

Taking the time to figure out when your brain is most willing to work with you is also very helpful. My brain will not work for writing after 8pm. It can, however, still do the dishes. Forcing myself to put off chores so that I can write is super hard thanks to my ADHD (which hates chores until I need to do something else), but I can combat that by making goal lists, scheduling my writing time (with set alarms on my phone!) helps me manage that.

Change location.

I can't get a lot of work done at home. I've tried. I've moved my desk around, I've locked down my internet browsers when writing, I have ignored the way my cat stares holes into my back to try to write. My brain, though, knows that the bed is right over there, we've got that pile of books to read, and oh hey, Tasting History has a new video. Also my cat wants to steal my computer chair and then get constant pets while in said chair because she is a princess baby. It's a losing battle.

What does work for me? Dragging my work to the library. Finding a cafe with enough space and quiet music to get some stuff done. Breaking out a foldable desk on the porch so that there is a closeable barrier between me and my distractions (the cats hate this option).

Changing location is something that works for me. If you have limited options, build barriers between yourself and distractions. Pile stuff on the bed so that it's not easy to give in and lie down for "just a minute." Close doors. Bribe your cats (or your kids). Use a standing desk - shifting your position can help lock down some of the ansty need to be doing something (my chair-stealing cat is more than happy to help with this).

I know of one writer who only gets work done by locking herself in her bathroom, because it's just enough change of scene to get her thoughts to settle. I know another writer who can only get editing done sitting in his parked car. However wacky, trying different scenarios to get something to work can really help.

Find the right tools.

The only way I can draft is by hand. It sucks and I have carpal tunnel, but my brain cannot type words into a blank screen. I need a pile of messy papers that no one else can read to work from.

I'm also very particular about what I write with. I use Uni Power Tank pens from Japan (because they're the only damn pen I've found that doesn't smear my left-handed writing), and I cycle through different types of paper I exclusively work with. Right now it's Five Star Reinforced Filler Paper with the triangle holes, not the round ones.

I don't know why this works, it just does. I've changed up what I've used over time, but as long as I'm consistent and not trying to write a chapter using differently-sized paper (insert scream here), I can get it done. Test out different tools and find what fits for you.

Organization isn't helping? Embrace chaos.

Jeff VanderMeer wrote an entire series on post-it notes, napkins, and on the backs of old bills. I wouldn't recommend that, but if a little chaos gets the job done, then do it. Spread a story across several half-filled notebooks. Map dialogue using only flashcards. Instead of waiting to sit down to get work done, scribble away while on a bus or on the move (safely, of course). Use a speech-to-text app to talk out your writing. Sometimes the more tactile you can make writing, the more you can break up those barriers keeping you from writing.

Try out different things! You'll eventually find what works for you

[fligniuz]

oh baby

luigi mangione x reader

｡𖦹°‧ your cute tutor cheers you up after a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.

word count: 5.2k • part of my study buddies series (read here!) • nsfw • read on ao3

tag list : @mangionebabymama , @mangobabygirl , @jenisaswift13 , @mangionesdaisy , @iinfinitelimits , @daydreamingwithluigi , @nephris , @mashkatzi , @straw8berry

warnings : f! reader; EXPLICIT; hurt/comfort; oral (f! receiving); L-bombs; very fluffy :-)

notes : title frommmmmm:

It’s already been a long, long day, and it’s barely even started.

Your breakfast this morning was practically nonexistent—just an apple and a water bottle from the communal kitchen, grabbed in a hurry on your way out the door. No time for something more substantial. You woke up late. Again.

You seem to do that a lot.

In your defense, it’s hard to get up on time when you spend most of your waking hours thinking, pacing, waiting, forgetting. Rinse and repeat. You are not often at peace, and even the natural rise and fall of the sun each day fails to end your cycle of self-appointed misery. Your mind is an endless doomscroll; one long, rambling, borderline nonsensical mash of worry, regret, and the occasional funnies, complete with absolutely no paragraph breaks or accurate reflections of reality to spare. Relentless. Hateful. This is what getting unlucky in the brain department earns you: a lifetime of fret and insecurity, only slightly helped by daily pills that you work what feels like endless hours to be able to afford.

So, you don’t sleep well, nor do you wake well.

And about that work thing…you struggle to do that well, too. But can you really be blamed when a degree and a hopefully better job are also part of the equation? Can you really be blamed if you spent the past two weeks on a paper your professor will look over maybe a few times and never think about again, all for an imaginary number of credits to be added to a total of more imaginary numbers that will ultimately grant you a piece of sturdy paper with your name and a fancy new qualification? At times the days you spend working towards goals on a checklist just feel pointless, because some sixty or so years from now—and let’s be honest, the outlook re: The Climate Thing is much too grim to allow you even the promise of an average lifespan—you’ll be six feet underground, or one with the elements, or fucking compost (thanks technology!), depending on whatever the hell you’re going to write in your will.

Nothing matters, and yet everything does. And everything is connected; you’ve got bills to pay, because you’ve got student loans to pay, because you’ve got to get a nice degree and a steady job to make it in this greedy, fetid, embarrassing nightmare you call a homeland. And even then, even later in your life when you’ll be older and wiser and stronger than now, with a complete education and a likely less than perfect career, there will still be bills to pay. Probably student loans, too. This fucking country.

In your defense—you’re feeling real defensive today, aren’t you?—life is just too fucking much. Right now, yesterday, tomorrow, and the day after. You’re tired, and hungry, and sad, but late stage capitalism doesn’t care about your feelings, and so you stroll into work just barely in time for your shift. Your boring, boring shift, at your boring job, so you can make some boring money. Only to go home to a boring apartment that always feels empty, even with friends inside. When you carry loneliness with you it never ever wants to leave.

You need a cuddle. Or a fuck. Or both. And you know just the guy to call—if his roommates won’t be around, that is. It’s likely that they won’t. Frat boys are always busy doing frat boy things.

Not your tutor, though. Luigi is never too busy for you.

The moment the clock strikes 6:00 you’re filing out of the building like there’s a fire drill.

And fuck. It’s fucking raining. Guess who didn’t bring an umbrella?

This day just keeps getting worse.

You decide against surprising Luigi and find his number in your recents, and he picks up halfway through the second ring.

“Hello, Padawan.”

You roll your eyes. “Ugh. Don’t start with that. Are you home? What are you doing?”

“Well, the answer to your first question is yeah, and as for the second question…guess!”

Fucking Luigi. “I’m not doing that. If you’re not busy I’m coming over. Okay?”

“Okay,” he says without a hint of hesitation. “Are you bringing that attitude with you? Actually, never mind, I like you grumpy. But don’t expect to get any real learning done, because it’s hard to focus on being angry and doing math at the—”

You hang up on him before he can finish that thought and throw your hood over your head, making your way to the bus station.

The ride takes a little longer than you’d hoped with the after work traffic, but you pass the time with your headphones and the raindrops on your window, watching them trickle down, down, down. You start betting on which droplet will beat the other to the windowsill just a few minutes before you’re back on campus, dredging through the weather and finding yourself in front of his dorm. It’s only then that you can feel the adrenaline and stress and exhaustion all pumping through you at once.

Luigi greets you with the cutest curls and a warm smile.

“Hiya, mopey. Forget an umbrella?”

When you kiss him he seems to jump inside his skin before he melts into you, hands capturing your face to hold your mouth steady and at pace with his. He hadn’t expected you to be jumping his bones after showing up so suddenly, but when he feels you start to cry he’s second-guessing your visit altogether, eyebrows raising in alarm.

“Baby, what’s wrong?” he asks, cautious, tentative. You bury your face into his chest and sniffle.

You whimper, “I had a really bad day.”

Oh. His heart surges at that, sparking something protective, almost fraternal, and right then he wants to hold you tight and never let go. He wants to bundle you up in his warmest blanket and bring you sweets, kiss your little face and rub your back and tell you that he’s here, right here, waiting for you whenever you need him.

“My sweet girl,” he coos, petting your hair. “Is that why you came to see me?”

Nodding, you wrap your arms tight around him, feeling the weight of all your worry already starting to meld into the void of space around your entwined bodies. It’s a little embarrassing to admit that he’s this much of a comfort to you, but Luigi doesn’t laugh or scorn you; he welcomes you into his embrace like he’s been waiting all day for you.

“Well, would you like to hear some good news?” he asks, looking down at you. You raise an eyebrow, utter a little mm?

Luigi smiles, soft but tainted with something impure. He tilts your chin up with one finger, announcing, “I can think of quite a few ways to cheer you up.”

Of course he can. Why else would you be here?

“I’d like that,” you say, kissing him again. Need bubbles up in your psyche, fizzing, waves crashing over rocks on the coast. You think you’d much sooner swallow barbed wire than be forced to forget the feeling of his hands on you, holding you close, searching the most private corners of you.

“Yeah, baby? You want me to take care of you?”

Fuck. You’ve never gone from defeated to horny so quickly but it’s a new experience you’ll gladly be marking under the Hottest Things Ever Done to Me tab in your brain. Luigi knows you so well, knows just what you need to hear after such a nerve-wracking past few weeks. Knows just how to let his lips linger on yours to make you chase him. Through the haze of such sudden arousal you aren’t entirely sure you’re moving much at all, but you sense your adamant nodding and his responsive giggle distantly.

He’s picking you up, then, carrying you to his bedroom while you mouth at his wide neck, making sure to leave marks he’ll have to cover later. Before you know it you’re laid down beneath him, his hips fitted between your thighs and your hands tangled in his hair. When his growing erection presses against your clothed sex your clit throbs and you mewl into his mouth. The friction his body creates with yours is fucking delicious.

“Shh, ‘s okay, sugar,” Luigi murmurs, propped up on his elbow so that he’s hovering right over you. “You worked so hard today. It was shitty and you hated it but you worked so hard and now I’m going to make it allll better, yeah? Gonna take good care of you, baby.”

All you can manage is please, please, please, fingernails piercing his bicep.

You still have your jacket on, and so he helps work the zipper down and slides it off your shoulders. For a while he just kisses you, hands roaming: drawing shapes with his long fingers on your back, your flanks, the inner thigh, the curve of your breast through your shirt. You sigh and run your fingers through his curls, basking in the warmth of his affection. It’s a relief that only his presence can provide you, a unique kind of respite—Luigi always takes his time with you when he can, both when he helps you with your homework and when he’s alone with you, teaching you the ins and outs of this intimate, loving, endlessly fulfilling side of him. And to know that only you get to learn about him this intensely, this hands-on; to know that only you get to feel his touch and hear the noises he makes when you tug on his curls; to know that you are his only student that he’s ever connected with like this drives you mad, makes you feel accomplished. It’s a proud and well-earned victory. Your own little slice of heaven. For your eyes only.

Kissing him is nice, grounding, even, but it’s not enough to settle the pressure building up in your stomach and so you buck your hips and moan into his mouth, needy and high-pitched. Luigi brings his hands to the front of your jeans, popping open a button, then your fly, and then tugging them down your hips. He dips into your panties, grazes your throbbing clit, and feels through your folds, collecting your arousal on his fingers.

“You’re so wet I can already taste it,” he groans against your mouth.

The thought of him tasting is more than enough to have you writhing beneath him. You try to push up into his hand, craving more of his touch, more of his fingers on you, inside of you, but he pulls his hand away just as quickly as it found you. “Not yet,” he whispers to you. “Not yet, bella.”

Bella. Pretty. You feel like your brain is melting, like it’s seeping directly out of your cunt.

Patience is perhaps most virtuous to your tutor. He has emphasized as much to you many, many times, often to your frustration. But his assurances have always been based in the pure goodness of his heart; quality time is most valuable to him, especially when he’s with you. You seldom appreciate his stalling—but you lack his innate enjoyment of building you up, feeling you quiver with arousal, exploring every crevice and nook of you and avoiding your neediest spots until he, too, has to consider his own appeasement. It’s simple: Luigi knows that anticipation is crucial to satisfaction. A dog is only allowed his meal with his owner’s approval. A man, no matter how famished, must exercise the art of waiting with respect, make peace with its inevitability. Much like most humans, you are a slave to your own desires; but he is teaching you, slowly, to make do with not enough, to take what he gives you, each tease of his tongue or teeth against skin. He has always been a minimalist. It pays off exceptionally in all other areas of his life, but it seems to have shaped an ignorance inside him towards your philosophy that time is of the essence.

“Luigi,” you mewl, grabbing his hair roughly. He has to pretend to not love it, you can tell.

“What is it you need, sweet girl?” Luigi asks. “Use your words.”

“I want—” you start, but you trail off, losing your confidence when you catch his stare. He has tried continually to teach you how to find your own voice, how to ask for what you want, if not just because he believes it to be a valuable skill then for the simple fact that he loves when you’re direct with him, when you tell him exactly how you want him to touch you. He must have no idea how difficult it is to be so frank when your tutor is this ravishing.

“I can’t help you if you don’t tell me, baby.”

Fuck. He has to know what he’s doing to you.

You breathe in. “I want your mouth on me,” you whisper, adding, “and your fingers inside.”

Luigi fucking grins, all teeth and glowing pride. “Good girl. Wasn’t that easy?”

Rolling your eyes would be your go-to response here, but he hooks his fingers under the waistband of your panties and all you can do is moan in relief as he starts to peel them off of you. With your leg over his shoulder, he leans forward to snatch one of the pillows behind your head, towering over you—and then he lifts your hips and wedges it under your ass, so that he has you at an angle he can experiment with (and, presumably, so that he doesn’t strain his neck too much. Nifty.) He kisses your ankle, then down to your knee, and then he’s shifting so that he’s laying on his stomach with his head between your thighs, just what you’ve been remissly lacking for the past week or so of nonstop responsibility. Just what you needed. He would never lie to you.

And then his fingers brush against your cunt. Two digits explore ridges and slick lips and spread you apart, trying not to pay too much attention to your clit—he hasn’t even started yet, after all. You think he almost looks like he’s working on one of his robots, playing with your most sensitive parts, assessing the situation and planning solutions in his head. Always methodical. He’s so close to you and you’re so turned on and you start to feel a little insecure with him so focused on you, but then he breathes, “you smell fucking perfect,” and suddenly your mind is spinning too fast to even think of things to worry about.

His kisses move to your thighs, then, and his hands settle on your hips, squeezing, reassuring. Lips and tongue embrace plush skin, leaving blooming bursts of purple and red underneath, marks that you will undoubtedly be tracing with your fingers in more private times, by yourself, when you can’t help but think of his flawless mouth all over again. He comes so close to where you want him, just centimeters away, and then is right back to where he started, kissing your inner thigh. You thread your fingers in his hair, nails scratching his scalp. He sinks his teeth into a particularly sensitive patch of flesh and you keen.

“You needed this bad, didn’t you, baby?” Luigi coos, circling his thumb over your hip.

You’re sobbing. “Yes, fuck, please, I need it, please!”

He bites again, this time your other thigh, a subtle but motivating commendation for using your words. “Shh. I’ve got you, bella.”

With his two fingers spreading you he leans forward, fixing his eyes on yours, and then flattens his tongue and licks you firmly from your hole all the way up to your clit. It’s warm and wet and the most perfect thing after god knows how long of neglecting your poor pussy. The tip of his tongue tweaks you, working back and forth over your clit before he moves further down, plunging into your entrance just barely.

“Gi,” you gasp. Your hand is still in his hair, grasping tight.

Luigi eats pussy like it’s his favorite thing in the world. And with you, it probably is; his enthusiasm certainly says as much, his lips leaving not an inch of you untouched. He licks you all over, up and down your slit, your labia, that little portion of sensitive skin between your cunt and your asshole—but he keeps his attention to your clit mild for now, soft, just kitten licks and occasional brushes of his stubble. With the angle you’re in right now, his tongue probing you and lavishing the grooves of you with attention, his nose grazes your clit every so often and it feels perfect and you need more of it soon. The hand in his hair holds his head steady so that you can grind your hips over his mouth, and when you move like this his nose strokes your clit just right, so you do it again and again and again.

“Good girl,” he pulls away to praise (and breathe), his big hands gripping your hips. “Take what you need, baby.”

He lets you just use his face like this for quite a few minutes, sticking out his tongue, groaning as he drinks in you. And when Luigi thinks you’ve had enough of a fill he holds your hips still with both hands and then begins to lick at you again, this time drawing nearer to where you want him the most. With saliva he wets his tongue and presses the middle of it against your clit, using firm pressure to stimulate you, and then with his hands still keeping you steady he starts to shake his head, side to side motions on your clit, practically motorboating your cunt. It drives you fucking wild. The vibrations that ring through you each time he moans into your heat send white-hot pleasure through your nerves, a feeling deep in your core that only Luigi has ever been able to stir up in you.

“Fuck,” you hiss, back arching and toes curling. “Oh my god, that’s so good, fuck, that’s so good—”

You reward him with your words and your fingers raking against his scalp and he takes it selfishly, rejoicing in how good he knows he can make you feel. He keeps up his movements, tongue still working over your clit; when he sneaks a look at you above him he sees you sliding your hand underneath your tank-top, grasping one of your breasts under your bra and pinching your nipple, and right then he swears he could eat you alive. He wants to taste every single surface of you that his mouth can reach, memorize all the little things that make you tick, make you tug his hair or cry out for him in that breathy, raring voice that he loves so much. The sound of his name in your mouth is almost enough to have him finishing right here, in his khakis, with his head between your thighs while he laps away at your sweet cunt.

With you all worked up and bothered under his touch Luigi decides you’re more than ready to come all over his tongue. He tries one of his best moves—with his jaw stretched he seals his mouth over your pussy, like he’s kissing you, and when his lips reach your clit he sucks, quickly, relishing in your squeal. You’re plenty wet enough for his fingers, too, so he teases the opening of your cunt with his thumb, pressing inside, just to feel how you stretch around it; at your whine he guides one finger into your hole, then another, working them deep inside of you. They’re long and much quicker and more filling than yours have ever been and you almost wish that the world around you was meaningless, that only you and him could matter—that you and him could simply forget about your jobs and schoolwork and all the heavy demands of life and spend your time just like this, with him bobbing his head up and down just slightly as he sucks on your clit and opens you up with his fingers.

“Gi, I can’t, s’ good, I need to come,” you plead, biting down on your bottom lip. “I can’t hold it.”

Over the sound of your heart beating hard in your ears you almost miss his quick, reassuring response:

“You don’t have to, sugar. I want you to come for me.”

So you do, legs trembling, hips stuttering against his face. Luigi helps you ride it out, still licking you gently by the time you’re beckoning him up to you for some kisses. But he just smirks, stroking soothing circles into your hip, whispering heavy praise to you: “My good girl,” and “There she is,” and “You look so gorgeous when you come.” At your whines he presses open-mouthed kisses to your thighs, sucks with his lips until you’re splotched with fresh, vibrant red between your legs. Marks for his eyes only. Just the thought of it makes his cock jump in his shorts.

For a moment you lay back and watch the ceiling, enjoying the feeling of his tongue and lips claiming purchase wherever he sees fit. And you stir from your post-coital bliss at the sound of his voice again:

“Babygirl,” he starts, licking the crease between your pelvis and your thigh. “Maybe you weren’t planning on it, but you’ve convinced me that I want to taste you again. If you’ll let me. Is that okay with you?”

You laugh, exasperated. “Isn’t your mouth tired?”

Luigi shakes his head with a cheeky grin. “Never,” he breathes, lips hovering over your fluttering center. “I could do this all day, bella.”

He presses a careful kiss to your cunt as if to prove his dedication to your pleasure, giggling when you jolt, and right then you decide that you would give him the entire solar system in your hands if physics allowed for such a thing.

He means it. You’ve never been more sure.

Smiling, you murmur, “go get ‘em, buster.”

You’re still sensitive from your orgasm, so Luigi is especially cautious at first, starting again with the tip of his tongue sweeping back and forth over your clit. He starts to discover something new about you; now that he’s already made you come once, you shiver and twitch at even the slightest touches, and the fucking sounds you make are quite possibly the closest thing to paradise he has ever encountered, even after countless adventures across countless days in countless destinations. It’s almost an impossible accomplishment, he thinks—he could have never imagined that he’d find even more unexplored range in the treasure of your body.

“Oh, god, Luigi, baby, fuck…”

And you discover something new about him, too: Luigi likes it when you call him baby. He groans as you smooth your fingers through his curls and comes closer, spreading your thighs apart, licking around your entrance and then settling one hand over your pelvis, using slight pressure with his palm to pull back the hood of your clit. With you spread out for him he tilts his head to the side, so that he’s almost resting against your thigh, and then he takes as much of your clit in his mouth as he can and sucks hard, hard enough to have you clawing at his hair and trying to squeeze your thighs around him. He would gladly let you crush him—but right now he has a mission, and it’s difficult to make you come with your legs closed, so he mutters, “stay fucking still,” and dives into your cunt with an intensity that only your vibrator could possibly match. This time, with his lips sucking you tightly, he tweaks you with his tongue, stroking the shaft of your clit, and it’s too fucking much—

“Gonna come, gonna come, oh my god,” you cry. Luigi hums into you, a drawn out mhmmm rumbling through your clit, and it’s over for you, then. Your second orgasm rushes up on you quickly but he’s there to coax you through it, holding your hips steady, lips and tongue working you with unbearably arousing effort. As you breathe through the chaos of pleasure and find your senses coming back to you Luigi kisses up your body, his talented mouth embracing your tummy, your sternum, your neck, and then your mouth, softly and sweetly. He tastes entirely like you.

He must realize then that you’re still partially clothed because he practically jumps at the opportunity to fix it, helping you out of your tank-top and unclasping your bra. With your chest bare to him fully he spends some time kissing you here, too, and you lay back and let him shower you in his care, back arching off the bed each time he nears dangerously close to a nipple.

You exhale emphatically and sink back into the pillows, murmuring, “d’you wanna fuck me?”

“Shit,” Luigi groans, rolling his hips into your bare, wet cunt. “Would you let me, gorgeous? Is that okay?”

Your hand is on his cock, palming him through his khaki shorts, and you feel a fresh surge of excitement rushing through you as his jaw goes slack. You would never leave him hanging. And he knows, knows by the way you whisper, “it’d make me real happy,” nodding and biting your lip and wiggling your hips like a greedy little thing, like you didn’t just come twice from his mouth and his fingers alone. He doesn’t even bother to pull his pants off, just shuffles them down his hips along with his boxers and leaves only enough room for his dick to have full access to you.

That’s when you realize just how hard he is.

It almost looks painful, the way his cock is straining, veiny and leaking an obscene amount of pre. He’s monstrously hard for you, all from a few rounds of his tongue on your pussy, and the thought of what it must do to him to please you makes your head spin, makes you question life itself for bringing such a perfect boy into existence and allowing you to drive him mad with your body and the taste of your arousal.

Luigi hisses as he strokes himself with one hand, reaching over you towards his nightstand to grab a condom. You hardly give him enough time to roll it on before you’re wrapping your legs around his firm hips.

Dragging the tip of his cock through your slick, he proclaims, “I love taking care of you, baby.”

Good god. You love it too. You tell him so, through your words and through your wet pussy grinding against him, and when you kiss him hard and bite his lip he pushes into you, slow, unprecedented in how he fills you.

“Oh, fuck. Yeah, does that feel good, sweet girl?” He’s balls deep in a matter of seconds, trying hard to be merciful, but you’re so wet and you’re squeezing him like crazy, like you never want him to leave your body. All you can do is nod and cry out as he starts to fuck you, deep and long strokes that send his cock so far you start to worry that he’s gonna break you, and that turns you on so much that you wonder how his sheets aren’t soaked with the evidence of your activities. He’s holding you down to the bed with one hand splayed over your ribs and the sound of your cunt taking him echoes throughout his room.

You’ve never been more glad to have had a shitty day, you realize.

His eyes are on you. You feel like you’re burning alive, like the whole dorm is on fire and he’s trapping you under the smoke and the flames, and you’re trying to roll on the ground but he’s holding you so tight and you’re not going anywhere.

“Gi, oh my god,” you sob.

“Yeah?” The headboard is getting noisy from all his effort. Not that it isn’t already quite loud in Luigi’s bedroom. “You deserve this, bella, you deserve to come. This is all yours.”

He’s perfect.

“Who’s dick is this, baby?”

“Oh, fuck, it’s—it’s mine—”

His thumb finds your clit, pressing down lightly, working slow circles into you. “That’s right, sugar. That’s my good girl.”

You feel a bit delirious, feverish, still sensitive from coming back-to-back, and Luigi tries with everything in him to be gentle but, alas, the hot grip of your pussy and the little sounds of struggle and pure ecstasy that you make when he pounds you are just too much for any strong-willed man to bear. Your clit is throbbing, all swollen and puffy from his ministrations, but you can’t get enough of the sensations that rock your nervous system each time he puts even the slightest pressure on you.

“Fuck,” he growls, teeth teasing your neck. “You’re being so good for me, letting me fuck you like this after taking so much.”

And he’s right, because it is quite a feat—it’s Luigi Fucking Mangione. But you love how he pushes you to your limits, how he tests you, sees how far he can go. How much you’re willing to take. He’s found that you’re certainly something to write home about.

You’re his good girl. You’d take anything he gives you, as long as it’s his.

“Luigi, I think…oh, god…”

“Shh, I know, baby,” he nods, reassuring, still fucking you deep and continuing his assault on your clit. “I’ve got you, I’ve got you now. You had such a bad day and you worried and stressed but you’ve got this dick now and that’s all that matters, babygirl. This dick is yours. It’s all yours.”

Just a little more—

“You feel so fucking good, bella.”

And that’s the last time you come, tears brimming in your eyes as you hold him tight and swear so loud you worry that your dead and gone ancestors can hear you from whatever void they occupy now. Luigi follows shortly after, his mouth on yours, his hands stroking your waist soothingly.

For a while the two of you lay there, entwined in his bed, him softening inside you and pressing saccharine kisses to your face. You could probably fall asleep just like this if it weren’t for the sweat sticking to you both, but after a few minutes Luigi pulls out of you, tidies up, and then kisses you, this time much less heated but all the more passionate. Loving. Maybe a bit domestic.

“Are you hurting anywhere?” he asks. You shake your head.

He collects your clothes from the floor and then scoops you up into his arms, setting you upright. “Good. Because I haven’t exhausted all my ideas yet.”

You make an inquisitive chirp, a little mmm?

“Oh, yes,” Luigi smiles wide, kneeling in front of you with his hands cupping your face adoringly. “I’m going to start the shower for you, and you’re going to clean up and get comfy, because I’m going to have something to eat for you once you’re done and you’re going to have some food and crawl back in my bed and fall asleep in my arms. How’s that sound?”

Oh, man.

You beam. “I like your plans.”

^ dividers by cafekitsune

[lazarusrisingx]

hm something about frenzy enhanced praedetor zayne

who insists he hasnt lost control of himself while hes pounding you.

your face down ass up on the wardens desk, tears streaming down your face as the wardens hands grip your hips and he groans and gasps behind you, struggling with himself.

you can feel it in the way he thrusts. Zayne wants to be gentle. he really truly does. the poor man doesnt want to lose thag facade of control hes tried so hard to keep you from seeing theough.

one second hes gentle, chest pressed to you back, slowly and deliciously dragging his dick in and out of you.

just for it to be gone in an knsyant, and zayne is back to pounding your poor hole with reckless abandon.

“ha-ah-ah m-my apologies y-y/n, im-ngh-trying but… gods you feel so good so perfect and tig-ht.”

zayne is all growls and breathy pants. struggling to stop himself from absolutely wrecking you. but its no use. your mouth is wide open, drool sliding down your chin, hair a mess, hands gripping the edge of his desk for dear life. your like a toy in this odd tug-of-war. the losing side belongs to the gentle calm man you know, the other side is feral and animalistic zayne.

his fingertips squeezeing intk your hips as his thrusts get harder and deeper. and then the nastiest words fall from his mouth. voice raw and a quiet rumble.

“your so pretty like-like this. so tight and ngh~ needy for me. serves you-you right for teasing me all day. mngh~ swaying these”- he punctuates himself with a smack on your ass- “these beautiful hips all day. teasing, making fun of me.”

zayne is can handle a lot, but not rhe way you tease him. and its true youve been a brat all day not knowing it would push your boyfriend to a frenzy.

zayne panted squeezing the now sore spot on your ass and slowing down on his thrusts. he geabbed your hair and forced your head up, kissing your cheek as he continued deep and slow strokes.

“i can easily remedy this behavior dont you think?” he said softly into your ear, his breaths came in short gasps as he continued to slow down, pressing his forehead to your shoulder.

“bratty girl… so good for me.” zayne mumbled softly. it reminds you kf when hes drunk. the way his pace changes and he tries to slow down and be gentle.

of course this was your own doing. you know how much zayne hates getting teased, and you know teasing him in front of people is a terrible idea. thats how you got to this point anyways.

zayne releases his grip on your hair, letting your head rest on the now soiled paper work you were bent over on. he went bsck to his rough thrusting, muttering obscenity’s you thought only happened in those porn videos you watch.

“fuck~ dirty bratty girl… ngh~ such a slut t-teasing me hm? this-this was your end goal yes? bent over , fuuck~, bent over my desk just like this? cant stop cumming.”

he really couldnt. the man had stamina like you had never seen. the sound of his cum getting fucked into was loud and lewd, your pussy made a mess of your own juices mixed with his seed. it was obscene really.

uour shoulders tensed and you felt your walls twitch around zayne. you groaned and heard a soft laugh come from zayne.

“again? cumming again? feels to good hm? cum for me beutiful, one more time.”

it was not in fact one more time. actually zayne went for hours, losing himself in the tight warm walls you have. he doesnt think he can get enough, and as soon as he musters enough self control to pull out of you, hes slamming back in again as praedetor brain takes over.

[novlr]

I have a bad habit of never finishing writing I start - I work hard on a story, make it to 3/4 of the way through, then lose passion for it and start something else. I know the key to overcoming this is discipline, and I’m trying very hard to make myself keep going with my current story that I like very much and spent so much time researching and outlining, but it’s a struggle every day to make my writing goal. Any advice for how to re-ignite writing spark or how to push through to the end?

We can lose our drive to write for a lot of reasons. It often indicates a growing maturity as an artist — you understand the craft better and your own (current) limitations better, and so you begin to feel overwhelmed in a way you didn’t before. It can also be that external anxieties are getting in the way or simply that you’ve lost interest in your current project. 

Hope is not lost. Read on for some tips on reclaiming your writing spark. 

Shift gears

Sometimes, all you need to reignite your writing spark is to engage your brain in a different way. If you’re struggling with your novel, take a break and try writing a poem or a piece of flash fiction. Or, you could try drawing sketches of your characters, a map of your story’s world, or some possible outfits for your climactic battle scene (it doesn’t have to be good. No one’s going to see it). 

The trick is to stay creative but to approach your work from a different angle. 

Change location

If you’ve been trying and failing to write at your desk, surrounded by crumpled up dreams drafts and last week’s candy wrappers, you may be suffering from an environment with stagnant energy. Try taking yourself on a writer’s date: go to a location that fits the tone of the project you’re working on (lux hotel lobby, seedy theatre bar, the wilds of a nearby park), and see if that gets your creative wheels turning. 

Dress [in]appropriately 

In Writing Down the Bones, Natalie Goldberg has a chapter called “Blue Lipstick and a Cigarette Hanging Out Your Mouth”. By this she meant, “Use outfits and props to step outside yourself and get a new perspective”. You might find it helpful to have a special “writer’s sweater” that you only wear when you’re writing or to dress like someone confident and cool enough to smash writer’s block in the face. 

Do some soul-searching

What’s really going on here? If the above tricks aren’t doing it for you, there may be some bigger issues at play that are inhibiting you from connecting to your writing spark. 

Write letters

I’ve written about the restorative powers of letter writing before, and I’ll mention it again: handwritten letters are a great way to get the words flowing. You don’t actually have to send them when you’re done (although you can if you want to); the recipient doesn’t even need to exist. Simply by putting your thoughts down in a low-risk way, you’re unclogging your creative pipes. 

Join a writing group

There’s power and accountability in numbers. You can find writing groups online, through community centres and writers centres, or by sticking a flyer up in a bookshop and starting your own. There’s even a Novlr writing community on Discord where we share tips, struggles, and just generally talk craft! By inviting other people into your writing practice, you’ll have some support and encouragement to keep you going. 

Find your writing spark with writing prompts

The internet is awash with writing prompts. These can be a helpful way to get something down on paper and stretch out your writing muscles. Whether it’s a premise, an opening line, or a character study, writing prompts can give you a gentle, creative push and even inspire new work.

Experiment with found structure

If writing a traditional story feels like pulling out your own teeth, try a found structure story. This means using fictional “found material” like shopping lists, calendars, to-do lists, ticket stubs, banking records, and so forth to create a narrative. 

Here’s an example: Imagine a week in which a bride-to-be prepares for her glorious wedding, is left at the altar, rages in misery, and ultimately emerges healthier and stronger. Now, write her shopping list for each day of that week. How does it change from beginning to end? How much emotional detail can you communicate to the reader through the items that appear on these lists? This can be a fun way to create a story without the anxiety of writing it.

Set a petty life goal

I am a proud champion of the value of pettiness as a motivator. There are plenty of noble reasons to write: to share powerful stories, to help readers in need of healing, to inspire others to write stories themselves, and to draw attention to important social issues or minority identities. 

There are also some really inane and selfish reasons to write: to become more famous than your ex, to appear on TV and make your ex regret everything they’ve ever done to you, to have your book made into a movie and receive casting consultation rights and pitch your favourite actor in the lead role and allow them to take you for coffee as a thank you. But the thing is… these are the motivations that are really going to pull you out of the dirt when you need it most. Find the silly driving goal that really gets under your skin and hold onto it for dear life. 

Forgive yourself

Many writers experience a lot of shame when they aren’t writing as much as they feel they should. Needless to say, this shame only makes the writing harder. Allow yourself the space to take some time when you need it, process your struggles, and return when you’re ready. The page will be waiting when you get back. 

[baby-tini]

actually gnawing at the bars of my enclosure thinking about mikey w tats like an arm sleeve and shit. any timeline, any version, like i fear i would be like a cat in heat seeing that shit

NO STOP!!!! THIS ACTUALLY OMFG!!!!

See the thing with thirsts like this, is that it makes my brain just slip out of my ears and I can't think because the thought of any version of Mikey with a sleeve has my eyes rolling back. Specifically Yakuza!Mikey and Manila!Mikey, because please picture Manila!Mikey in a black tank top, his arms flexed and covered in tattoos as he holds your legs behind your head and fucks into your pussy until your lungs are struggling to take in air and your brain is just pure mush. The slick sounds of his skin slapping against yours as your slick drips down his balls and soaks the sheets. Manila!Mikey leaning down to occasionally whisper condescending things in your ears. That mocking tone of his as he fakes surprise that you're having such a hard time taking his cock because you've "taken it before so you can take it again for him." Or, we can go back to Yakuza!Mikey because he just loves rolling up his sleeves to his elbows, the pretty art on his arms peaking through and gliding up from his hand to his neck. The same hand that he places on the back of your neck so he can hold you down as he has you bent over his desk, other hand covering your mouth as you scream and whimper for him, his hips slapping against your ass as he buries his face in your hair so that all he can feel, hear, taste, touch, and see is you. The smell of sex suffocating in his office as he makes you cum on the expensive oak, all over the papers he was filling out, the papers starting to break apart from the amount of wetness you've spilled on them. The hand covering your mouth slipping your mouth so that you can suck on his tattooed fingers, sloppily sucking on the same hands that have touched you everywhere, that smell like nothing but you. We could also throw Toman!Mikey in here, because his arms and chest are just covered in tats, mostly pieces about you and your favorite things, he payed a lot of money for a portrait of you on his chest, since he's gotten it, he walks around the house shirtless a lot more, which you're not complaining about. He's a big fan of dragging his hand through your hair while you sit on his lap, his tattooed fingers gliding over your skin as he places the occasional kiss on your head. He lets you color in his tattoos as well, the words that are partially done or don't have color, he'll just let you draw on him and busy yourself until he gets done with work. Bonten!Mikey has the Bonten tattoo already and I don't really picture him getting more, I do however picture Kanto!Mikey having a few tats on his biceps and forearms. Big fan of letting you look at them as he holds you in a headlock while he fucks you from behind. The inked skin of his bicep grazing your chin as he keeps you close, nails biting into your shoulder as he growls in your ear and makes you take his cock in your cunt, occasionally humming when you cum over and over again for him and plead with him for a break. I don't really see Racer!Mikey having a lot of tattoos. The most he'll do is getting tattoos with his friends and dedications to you. Getting something to match with you.

[juniperdugong]

Forgot Your Lunch - Scoups

WC: 1023 || Genre: Fluff :) ...Angst :( || Happy (late) Birthday to this very handsome man!! ❤

A/N: If this does well maybe a pt.2 with what happened? (I totally don't have a whole story in my head about this fic alr...and this totally wasn't meant to be a teaser but got out of hand)

Some songs that inspired this fic!

Those morning hours, right before the sun shines in all its splendor, when most people are still resting their tired brains, and when quietness feels like a warm welcome to the day.

These were Seungcheol's favorite hours. The slivers of warm orange sunlight peaking through the curtains illuminating the space, giving the house a different type of glow. He relished in the fact that no one, not even you, was awake during this time. It gave him all the pleasure of gazing at your sleeping figure and giving you a few feather-light kisses before he actually got started with his day.

Seungcheol had gotten really into cooking when you two got together. Watched the tutorials, wrote down the recipes, and did a lot of the grocery shopping when he had the time - he even asked for help from Mingyu when he was really struggling. All of this effort put in for one simple goal - to be able to make your lunches for work.

He took great pride in making sure your lunch was not only healthy and balanced but nice on the eyes as well! Presentation was half the battle of cooking in his (humble) opinion.

Today wasn't any different, after haphazardly washing up he waltzed into the kitchen and chose a fitting playlist for such a joyful morning. He knows what to make, one of your favorites, a very simple and delicious spread of kaarage, a rolled omelet, rice, and a mix of fruits and vegetables cut up in the cutest little shapes! (Never forgetting the homemade spicy mayo, of course.) It's a specialty of his - and more than that - it was the first lunch he made you that you had raved about to your coworkers, only boosting his ego evermore.

Humming along to the music he went through the motions of washing and cooking the rice, setting out all the ingredients he'd need, and placing all the dishware on the counter in an assembly line. The few times that you'd woken up early enough to witness this practiced scene you'd have to admit that it was impressive the way he had gotten it all down to a T. Like a drill sergeant he would lead the charge in the kitchen, at least in the mornings, and if you ever dared to lift a finger…the earful you'd get before work- But what else can you expect from the most loving husband in the world AND the leader of one of the top kpop groups in history?

It's like everything, all the problems and worries, drifted away during this time. The sole issue in Seungcheol's entire world being what you would eat for the day. It was his way of showing you that he still cared and that he was still very committed. With a job that kept him away from you for such long periods of time and that took up all his energy and attention when he was home, it only felt right to do something as small as wake up before you and devote some time to you - even if you weren't always there to see it.

It would be a very hard task to try and tear away the smile that grew from him as he carefully assembled the different pieces of your food into a bento box. The only change in expression coming from the way his brows would furrow and his mouth would form a pout when he was ultra-focused with a knife or when he was gently making the finishing touches.

He took the chicken from the hot oil and placed them on a paper towel-lined plate - he knew how much you hated the excess oil when you ate. Turning off the stove in a swift movement he turned his attention to slicing the egg roll into perfectly proportioned pieces that you could eat in one bite. Then the fruits and vegetables - today's variety, some blueberries, leftover chocolate-covered strawberries, and a small salad with cherry tomatoes, all served with a small toothpick - he took note of that little comment you had made about how eating things with a toothpick makes the experience a bit more fun.

With a little jaunt in his step, he moved to put the puzzle together in an eye-pleasing manner. And once he was satisfied - he stepped back from his masterpiece. His gift to you. He looked at the clock-

8pm.

Oh.

It's night time.

That's right.

He stilled completely, coming back to reality. He left the kitchen with a ruffle to his hair. Dragging his feet into the bedroom he let his hands roam around the cold sheets, desperately searching for your warmth - your figure.

This was your bed too! The one you shared. C'mon, you remember, right? You're supposed to be here.

He looked out the window, no slivers of sunlight. Just the light pollution of a bustling city.

It's late and you're supposed to be home now, works done. It's supposed to be done.

He balled up all the sheets in his two fists and knelt on the bed. Gritting his teeth through tears that didn't dare hold back his emotions. And he punched that mattress so damn hard he could swear it felt like a human fighting back against him. The tangling of the sheets feels like Seungkwan and Dino holding him back from doing something else to hurt himself. He screamed so loud that his throat hurt, and he choked himself with the sound until red and veins popped. Drunk on something akin to anger but closer to loneliness he headed face-first into a pillow - but oh it was yours. The one you laid on just a few days ago. His tears and snot smeared across the blank canvas created a gross mirage but he didn't care. He let himself sit there, inhaling everything you left. Wailing into your remnants - curling up into your side of the bed, what would always be your side of the bed.

You forgot your lunch. It's here with him. "So come back, y/n. I'm really fucking sorry."

A/N: Hey guys...been a minute (a few days) And I come back with this- I do really like this though. Love me some happy memories and train wreck tbh. Let me know what you lovelies think! Have a great weekend or week, depending on when you see this. (protip DO NOT read this while listening to "The Place Where He Inserted the Blade" almost shat tears) Please Reblog and Comment if you enjoyed ! (They act as power-ups for me)

Taglist (OPEN): @bemybabiibish @bath1lda