#my thighs are huge and it was my downfall

[hafula]

knee brace came and it was uh 3 sizes too small

[moonstruckme]

not sure this really applies for the blueberry muffin prompt but...update on roomate!james and reader? 🥺 (AND CONGRATS ON 7k 🥳🥳)

It does haha! I knew blueberry muffin would be my downfall (but it's okay I signed up for it and ily regardless). Please accept this garbage fire of a drabble <3

cw: modern au, alcohol mention

roommate!James x shy!reader ♡ 683 words

You’re squished between Sirius and James, the two people here least likely to allow you space to breathe. James has got you half in his lap, his arm around your waist and one of your thighs over his, while Sirius’ shoulder pushes into yours, his legs cast over the arm of his couch so he can kick gently at Remus when the urge strikes him. 

“Her coworker hates me,” James says. 

“He does not.” You roll your eyes. This is a topic you’ve been over before. “Art likes you just fine.”

“Does too!” He pinches your waist. “It’s because he’s in love with you.” 

You fight the urge to hide your face in his side. “He is not.” 

James laughs. “He is, sweetheart. You just can’t see it.” 

“You would hardly know, would you?” Sirius agrees, but he agrees with James on everything. You’re fairly sure that if James said the moon was green, Sirius would swear the same until his dying breath. “You didn’t know our Jamesie liked you until he practically confessed.” 

“I still doubt it sometimes,” you mutter, earning you another teasing pinch from your boyfriend. 

“Hold on,” says Lily, “she’s the one who works with him.”

Remus nods. While Sirius always agrees with James, Remus always disagrees with the both of them. You suspect this is mostly because he enjoys getting them riled up. “Exactly. I think y/n has had plenty more time to figure out if he has feelings than you have, James.” 

“He used to walk her home after every shift,” James argues. 

“Because he’s nice,” you sigh. 

“Nice to you, you mean.”

“It’s very normal to walk girls home from late shifts.” 

Remus hums. “Have you considered, James, that maybe because you’ve never worked in the service industry, there are norms you don’t understand?” His tone is smug. Sirius kicks his foot at him lazily.

James’ eyebrows rise above the frames of his glasses. “Have you considered,” he waves his free hand in your direction, “look at her?” 

Your face heats something atrocious. Sirius tsks. “He’s got you there, darling.” 

“Hush,” you say to James, though you can’t manage to infuse your voice with any sternness. “You’re the only one that thinks that.” 

“Nope,” he replies, popping the p. “Actually, it’s me and Art and every other seeing person on the planet. Sorry, sweetheart.” 

You’re not sure if he’s apologizing sardonically or genuinely, for the pain his compliments are causing you. A big hand cups the side of your head, bringing you closer so he can kiss your hair. 

It doesn’t pacify you. “You’re awful,” you say, slipping out from between him and Sirius so his friend nearly falls sideways onto James’ lap. “I’m going to get some water, does anyone want anything?” 

Lily and Remus say no, Sirius asks for a cider, and James is noticeably silent. You can’t say you’re surprised when he comes into the kitchen behind you. 

He gives you a sheepish look. You don’t believe it even a little. “Have I scared you off?” 

You go to Sirius and Remus’ fridge, grabbing the cider for Sirius. “No.” 

“But I embarrassed you.” James wraps his arms around your middle, smushing his lips to your hairline. “M’sorry, lovely.” 

“Don’t,” you say, though you’re far from pulling out of his embrace. “It takes more than that to scare me off.” 

“Yeah?” You can hear the teasing slip into his voice, and that scares you more than it should. “Good. Because you’re gonna have to get used to it, you know. I don’t plan on toning down how lovely you are just because you might get shy on me.” 

You tilt your head back to see him. “You’re insufferable.” 

“So you’re always telling me.” James’ grin is huge. He drops a kiss on the bridge of your nose. “You’re lovely, and I’m insufferable. How’s that fair?” 

“Dunno.” You kiss his chin in return. Fill your cup with water and brush past him out the kitchen. “Suppose you’ll have to get use to it.” 

It’s impossible not to smile when his laughter sounds behind you. 

[magickman1234]

Just Enjoy Yourself pt 1

You got a bit fat over your last vacation. Your last couple months of work were rough and you took to eating out and a bit of partying to cope. Your waistline spread a bit. Your girlfriend told you were just thick now so you ignored the effects of your new habits. A plan cruise trip with friends from college was your downfall. Your sweet girlfriend reminder you to “just enjoy yourself” when you told her you were feeling fat. She kissed you and fondled your lovehandles “I told you all that happens is your curves get curvier. You’re just my thick babe. You’ve earned some cutting loose!” Her grin of excitement escapes her a moment but you forget about it you need to pack.

Your college friends have gotten huge! They insist on hitting up the buffets partying and taking advantage of food being all inclusive on the cruise. Your tiny compared to them now even with your bit of weight and honestly they’re just fun so you really cut loose and remember your love of sweets and see food. You try to direct things to something other than food but you fail. Nearly everywhere on the ship seems to offer pizza, burgers, pasta, tacos, and desserts without measure. There’s next to no need to exercise and you can feel yourself melting and growing. Your tummy starts to hang over your two piece bathing suit and the top starts to dig into your back. Slipping back into your clothes is awkward though. Your belly seems to just keep sneaking free and your thighs barely fit your shorts. You are stuck with your skirts and dresses to feel comfortable. You can just feel your middle slowly push forward and your walk feels looser and heavier. You do your best to ignore it. The overindulgence seems to be your friends only goals on the trip. They’re already so fat you still feel tiny and honestly they don’t dress modestly at all to your shock. Your light wiggle as you walk isn’t as noticeable as their gelatinous wobble. Even as you start to outgrow your clothes a bit you feel like a twig next to them. You find yourself lapsing into a denial based on “well as long as I don’t take it as far as them I’ll be fine” mentality even as you get so close to keeping up with them. Even as you start to have to wear a loose blouse with pajama bottoms that stretch or your bikini or your loosest dress you tell yourself “I’m fine as long as I don’t get as fat as them” instead of stopping.

Getting home is shocking because you’re now basically a different shape you’ve put on so much weight. Like two weeks cruises are a danger when you were a bit snug in your clothes to begin with. Your tummy is just so awkwardly prominent and your hips and thighs are so fat and heavy. You can’t properly fit anything now and your tops are all crop tops or midriffs now. Your stomach is so round too and hangs a bit.

What’s weird though is the way your girlfriend looks at you now. She’s always been clearly attracted to you and you’ve been curvy which she clearly likes but her eyes are so hungry. She can barely control yourself around you now and despite her being very respectful she is touching you a lot. Like not realizing it even. Pats or slaps to your ass go up as well as unconscious pats or gropes of your hips or thighs. Your tummy as well. She’s always love your stomach and finds bellybuttons cute. It’s weird but in a good way but she’s taken to not just touching your middle but groping it. Sometimes she pokes you right in the middle when it pokes out of your tops and aims for your bellybutton. She never does it in public but she will sometimes unconsciously leave one or both of her hands rested in your stomach in particular if she hugs or holds you from behind. You notice you’re already doing that when you still it’s just…comfortable?

[lunatic-pudge]

General Medic Headcanons (Requested by poker_face_12)

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Am happy to be putting some TF2 stuff out. It was feeling wrong giving Postal so much attention and not TF2. I'm also thinking about writing some stuff for Duke Nukem. I know there's not really an audience out there but he and Nick from L4D2 have been holding me in a chokehold recently

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

SFW:

-My baby boy, Medic, I feel like I don't give him enough attention.

-I promise, he isn't as crazy as you think he is. Maybe. He does care about his teammates, he'll never admit it though. Always trying to make sure they take care of themselves. Sometimes it can feel a bit preachy, but he means well, truly, he does. You just gotta look past his "I'm the doctor and know what's best" attitude. But he tends to neglect listening to his own advice, like the hypocrite he is

-I'm 85% confident he has a jar of lollipops in his lab. He sometimes has to use them as a bribe, and other times as a reward, but they're actually for him cause he has an insatiable sweet tooth. That sweet tooth of his will be the cause of his downfall also. He get rather excited when Pyro bakes, cause homie knows how to make some amazing hard candy and cakes. Pyro has even made Medic a cake for his birthday, and now Py gets special treatment when in for checkups and experiments

-Loves traveling. He's a nerdy German tourist and would clear out a gift shop if given the opportunity. When, he has time, he likes to go out and travel a bit. He's so nerdy when he's out and about, it's adorable. Probably takes Heavy with him as well cause why not

-God, this man would be petty for no reason. Also very good at holding a grudge. Ain't no way this man gonna forget what Scout did to him 3 years, 5 months, 2 weeks, and 4 days ago. He will forever hold that against him. I think Medic is just being a drama queen, but that's just me. It can be hard to make it up to him. The best way is to spoil him in desserts. Only then will he CONSIDER letting the grudge go.

~

~

NSFW:

-Medic is one horny merc. Practically ready to have a little bit of fun. He's very good at hiding it, though. It's dangerous, man. Once you sleep with this man, you'll never be the same (the medussy be crazy)

-I also wouldn't out it past him to have some rather intimate moments with each merc. Nothing full on sexual, but it most certainly borders on that line. I blame it on him being fine as fuck. He really is one of the most attractive mercs (they all are but work with me here), and combine that with the German accent, not even someone like Spy could fight the charm Medic has

-Also one kinky motherfucker. This man is willing to try almost anything and everything. Some of his kinks are doctor/patient roleplay, blood, needles, BDSM (huge sadist with a little bit of masochism in him), bodily fluids, thighs (especially think ones in thigh high stockings), high heels, whips, restraints, biting/marking, and sounding to name a few.

-Man's a freak and I love him for it

-He's very much a dom, rarely will he ever be a sub. When he's a sub, he's such a brat. He likes to be so defiant cause he lives for the punishments he'll recieve. He knows the type of games he's playing. Sly bastard

(That's all I got for now. Will post more when I get ideas)

[thisismeracing]

Bad religion | LH44 (patreon exclusive)

― Pairing: Priest!Lewis Hamilton x fem!devil!reader ― Word count: 1.5k ― Warnings: graphic description of sex (p in v); mentions of a snake; +18. Minors DNI!!!! ― Summary: He used to be a sinner, maybe that’s why nowadays he has so much compassion for those. Your kindness, however, can be your downfall. Especially when directed towards a demon. A breach and a hand to hold were all that Yn needed to complete the Devil’s wish. Lewis should have crushed the snake’s head before she swiftly bit him.

✷ my masterlist | my taglist | patreon guide ✷ you can support my writing by reblogging, leaving a comment (don’t forget to follow me if you like the piece), or buying me a coffee

“Oh fuck,” he sighed, and Yn smiled devilishly.

“You’re not supposed to curse, but then again, you’re not supposed to have sex either…” she joshed, kissing his jaw and gazing her tongue against his lips.

Lewis’ waist jolted, and he roughly freed his hands, directing one to her waist and the other to her neck, before pushing their lips together hastily. Yn whined, opening her lips and letting him explore her, her mouth, her body, using his tongue, his hands, his own body.

[...]

Shockwaves hit the two when he bottoms out in one brisk motion, and she was so wet, so ready for him, so needy, Yn could only moan and throw her head back. Lewis pounded into her, kissing her swollen lips and tasting his salty skin on her mouth, while Yn’s nails dug into his back, creating new shapes and shades around his tattoos.

[...]

Deep down he knew what she was, years of studying the bible and working in a church made him recognize the situation yet it was too late for both of them.

His deep thrusts made her clit grind against his pubic and she screamed his name like one does a prayer. She consecrated his body while he worshipped hers. Nothing had ever felt that intense to them.

Hell had never given her anything close to what she was having.

And Heaven had never revealed itself to Lewis.

Up until that moment.

Because if that woman was hell, he would endure any misery to have her body against his again. To be inside her. To preach about her thighs and cunt.

He couldn’t even find on himself to feel profane, or dirty.

Maybe because it was a dream, or he tried to tell himself that because the second his body shattered in pleasure and he felt her own orgasm milky him, her face buried in the space between his shoulders and neck, Lewis felt a sting on his neck [...].

Read the full piece here

― ⋆🪩 VOICEMAIL: Hi, besties! I hope you guys like this little preview, I wanted to add a huge shout-out to Delia (@struggling-with-delia) for proof and beta-reading this <3. You can read this piece and others that will be posted during this month by subscribing to my Patreon (here)🤍. Let me know your thoughts on this sneak peek!! *mwah*

Taglist: @sachaa-ff @mickslover @mishaandthebrits @saintslewis @crimeshowjunkie @iloveyou3000morgan @fdl305 @scorpiobleue @chaoticevilbakugo @carojasmin2204 @wondergirl101ks @smiithys @shhhchriss @f1kota @lunnnix @karmabyfernando @schumacheer @crashingwavesofeuphoria @callsign-scully @dearxcherry @peachiicherries @elliegrey2803 @he6rtshaker @therealcap @mehrmonga @the-depressed-fellow @soph1644 @cixrosie @darleneslane @buckybarnessweetheart @nichmeddar @nzygftoji @jamie2305 @goldenalbon @fastcarsandshit @balekanemohafe @graciewrote @leclercsluv @alessioayla

©thisismeracing ⸺ Do not copy, steal, or translate my work. Do not repost on a different media platform.

[apomaro-mellow]

Sorry not sorry but I just saw on bingo board about THE sailor outfit and sense I am a huge suckered for Season 3 Steve meets/reference Eddie I had to send an ask

Eddie had been completely innocent, minding his own business. He was doing what everyone else in Starcourt was doing. Enjoying his summer, buying shit, and loitering. And he wasn't alone. Jeff was with him too on this gloriously sunny day.

"And you can bet he's gonna be all up my ass come fall", Eddie said.

"You probably shouldn't've put dog shit in his office then", Jeff said.

"He had no proof it was me and he deserved it. I coulda scraped through this time and been done with high school but he's out to get me!"

Eddie could go on about the principal's personal vendetta against him and he did as they walked through the mall, turning this way and that, gesticulating wildly at times. Normally fine, but oh fate, this was the one time he managed to trip over his own feet. He collapsed onto the floor, right under one of the many tables in the food court.

Usually, he would've gotten up right away. Brushed himself off, no problem. But usually, he wasn't face to face with a pair of thick thighs. Slowly, Eddie lifted up onto his arms, which brought him right in between the pair of legs.

Then he heard the voice of God.

"Do you mind?"

He jolted up, banging his head on the underside of the table. Then he scrambled out and up and rubbed his head, and found the owner of said legs.

Steve motherfucking Harrington.

Sipping a milkshake and crossing his legs like he knew they would lead to Eddie's downfall. Oh, and the only reason he could see those legs was because he was wearing a goddamn sailor suit.

"You wanna take a picture? It'll last longer."

Eddie remembered himself and smirked. "You join the navy or something Harrington?"

Steve rolled his eyes and stood up, tossing the empty cup in the trash and Eddie watched with pretty much zero shame as he walked away. Someone was playing a prank on him, right? Because there was no way the cards had just fallen into place to make Harrington get a job at a mall ice cream shop that also just happened to require him to wear the kind of outfit that wouldn't be out of place at a Halloween party. Or a strip club.

"You wanna pick your jaw up off the floor?", Jeff asked, practically materializing out of thin air. How long had he been there?

"Jeff, how's about a summer terrorizing an ice cream parlor?"

"With your lactose intolerant ass?"

Eddie watched as Steve's co-worker, who he definitely knew from school, tossed a hat on him, scolding him for not being in full uniform.

"It'll be totally worth it."

Steddie bingo under the cut

[the-princess-of-loki]

Attraction

Pairing: Loki x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Smut, graphic description of smut.

I stood before the big mirror in Loki and mine’s extravagantly huge dressing room. I made sure Loki wasn’t in our chambers in the palace before I took a deep breath and took off my dark green satin robe. I looked at my reflex dreadfully and let out a little huff. An involuntary pout formed on my lips as I took in the new details on my skin. I knew, theoretically and logically, that pregnancy changed a woman’s body. But knowing and seeing were definitely different. I couldn’t help touching my new white stretch marks on my enlarged breasts and belly, my pouting increasing almost naturally. I didn’t dare to turn around and take a look at my ass and my thighs. No, the front view was a downfall enough to even consider adding more.

“My dear?” Loki called me while entering the dressing room. I shrieked and immediately covered myself with my robe at the look and voice of my handsome husband in his sexy leather green, black and brown armour. He laughed softly at my reaction. “Why are you covering yourself, princess? There is not an inch of your beautiful body that I haven’t kissed, licked, sucked, bitten, worshipped, devoured…” He smirked at me, taking a step closer with his green eyes lust-filled.

“Not like it is right now,” I murmured under my breath, taking my gaze away from him for a moment.

“What’s the matter, my princess?” I could hear Loki’s worry even when I wasn’t looking at him. I took a deep breath and faked a smile as I looked back at him.

Why does he have to be so handsome?

“Nothing, love. Could you please leave the dressing room so I can get dressed?” Loki crossed his arms on his chest, still looking at me with worry in his beautiful features.

“Do not try to trick the trickster,” he warned. I sighed and looked down at my feet again. My lower lip trembled, so I bit it down to try and stop it. Loki closed the distance between us with a long step. He delicately grabbed my chin and made me look up at his emerald-like eyes. Worry kept clouding his handsome features, and I felt my eyes filling with tears, although I fought hard for them not to fall out. “My wonderful princess, why don’t you trust me with your bothering thoughts? Since our son was born, you’ve been acting distant and cold… Have I done or said something to upset you, my dear?”

“No!” I gasped immediately. I couldn’t let him blame himself for my insecurities. “No, Loki, you’ve been the best husband I could ever imagined. Please, do not think for one second that any of this is your fault.”

“Then, tell me, my love. What is wrong?” I took a deep breath before answering.

“I am feeling…self-conscious since our son was born,” I admitted, trying to avoid his gaze and failing. “My body has changed and…you are always so handsome… I…” I had to stop talking as a lump formed in my throat. Loki smiled sweetly at me.

“My beautiful princess, you are as wonderful as the day we met. No, that is not right. You are even more wonderful now,” he left a sweet kiss on my forehead before he looked down at me again. “What your body did- growing, nurturing and delivering our son: that is the most incredible thing I’ve ever seen in all my 1058 years of life. Those scars and marks you’re so ashamed of are the living proof of your awesomeness.”

“Loki, I…” I swallowed the lump in my throat. “I appreciate your kind words, but-”

“Oh, you don’t believe me, princess,” Loki interrupted me with a smirk. Then, he lifted me, causing me to let out a small shriek of surprise. He started to walk with me in his arms towards our bed.

“What are you doing, Loki?” I asked, trying in vain to keep my robe on. He had decided its place was on the floor since he started to carry me. Loki left me carefully on the bed, still smirking as he stood up before me, unclasping his cape.

“Since you don’t believe in my words, I am going to show you just how much I mean them, my dear, beloved, beautiful princess.” Loki kept smirking and he kept undressing while speaking.

Once he was fully naked in front of me, he laid down on top of me, resting his weight on one arm as he caressed the side of my body with his free hand. I shivered involuntarily at his touch and he left a trail of goosebumps where his hand travelled on my skin. We hadn’t been this intimate since a lot before our son was born, so each movement, caress, kiss and even breath felt like the first time. I even felt the same butterflies in my belly as Loki’s emerald eyes looked at mine with devotion filling them.

Loki moved his face closer and closer to mine very slowly, at the same time his hand kept caressing my naked body almost lazily. He captured my lips with his in a loving but passionate and hungry kiss. I moaned against his lips as soon as they got into contact with mine at the same time he let out a throaty groan. We hadn’t kissed like this since I was on my second trimester of pregnancy, six month ago.

Gods, I missed him. I haven’t realised how much, but I missed my husband terribly. It wasn’t like Loki hadn’t been present during my pregnancy. Quite the contrary: he’d been there for me every step of the way, always making sure I was comfortable, happy, safe and loved. But, of course, after the sixth month of pregnancy, I had grown so big that the healers in the palace had all recommended I moved little to nothing. After all, nobody could be sure that the half-Jotun growing quickly inside me wouldn’t want to come out before we were expecting him to. Thus, Loki and I had been very careful and haven’t shared more than a peck here and there.

Being kissed by Loki with his usual hunger, desire, lust, adoration, love and devotion was something else on so many levels that it was difficult to put into words. His thin lips moved against mine feverishly, letting his tongue inside my mouth, dancing sensually with mine. I felt my heart beating faster with each of his tongue movements, my breath getting heavier as the seconds passed by. His large and capable hand moved down, slowly caressing my skin from my hip to my thigh. Loki purposefully traced each one of my white stretch marks there with the tip of his fingers, almost reverently, before he moved my leg softly to the side so he could accommodate comfortably in between my legs. I could feel his hard, throbbing member on my lower belly and just that got me letting out a soft moan. He moved his lips from mine, going down my chin, up my jawline until he met my ear.

“Let me worship you like you deserve, my divine, wonderful and gorgeous princess,” he whispered in that sultry voice of his before he nibbled my earlobe.

A gasp and a small moan/whimper were all that I managed as a response. Loki bit down my neck, leaving an ownership mark there as he liked doing every single time we made love. His lips moved down my collarbone and his green eyes looked straight into my eyes as he sweetly kissed every stretch mark on my breasts. He was, indeed, worshipping me. He gave the same treatment to every mark on my body that my pregnancy had left, both in my front and in my backside.

Once he was satisfied with his work, Loki gently cupped one of my breasts in his hand. Then, he lowered his mouth to my nipple, gently sucking the hardening bud. I moaned as I felt a shock of pleasure going from my nipple straight to my core. I let out a surprised gasp as I opened my eyes and saw him drinking my milk, just like our son does every few hours. Of course, Loki’s touch and mouth around my nipple were completely different and had other effects on me. Loki licked his lips, his green eyes shining with mischief and a small smirk on his lips.

“Mmmm…delicious. Everything that comes out of you is simply exquisite,” he hummed and continued smirking.

I was, as always, speechless and completely fascinated by my husband. And he knew it. Loki shifted a little his position on top of me so he was able to caress my body down to my very core. I could feel his hard, leaking pre-cum member on my thigh, making my body shiver with need. Loki teased my entrance with his fingers, rubbing my clit with his thumb until I was a shivering, panting, needy mess below him. He then licked his fingers with my juices on them, making the same appreciative hum he had made when tasting my breast milk.

“You are always ready for me, aren’t you, my sweet, delicious, princess?” Loki asked with a smirk, obviously knowing the answer. But he always wanted my express consent, ever since the first time.

“Yes, Loki. Please, take me,” I half asked and half begged, surrounding him with my arms in a tight embrace. Loki grunted a little in pleasure at my plea.

“As you wish, princess,” he whispered in my ear.

In one swift movement, he thrust inside me, filling me with his big, hard, throbbing member completely. I let out a gasp followed by a moan as soon as I felt him. I moved my legs up, crossing my ankles behind his back as Loki grabbed both my thighs to help me keep my legs up. He looked straight into my eyes as he pulled himself out of me and then thrust inside with full force again. As I had my legs up, he could go deeper inside me, hitting my sweet spot with each thrust. I moaned his name as he sped up, forcing my eyes to stay open and look into his green ones, now darkened with desired as he looked back at me. His thrust became faster and wilder as the moments passed by, our chambers filled with sex smell and the lewd sound of skin meeting skin.

Loki collapsed on top of me as we both reached our climaxes together. I hung to his back as if my life depended on it as I finally allowed my eyes to close. I nuzzled my nose into his neck, basking in his beautiful scent. How this wonderful being had chosen me out of all the options he had was beyond my understanding.

“You are the most precious, divine and beautiful creature in all the realms, princess. Never doubt it again.” Loki whispered, his voice, usually controlled, was no hoarse because of our lovemaking.And after hearing those words, my heart melted. Again.

[megamindsecretlair]

Sit Still (Look Pretty), Part 1

Cross posted on @megamindssecretlair

Pairing: Nomad Steve x Black!Fem!reader/ Plus Size reader

Warnings: 18+. Minors DNI. You are in charge of your own reading experience. There is some unresolved tension, mutual voyeurism, cursing, mentions of female and male parts, Part 1 of ? Not sure how long this will take to resolve. Age gap, reader is mid 20s, Nomad Steve is mid 30s.

Summary: AU where Steve was born in modern times but still received a serum in the Army to make him a super soldier. He's moved in next door and has noticed you watching him. You and your mom have gone over to introduce yourselves.

Word Count: 1,857k

Read Part 2 | Read Part 3

A/N: I've been reading a lot of age gap fics so decided to try my hand at another. Apologies if I miss any warnings or this is super corny. But this was fun. While likes are awesome, please consider commenting and reblogging to help writers!

Fuck, your neighbor was hot as hell. You sat on your window seat gawking at the tall, sexy neighbor as he picked up huge boxes and carried them in the house as if it weighed no more than feathers. 

Muscles rippled in a dark blue muscle shirt as he moved and bent over. And that ass. You bit your lip as the neighbor bent further down to lift a chair. Oh and those thighs. You sighed. The Lord took His time with this one. 

The man was at least six foot tall, dark blond hair and a full trimmed beard. He wore a pair of dark jeans and boots. All week, you had watched him go in and out of the newly bought house next door. He carried lots of boxes but none of them gave any clue to his story.

Was he married? Was he expecting? Surely someone that damn fine had a wife heavenly pregnant and ordering him about. You weren’t sure how he didn’t have eleven rugrats running around. There were no other movers and the neighbor had rented a small truck for his sofa and dressers. 

You also saw the neighborhood crones using any excuse in the book to talk to him and be nosy. If he thought someone that looked like him was going to move here without raising any alarms, he was sorely mistaken.

You gasped as he stopped to stretch, moving his body beyond his limit. You just wanted to lick him. Just once. You fanned yourself as you watched him. You imagined all kinds of filthy things when it came to him. 

You imagined him grabbing your fleshy thighs and shaking them before slapping them. You imagined him in between your legs coating that full beard with your juices. You imagined him breaking your back. Like, literally breaking your back. Because he could put you in the hospital and you’d say thank you.

He disappeared into the house. His curtains were thrown open so you could still watch him moving around the house. The downfall to stock houses was that they were lined up just so. The houses were nearly identical. Your bedroom window faced his bedroom window on the second floor. The angle you had was just enough to see his kitchen sink. It’d be possible to see his arms and hands as he washed. 

You spent plenty of nights this week just watching his hands work over his meager dishes. If he was married, she didn’t live with him. You never saw anyone coming or going from his place. He didn’t have a second car. 

Your mom called your name. “I’ve got this cake for the neighbor, let’s go introduce ourselves,” she called. 

You rolled your eyes. Yes, your mom was very much just as gossipy as the neighborhood crones. Everything you’ve heard of the neighbor was through her and probably had twisted from its original message. 

You weren’t dressed yet. You had made watching him your dirty hobby. But you couldn’t summon the energy to care. Sometimes, you got the eerie feeling as if he were watching you too. You had taken to keeping your curtains open and your light on. 

You never saw him look over here. The random times he was in his room and moving around, he never gave any indication that he knew you were looking. Still, you pranced around in your bra and panties every morning or before hanging with your friends as you decided what to wear.

Sometimes, you even faced the window as you decided between two shirts or two skirts. You pretended that he was picking your outfits, telling you what he likes seeing you in. That he would imagine ripping it off of your body all day and it would drive him crazy. Knowing you’d be capable of making him hard and uncomfortable all day turned you on so badly. 

You stood and did just that. You faced his bedroom window even though he was probably still on the first floor. You held up a red, frilly shirt and a light ocean blue plain shirt. You flipped back and forth, imagining what he’d like.

You put the shirts on your bed and then flipped between jeans and white shorts. You held up the red shirt and white shorts. If you were going to meet him, you might as well show him what you’re working with. You turned around and imagined him at the window, getting dressed for him. 

You bent low and shimmied into the white shorts as slow as you could. Then you slipped on the red babydoll tee. It made your breasts look good. Plus it was hot as sin outside. 

You ran down the stairs and sat on the steps as you slipped on your shoes. Your mom floated into the room holding a small box. “I went with chocolate,” your mom said. “Everybody likes chocolate and those who don’t are lying to get attention.”

You laughed as you shook your head. Your mom was gorgeous, with flowing locs and a great figure. She wore loose tan pants and a cream shirt. 

“Isn’t this a little Southern of us?” You asked. You lived in Suburbia with the white picket fences and neighbors who’d gone to high school together. It was capital boredom and should be labeled as a torture method.

“Best way to meet your neighbors. They associate you with good food and are less likely to be rude to you by throwing loud parties and orgies,” your mother said.

You snorted. Your mom never had a filter and would often say the first thing that comes to mind. Your dad hated it but you caught him smiling more than a few times. 

You trudged over the manicured lawn, over the small concrete divider, and onto his property. The door was closed. He was probably taking a break from moving things. Your mom rang the doorbell and you waited.

The door finally opened and you gasped silently. He was even more gorgeous in person. Fuck, it had to be illegal to carry those arms. They looked big enough to crush a coconut in one grip. His hands were large and his fingers were long, like a musician's fingers.

He smirked at you and your mother. Your mom stepped forward. “We wanted to introduce ourselves, we’re your neighbors on that side,” she said and pointed to your house. 

She told him your names and all about the chocolate cake, including her joke about people lying. He threw his head back as he laughed as if it were that funny.

“I’m Steve,” he said. He shook your mom’s hand and then moved to yours. His grip was firm but not crushing.  

You looked down at your combined hands, loving the way that your copper skin contrasted with his creamy skin. He held on a second too long before turning his attention to your mom who asked him a million questions.

“If I heard all of those, I’d say I moved here for work, not married, and I work for the military. Did I get it all?” He asked.

He had a bit of an accent. You guessed somewhere on the East Coast. Your mom giggled. You looked at her as if she grew a third head. She widened her eyes at you and then smiled back at Steve. She prattled on about her career, that fact that you were in college for your master’s, and that you were always available if he needed you. 

Since his attention was on your mom, you took the opportunity to study him up close. His blue eyes were sharp, giving one hundred percent of his focus on the person speaking. He had a prominent vein on the side of his neck and you imagined licking it. 

“Oh, I have to take this, excuse me,” your mom said. She answered her phone and stepped off of the porch. 

You turned to Steve who had his eyes trained on you. He barely blinked and did not look away. 

“So, military huh? That explains that,” you said. You waved at his figure and he laughed. It was deep and made you tingle.

“Thank you. I’m not active duty anymore, I’ve transitioned to the state side and do boring office work now. You home for the summer?” He asked.

“Yes, I am. Taking a break so no work, no homework, just time to decompress. Usually in the pool. This is one of the worst summers ever,” you said and fanned yourself.

Steve slowly perused your body. There was no mistaking that look in his eyes. He faintly smirked as he took in your outfit, your wide curves, your generous hips, and your thick thighs. 

He slowly dragged that gaze back up until he reached your face. “Make sure you stay cool, then. Dehydration is nothing to play with,” he said. 

Your mouth went dry under the intense heat of his gaze. You were aware. You were aware of him and aware of his focus. You bit your lips and his eyes zeroed in on it. His eyes narrowed.

“Are you okay?” He asked. You shifted your footing, trying to find some relief. The heat outside had nothing on his face. 

Your mom’s scuffling shoes took you out of the moment. He winked at you before your mom joined you. Though it was Saturday, her job needed her to come in and solve an emergency. She waved goodbye to Steve and told him not to be a stranger.

You waved bye, unable to speak at the moment. As you turned to leave, Steve grabbed your hand. He ran his fingers over your wrist as he leaned in.

“My favorite color is light blue. And you should get more of those garter things. They look divine on you,” he said. Gravel skated over ‘divine’ and you whimpered. You hoped he didn’t catch that. Your eyes flicked from his lips to his eyes and his eyes narrowed again. 

Your heart thundered in your chest. He knew what you had been doing all along. Your skin heated for entirely different reasons as you thought of all the different lingerie combinations you tried on in front of the window. It somehow made it filthier that he was getting naughty glimpses of you. It made you horny all day thinking of wearing the lingerie and that he didn’t know it was for him. 

It had gotten so bad, that you didn’t care if your parents were home. You had to get off on thinking that he helped select the combos. And those were some of the best orgasms you ever gave yourself. 

“Yes, sir,” you whispered and licked your lips. He smiled and nodded his head as if he were dismissing you. As if he had any right to order you around. 

Yet you left the porch and nearly skipped across the lawn like he told you. Before getting in the house, you looked back. He stood on the porch, facing you, with his hands in his pockets. You smiled and went inside, thinking of how many blue outfits you owned.

Read Part 2 | Read Part 3

[megamindslair]

Sit Still (Look Pretty), Part 1

Moving my fics to @megamindsecretlair

Warnings: 18+. Minors DNI. You are in charge of your own reading experience. There is some unresolved tension, mutual voyeurism, cursing, mentions of female and male parts, Nomad Steve x Black!reader. Nomad Steve x plus size reader. Part 1 of ? Not sure how long this will take to resolve. Age gap, reader is mid 20s, Nomad Steve is mid 30s.

Summary: AU where Steve was born in modern times but still received a serum in the Army to make him more efficient. He's moved in next door and has noticed you watching him. You and your mom have gone over to introduce yourselves.

Word Count: 1,857k

A/N: I've been reading a lot of age gap fics so decided to try my hand at another. Apologies if I miss any warnings or this is super corny. But this was fun. While likes are awesome, please consider reblogging to help writers!

Fuck, your neighbor was hot as hell. You sat on your window seat gawking at the tall, sexy neighbor as he picked up huge boxes and carried them in the house as if it weighed no more than feathers. 

Muscles rippled in a dark blue muscle shirt as he moved and bent over. And that ass. You bit your lip as the neighbor bent further down to lift a chair. Oh and those thighs. You sighed. The Lord took His time with this one. 

The man was at least six foot tall, dark blond hair and a full trimmed beard. He wore a pair of dark jeans and boots. All week, you had watched him go in and out of the newly bought house next door. He carried lots of boxes but none of them gave any clue to his story.

Was he married? Was he expecting? Surely someone that damn fine had a wife heavenly pregnant and ordering him about. You weren’t sure how he didn’t have eleven rugrats running around. There were no other movers and the neighbor had rented a small truck for his sofa and dressers. 

You also saw the neighborhood crones using any excuse in the book to talk to him and be nosy. If he thought someone that looked like him was going to move here without raising any alarms, he was sorely mistaken.

You gasped as he stopped to stretch, moving his body beyond his limit. You just wanted to lick him. Just once. You fanned yourself as you watched him. You imagined all kinds of filthy things when it came to him. 

You imagined him grabbing your fleshy thighs and shaking them before slapping them. You imagined him in between your legs coating that full beard with your juices. You imagined him breaking your back. Like, literally breaking your back. Because he could put you in the hospital and you’d say thank you.

He disappeared into the house. His curtains were thrown open so you could still watch him moving around the house. The downfall to stock houses was that they were lined up just so. The houses were nearly identical. Your bedroom window faced his bedroom window on the second floor. The angle you had was just enough to see his kitchen sink. It’d be possible to see his arms and hands as he washed. 

You spent plenty of nights this week just watching his hands work over his meager dishes. If he was married, she didn’t live with him. You never saw anyone coming or going from his place. He didn’t have a second car. 

Your mom called your name. “I’ve got this cake for the neighbor, let’s go introduce ourselves,” she called. 

You rolled your eyes. Yes, your mom was very much just as gossipy as the neighborhood crones. Everything you’ve heard of the neighbor was through her and probably had twisted from its original message. 

You weren’t dressed yet. You had made watching him your dirty hobby. But you couldn’t summon the energy to care. Sometimes, you got the eerie feeling as if he were watching you too. You had taken to keeping your curtains open and your light on. 

You never saw him look over here. The random times he was in his room and moving around, he never gave any indication that he knew you were looking. Still, you pranced around in your bra and panties every morning or before hanging with your friends as you decided what to wear.

Sometimes, you even faced the window as you decided between two shirts or two skirts. You pretended that he was picking your outfits, telling you what he likes seeing you in. That he would imagine ripping it off of your body all day and it would drive him crazy. Knowing you’d be capable of making him hard and uncomfortable all day turned you on so badly. 

You stood and did just that. You faced his bedroom window even though he was probably still on the first floor. You held up a red, frilly shirt and a light ocean blue plain shirt. You flipped back and forth, imagining what he’d like.

You put the shirts on your bed and then flipped between jeans and white shorts. You held up the red shirt and white shorts. If you were going to meet him, you might as well show him what you’re working with. You turned around and imagined him at the window, getting dressed for him. 

You bent low and shimmied into the white shorts as slow as you could. Then you slipped on the red babydoll tee. It made your breasts look good. Plus it was hot as sin outside. 

You ran down the stairs and sat on the steps as you slipped on your shoes. Your mom floated into the room holding a small box. “I went with chocolate,” your mom said. “Everybody likes chocolate and those who don’t are lying to get attention.”

You laughed as you shook your head. Your mom was gorgeous, with flowing locs and a great figure. She wore loose tan pants and a cream shirt. 

“Isn’t this a little Southern of us?” You asked. You lived in Suburbia with the white picket fences and neighbors who’d gone to high school together. It was capital boredom and should be labeled as a torture method.

“Best way to meet your neighbors. They associate you with good food and are less likely to be rude to you by throwing loud parties and orgies,” your mother said.

You snorted. Your mom never had a filter and would often say the first thing that comes to mind. Your dad hated it but you caught him smiling more than a few times. 

You trudged over the manicured lawn, over the small concrete divider, and onto his property. The door was closed. He was probably taking a break from moving things. Your mom rang the doorbell and you waited.

The door finally opened and you gasped silently. He was even more gorgeous in person. Fuck, it had to be illegal to carry those arms. They looked big enough to crush a coconut in one grip. His hands were large and his fingers were long, like a musician's fingers.

He smirked at you and your mother. Your mom stepped forward. “We wanted to introduce ourselves, we’re your neighbors on that side,” she said and pointed to your house. 

She told him your names and all about the chocolate cake, including her joke about people lying. He threw his head back as he laughed as if it were that funny.

“I’m Steve,” he said. He shook your mom’s hand and then moved to yours. His grip was firm but not crushing.  

You looked down at your combined hands, loving the way that your copper skin contrasted with his creamy skin. He held on a second too long before turning his attention to your mom who asked him a million questions.

“If I heard all of those, I’d say I moved here for work, not married, and I work for the military. Did I get it all?” He asked.

He had a bit of an accent. You guessed somewhere on the East Coast. Your mom giggled. You looked at her as if she grew a third head. She widened her eyes at you and then smiled back at Steve. She prattled on about her career, that fact that you were in college for your master’s, and that you were always available if he needed you. 

Since his attention was on your mom, you took the opportunity to study him up close. His blue eyes were sharp, giving one hundred percent of his focus on the person speaking. He had a prominent vein on the side of his neck and you imagined licking it. 

“Oh, I have to take this, excuse me,” your mom said. She answered her phone and stepped off of the porch. 

You turned to Steve who had his eyes trained on you. He barely blinked and did not look away. 

“So, military huh? That explains that,” you said. You waved at his figure and he laughed. It was deep and made you tingle.

“Thank you. I’m not active duty anymore, I’ve transitioned to the state side and do boring office work now. You home for the summer?” He asked.

“Yes, I am. Taking a break so no work, no homework, just time to decompress. Usually in the pool. This is one of the worst summers ever,” you said and fanned yourself.

Steve slowly perused your body. There was no mistaking that look in his eyes. He faintly smirked as he took in your outfit, your wide curves, your generous hips, and your thick thighs. 

He slowly dragged that gaze back up until he reached your face. “Make sure you stay cool, then. Dehydration is nothing to play with,” he said. 

Your mouth went dry under the intense heat of his gaze. You were aware. You were aware of him and aware of his focus. You bit your lips and his eyes zeroed in on it. His eyes narrowed.

“Are you okay?” He asked. You shifted your footing, trying to find some relief. The heat outside had nothing on his face. 

Your mom’s scuffling shoes took you out of the moment. He winked at you before your mom joined you. Though it was Saturday, her job needed her to come in and solve an emergency. She waved goodbye to Steve and told him not to be a stranger.

You waved bye, unable to speak at the moment. As you turned to leave, Steve grabbed your hand. He ran his fingers over your wrist as he leaned in.

“My favorite color is light blue. And you should get more of those garter things. They look divine on you,” he said. Gravel skated over ‘divine’ and you whimpered. You hoped he didn’t catch that. Your eyes flicked from his lips to his eyes and his eyes narrowed again. 

Your heart thundered in your chest. He knew what you had been doing all along. Your skin heated for entirely different reasons as you thought of all the different lingerie combinations you tried on in front of the window. It somehow made it filthier that he was getting naughty glimpses of you. It made you horny all day thinking of wearing the lingerie and that he didn’t know it was for him. 

It had gotten so bad, that you didn’t care if your parents were home. You had to get off on thinking that he helped select the combos. And those were some of the best orgasms you ever gave yourself. 

“Yes, sir,” you whispered and licked your lips. He smiled and nodded his head as if he were dismissing you. As if he had any right to order you around. 

Yet you left the porch and nearly skipped across the lawn like he told you. Before getting in the house, you looked back. He stood on the porch, facing you, with his hands in his pockets. You smiled and went inside, thinking of how many blue outfits you owned.

[golbrocklovely]

Not SnC related, but what are your thoughts on Matt Rife? Last I checked, Sam still followed him on IG 🤷🏼‍♀️

matt rife is a very interesting person lol

i never really saw him blow up on tiktok (or at least on my fyp) but i had heard about him and some of the thirst edits that had been shared about him. and i knew overall that a lot of ppl, women mostly, found him hot.

what i find the most fascinating about him is how much of a case study he really is for confidence and how important that can be to the success or downfall of a person.

(this became so long i'm sorry lol)

so idk if it's true that he got surgery done to make his face look more manly. i know he admitted to the veneers, i believe, but they wouldn't have changed up his face that much. so... i'm gonna believe the possible filler allegations lol

i think one of the reasons why things kinda fell off for him is bc he wasn't confident in himself whatsoever, and then like most men who feel like shit, he took it out on women.

bc let me tell you a little something about myself: i have been plus size my entire life. came out the womb with thunder thighs. not even joking about that. for years, and i mean years, i legit thought if i could just be skinny, i'll be happy. if i could just look like what ppl want me to look like, i'll feel better about myself. and it took til i was about 25ish to finally realize being skinny was NEVER gonna make me magically like myself. i had lost weight before, 40 pounds one time, 60 pounds another. but it never made me like myself. sure, i guess i felt better in the moment. but the quiet would set back in, and i would go back to shitting on myself.

losing weight and getting down to the "correct" size was never going to happen. i was never gonna be satisfied. bc at the end of the day, i still hated myself. i still deeply thought i was ugly. i could lose 100s of pounds and still think i wasn't good enough. not to mention, i wanted to be known for more than just my weight. i was a whole person, regardless of my size.

and i think matt kinda had a similar thing happen.

i think he always had an issue with himself, his face particularly. and while, yeah - plenty of ppl thought he was kinda funny - he wasn't conventionally attractive (in his own eyes and to others). so he felt like no one cared about him. so he figured, if i could just get hot, ppl will care about me and my comedy.

but the exact opposite happened. he changed up his face, got it to match the portrait in his mind of what he "deserved" to look like, but he never worked on himself internally. he never fixed the broken parts of himself. so when suddenly, all of these women are giving him attention - it almost proved the little voice in the back of his head "see, all they did care about was my looks. i got held back in life bc i was ugly". even tho reality is, that's not what happened. he felt like shit about himself, ppl don't naturally gravitate towards unconfident ppl. if you don't like yourself, a lot of ppl will take advantage of that. that's just life.

and not only was that little voice proven "right", all anyone could talk about anymore was his looks (tho he also played a huge role in that). when all he wanted was to be known for was his comedy. but he thought the reason he wasn't succeeding was bc of his looks.

when in actuality, he just... wasn't funny. or really, wasn't as funny as he thought he was.

this all being said, if he actually worked on himself internally, he wouldn't have gotten himself into this mess. do i think he's funny? eh, i guess. but like any man, him make "women kitchen = funny" jokes really puts a damper on the a, being funny aspect he takes pride in and b, being attractive. i feel like a lot of men don't realize how quickly they self sabotage their own happiness by HATING ON THE GENDER THEY ARE ATTRACTED TO.

and sam following him... honestly, i wouldn't be surprised if he only follows him bc matt is friends with elton and they're all on somewhat decent terms again.

quick note to matt: hating on astrology is really dumb, coming from the dude that has gone ghost hunting and believes. babe, you might think i'm weird bc i believe in planets and their alignment meaning something, but you're scared of something that isn't even tangible.... at least i know the planets actually fucking exist.

(i also believe in ghosts, but at least i don't pretend to be on a high horse about it)

also talking about a partner's nether regions and saying how they are unattractive to you IS CRAZY when i know dicks 9 times out of 10 literally look like shriveled up limp mini hot dogs.......... you have a lot of room to be talking, my guy.

[cherubgorearchived]

what is the mary/otis things? is that from house if a 1000 corpses?

HI!! IT IS ACTUALLY. It's going to be, (I say that so LOVINGLY because It's been in my docs for months.) A fic centering around Mary and Otis, IF ONLY because he called her 'Mama' and kissed her, I was immediately taken with the idea of shipping them. I've actually been in love with the idea of them as a couple since I was a KID! I've been a huge Zombie Head for years, his halloween films are what sparked my love for Micheal! (Under the cut, you'll find a piece of what I've written so far!)

Mary shuddered at the thought. She’s read about Stockholm Syndrome before. The very idea that she could ever fall in love with Otis made her sick. Just him touching her made her violently ill. Mary hated it when he touched her. Bill was never rough with her. Bill was her only boyfriend, her first everything; he was supposed to be her first everything and last everything. Mary wanted to turn herself inside out, scrub at all the membranes, soak all her nerves in bleach; she wanted to feel clean again. Otis was rough, he’d always been rough. He liked to pull hair, drag his teeth down her throat; bruises, Otis loved to leave bruises. All over her arms, legs, he found a sick fascination in trying to bruise her inner thighs; which he often managed. 

Bill never called her names. Otis thrived off insulting her, his whore. That was his favorite thing to call her. His. Mary tried not to think too much about that. The sudden invasion of his fingers made her hiss through clenched teeth and go stiff from the pain. Otis pushed himself against her, bucking the bulge in his pants against her ass. 

“No good morning kiss, mama?” He teased, breath hot and rotten against her face. Mary hated that name too, it’s what he called her the first time he kissed her. Mama, a nicer endearment than anything else he called her, she supposed. 

“Don’t touch me,” Mary hissed. Shifting her hips out of rhythm with his fingers, trying desperately to force him out. It only caused more pain, everything Otis did caused pain for her. “Leave me the fuck alone.” 

Grunting, he removed his fingers. “Why can’t you ever just be fucking pleasant,” he muttered, shoving himself away from her and the bed; retreating to the crude bathroom addition to his room. 

This was…new. Otis screamed, whined, hit, bit and threatened; but he never seemed upset by her constant refusal. Maybe today was the start of the downfall, the idea almost made her…sad. How else were you supposed to feel when you're looking death in the face? Maybe relief or fear. Would she beg for what’s become of her life when the time came? Would she promise to be better to him? Mary thought again of her friends. She remembered what he did to Bill. 

When the time came, she’d be sure to spit in his face. 

[onlyseokmins]

I HEARD SOMEONE SAY SEOKMIN THOTS

my time has come

I have such a weird relationship with seok thots because on one hand, he’s my minnie and my sunflower and I love and want to protect him no matter what, but like- have you SEEN him on stage or when he’s focused or serious about something

if you haven’t already watched his anyone fancam, I’m begging you to because he looks so good it isn’t even funny (but don’t look at the thighs. just.. don’t)

honestly, get yourself a man who can be a sunshiny ball of energy who makes everyone happy and deserves the world one moment, and a devil onstage the next. it’s all about the ✨duality✨

well, I mean, you can’t, he’s too special, but still

(I’m reia btw and if you ever need thots I’m available because I have actual responsibilities that I should pay more attention to but I think about svt instead 💀)

hello reia <333 that's such a pretty name!! fjsdkfj yesssss seokmin thots always open here fr babe and I KNOW seokmin is the fluffiest ball of happiness and all that is good but he can also be so hot it's unfairrrrrr !!!! and pls - that anyone fancam is my DOWNFALL - everytime I've tried to gif it i just give up bc i keep gasping for air. (SO my moots gif it for me instead 😂) and pspspsps 🎉 THIGHS 🎉 thighs to die for actually. Seok's duality really is a huge selling point IMHO - like it can be frightening!!

[ssouledout]

well helllooooooooo, it’s been a MIN

it’s been a HOT min honestly. i haven’t been on here in years.. like actual years. i kinda skimmed through my old entries and i want to actually sit down and read each one. because what a time that was!!!! i realize that this blog represents pieces my faith journey 🤯 i don’t think i intended it to be that?? but i was so on fire for Jesus and it really showed. was just barely starting my faith journey and i knew i was in for a ride.. but girl lemme tell you. IT’S BEEN A RIDE LOL. and im just getting started. i want to catch up on what happened these past 2ish 3ish years. 

we’ll start with my love life lol. i’m still single 😇 halo emoji because i’m truly content here right now. and God gave me peace when I left Matt 2+ years ago. like immense peace. but as time went on I started entertaining thoughts that made me question everything that happened. as if I completely forgot what God brought me out of. i became way more social and active on ig and started getting attention from a hs crush.. ignored the holy spirit’s alarm bells and entertained that SMH (if all of my worldly friends told me to stay away, then you know it’s bad bad lol). but i lowkey wanted to check it off my bucket list. also.. with God anything is possible right? i proceeded with much caution and i made sure that didn’t get far. but my character was changing. not entirely because of this man, but just over all. literally saw myself sliding back into who i WAS.. idk where to begin. lemme just say that life away from God ain’t it. especially after he has delivered you from some things. remember that post when i said i gave up mary jane for good? God knew i wasn’t actually ready to give that up yet. after about 8 months of staying weed sober (that’s a long ass time, shows that God was really at work in my heart!!), i started smoking again and thought that if i did it with family members, it was “fine”. all this that i mention was the start of my spiritual and mental downfall. i pinpointed it when it was all happening but i continued living life this way (i dont even want to say it was the old me.. it was different. like I was more in tune with the holy spirit this time. and i was drinking often and partying, but living in my parents’ home. hardly drank ever in college. had wayyy more money than before. confidence was building from working out consistently) until i was unrecognizable to myself. girl i was so broken. but that’s what sin and disobedience does. i reconnected with a lot of people from my past and met new people along the way. reconnected with hs friends. my northridge friends. all the men from my past lollllll (didnt plan this, but it happened?) i even re-gained *feelings* for someone in my past past. but after hanging out with him, those feelings went away thank you Jesus. men make me CRINGE LOL. i see what the enemy was trying to do though. why did i reconnect with these people? idk. i was getting comfortable being more social and felt it was fine to reconnect? prob bc i was feeling more confident too. priorities were just out of line.. aka where was God in this?? far away 

speaking of confidence though.. my body composition is different. she got a booty now, a toned back, and thicker thighs. my weight fluctuates a lot but she’s been looking and ✨feeling✨ good. waist trainers WORK btw. but i stopped wearing them for a while now (not to sound annoying and cliche but diet and exercise is more effective). 

that job i was venting about in previous posts... i stayed for 2 years and some months. it was bad. broken, evil, money hungry company. picked up some bad drinking habits there. formed friendships around gossip and getting drunk 🤢 like who was i?! unrecognizable i tell ya. made me sad realizing that one of my best friends who was also my coworker played a huge role in this. had to distance myself from her all year and it’s been good for my well-being. and she respects the distance i think. things are just different now but im happy with it. after maxim, i got a different recruiting job. was feeling so happy and blessed about it untilllllll my manager... not getting into that rn. in short, he gave off entitled, predatory, bipolar, immature vibes. God used that tho to make me leave.. because ever since i left my job in aug, i’ve been ON FIRE for the Lord!!! taking me from faith to faith. i’m back n betta baby. God’s been trying to 👏  talk 👏  to 👏 me, and i can hear him better now that i’m putting distractions aside. i fasted for the first time in april. and God was quiet - he was like “😗 you already know what you need to work on”. it was sooooo hard for me to let go of my sinful lifestyle.. partying was fun and it was part of my identity. like fr. identity- that’s a whole topic for another time. anyway, i went back to partying after that fast 🙃 this was really recent btw. willingly doing drugs but feeling the conviction. like girl didn’t God bring you out of all of this? thank God for his faithfulness, i don’t deserve his grace!!! in this season God is basically showing WHO he created me to be and how those things i attached myself to don’t serve me, God, or anyone really. i had to lose myself completely to find it tho.. yet again. hurt more this time around. please God no more, i learned my lesson hahahah 😭 

i’m jobless rn. my full time job is spending time with Jesus and i love it here 😭 i ain’t no baby christian anymore. i can proudly say that i’m FINALLY not a lukewarm christian.. sheesh took long enough thank you GOD.

I bought a perfume to wear everyday in this season to remember it!!! valentino voce vita. Here’s a short summary of what God is doing:

- exposed the enemy’s tactics and patterns in my life

- establishing my identity in Him and solidifying it 

- teaching me how to use my authority in Him and how to fully rely/trust in Him

- confirmed that he will give me my man of God and a family (HE GAVE ME A VISION OF HIS FACE AHHHH. he’s got a pointy nose and straight teeth. nice smile)

- placed an urgency in my spirit that something big is happening. and it’s all pointing to Jesus’ return which is sooooooon EEEEEE!! LETS GOOOO

- revealed and confirmed my calling.............. scary fun times LOL. he’s going to USE MEEEEE, idk how that will look exactly. but i started a mukbang channel 3 weeks ago and its growing. (been having fun with my food ig page all year and growing there too! but pausing that for now.) i’m trusting and obeying and not looking back

- gave me an opportunity to be the community service leader for heavenly fire ministry!!! attended their retreat in the beginning of the year btw and met some amazing women who are HOT (humble, open, & transparent)

i know i’m on the right track with the Lord YAY <3 been having sooo many intimate moments with the Lord and i’m excited to keep on experiencing his goodness. spiritual attacks are on a new level - the enemy’s old patterns aren’t working and he’s sending his stronger minions. but i’m covered and i KNOW where i stand. i know where God stands. and i know where the enemy stands. the truth has been revealed and i’m unstoppable on God’s team 🤩 

reminder: Galatians 6:9 (NLT) ‘So let’s not get tired of doing what is good. At just the right time we will reap a harvest of blessing if we don’t give up.’

anywayyyyy i hope to keep posting updates on here. now that i figured out my login info. i really hope and pray for more christ-like friendships. audrey is literally God-sent i love her sooooo much ugh. nikka and i are still friends and we stay encouraging each other!! so something good came out of maxim lol. also grateful for keelee, i hope we can hang more! 

that was a lot. bye for nowwwww ✌️ 

[writefightandflightclub]

Six ways to Sunday (PART TWO OF TWO): Marc Spector x fem!reader🌙

PART ONE IS HERE

Summary: It was only ever meant to be a one time thing. Just a one night stand. A casual Tinder hook-up with no strings and even fewer feelings. Clearly, you had both decided that once wouldn’t be enough; but you’re still not sure you’re on the same page about what qualifies as too much.

Rating: EXPLICIT. This is 18+ ONLY. Minors DNI. By clicking to read more, you’re agreeing you’re over the age of 18, have read the warnings, and you’re prepared to read adult themes.

Genre: hurt/comfort, smut, light angst, some fluff and silliness.

Characters: Marc focussed, cameos from Steven, fem!reader.

Word count: 12k. I know, I’m a mess, okay?

Author’s note: I’ll keep this brief (unlike the fic), and say two things. 1) I wrote 21k for something I intended to be a one-shot. No, I don’t know why I’m like this. But I needed it out of my brain so here we are. 2) I didn’t mean for the smut to go in that direction, but the thigh was right there, so if anything it was a purely logistical decision, don’t look at me. If anyone makes it through this, thank you, and I hope you enjoy it 🧡

Warnings: explicit smut (eventually), masturbation, porn watching, dick pics, blow job, handjob, thigh-riding, cum swallow, cum play / kink, daddy kink (brief) / bratty reader; pain kink if you squint; p in v mentions, oral mentions, fingering mentions. Hook-up / casual sex partner situation. Marc being emotionally witholding and keeping secrets. Injuries and blood (not graphic), wound care. Alcohol consumption.

GIF by the wonderful @damerondjarin 🧡

How do you get yourself into these situations? You have to wonder, as you watch the dark streets of London slipping by the window of your Uber.

The contrasts and subtleties of your urban playground are extreme. The shadows shift along with each neighbourhood you pass, stark variations in architecture, vibe, affluence. Each building and each street a pleasingly different character. You love that about London - always have. How it always felt to you like a series of different identities, coalescing into one huge, vibrant city system.

You sigh out a terse breath as you take in the different facades and faces of the buildings which sluice by the rain-mottled glass pane. Lit windows with a glow of home, and sketchy, hidden corners alike - all bandaged up safely in the dark.

The city looks safe while it sleeps, but you know there are an array of secrets hiding in the shadows. You can’t help but see the mirror to your own situation. Indeed, the shadows are the only place you ever meet Marc, and you know not whether it is his comfort or cover. Your security, or your threat. You know not whether his eyes could ever be lit for you; with a bright glow of home. Or, instead, whether his shadows will be your downfall, secreting you away from streets you know and taking you into unfamiliar territory. Making you feel so entirely lost.

You clench your fists, nails digging crescents into your palm. A sea of nausea rolls in the pit of you as the car slows to a drag, along one street in particular.

“Is it roundabout here somewhere, or what, sweetheart?”

Maybe. You consult your phone. “Yeah. Anywhere here will be fine.”

Will it? Will it all be fine?

The car jolts to a stop, and as soon as you have thanked the driver and stepped out, he is gone.

The street is dark and deserted. Nothing much to report aside from an urban fox digging through a tipped over bin. It’s all battened-down shop shutters and closed curtains. You look for signs of life, and you see an attic room at the top of the tall, narrow building directly before you. It is lit with an oranged light, cutting through the night sky and towering above you like the beacon of a lighthouse.

What danger lies ahead that it warns you of, you wonder? Is it the glow of a safe harbour, or are you about to be dashed upon the rocks?  

There’s no way of knowing.

How do you get yourself into these situations?

You take a deep, lung-expanding breath - for courage - and you push on the front door to the building, finding it already ajar. Your instincts scream at you to turn around. Now. Your head tells you to… but your heart? Well, your heart is undecided.

All you know -all you’ve been told- is that Marc needs you. Not someone. Not something. He needs you.

Something’s wrong, and, if that’s the case, you don’t intend to let him down. Even if you can’t be sure whether he would do the same for you.

Twenty minutes earlier

Blissfully, you have the evening all to yourself. Your roommate has been spending an increasing amount of time over at her boyfriend’s, and tonight is one such occasion. And so, to celebrate your solitude, you’ve poured yourself a nice glass of red wine. You’ve ordered in from your most beloved local eatery. For now, you have your favourite trashy show on the big TV in the living room, and for later, a very steamy date planned. With your vibrator, that is.

That’s right. No sign of Marc. Not for weeks now.

You try desperately not to contrast your situation with your roommate’s, as she spends time with her hunk of a man, and you binge watch a whole series of The Ultimatum. You try not to think about the fact you are nothing more than a booty call for a man who is – to say the least - giving you seriously dodgy vibes. You wonder idly, how do you get yourself into these situations? And, importantly, should you give more thought towards how to get yourself out of them, instead of stubbornly doubling down?

Of course, you mean Marc. Your latest bad decision.

However, you very quickly toss that thought. You’re getting plenty of orgasms out of your latest bad decision, so, on balance, you consider that things could be a lot worse, actually.

Still, just as you tried to block out thoughts of your roommate and her altogether smug coupling, you try desperately not to think of Marc. Unfortunately though, before you’re even halfway through your takeaway you already have your hand down your pyjama bottoms and his name on the tip of your tongue, so that ambitions not going super well. You even open up your browser, about to search for some variation on alleyway porn – so help you - hoping to relieve the desperate ache between your legs.

Maybe you’ll even send him a picture. Maybe he’ll like that. Or, maybe, as is often the case, he won’t reply to you for weeks and you’ll be both pissed off and disheartened, dealing once again with your rather pronounced post-dick-haze.

Anyway, you digress. Basically, you’re thinking about Marc. Marc and his strong hands and his… oh god, all of him. All of him in you and on you and around you. All of him, and your fingers are massaging your clit and the porn you found is shitty but you think you can get there anyway and unnngggg, maybe you should send him a picture, because you’re getting wet and you know how much he’d like that. Sure - sometimes he doesn’t reply for days or even weeks at a time; but other times? Well, at other times, he doesn’t seem able to resist you.

God, you think as you idly glide a finger through your folds, trying not to focus on the fact you’re not able to pleasure yourself half as well as he does. You really don’t want to be this hung up on him, based on little more than the power of his dick.

And yet…

You slip a finger inside of yourself.

You’ve Googled all of his potential sins to see if you can find something to pin on him and you can’t find him guilty of anything. Shocking as it is for someone who has been known to (consensually) spit in your mouth and has a list of secrets as long as his (rather sizeable) dick, there are surprisingly few red flags. He told you plainly, upfront, this would be a no strings situation, and that’s exactly what it has proven to be. If anything, instead of feeling resentful towards him, you should be lauding him - for managing to consistently tell you the truth and get you off with equal fervour. In fact, the more you think about it, he’s quite the catch, actually.

Though – and there’s the rub - that’s the problem, isn’t it?

You can’t quite “catch” him.

Oh well. You pick up the pace and pressure of your ministrations below your waistband, trying to forget him and focus on the task, quite literally, at hand. However, you do a terrible job of trying to forget him, apparently, as - in the very next moment - you are opening up your message chain with the man, scrolling and perusing for your favourite, magnanimously-gifted dick pic.

Okay. So you had told him you wouldn’t be waiting by the phone for him… but what he doesn’t know can’t hurt him. Right?  

You pause your scrolling abruptly, practically drooling as you land on an especially veiny, throbbing rendition of his dick, his head flushed a deep, ruddy colour and weeping from the tip. You commit it to memory before you clamp your eyes shut and focus on the memory of it, buried up inside of you. At least – you try. Try to focus on that and only that. The hardness of him, to keep the hints of softness away. You try to push aside the thoughts of his long lashes fanning shut in ecstasy. Of the little blessed smirk he does - on the rare occasion when you actually make him laugh. Of the soft brush of his lips up your neck and the reassuring rasp of his hand against your skin and the subtle contours of the veins in his forearm and the way you want him to be your boyfriend and that even the moon reminds you of him now.

Wait, what?

You want him to be your what, now?

You peel your eyes open, staring down at his dick pic in horror now, as though it is some cursed object; for how else could he have such power over you? How else could this hard man make you soft for him without cause or reason? How else, unless his dick was quite literally charmed?

Fortunately, you don’t have time to complete that thought, but unfortunately, you are unable to launch yourself to completion either, as the phone you are staring at indignantly rings brightly, mocking you without care by playing Debussy’s clair de lune - your assigned ringtone for Marc before you’d lost your sense of humour about such things.

Shit yes. It’s Marc. Calling you. Miracles are real, Gods do exist, and everything will be okay.

Your wank will be okay, as Marc can most definitely help you to… completion.

“Marc?” You answer so quickly it is probably embarrassing, your heart hammering and your hand continuing to play with your slick folds. After all, there’s only one reason he ever calls you. Sometimes, you resent that; but right now, you view it as rather fortuitous indeed.

“You have to come,” the voice says.

“Mmm. Ok, Marc,” you purr. “I think I can manage that. I’m already halfway there.”

“No. Um. God. Excuse me. Sorry. You have to come and help, yeah?”

You freeze. That’s not Marc.

“There’s an awful lot of blood, right, and I don’t know wot I’m doing and he’s too bloody stubborn for his own good…”

You sit bolt upright on the sofa, adrenalin piping instantly into your bloodstream, your heart beginning to hammer. When you speak again, there is no soft docile purr left in your voice any longer. You are no kitten, but all of a sudden a cat with claws. “Who is this?”

“Steven Gr– look, it doesn’t matter. A friend, innit?”

Your thoughts swirl. “Marc, this isn’t funny.”

“I agree, and believe me I’ve had words.” This voice. Another man. A British accent, in a roundabout way. Reminiscent of Marc, but not quite close enough. “But he needs you. Please.” You feel charged, but you don’t know what to do with all of this adrenalin, exactly, struggling with the shift in gears. Did this guy say something about blood? Is Marc hurt? You try to glean what you can from the few words spoken so far as you formulate your questions. Steven – is that his name? – sounds shaken. Panicked. Maybe even a little bit teary. “Ow! Oh, bloody hell that stuff stings!” You think that the voice turns his head away from the receiver. “What the hell did you tell me to do that for?” Who is he talking to? Is it Marc? You strain to hear. “Well, obviously I don’t know what I’m doing. I can tell you when antiseptic was invented but I don’t think that’s going to help us. What a monumental eff up this was.” The voice becomes clearer again as you blink uselessly in confusion – tips back towards the receiver. “Look. Sorry about all this. Can you just please come? Marc – he’s gonna be fine and dandy, nuffin’ to worry about, I promise – but he needs you, yeah?”

Something is resoundingly off, and that statement, is perhaps the most glaring red flag of all. “I doubt that Marc needs me for anything.” After all, he’s been consistently clear about that.  

“He does. He does, trust me.”

Your eyes narrow with scepticism. “I barely trust Marc. Why on earth should I trust you, Steven?”

Steven’s voice becomes small. A little sad. “Well. Because we don’t have anybody else.”

Your mouth forms a taut line, but this guy’s seeming distress is tugging on your heartstrings. Maybe that fact will reveal you as a fool. After all, you’ve listened to your heart and not your head overmuch lately.

“Please,” Steven implores one more time, still sounding frenzied, but gathering himself for his final plea. “If I text you an address, can you come?”

You fully stand now, urged on by the jitters sparking through your body. A series of alarms are blaring in your head, and this whole thing sounds shady as fuck. Has someone taken Marc’s phone? If so, have they hurt him, or worse? Have they somehow seen the saucy pictures you’ve shared with Marc and now they’re trying to entice you over? Will they hurt you too? It seems there are a million banal or nightmarish things that could be going on here, but only the one outside chance that what Steven said is true. That Marc really does need you.

“Can I talk to him?” you ask firmly, wanting to verify even a slice of this directly. “Put Marc on the phone, Steven.”  

“He can’t come to the phone right now, yeah? Can I give him a message?”

“Fuck.” You comb your hand over your hair in distress, trying to figure out what your next move should be. But already, in your heart of hearts, you know exactly what you’re going to do. After all, Marc drags you to him, like the moon drags the tide, doesn’t he? And so, if there’s even an outside chance that it’s true? That he needs you? You’re going to be there for him – even if you doubt that he would do the same for you.

You close your eyes, pinching the bridge of your nose between your fingers. There’s so much of this which doesn’t add up -not at all. You feel like this is about to be a really bad decision; but you already know you’re going to make it. You’ve been doing that an awful lot lately. “Fuck. Steven? Don’t worry. Tell Marc… Tell him I’ll be right there.”

Twenty Five Minutes Later

This is a bad idea. You know it’s got to be a bad idea. At least, if this all turns out terribly, it’s not going to blindside you, right? That’s something? That at least you saw the horrors coming?

Indeed, as you make your way up the winding stairs in the building, ears straining for any sounds which may signal danger, footfalls as stealthy as you can make them, you let every possible scenario play out in your head. You’re barely prepared for a single one of them, so it doesn’t help much, but you don’t have much else to go on, do you - besides having dropped your location in the group chat and googled “how to stop blood loss” in the Uber over here.

As one last ditch attempt you search “best self-defence strategy”, hurriedly scrolling through the results. Unfortunately, you are already failing to heed the best self-defence strategy of “running”, your feet carrying you ever closer to the threshold of -what you believe is- Marc’s place.

When you arrive at the top landing, you see a cracked open front door, fuzzy light pooling from around the edges of the frame. No signs of forced entry. (Isn’t that the first thing they always check for in crime shows before they jaunt inside? You forget.)

First, you tug in a deep breath, in through the nose and out through the mouth, just like in yoga class, in an attempt to steel yourself. Then, as quietly and as nimbly as you can, you push the door open wider, hoping to avoid any kind of ambush. To give yourself an advantage against any danger which may well befall you on the other side. The door inching open has no effect, besides a grating squeak, and so, with equal caution you suck it up and enter, still keeping a watchful eye.

Seeing no-one and nothing of suspicion so far you press onward, eyes hurriedly scanning the interior of the flat for information and clues. Your eye is drawn up toward the staggering eaves and the dark, aged wood. To the piles upon piles of dusty books, and to the illuminated fish tank smack bang in the middle of the room. Bile leaps up into your mouth as you venture forwards a little more, but finally, upon seeing that no trap has been sprung, you dare to call out his name. The sound comes out strangled and afraid at first, and then, as you take a few further steps, you muster greater courage from somewhere in your gut, protecting your voice deeper into the space.

“Marc?”

No response.

Something is wrong, you think.

Something is very wrong, and a hard gulp lodges in your throat and it’s too hot in here. Too hot and the air is thick with the scent of copper coins and it makes you feel sick and all you can think of is counting pennies with your Nana way back when. Counting pennies and the metallic tang rubbing off on your fingers and maybe your brain is trying to take you back to a happier place where the present moment can’t hurt you. Taking you away from here since you’re shaking like a leaf. Shaking, because you’re afraid; but, even so, you know you have to face your fears. Know you have to do it; for him, because something is wrong.

“I’m here.”

Your head whips in the direction of the flattened voice, and then finally you see Marc’s form. See him tucked behind a thick wooden pillar and laid out on the floor, his tan-brown skin on show as he languishes in black boxers. You see him now, his back propped against the long edge of the bed, one smooth, muscled leg stretched out before him. The other leg, bent at the knee, the tender sole of his foot curling towards his inner thigh.

He's hunched, posture dejected. Breathing laboured and light pooling across the contours of his body, shadows gathering in the recesses. He grips the neck of a bottle in the circle of his hand and his torso sways a little, a sharp, cutting breath sucked into his lungs as he swivels his head towards you, wincing and grabbing his left shoulder as he does so. You note now how his skin is marked with a pattern of deep reds and blooming violets, a particularly angry congregation of colour over the meat of his shoulder from blade to collarbone, and trailing down his bicep.

As you crane a little closer again, that is the moment you see the blood-stained cotton balls littering the floor. It is also the moment you feel your heart liquefying in your chest out of sheer concern.

“Marc!” you sound out – a round note which punctures the brooding, eerie calm of his shadowed cave, your body barrelling towards panic as you make haste towards him.

Your eyes flit over his form and around the room as you prepare to hunker down before him. “Are you alone?” you ask urgently as you scan over the wounds on his body, in case whomever inflicted such injuries might still be lingering – or might return.

He blinks an affirmative, as though nodding might be too much effort, his mouth slanted down at the corners, and his eyes gathering dark beneath the thick set of his brows. “As alone as I’m gonna get,” he offers defeatedly. You’re not sure whether that is a dig at you showing up, or what, but it’s not crucial enough of a detail to chase – for now.

“Steven?” you inquire, with a disobedient tremor in your voice, hurriedly setting down your handbag and shrugging off your coat, discarding them on the floor.

“Steven’s…. uh.” Marc manages to look sheepish.

“Let me guess. He can’t come to the phone right now? Jesus, why in the hell would he leave you like this?” You voice is too high of a register, and you are well aware of it, your words coming too fast. Your face is contorting in panic and your hands are shaking. Skimming over Marc’s body like bird’s wings, urgent and fluttering, hovering over him as you assess his injuries.

Your interactions are typically hard and rough and reckless, when it comes to this man -just the way he likes it - but you are trying your utmost now to be gentle. You can be gentle with him, if he needs it, and he evidently does in this moment. “Marc?” you question urgently, eyes widening and voice infused with yet more panic as your gaze licks across the skin he has exposed to you. You are searching keenly for clues and explanation, reassurance and solutions all at once; but you don’t find a single one of those things. Not until you meet Marc’s gaze. When you do, you find his stare steady and calm. Alarmingly calm, even, given the circumstances. Deceptively calm, perhaps. He even extends the hand of his good arm out towards your own, ever so slowly, squeezing your shoulder as though to reassure you.

Shit, this is all wrong. You should be helping him, and so, you make a more concerted effort to quell your spiking alarm.

“I asked Steven to go,” Marc says smoothly, a slow, unhurried tone you guarantee is meant to bolster you. You don’t know him well, by any means, but you know him well enough to know when he’s placating you. This? This is screaming if from the rooftops. “Before you got here, I asked him to go.” You blink at him, taking all of this in, your mouth still as dry as cotton-wool. Your eyes full with shivering tears. “Look, I’m sorry that he dragged you into this,” Marc forces a thin, contrite smile, but you can see through that too. Can see the truth of things. For the first time, in your experience, Marc is shaken. “He’s a bit of a panicker,” Marc stresses. “He overreacted.” Another, all too deliberate squeeze of your shoulder.

No.

No, you’re not falling for it.

“Bullshit,” your eyes sweep his body once more, making a more thorough catalogue of his injuries this time. “I’m with Steven G on this one. I think you’re under-reacting.” Marc winces, as your fingers gently crook under his chin, surveying him for any gashes and scrapes across his face. Your gentle, careful hands turn over his palms, your study sweeping up and down his arms. You have him obediently hunch forward so you can inspect his bare, muscled back – after a bit of a telling off, anyway.

From the way Marc moves -or doesn’t- you estimate he may have a cracked rib, or at least heavy bruising. A shiner or two which may develop on his face overnight, but judging by the bowl of melting ice packs on the bedside table, you can deduce he has already iced those. The main concern, and the culprit for the field of blood-red cotton balls littered like a garden of roses around his reclining form, are the puncture marks across his shoulder. A series of small, jagged gashes extending over his shoulder from collarbone to blade in the shape of a crescent.

The wound leaves him hunched and stony, weeping red ichor as though he is a fallen angel who has been torn from his wings. Conscientiously, you trace the shape and patterns of these strange wounds. And, if you didn’t know better, you’d conclude that they looked like bite marks. What on earth could have been so large as to have taken a chunk out of him like that? What on earth could be the culprit? Dog would be the most obvious choice; but you’re quite sure you’ve never seen a dog with a maw as big as that.

“Marc. What the fuck happened to you?”

There is a familiar beat as he looks at you -maybe he’s always just trying to buy himself some time - and then, he shakes his head softly from side to side. “I was jumped.”

“By who, Marc?” you say incredulously. “Tony the fucking tiger?”

Another beat, and he evidently opts to plead the 5th.

Wow. He’s not going to tell you then? At least, not everything there is to know, and not anything at all of use?

It makes you a little peeved, if you’re honest. He might not have wanted to drag you into this, but you have been, and he’s not even going to do you the dignity of trying to explain it? Still, you know better than to kick a man while he’s down, and by the look of him, he hasn’t had the best day, has he?

Marc nods promptly, down to your side where your handbag languishes next to you. “What were you planning to do with the 12-inch kitchen knife in your purse, sweetheart?”

Hmm, you snort. Nice try, but he’s not deflecting that easily. “I improvised. Just in case.” You catch the glint of the blade in your bag, but then you stare him down with just as much steel. “If you won’t tell me anything, fine. But, you need do need to go to the hospital. Like, now, Marc.”

“I’m fine, alright? I’m a fast healer.” He looks cagey, but glosses over it expertly. “I just need a little, uh, divine inspiration is all, and I’ll be right as rain by morning.” He looks up at the ceiling then, as if to summon it, but nothing seems to come to him.

You exhale a long sigh, chewing on your lower lip. He must be in pain, you venture, but he’s barely showing it. A valiant effort, sure, but you can read his body better than that, can’t you? Have learned how to interpret every twitch of muscle and slip of tendon. Every flicker and contortion of his face. You see that fixed set of his jaw, muscles writhing over bone. The veins standing out in relief; roping through his forearms. The terse breaths rising and falling in his chest and the tell-tale wince on the flare of his rib cage.

You know. You can see that he’s hurting; and therefore, maybe Steven was right. If he’s too stubborn to go to a hospital, maybe Marc does need you tonight.

You look at him. Making every effort to look into him and see past what he presents at face value. And, if on your first pass your eyes saw little, cloaked with frenzy and panic… If on your second you were able to assess and catalogue his injuries, it is on your third pass that you see him. Not a body. Not someone. Not just anyone. Not his deflections. You see Marc.

You see that glint in his eyes - which drives you to distraction - perfectly exhibiting his stubborness. You see the way a hard swallow dips in his neck when he falters briefly under your study, showing you he can be vulnerable after all. You see the tangle of his curls cascading over his sweat-dampened brow, showing a rare crack in his cool, controlled façade. You observe the tension in his arm as he coils his hands more tightly around the neck of his bottle; perhaps the biggest giveaway of all. The sign that he wants some relief, in one form or another.

So, later, you may care that he did not tell you what happened. Later, you may question your choices – chalk this up to bad decisions. But, for now, you resolve that you will give him relief in any way you can. You will give him care because he needs it, and regardless of who he is and all the things you do not know about him, you know who he is to you.

“Does it hurt?” you soothe, your voice gathering weight. Becoming less flighty and panicked. Becoming cool and calm for him, because he needs this, you think.  

You continue to look into him, and Marc is the first to drop your gaze; in itself a rare thing. His mouth and brow become stern, straight lines, everything drawing down. He squirms in position, his muscles rippling and the motion causing him to suck air through his teeth. His silence is enough of an answer this time.

Yep. It hurts.

You reach your hand out toward him, and for a moment Marc draws back from you as though your touch might hurt him too – though whether he fears cruelty or kindness, you are not sure. Cautiously, more slowly this time, you try again, reaching -with a soft sigh of air- to gingerly comb his coiled hair back from his forehead. For a moment, Marc’s face weighs heavier, brow burdened - almost with contempt that you would dare to be so tender with him. But, after only a few moments of you drawing his curls back with the slow rake of your fingers, Marc’s eyes close, lashes fanning out over his cheek. His lower lip quivering for a moment, as though this kind touch has moved him with a far greater force than that with which it was dealt.

His lips part as though to speak. His eyes busy all too suddenly with schemes, no doubt plotting to take back some power. To regain some control. To direct how this is going to go… But you decide no. Not this time. This time, for once, you resolve that he is going to relinquish just a little bit of control to you.

“Shhhh. Shushhh,” you soothe, voice as level and pacifying and calm as you can make it. “It’s alright. You’re alright. I’m gonna help you, Marc. Just tell me. Tell me how to help you.” You shift your hand to cup his cheek, and for a blessed moment, Marc leans into it, subtle tears pooling in the corners of his deep, umber eyes. For a moment, you see more than a sliver of him. More than the face he shows you; but, he quickly shrouds it again. He allows his relief to last for only a moment, before he remembers himself - and in the next, he is clasping his hand firmly around your wrist, drawing your touch away from him as though it is a cruelty.

“First aid kit. Bathroom cabinet,” he says brusquely, plenty of heft to his voice now. Almost as though he’s overcompensating for the cracks you seem to have found in him, sealing them over. He nods over in the direction of the bathroom. “I wouldda had this taken care of by now. Steven was being a wuss about the whole thing. Poor fella nearly passed out from the blood.”

Ah, yes. The mysterious Steven. A mystery within a mystery. More and more, you are coming to the conclusion that you must understand Steven in order to understand Marc.

You whisper that you’ll be right back and you venture through the space, cutting towards the sink. The basin is coated with splatters of red already, the first aid kit opened and resting out on the slimline shelf, some of the materials spilled out and on to the floor - as though the panic you had heard through the phone had transpired as chaotically as it sounded it had.

With another deep breath to steady your nerves, you gather up the more obvious supplies from around the place, tracking back to Marc. You can’t help but skim your eyes around the place - over his desk and shelves as you walk - drinking in the titles from the spines of the towering piles of books and mentally cataloguing his possessions. Looking for any clues you can find to aid you in solving the mystery of him.

Puzzles? Poetry? Egyptology? Far from answering your questions, the rabbit warren only deepens. Complicates. Your theories fracture and branch into yet more questions.

A divot carves itself into your brow. This… This can’t be what he was keeping from you, can it? The reason he never has you over here? A deathly secret penchant for ancient history and Rubik’s cubes? It doesn’t add up, but you can’t help but trying to do the sums regardless.

When you kneel back down, close to Marc’s half-reclined body, no doubt he can see such questions in your eyes - especially since you do little to mask them. After all, you’re not quite as comfortable with secrets as he evidently is. Still, you rationalise. It has to count for something, that he’s honest about the fact he’s holding things back, doesn’t it? You softly shake your head, and, casting your mental abacus aside, you turn your attention to the task at hand, preparing to patch his wounds.

He takes a swig of the whisky. “Anaesthetic,” he deadpans.

You are not amused. In fact, you feel taut with worry, and you avoid meeting Marc’s gaze, even as he studies you intently.

You can feel his eyes follow you, soft and hazy and slow blinking as you tend to him. Cleansing the gashes. Wiping up the inky red tendrils. Gently dressing his wounds. It must hurt, but he barely so much as winces – only the occasional ripple of his dense muscles. A shock undulating down his abs to the dense trail of hair sneaking below his boxers. A clench darting down his bare, muscled thigh as one application of antiseptic particularly smarts. It draws your eye, his body. Stretched out before him all sculptural; but still, you remain focussed. You make sure that your hands remain slow and careful. As tender as you have ever touched him.

You can’t bear to look him in the eye as you care for him like this, your hard, strong man all weakened, but you find you can still read him all the same. Can hear his breathing slow and soften under your care. Can see some of the tension fall from his packed shoulders.  

After a while of being weighed by Marc’s intent study, the attention begins to burn you. And so, you can’t help but reach for a distraction – whether for him, or for you, you’re not sure. “You know. You should take me out to dinner.” You look at him then, eyes glancing off one another’s as sharp and strong as two blades colliding - but you do not linger long enough for him to cut you. Only long enough to enjoy him flailing for a moment, and so you can’t resist a delicious smirk to rival his best. “That’s how you stop the bleeding isn’t it? Apply pressure?”

You bite back a tentative grin, but you swell a little with pride as your joke earns a lazy, involuntary flash of teeth from Marc.

“Clever girl. You made a joke,” he interprets coolly. In a mildly patronising tone, no less, which you know you shouldn’t enjoy half as much as you do. And yet, when you look up at him, searching out the rare warmth of his smile, creases radiating out from his umber eyes, you have to look away all over again. He looks at you with such a delicate, complex heat brewing there that it floors you.

“I Googled ‘stopping blood loss’ in the car over,” you chat idly, reaching to deflect. Finally admitting to yourself that perhaps you do wear some masks around him after all. That you do have some secrets; you don’t wish him to know quite how much he destabilises you, for one thing. Leaves you reeling. “Clocked some baller self-defence moves too.” A bright but subdued grin lights your features, as you continue to tape down gauze and apply dressings. “So don’t you dare mess, Marc. I’m hard now.”

You sit up taller, with a little, definitive nod of your head. You have concluded your efforts. You resist the urge to dip and plant a kiss to his collarbone to mark it. There, I’ll kiss you all better.

You shiver, when Marc’s warm palm curls around your upper arm, smoothing over your skin at a few centimetres per second. “Baller moves huh?” he asks, a shroud of desire falling over his voice as his touch traverses your smooth, forgiving skin. “What did you find?”

Ironic, sort of. Self-defence, as a topic of conversation with Marc? It’s laughable. Useless, really. As of lately, your self-preservation instincts are all off-kilter. You have no defences against him, and he knows it too, from the look hiding beneath his hooded gaze. His hand sneaks up, smoothing beneath the sleeve of your pyjama tee and cupping your shoulder, the rough pad of his thumb drawing circles – little orbiting moons.

“Top strategy was running,” you intone, voice faltering, eyes fighting the urge to close as he smooths you, and tongue almost slack in your mouth.

“You should have,” he says plainly, and you don’t doubt it. Not for one second.

A gulp dives down your throat. “Guess I’m not very good at knowing when to quit.”

He dips his perfect chin down, briefly, to his meticulously patched shoulder. “Guess I should thank you for it.”

You search his face inquiringly. You are a ball of questions, looking for answers, yet finding his eyes as impenetrable as the engulfing black, swallowing up his burnt umber irises.

What are you into, Marc? Funny, that the first DM you’d sent him would be your prevailing question even now.

He has a past. You know it. You can taste it on him. Taste it on his tongue when he fucks it up into you, all reckless abandon like he’s been parched of anything good for longer than he would care to tell. Can feel it on his hands when he applies them with lethal precision to make you fall apart – skilled and trained and dangerous and relentless. Can see it in his want-tortured face when he looks at you like he doesn’t deserve a damn thing that’s his in this world. You know now, you think, that he doesn’t keep you in the dark because of anything you lack. Instead, it’s simply that he’s lived there for so long, that he must have forgotten what the light feels like. Must believe that he is only loveable in pieces. In shadowed fragments. Pieces of the moon – that whole celestial body - slipped to you in crescents like illicit little trinkets you gather and guard like you could piece him together if only you had the key.

His hands, you can guess, moving over you now with an aching, slow pace, have done things you might not want to know about, and maybe you should run. But you feel too the regret pouring off of him. He’s cool and calm but that is chaotic. It’s messy and brutal and unforgiving, just like the way he takes you, as if you and his pain have become one and the same. As if he fills you with it for even one moment of respite.

“Marc,” you say plainly, cracks in your voice like fractures in old walls of stone as you settle your hand over the top of his. “You know. I’m not asking. But if you ever do want to tell someone?” A lump bobs down his neck. “You know you can tell me.”

He knits his brows, shadow pooling more densely in the hollows of his face. He tugs in a slow gust of air, as if to launch some words of confession here and now. Of explanation. However, you know better than to expect that from him. How could it be that easy, when he’s been holding back for so long?

“Marc?” you launch on a taut line of breath, knowing that there is at least one question you have to ask, this hole in your knowledge far too glaring. “Who the fuck is Steven?”

Marc grows uncomfortable, squirming in place. Hunching his dense shoulders closer towards his ears. Swapping the position of his bent and elongated legs around and back again. All that, but when he starts talking about Steven, his face is as open as you’ve ever seen it. Lit with an affection that, quite frankly, you did not know he was capable of.

You feel words writhing under his skin. On the tip of his tongue, and so, you begin to gather up the soiled medical supplies from around Marc, hoping that dividing your focus will allow him a little more room to open up, should he want to.

“We’re… roommates. Sometimes he lives here, sometimes I do. Sometimes we’re both around.” A lazy flash of teeth glints from beneath his curled lips, and, when you glance at him fleetingly, it might be the most unweighted you’ve seen Marc’s face since you met him. “Sweet fella. Quite the nerd. Talks like a goddamn Victorian chimney sweep.” A small smile bursts on to your face and Marc checks himself, becoming more serious. “Our, uh, schedules were never supposed to intersect. Did everything I could to keep things separate. But he… Uh.” Marc nods slowly, bringing his palm up, sawing the pads of his fingers back and forth along his lower lip, mouth downturned and his eyes shifting from side to side. It looks like there is more to say. Much more to say. Like he reins something in, before speaking with finality. “He’s a good buddy. He, uh, got me out of some sticky fixes.”

You are wordless as you process this. At first, you had wondered whether the connection with Steven might have been romantic, or sexual, but after hearing Marc, you’re no longer convinced of that. He speaks about him in almost a brotherly way. Like he recognises a part of himself in the dude, on some level; however different they may be.

Still, you arc your eyebrow in Marc’s direction, looking at the one bed, pointedly. You’re not exactly lapping his whole story up about “roommates” without question, but there’s something which rings somewhat true in his words and his tone and in the set of his face. And so, even if you give this subtle nod to the fact you aren’t entirely placated, you opt not to challenge him any further on his business. “Well.” You pump your eyebrows. “Rent’s a bitch in central London, I suppose.”

Marc’s eyes glow at you then like lit moons, with gentle admiration, his lips curling with a small smile. You finish gathering up the supplies and hint that you’ll be right back, discarding the bloodied scraps into the bathroom bin and tucking the first aid kit back behind the mirrored cabinets. Then, you take a deep breath and cross to Marc once more. He’s still laid out where you’d found him, and it can’t be all that comfortable. Still, he appears to be enjoying gazing out of the window, where it frames the night sky. “Do you want some help getting up onto the bed?”

“Nah. Come sit with me for a mo’, will you?”

You stand before him, looking doubtfully down at the floor for a moment. Contemplating whether this may turn out to be another bad decision as you feel Marc’s heating gaze dragging over you. You reciprocate, looking at him all stretched out below you - looking delicious despite having been almost eaten alive – and it is only then that you have the wherewithal to consider your own appearance for the first time since arriving.

The verdict?

Mild horror ensues.

Shit.

Given the urgency, of course, you’d rushed over here without giving much thought to your aesthetic, shoving a coat and pair of boots on top of what you were already wearing. Usually, when you meet up with Marc, you are dressed to kill, aiming to provoke all of his senses and sensibilities towards one, very specific end. Him fucking you. In fact, you have your bratty, come get me, not as innocent as I look, eat your heart out then eat my pussy, succubus-chic aesthetic down to a fine art, even if you do say so yourself. However, right now is a different story, and you are serving rather… different vibes. Vibes which, to your disdain, now have Marc’s lips tipping up into an infuriating smirk. In particular, he seems to be fascinated with your “cookie doughs and cookie don’ts” pyjamas, the top emblazoned with a pattern of cute little cartoon foodstuffs.

Well, fuck. It’s a different side of you than Marc usually sees, that’s for sure. You fold your arms defensively around your middle, but even if you are doing your best to scowl at him, you can’t quash a brief, wry smile at your own expense.

Marc looks up at you, quirking a thick, dark eyebrow. “What d’ya got underneath? Are your panties as sexy as the rest, honey?” he teases darkly, and despite yourself a heat snakes up your spine like his voice alone is charming it.

He’s really going to go there? Going to talk about underwear right now, when last time -feeling bolder than you are in this second- you had shoved your dampened and discarded knickers into his pocket. You recall, with a rush of arousal, how he’d fondled them and gathered the scent of you up, lifting his girthy fingers up to his nose to inhale you into him.

“Fuckin’ perv,” you sass boldly, and his blackened eyes glint with challenge - obsidian dark. The planes of his face angled and just as harsh as his strident palm usually is when it slaps a sharp sting across the globes of you, and god, you can’t believe that even like this, all beaten up and still withholding his secrets that he could illicit this heat in you, your core warm and flickering for him like a candle in the dark.

Your pussy clamps down on nothing as your eyes trail over him, all splayed out on the floor like this. Your stomach flips disobediently when he wraps his broad fist around the neck of the whisky bottle and tips it up for a swig, wrapping his smirk around the lip of it, the spirit lurching and gurgles as he sucks. As he drinks, his knuckles bump up against the tip of his strong nose and god. It’s the wrong time. The wrong time to think about this -wholly inappropriate – but all you can think about is the fact that those fingers have been buried in you, all the way to the knuckle, making you come undone with precision. The memory of it is buried even deeper.

“I’m sure these will drive you wild, Marc,” you caution, tugging the waistband of your bottoms down to reveal your huge, comfy briefs, peppered with adorable little clouds and rainbows.

Marc actually licks his lips. “Don’t get me wrong. I like your usual look a lot, honey.” His voice curls in you like a come hither finger, beckoning you closer. “But this side of you’s kinda cute too. Maybe I’d like to see you like this more often.”

“Right.” You pump your brows, sceptically, and - against your better judgement - you plonk yourself down next to him now, your back settled up against the frame and your neck braced against the lip of his mattress. “Except… I think you’re high from blood loss, or something,” you say snidely. “Because this is the side of me you didn’t want, remember? The side you don’t get.”

You hurriedly fumble the bottle of whisky from Marc’s warm hand for some belated Dutch courage. The amber liquid burns a satisfying trail down your middle as you tip it back for a generous, rousing swig. Blech. You screw up your face. And, as you pass the bottle back to him, Marc looks at you warily from beneath his endlessly long lashes.

There is a beat as he blinks at you. Tension writhes through his jaw in the face of your gently steeled expression, before he forces a taut, indecipherable smile on to his mouth. “Yep,” he clamps his lips into a thin line. “Right.”

You try desperately not to let even a hint of frustration or disappointment show in your face. You’ve always known this. That it’s just sex. Has never been anything else.

Still, he stares you down, and you try not to drop your gaze to his lips. Try not to imagine all the ways you might kiss some feeling into him. Some feeling other than pain. You resist him for now, but it feels inevitable somehow. Inevitable that you will have your lips on him tonight, like the timing is written in some ancient iteration of the night sky and you are powerless, simply waiting for the stars to align.

Instead, for now, Marc takes a deep swig out of the bottle, perhaps for some courage too. “Look. I know it’s gonna sound like a load of baloney, but I swear. I’m trying to protect you.” His eyebrows slope up, his expression contrite.

You shake your head tiredly. “From what?”

A beat. Buying himself some time. Thinking about which sliver of him to hand to you. “From my life. This playground of gods and monsters in my head.” He relinquishes the bottle and presses the heels of his palms into his eyes. “From me.”

“I don’t need you to protect me,” you snipe wearily. “I know my own limits, remember? My own mind too.”

“I believe that,” he says softly, and in earnest. “But you don’t know mine.” His words are spoken in a monotone of defeat. With all the pallor of spent ash. There is no threat you can decipher in his words; only fact. Only apology. Maybe you should run, but you do not want to. You only want to draw him closer.

You contemplate him for a moment. Marc with a “c”, a crescent curl like the bending of a tongue or the crooking of a finger. His body stretched out before him, spilling out from the lip of the bed like the golden pouring of dawn over the horizon, yellowed light pooling around the dips and swells and contours of him. He’s beautiful like this. Softer. You’ve grown so used to having him fast and dirty in the dark. To stealing mere glimpses of him through the shadows; but you could get used to him like this, you think. Could have him bare and long and slow in the light and devour him whole.

You search Marc’s face, and you see gentle resignation there. His secrets and his deflections are many, but in this moment, there is a truth harboured there. All you see is a felling. You see the walls in his eyes crumble like they were forged of an ancient stone. See his will flake and give way to dust as he collapses, under the weight of his own need for you.

It was only ever meant to be once; but neither of you can get enough, can you? It doesn’t matter what he keeps from you, any longer. He’s told you so many times, so plainly, all that he can’t give you and doesn’t want to take; but he’s never once told you to stop.

A hard swallow bobs down his corded neck as you move your hand unthinkingly across to his bare thigh - languid circles, beginning with an innocent attempt at comfort - and quickly corrupting. A divot carving into his brow as you tenderly caress the meat of him. “I suppose you’re right, Marc. I don’t know anything about you. Not really.” With a pained expression, he flattens his hand over the top of yours, tentatively lacing his fingers. “Maybe one day, you’ll feel like talking. But, in the meantime, you should know. There are plenty of hot men in London who would be willing to spit in my mouth and never call - but who won’t also need me to patch up a mysterious bite from the Loch Ness Monster. I have options, darling.”

Marc nods in resignation, albeit, the weight in his face giving way to a sudden, dark smile, carving out an etching of mirth across his cheeks like beauty from stone. It’s the kind of smile which sinks desire through your middle, like the hot, liquid burn of spirit, his half-moon eyes blazing just as bright.

“Sure,” he drawls, in a voice as thick and dark as the shadows coalescing in the hollows of him. As smooth and sweet as nectar. “But how many of those schmucks would fuck you so good your eyes roll back into your skull, honey?”

Fuck.

His words make you physically sweat, a hot prickle dancing across your skin. A clammy slick beneath your palm as Marc moves your hand up and up his thigh, closer towards the bulge which begins to strain against the thin material of those tight, black boxers. “Uhhh,” you whimper, greedy and hungry for him now, heat snaking up your neck. Your core turning over as he drags the tide of you, your body doing his bidding. “How dare you use facts and logic against me?” you bluster, trying to distract from the rising swell within you, even while your voice drums in your throat like a locust’s wings; brittle and tremoring.  

You don’t want to give him the satisfaction, not at all. But at the same time? God. You remember how good it feels when you do.

“Besides,” he says, inching your hand further - ever so deliberately - up his leg. “You sure as hell know at least one thing about me. You know how to take me apart, six ways to Sunday. Don’t you, Princess?”

Hnnnnnngggg. “I know a thing or two about that, yeah.”

You shiver as he slides your hand closer to his crotch. You feel the heat bleeding through the thin fabric, and the hard, straining mass of him swell beneath your touch.

“You shouldn’t tempt me, Marc,” you say shakily, breath quickening, a pulse of desire thrumming under your skin. “I had a tragic failed half-wank earlier. I have plenty of… steam to work off.” His hand on top of yours, he moves your palm back and forth up the length of him, until he is hard enough that your fingers can curl and grip him through the soft, black cotton. He’s so warm.

“Do you always make jokes when you’re nervous?” Marc teases, somehow managing to maintain a relatively cool façade, even if you can feel how much he’s aching for more of your touch.

“Oh, you noticed?” you sing-song, tone dripping with sarcasm. “Clever boy.”

“Brat,” he counters darkly, with a curl of his delicious lips, and for that, you punish him by squeezing his cock in your palm until he shudders. His own palms flatten, fingers splaying out across the floor by his hips as though he half expects to fall through it, plummeting -perhaps- along with his bedding need. “Show me,” he commands gruffly, hastily clawing some power back. “Show me how you take me apart.” Marc lifts his gaze to you then, a clear plea in his eyes. His brow still twisted by this perpetual weight, and jagged shards of pain scattered across his face.

He looks at you. He looks at you like Steven was right. Like he needs you. Like he is swept up in it - a force even stronger than the steadily coursing river of want throbbing in his blood.

“Y-you want…?” You hesitate, not forgetting his injuries for one second. “Now? You’re hurt and-“

“-I know my own limits, honey,” he breathes, darks eyes enthralling you entirely. “I can tolerate pain. But I’m not sure I can wait a second more to feel the ways you can give me pleasure.” His gaze flits gently around your face, reading you like a book, cover to cover. Seeing if that’s what you want to. If you didn’t, you are sure he would back off in a heartbeat. But the truth is, you do want him.

No; more than that. You need him, too.

And, the moment he realises it? The stars align.

You are practically fall on to his lips, swinging your body around to straddle his thighs, his warm broad hands clawing desperately to rid you of your clothes. Your tongue shoves greedily over his. He tastes of the hot boil of spirit in your mouth. Of salt and sweat. His stubble rasps your throat as his lips work you and there is a tumult, barrelling and urgent.

With your cooperation, your lower half is soon bare before him, your heat settled over the meat of his thigh, arousal slick and liquid against his warm, firm flesh. Unthinking, chasing your want, you tilt your hips to grind down on him, his quad flexing and providing a divine pressure against your folds as his tongue opens your mouth up, stealing air from you. He snatches a shattered moan from your lips as it blooms from deep within your chest, grabbing hold of your hips and guiding you back and forth, rocking you more vigorously against him.

If you had the sense to move, you’d move. Move to sheath his hard cock inside of you. The veined shaft which he now pumps languidly in the circle of his fist, watching how you use his body to get off with slack-jawed awe. However, what you’re doing feels so good you can’t even imagine forsaking a morsel of this pleasure; not even in favour of promised gains, and so, you stay. You brace your weight carefully against his good shoulder and the lip of the bed, and you grind.

“That’s it, honey. Hop on and finish yourself off on my thigh, huh?” You mewl for him. “Think you earned this, for taking care of daddy, didn’t you?”

God, it feels good.  It’s embarrassing, how quickly you are unravelling. Breathy moans falling past your lips and the glide of your slick heat coating his leg and his arms folding around your waist. His mouth sucking and laving greedily at your tits, the heft of them swaying in his face as you grind and rock yourself into oblivion. His thigh, clenching and shaking beneath you with how much watching you pleasure yourself is turning him on.

“That’s it, sweet girl,” he praises, dipping the elastic waistband of his boxers beneath his balls to expose the full length of him to you, sitting heavy and proud against his taut stomach, hard and veined and needy. “Got yourself all worked up, huh?” He speaks with that biting, patronising, soothing edge to his voice. A distilled blend which never fails to take you higher. “Ride daddy’s thigh -just like that - and I promise I’ll make it alllll better.”

You submit a symphony of breathy, almost pious moans to Marc as he watches your every move intently – with awe. You may be the one getting off but you swear the act is dismantling him piece by piece with every nudge of your clit and glide of your folds over his skin, releasing a pool of molten slick over the contoured muscle of his thigh. Taking him apart every time his cock is nudged against his own stomach as you roll your hips, the swell of your belly providing him this delicious fiction as the motion pins his shaft in the space between you. Breaking him with every wet suck or swirl of his tongue or roll and pinch of finger and thumb against your nipples. Wrecking him with the tipping back of your head in ecstasy while he tastes the bead of sweat gathered in the valley of your breasts. Devastating him with each smooth, keening note falling from your pretty mouth, your noises sinking desire like a stone through his middle.

You look at him beneath you as you undulate like a wave on top of him, all hooded gaze and disbelieving lips. You feel his hands clamping at your soft middle, gathering up rolls of flesh as he works you down on him, increasing the pressure against your folds and your aching, swollen clit. He looks delicious, all muscled and sturdy, and you want his body everywhere. You want to take him in your mouth and taste the swell of him on your tongue. Want him sheathed inside you as you sucker him deeper until he is spilling over and up into you.

“Fuck,” he breathes - a wrangled sound, his voice sunken as your end blooms from your centre, catching you off guard. You gush over him, eking out every aftershock and leaving an artwork of dripped slick – pale nectar smeared along his tan brown thigh which now glistens and shines like moonlight beneath you. “Fuck, baby. So fucking hot.”

You shudder down from your high, core still fluttering for him, and your relief is only momentary. As soon as you peel open your screwed-shut eyes and witness the wrecked expression on Marc’s face – the sheer wantonness of him – you are crawling with an urgent need all over again. You look down at him as he groans and helplessly fucks himself into the circle of his fist, looking fit to pop and spill his seed over his knuckles. You’d like to see that; but you have other, more devious plans for him.

You can plainly see the strain of both his torment and pleasure playing over his features. With a grunt, he quickly lifts and rocks the bottle to down another messy swig of whisky, the sharp odour eddying between you with his ragged breath. He is so undone with pain and want alike that a liberal drip sidles from out of the corner of his mouth, the bead rolling down his chest, a rivulet coursing between the meat of his pecs.

“Can I… help you?” you offer breathily, arcing your brow and nodding down to his needy length. “I… I can be gentle with you.”

“I… I don’t mind if you aren’t,” he responds, thoroughly caved-in by need, face all crumpled with it, body even hunched as though he buckles under the weight of it. “Please.”  

He begs you. The sheer force and command of him subdued, for now, he must finally know how it feels – to be at your mercy. The strength and power of him compromised, his pleasure hanging by a thread which you could dangle in front of him for hours, if you wanted. You could tease him and torment him in all the ways he teases you. Take him apart, piece by piece. Take him to the edge and back again. But… as much as you think you would like that, there is something in his eyes which makes you want to be a little more generous.

“I don’t want to hurt you, Marc,” you soothe. No more pain for him. No pain. Enough. Marc looks like he’s had enough dealings with pain to last a lifetime, and you think it’s about time something changed. You think he deserves softness, and so, you give him a promise as soft as the kiss you plant, just below his ear. “Gonna take care of you, baby. Going to make you feel good.”

When your soft, dulcet tones filter into the shell of his ear, Marc’s face twists with a new burden. A burden which seems to collapse him more so than all the others you’ve seen so far.

You climb off from his thigh, shifting your body back so that you can arc your mouth down over him. “So beautiful, all spread out for me like this,” you praise, leaning to trail your mouth down his neck, your tongue laving at the valley of his chest and lapping up the bead of amber liquid. “Don’t need to worry,” you kiss across his skin. “Going to look after you, Marc. I’m right here.” You suck on him, on the meat of his pecs, tracing your fluid tongue over each ridge and contour. Flicking across his nipples until they harden and he whimpers - a delicious, cracked-open sound. With a wolfish, crescent grin, you lick and mouth over his abs, settling yourself in between his thighs and bracing your palms against them as you dip hungrily towards him, swiping your tongue around the swollen, ruddy head of his cock and collecting the salty pearl of precum, the taste of him flooding your tongue.

“Fuck. I…” Marc shudders, fumbling for words as you nuzzle your nose into the dense, grizzled hair at the base of him, inhaling his musk. As you flatten your tongue and lick a broad stripe along the underside of his shaft, relishing the ripple of his veins and contours as you travel up to the tip of him. His cock twitches, swollen and needy and desperate – so desperate - to be enveloped by the warm cavern of your mouth.

“What?” you ask playfully, travelling back to the base of him and sucking his heavy balls into your mouth, releasing them with a gentle pop. “What do you want, Marc? What do you need?” You apply a pattern of kitten licks and kisses along the length of him, disappearing the tip of him between the petals of your lips.

“God,” he shivers, voice full of holes. He throws his head back on to the lip of the mattress, tipping that sharp, angled jaw and nose up to the sky.

“There are no gods here, Marc. Only me. Only you and me. So tell me what you need.”  

You suck at him a little harder, taking him deeper into your mouth, engulfing him and he engorges to his full stretch. Your ministrations are meticulous; perfectly calculated. Perfectly precise. You do know. Exactly how to take him apart. His eyes practically roll back into his head and he lays a pattern of terse breaths as though he’s trying to stave of his end already. You can tell that he’s fighting it. Trying not to give in to you so easily. Marc; always so strong. So fucking stoic. And here you have him, little whimpers and whines spilling liberally from his lips.

“What do you need, Marc?”

He screws his face up momentarily, before his jaw drops open with a shocked gust of breath as you work him harder, his hips chasing you as he fucks up into your mouth. “More. Need more.” he pleads. “More of you.”

“Mmmmm,” you hum around his shaft, his head dropping back down simply -it seems- so that he can look at you in awe. His hand hovers above your head, guiding you down on to him again and again with the scarcest of contact, as though you are his gentle bird.

I’ll take care of you, Marc. I’ll take care of you if you’ll let me.

“Please. Please. Please,” he begs. So beautiful. Such pretty offerings.  Such jewelled words, his length heavy and thick and warm on your tongue. His eyes are spiking with tears of frustration, his hips bucking to surge into the circle of your throat; gently, languidly – you are in control. His thighs are shaking. His abs rippling and biceps clenching as the string in him tightens, preparing to snap. His body preparing to shoot his load into you. His palms flattened and braced against the floor.

You want him. You want him like this; soft and bare and slow.

Your head bobs more vigorously on his cock, taking him faster and deeper and you know that he’s close. You know, and as soon as you taste the first flood of his tang spilling over, you scrape two fingers through the slick you had pooled on his thigh, gathering it up and unceremoniously shoving the taste of yourself across the flat of his tongue. His lips clamp around your fingers instantly, obediently, eagerly cleaning every drop from you as he moans around your slickened digits.

The flavour of your release seemingly makes Marc’s own orgasm deepen and heighten too. His cock pumps his warm seed into your throat, and you feel the zip of each pulse shooting across your tongue as you drain every last drop from him, swallowing him down with relish.

He shudders down from his high, length softening quickly and his chest still lightly heaving. You relinquish him from your mouth, swiping the tang of him from your teeth and lips with a lazy swipe of your tongue. He looks sleepy and sated -entirely spent- his lashes fanning out as his blinks become long and slowed. He reaches for you. Reaches his palm out to cup your cheek. Draws you gently to his lips. You bask in this softer glow of him – his eyes lit and glinting, but this time, not with a hot, fiery desire, nor that shadowed glint of steel. This time, the glow you find there is gentle and constant. Something more akin to moonlight.

You did always like the night. You always were a nocturnal animal, but oh boy, do you love to see him shine for you.  

Marc gathers you up, and together, you bundle carefully into the bed. He lies on his side, on his good shoulder, and you -laying on your back - swell with emotion as you feel him nuzzle into your side. Still, you can already feel the shadows beginning to cling to you. Can feel the afterglow giving way to that familiar dark.

“I need you to go,” Marc resonates, his sudden and unfeeling voice vibrating through your chest as though he means to target your heart, with brutal precision. “You have to be gone before I wake up.” Perhaps he does mean it. To hurt you. Isn’t everything he does so very deliberate? “Please. Can you just trust me?”

Can you? Can you trust him?

“Okay. Okay, Marc. I’ll go.”

Now? Is that what he means?

And yet, Marc’s arm tightens around your middle, his thumb drawing idle patterns down your side, as though he expressly wants you to stay. For a moment, you freeze there, unsure how to react to this unheard of affection from him. Then, in the next moment, his small voice cuts through the mellow dark. “Would you…” He sighs and tries again. “Would you… Tell me something about yourself? Anything. Please.”

Oh, Marc, you plead inwardly. Please don’t hurt me. Please don’t ask for more, unless you’re sure that you actually want it from me.

Still, despite the flutter of locusts swarming in the pit of you you steel yourself, losing your fingers in his dense tangle of curls. “I’m afraid that’s redacted, baby,” you state coolly, a wry smile painting your features. That’s right. Two can play at that game.

Marc doesn’t fight you on it. Not at first. Probably assumes it’s the least he deserves. For our part, you fully intend to continue being steely and aloof; that is, until his thumb skims a spot on your side which tickles, sending a chaotic shiver through your body. Fracturing your resolve, an involuntary giggle explodes from your chest.

“Are you ticklish here?” Marc asks, targeting the precise spot again, and you can hear the unfettered smile which curls his mouth as he learns this about you.

“Sorry. ‘Fraid that’s redacted too.”

However, try as you might to be like him – all cold and stoic – that just isn’t you. And so, when Marc digs his fingers into your side once more, you can’t help it. Your bright, melodic laugh fills the room. And, from the way Marc squeezes you a little more tightly, you wonder if it might just have filled his heart too.

“You need to stop making me laugh, sweetheart,” Marc complains. “It kinda hurts.”

“No, thank you,” you respond firmly.

“No?”

“No. I think I prefer seeing you happy.” Against you, you feel Marc expel a long, contented breath. “Now shut that pretty mouth, would you, and get some rest?”

“Brat.” You feel the meat of his cheek shift against your chest, and you know that he is smiling.

“Er. Excuse me?” you chide good-naturedly. “Was that backchat?”

“No, Ma’am,” he humours you. “Copy that.”

Combing your hand through Marc’s inky curls, you smooth them back from his forehead, until his eyes are almost weighed by sleep.

“You know,” you breathe softly, before lights out. Something you need to get off of your chest. “I don’t want to hurt you, Marc, but I… I can’t heal you either.”

He stiffens against you, and there is a jagged silence. A stretched moment before he finds the right words. “I don’t need you to heal me. I just…” He swallows.

“What?” Tell me what you need.

“I just,” his voice cracks, pain splintering his robust, smooth tone into pieces. You weren’t ready for it to break your heart. You weren’t ready either, for the tears which shimmer violently in his eyes as he battles valiantly to restrain them. “I just need a little help.”

“Oh, Marc,” you soothe, as a single, disobedient tear shivers over the bridge of his beautiful, prominent nose. He sniffs and huffs a frustrated breath through gritted teeth. And, you do everything you can to take care of him, in this moment. To promise him that you’ll take care of him. You soothe him, and you pull his head into your lap, stroking his curls back from his forehead until he falls asleep.

The Next Morning

Steven wakes up to an empty bed, and, as usual, starts the day by sitting bolt upright, in a panic.

“Owww!” he complains, as pain shoots liberally through his… His shoulder? Ribs? No wait. Yep. His whole body. “Aaaaahhh,” he groans, clamping a hand over his racing heart, adrenalin firing as he works back through the chain of events since he was last fronting.

The blood. He remembers the blood.

He remembers… you.

“It’s okay. You’re okay,” Marc smooths calmly.

“Oh yeah!” Steven begins sarcastically. “Just another completely normal one? I don’t think we are okay actually, Marc, are we?” Yes, Steven is definitely freaking out. A giant jackal bite to the shoulder will do that to a person, no doubt. Eyes wide, Steven tips his head up to the ceiling. “Khonshu – hiya. Excuse me? This absolutely kills. Any chance we could grab the suit for a minute, mate? If it’s not too much trouble?”

“He’s pissed at us, Steven,” Marc reminds him. “He’s just letting us stew.”

Steven points his face upwards again. “Is this because I called you a pigeon? So sorry about that. You’re a swan, honestly. A majestic swan, yeah?”

“He’s not coming yet, buddy. I’m sorry.”

“It bloody hurts, Marc!”

“Yeah. I know it does. Look, why don’t I take the body for today? You sit this one out. Jump back in when Khonshu’s being less of an ass. Alright, pal?”

Steven’s eyes soften, glimpsing Marc’s reflection and his steady calm in the bottle of whisky by the bedside. “You’d do that? For me?”

“Yeah, Steven. That’s what friends are for.”

“That’s really lovely of you.”

“I… uh. I also wanted to thank you, for what you did last night.”

“No problem, Marc. I think you just need to remember you’re not alone, anymore, yeah? That, and to feed Gus 4. I can’t go through anymore fish.”

“Alright then, buddy. Let’s not get all mushy. Let me sub in, would you? Let’s get you out of this.”

“Yeah. Just a minute.” Steven picks up Marc’s phone, flipping it open. “Need to do summink first. One sec, yeah?”

“Wait. What are you doing?” Marc asks in a rare panic. “Don’t you do that, bud.”

However, to Marc’s horror – probably - Steven continues to type out a message. To you. “Hiya. Thank you for what you did for me last night. You’re so completely lovely. Can I take you out to dinner? If you would like to. No pressure or anything. Not trying to be creepy. Promise. Marc Spector xxx”

Steven hears Marc groan. Looks back to his reflection and sees that the guy is covering his face with his palms.

He feels like Marc will want to murder him; but that’s okay. He’s pretty confident that he can’t actually take him out. He kinds thinks he needs him, actually. Thinks they’re a team now. Need each other.

“What in the hell were you thinking?! Do you think she’s ever going to message me back again now that you’ve-“

-The phone dings brightly in Steven’s palm.

With surprise and delight, he opens up your reply. “Alright. But my schedule is a lil unpredictable, shortcake. Wait by the phone?”

A delighted, even smile beams out from Steven’s face.

Marc tries, to the best of ability, to restrain his own, mirroring smile, but he can’t quite manage it.

“Okay. You’ve gone and done it now. Time to sub me in, bud.”

Steven’s eyebrows shoot up, his eyes widening. “Are you sure?”

“Yeahhhh,” Marc says in a resigned tone. “Seems like I owe you a coupla favours.”

Steven’s eyes roll back, and Marc takes control of the body, bedding himself in for another day of pain. It’s okay though; after all, he’s become pretty used to that feeling. To a world of hurt. That is, until lately. Until there was you. Marc truly does hope he can protect you. And maybe… Maybe he really can, now that he’s no longer alone.

For a moment, Marc stares, dumfounded, down at the phone in his palm, before he lands on just the right thing to say. “Copy that.”

All Marc has known for a long time has been pain.

Maybe, just maybe, it’s time for a change.

“Marc’s got a girlfriend,” Steven sing-songs, as Marc crosses to the bathroom mirror.

“Shut up,” Marc snipes, but he still can’t mask his smile all the way.

THE END

Hiyaaa! :D I hope you enjoyed this, and if you did, please consider reblogging and/or leaving feedback! That would mean a lot. Thanks so much for reading, and I will have more Moon Knight content coming soon (because I’m a mess and I slipped and fell in a pit of hyperfixation). Lotsa love, and wishes for a lovely day. Luna.

[blueflameart]

So, since Tumblr on the BSD fandom lacks Gogol (at least for me ╥﹏╥), could you write fluff headcanons for Fyodor, Nikolai and Sigma x gn!reader? Like, how they show their softness for the reader

Awe totally, I live for fluff fics and Fyodor is my weakness

Decay of Angels X gn!reader

Characters: sigma,fyodor,Nikolai

How they show their softness to the reader

Fyodor Dostoevsky

Such a reserved man

A gentleman if I may add(sorta?)

He’ll only show his soft side in private

In the safety of your own home or maybe his office(?)

He doesn’t mind when you come up to sit on his lap while he works away on the computers

Or when you just lay your head on his thigh while he strokes your hair or hold your hand

A busy man who does nothing but plan the downfall of all skill users

The same busy man who will sit with you in bed and read you stories from his childhood or hometown

The man who runs a cruel organization that’s let’s your wear his hat (idk the name) and tease you

A quiet cruel man who wants all to fall but still makes time for his precious lover to feel loved

Sigma

Such a nervous man

A quiet sweet nervous man

He does not like people like at all

Ya gotta gain this man’s trust before even being 5ft next to him

If y’all have been dating for a while and he gets comfortable with PDA and physical touch

He’d probably wouldn’t do PDA aim public, no y/n you can’t hold his hand next to nikolai, do you wanna be the talk of the cell?

He prefers private affection

Maybe a little shoulder leaning a few pinky holding

Yes he does pinky holding

It’s cute and I feel like he gets sweaty hands when nervous

Such a sweetheart, wanting to be in your presence is enough.

Nikolai gogol

Geez

One insane couple 😭

HIS HANDS ARE HUGE—

HES HUGE

And a huge cuddler

There’s not a second y’all aren’t touching each other..

Not in a weird way… maybe

He’s so touchy

He won’t ever be upset that you crave affection and touch

He’s all for it

In a very annoying way

Istg y’all drive sigma and Fyodor INSANE

Every meeting of the DOA

Y’all are on top of each other

That can be lap sitting or whatever

It drives everything crazy

But he loves you

[barnxsromanxff]

Messy breakfast | Bucky Barnes x reader

30 day fluff writing prompt challenge

Do not repost any of my writes without credit to me

Day 2: making pancakes

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader

Summary: After a fun previous night with a Bucky, you wake up with him not in bed. A smell drifts into your shared bedroom and makes your mouth water.

warnings: pure fluff, kissing, nudity but not sexual, mention of bruises, sore muscles, and hickeys, as well as hand marks on thigh, mention previous sexual night

✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵

A cloud, specifically 9 is how you would describe how you felt. Your eyes hadn’t even opened but the blankets sucked you in, everything felt amazing. That is until you stretched your arm out for Bucky, his large body nowhere to be found.

“Buck?”

Your eyes squinted and searched the room for any sign of your boyfriend. Your lip pouted out of habit and you sat up, you looked down to your naked thighs and let out a quiet gasp. Two large bruises in the shape of hands were wrapped around your thighs, as well as sore bite marks and purple circles. You didn’t realize how rough you both were last night, seeing the after math of bucks grip made your mouth dry and your underwear damp. The smell of breakfast tore your mind off that, you moaned just at the scent and quickly pulled out one of Buckys shirts from the drawer and ran out of the room.

“Good morning sleeping beauty.”

Bucky is standing near the table with your baking apron on, he looked pretty adorable in it. As well as funny because it was definitely a little snug on him, considering that it was your grandmothers. His hair was tied up in a little bun, the shorter pieces tucked behind his ears as he focused on his task.

“Mmm love it smells amazing, what are you making.”

His smile widened as he pulled out a plate from behind his back, a stack of 4 pancakes wobbled. He sat it on the table next to the syrup, butter, and bacon.

“I made these for you, after what you did last night doll, you deserve a feast.”

A blush crept on your face as soon as Bucky turned around to continue making his delicious pancakes. Your sore legs carried you to your boyfriend, his whisking was quick. When he was done and reaching for another ingredient you dipped your finger in it and waited for him to turn back to you.

“Got you.”

Your finger swiped is cheek and left batter on it. Buck let out a fake gasp and put his hand on his heart, acting hurt. You started laughing and as soon as you closed your eyes your nose was dripping with batter.

“Hey!”

It turned into a full on war, batter splashed against the floor, cabinets, and counter. Screams and giggles flooded the kitchen as you chucked a spoonful right into Bucks face.

“You’re gonna regret that doll.”

He wiped the batter and gave you a smirk as he ran towards you with the bowl of what was left of the batter.

“Not the face! Not the face!”

You screamed and tried to run, sometimes having a super soldier boyfriend was your downfall. Your eyes were shut tightly as a huge spoonful of batter splattered against your face, getting you completely covered.

“You look cute with your face covered like that.”

You wiped your eyes and slapped Buckys arm with a laugh at his inappropriate joke, his eyebrows wiggled and he pulled you into a hug. Both of you were now covered in pancake batter and were feeling disgusting, but neither noticed because of how sweet the feeling of holding each other felt.

“Are you sore?”

You nodded and let go of him, you lifted his shirt up a little and showed him the marks. His eyes changed into worry, he scooped you up and carried you towards the room.

“Let’s get you in the bath.”

You relaxed into his touch and looked at the mess as he walked, it was truly the worst you had seen in a while. Of course there was the flour incident, that was absolutely horrible. You both were pulling out wet flour from each others hair for days.

“Love what about the mess?”

He started stripping you of your clothes and smiled, his thoughts mostly focused on you and your body.

“Darling just relax, i’ll take care of it.”

He pressed a soft kiss to your neck and trailed it down to your chest. Your eyes closed as your body felt the warm bath water soak your sore muscles. Right now all you could think about was how amazing the water felt, you would have to come up with some way of saying thank you later.

-

A/N: I enjoyed writing this sm! let me know what u guys think, this one came out a little bit early but I couldn’t help myself. also i want to thank everyone for the support, especially on Day 1 of this writing challenge, it means a lot! <3